Cyril Spriggs (4 of 4 chapters)

Continuation Chapter 4 Set back in the Spriggs' household.

At exactly three minutes to midnight Cyril returned home.  The Great Satan hovered nearby but not even this could deflate Cyril and the Zeppelin of joy that filled his heart.  "Freda and Cyril! Peaceful and master! Freda and Cyril!  Girlfriend and Boyfriend!"  His life had changed from hum drum to pure delight in one day.  Honesty, for this day, had been a true friend indeed.

 

He and Freda at sat in 'The Grapes Wine Bar' for three hours before he took her to catch the 38A London Bus.  Freda still lived with her parents too.  She revealed that tonight she could not wait to tell them about her boyfriend, Cyril Spriggs.

 

Their conversation rippled like a Windermere brook.  In that three hours lives were shared and interests compared.  Freda knew a thing or two about history and about deities.  They were an essential element of her degree in ancient history.  Neither was she phased by the appearance of Beelzebub in Cyril's bedroom.  She had learnt enough to ridicule nothing and expect the unexpected.  Indeed she was delighted that The Great Satan had sought out Cyril as a victim.  Without him Cyril would never have been able to impress her so much with his refreshing candidness.

 

Freda believed in God too. Naturally because of this she countenanced the devil.  Indeed her studies suggested the existance of such shadowy figures and freaks of history.

  

"Listen Cyril.  Throughout history deities gained their reputations through fear, superstition and greed." She advised.  "Get out there and challenge Beelzlebub toe to toe.  Like every other religious intruder his limitations must be exposed.  Expose them and you remove his power.  All he has managed to do so far is to solve your problems rather than inflict them.  Inside you Cyril you have what it takes to thrash him."  She slammed her hand on the table.  Two glasses leapt into the air.

 

"What a girl you are!" Cyril kissed Freda gently on the lips.  A kiss  returned with fire.   Freda arranged to call at  Cyril's house the next evening after a visit to Alexandra Palace. He could drive her home in his parents car.  Most importantly he could bring her right up to date.  She just could not wait and tonight her reading would be on the rides out of 'The Great Satan'! 

 

Cyril unlocked the front door. To his surprise both parents were still up, in their dressing gowns.

 

"Cyril my dear.  My new hairdo!  What do you think?"  Said a sparkling Mother.

 

"Mum it is lovely.  In fact its devine. You look years younger." Cyril raved in his gleeful ,elevated, state.  It was true her hair looked wonderful.

 

"Crikey Cyril.  What's got into you?  You look as though you lost a penny and found a million pounds!" said his Mother blinking wildly, bearly recognising her supercharged son.

 

"Well Mum and Dad sit quietly and listen."  Cyril then revealed the history of his stupendous day.  He omitted the eventful moments concerning the Devil.  Yet he did make it clear that he had taken a decision to be completely truthful for twenty four hours.  He revealed that he and Freda were going out together what is more she was coming to the house tomorrow, to meet him.  He would need the car to take her home.  His parents could could meet her then!  She was studying to be an archaeologist at the London University and they had so much in common.  She even loved his minor obsession with names. 

 

"Mum she is lovely.  She could not be further from a ladette. To me she has a natural grace and vitality.  The looks of a Greek Goddess.  She owns an incredible depth ,  that I find irresistable. I just adore her.  What is more! Get ready for this!  She adores me!"

 

Mrs. Spriggs burst into deep sobs of joy. His father wrung Cyril's hand with pride.

 

"Son I am so proud of you. This is the day your Mum and I have waited for.  This is what you have needed for years.  We thought we were losing you.  Years were starting to slide away.   I need a drink!"  Cyril's father groped towards the drinks cabinet.

 

"Oh and Dad!" Cyril had remembered something very important.  "I am  glad you called me Cyril. I do wish I could have met my great uncle."

