By Jamie Forrest
I rebuild the scene from memory.
I’m nursing an almost empty polystyrene cup in my hand, swirling the last few sips of cold Earl Grey at the bottom.
Around, around, around.
Slowly pivoting at the wrist.
The room around me is vast, but no windows, no pictures on the wall. Every corner is illuminated by blinding lights above. It makes sense that my head is dipped. A flyer, presumably informing about something or other, is scattered in pieces on the table in front of me like shards of shattered glass, seemingly torn by hand. It is the act of a man who has been anxiously waiting, impatiently wondering. Charcoal tweed jacket folded, perched on the arm of the chair, crowned by that dark moss flat cap that seemed almost glued to my head back then. It’s only now focusing I can see the matching moth holes and cigarette burns that used to drive you crazy. I see them.
A memory is gone before it is absorbed.
A sterile smell
Erratic beeping
An animal shriek
A whimper
Gone.
That moment, this moment. All of this is fleeting.
The more detail the better.
I squeeze my brain to get the last detailed drops out of the room, but only the pulp remains.
A blur of man enters from a door to my left. Tall, dark skinned, built like a wrestler from the 90’s with the same shine and confidence that being that size can bring.
He ushers me in to the room behind him saying nothing, motioning to leave my coat and hat behind. As I stand, my mind draws a thick, dark moustache on his unfocused face, the rest still a blur. Yes, he had a moustache. The Devil’s in the details.
I am greeted by an empty area smaller than a car parking bay, cordoned by grey material partitions. Mr Moustache follows closely behind. He places a hand on my shoulder, signalling me to stop. Ushering my legs slightly apart then lifting my arms up parallel with the ground, he runs his hands up and down, before checking my torso and the rest of my body. The pat down gives the slightest murmur, yet it echoes around me. Its cadence is familiar, and I feel my body loosen. He straightens his body, and I notice my phone in his hand. Slowly, he begins to rotate concentrically around me, a visual inspection. He takes two steps back, interlocking his arms in front of his chest, maintaining eye contact. I divert mine to my phone, tiny in his hand, and extend an open palm to retrieve it. He does not shrink. He broadens his chest, turns his head towards the curtain directly in front of me.
I had a folder in my hand. I pull it across my chest with one hand and pull back the curtain to enter the room with the other.
The curtain is damp to touch. Thick and heavy, like a 15-tog duvet straight from the washing machine. As I pull it open, I remember. An intense heat hit me in the face like stepping fresh off a plane in the midday heat. Worse even, my mouth becomes instantly bone dry. I circle my tongue around my mouth and move the remaining saliva to my lips.
I walk briskly across the room towards another partitioned area in the opposite corner.
The room is brilliant white.
White walls, white tile flooring, lit by bright white lights.
The more detail the better. Detail eludes me here.
The light is too blinding to focus on anything other than the corner I am headed. I keep licking my lips and walk as quickly as possible. The strangling heat is still unbearable. I undo my top button on my shirt and take a deep, weighty breath.
As I approach, the curtain in front of me opens.
The curtain looks the same as the others. Heavy. Sodden.
I step inside.
Two cases of bottled water, one opened, one half used, in the corner to my right. Empty crushed bottles littered around. I am handed an unopened bottle by another blurred face and directed towards a chair. Shorter, slighter than the last. No moustache.
Another blurred face stands in the corner, looking solid and unwavering. He does not take his eyes off a third person sitting in the chair opposite to where I am being directed.
I open the bottle and take a large gulp of water. The water feels above room temperature, understandable with the heat. I finish the bottle in three gulps and place the empty bottle next to the toppled domino of the others.
I sit, place the folder on my knees and clear my throat twice and look up.
Another blurred face.
But different.
Fragments begin to form like a jigsaw floating before me. Piecing themselves together in front of my eyes.
His clothes are ripped and badly disintegrating. Some frayed edges still alive with colour.
His visible skin is potted with enormous blisters. Some appear to be bursting as I take him in. A yellowish syrupy fluid trickling down his chest and stomach.
His skin behind them looks badly burned too. Closer inspection, it seems to be like grape jam tone, flecked with scar tissue and char.
His arms are ziplocked behind his back to the chair.
Something underneath his skin, crawling and trickling its way between his shoulder and his neck.
His face is badly burned.
His eyes seem to match his bursting blisters, a saffron stare piercing through me. Those murderous crows have found the corners, showing age I cannot comprehend.
No emotion, contentment.
He is smiling at me.
A smile I have not seen before, but I will see again.
A smile akin to an open wound, burdened with decades of pain and agony and destruction.
A demon.
I open the folder on my lap and scan the sheet of prepared questions.
The devil’s in the detail.
