Chapter 34: Sympathy for the Devil

David Beckham stood at the end of my bed crying. ‘It’s impossible for you to conceive how much pain I’m in,’ he said. I didn’t react, because I was pretending to be drugged. He continued, ‘There’s no way you could possibly conceive what I have been through in the last half hour. You can’t begin to conceive of what it’s like to spend an eternity reincarnating, and every time being made to be life-partners with someone who is massively annoying who you hate who is totally obsessed with you. It is impossible that you can possibly begin to conceive how much worse it is even than that if the whole time you are in love with someone else, who you think will never love you, because you are not worthy of him. Yes, Mary Sue! HIM! You probably didn’t think that demons could be sensitive, did you? That we would be loving and tolerant of homosexuality. It’s just that I have never been allowed to be officially gay by the Master because Victoria Beckham is our best fighter, and she insists on me being always with her. It’s a nightmare for me, but finally today, because the last battle is coming, I finally admitted to the man I have always loved that I love him – you don’t have to know his name and you wouldn’t believe it if I told you – and the amazing thing was this: he admitted that he loved me too, or would at least have both kinds of sex with me, oral and normal. It’s… Oh. You cannot possibly conceive.’

Actually I knew precisely who he was talking about, because I had been in the closet when he had this conversation with Matt Damon. Then R Kelly emerged from another closet and shot Matt Damon, and then Victoria burst in and killed R Kelly. Of course, David Beckham couldn’t possibly conceive of my knowing this, so he continued, ‘Your brain could not begin to conceive what it’s like for that person then to be killed in front of you, and… I’m not going on. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. The only reason I can possibly conceive is that I’m really distraught and my guard is down. It would be impossible for you to conceive anything like what I’ve been through. NO ONE ELSE has EVER had the experience fancying someone for ages, but not telling them, and everything therefore being crap.’

‘Good grief,’ I thought. Once upon a time, my main experience of this particularly tedious archetype was Rollo Price, who I said nothing to at university. But my feelings about Rollo were very complicated, because he was now a policeman who didn’t trust me, and because I’d seen his photograph in the evil Master’s secret safe. The best version of the story for me now, probably, was the barrister in the office next to mine at chambers, who was pontificating and doom-mongering but in a cute way. When I arrived at 11A South Square six years ago, he’d been there for two years already. I immediately had a crush on him, and I was sure he felt something for me too. I was nervous, though, and in a moment of madness I told him I fancied someone else. He then became my confidante, and the boy with whom I discussed relationships, always assuming that at some point he would finally see through me and sweep me up in his arms. He never seemed to get anywhere with women, even though plenty fancied him. I had a few ropey boyfriends, and I made sure my neighbour knew they were going nowhere. I was sure our feelings for each other were getting stronger. And then one day, after four years of me growing certainer with every passing day that things were on the verge of culminating in some drunken moment of mutual admission, he started gong out with someone else, got engaged after a year, and that was that. He probably did fancy me, maybe for a couple of years, but we’ll never know now. The thing is… Wait. Wait a moment. What a boring, pointless story this is. I suppose my point, if I have one, is that David Beckham’s story, for all the stuff about it lasting millions of years, was unebelievably banal. Which you already knew.

David Beckham dried his eyes and said, ‘Well, it can’t be helped. It’s important that you see that we demons have feelings just like you, because you are one of us, whether you like it or not, and you will be on our side as soon as the Master arrives to persuade you, which will be first thing tomorrow morning.’ I admit that this did worry me, even though I knew that Miss Smallbone, who had infiltrated the demon headquarters and undrugged me, must have a plan for getting me out as soon as we knew the Master’s identity.

The door opened. ‘Here you are, babe,’ said Victoria Beckham. ‘You look upset.’ She went to hold David Beckham’s hand, but he shook her off angrily. ‘You can’t keep pushing me away, babe. Not forever.’ She looked as forlorn as he did. I almost felt sorry for them. Then Victoria said, ‘Come on babe, we have a job to do.’

‘Oh yes,’ said David Beckham to me. ‘I forgot to say. We captured a traitor an hour ago. One of the angels inconceivably managed to get a job here. It’s worrying that our security was compromised, but we have her now. We’re going to torture her until she tells us everything she knows, and then Victoria will kill her.’

‘The way I’ll kill her is this,’ said Victoria Beckham, baring her teeth. Then she described what she would do to Miss Smallbone, which is something I am not going to pass on, and you should be grateful.

‘So,’ I thought. ‘This is how it feels when all hope is gone.’