 

After much mutual hugging and waves of  family joy, sleep drifted over an exhausted and grown up Cyril Spriggs.  The Great Satan, so furious at  being ignored, forgot to extricate himself from his concealment in the electric kettle.  His flu filled head was filled with pain from the blow caused by the impact of a heavy, elderly computer.  His painful injuries had been greatly aggravated by the subsequent clatter through the public house floor cellar flap.  It was this lowly state that was responsible for his failure to anticipate Mrs.  Spriggs switching on of the kettle, for a welcome cup of tea.  Then for a while Beelzebub suffered in his own boiling hell.  His shrieks were lost in a  frenzy of  white hot steam as boiling water swirled in a freshly warmed tea pot.

 

When Cyril awoke  a wretched Great Satan, wrapped in pink bandages and caked with Hell-Fire burns cream, steamed lightly before him.

 

"Look what you have done to me Spriggs" rasped the evil one who was slumped in Cyril's grandmother's,  wing back, chair. "You win this time Spriggs.  Never forget though!  I am the evil one.  So you can forget your three wishes."  Satan raised himself painfully hoping to instil fear in the upstart Spriggs.  He imparted, " I Beelzebub, God of the Philistines, true to my reputation,  lied to you about that!"  At this  moment Satan tried to emit a devilish laugh.  Sounding like a Vespa Scooter with a blocked carburettor he continued. "I shall return in  one year, or so, when my wounds repair and my viral curse is cured."  A bead of tired, yellow drool seeped between his daffodil yellow teeth and down his suppurating bandages.   In a blast of temper he ripped, "I shall remember you Spriggs! You, you, name wizard!"

 

This last insult tickled Cyril.  His hobby studying the origins of names had particularly galled Satan.  He felt amazed that such a minor interest caused such a significant impact.  Twenty four hours had elapsed since Cyril had entered the pact with Beelzebub.  Now freed of its restrictions he was able to say "Well I have enjoyed our little spat old man!"  Cyril's, brain mounted, anti tank gun swivelled menacingly towards the evil one. Satan winced and his bandages began to unravel.  "I will look forward to our next meeting .  Goodbye!"

 

Cyril opened the sash window and extended a gesture of invitation suggesting that Satan leave through it.  Slug like, the ageing demon heaved himself out.   Cyril slammed the sash down in victory.  Satan howled as the wooden frame rammed down on his blistered fingers.  Then, in a moment, all that was left to be seen was a trail of volcanic smoke, drifting over the roof tops.    "Freda was right about the challenge." Murmured Cyril.  "What a team we will make."  

 

"Morning Cyril. Breakfast?" His mother asked.

 

Cyril, now blessed with ambitions set, desires fulfilled, Great Uncle Cyril's mettle in his spine, could not wait for the day to begin.

 

"Cyril are you telling the truth all day again?" his mother queried.

 

"I don't think so Mum.  Well perhaps not all the time."  Cyril took a slow swig of hot, sweet tea!  

Reviews

[pregnantpoet]

You do have an original and even rather accommodating style. You are suited to short story writing, and I'd even go so far as to say, to poetry. The doggerel you submit is just a step in the right direction but you need to think deeply as well as originally. I quite liked "If I was born a dog...". You are amusing as distinct from thoughtful, but amusing is amusing...

[Thurston]

Only a true short story writer can cut through the flab and serve up, slice by delicious slice, a short story of this quality. If art needs that element of the inexplicable element we call creativity, Ron'a ability to dive headlong into this account of a joust with the devil, makes him an artist of the genre.
Impossible not to shakes ones head and love every minute of this encounter with satan.
So why the long face? Spelling. "True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, as those move easiest who have learned to dance."
The dance is spoiled by missteps of spelling and (bare for bear) other simple errors that say: go back and just make it right. recognition is sure to come to this policeman. His fingerprints are all over the genre. His "record of interview" with the devil is my cup of tea, and I'd do a night in the cells if I could write like this.