Estimated reading time — 18 minutes

Father Michael Hayes had stopped praying three years ago, though he still moved his lips during Mass. The words came automatically now, muscle memory from two decades of priesthood. Hoc est enim corpus meum. This is my body. Empty syllables. Theatrical gestures. He elevated the host and saw nothing but bread.
The Piccadilly Line platform at Holloway Road station was nearly empty at 11:47 PM. Michael stood with his toes at the yellow line, close enough to feel the warm rush of stale air that preceded each train. In his coat pocket, folded into a neat square, was a note. Three sentences. An apology to his sister. Instructions for his funeral—no homily, please, just get it over with.
He wasn’t going home tonight.
The plan was simple: ride to the end of the line, walk to Highgate Bridge. He’d chosen it carefully—high enough, isolated enough. By morning they’d find him and it would be over. No more pretending. No more standing in that pulpit feeling like a fraud. No more confessions where people poured out their souls and he offered them empty platitudes about a God he no longer believed existed.
The train arrived with a mechanical shriek. Michael boarded the last carriage. Only a few passengers: a woman asleep against the window, earbuds in; two students drunk and giggling; and a man in a dark suit sitting by the far doors.
Michael took a seat and closed his eyes. Four more stops. Then the walk. Then peace. Or oblivion. Same thing, really.
“Evenin’, Father.”
Michael’s eyes snapped open. The man in the suit had moved—now sitting directly across from him. How had he not heard him cross the carriage?
The man was perhaps fifty, clean-shaven head gleaming under the fluorescent lights, with a face that was handsome in a hard sort of way—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit and dark sunglasses despite the late hour. Something about him seemed slightly wrong, like a photograph with the contrast turned up too high. When he smiled, it was all teeth.
“I’m sorry?” Michael said.
“Your collar?” The man’s accent was pure East London, almost theatrical. “I assume you’re a priest. Father…?”
“Hayes. Michael Hayes.”
“Lovely.” The man extended his hand. His grip was cool and dry. “Pleasure’s all mine. Lovely night for a bit of theological contemplation, wouldn’t you say?”
Michael tried to smile politely. “I suppose.” Feeling confused.
“Do you mind?” The man gestured to the seat, though he was already sitting. “I find the Underground fascinating at this hour. All these people, hurtlin’ through the dark, each carryin’ their private desperations.” He paused, tilting his head. “You look like a man who’s made a decision. Final sort of decision.”
“Just heading home,” Michael lied.
“Yeah? Nah, I don’t think so.” The man’s grin widened. “But we’ll come back to that, won’t we? First, I’m curious about somethin’. You’re a man of God, yeah? Or at least you dress like one. Tell me—how do you square it?”
“Square what?”
“All the sufferin’ mate. All the pain. Cancer in kids. Babies born with defects. Earthquakes that kill thousands.” The man leaned forward, his grin sharp. “How do you reconcile a lovin’ God with a world that’s basically a torture chamber?”
Michael felt the familiar hollow ache. “I don’t.”
“Don’t? Or can’t?”
“Both. There is no God. Problem solved.”
The man laughed—a sharp, delighted sound. “Now that IS brilliant! A priest who doesn’t believe. How long ya been fakin’ it then?”
“Three years. Maybe longer.”
“And yet you still wear that daft collar. Still do the rituals”, his gloved fingers in air quotes.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I don’t know what else to do,” Michael said bitterly. “Twenty years of my life. What else am I qualified for?”
“Fair point.” The man settled back. “But humor me, yeah? Let’s say, hypothetically, there is a God. How would you defend him? You must have before. No?.”

Michael felt irritation rising. “I’m not in the mood for philosophical debates.”
“Course not. You’re busy. Got a bridge to catch.” The man’s grin widened at Michael’s sharp intake of breath. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna stop ya. But we’ve got time before your stop. So indulge me. Childhood cancer—that’s your big one, innit? How does God justify that?”
“He doesn’t. He can’t. It’s indefensible.”
“Go on then. Make the case anyway. You’re a priest. You’ve made it before. What did you used to tell grieving parents?”
Michael’s jaw clenched. “I’d say… free will. That God gave humans free will, which means he can’t interfere without making us puppets.”
“But childhood cancer isn’t about free will, is it? That’s just cells misbehavin’. Natural evil.”
“Then I’d say…” Michael paused, hating that he was engaging. “I’d say that a universe with consistent physical laws is necessary for free will to mean anything. If God constantly intervened, we couldn’t learn, couldn’t grow, couldn’t make genuine choices.”
“Interestin’.” The man’s voice was mocking. “So God’s hands are tied by his own rules? Sounds a bit weak, dunnit?”
“No—” Michael stopped himself. Why was he defending this? “It doesn’t matter. I don’t believe it anymore.”
“But you did once. And the logic still holds, don’t it? Even if you don’t feel it.” The man leaned forward. “Here’s what’s funny to me, Father Hayes. Everyone wants to blame God for the cancer. For the earthquakes. For all the natural evil in the world.”
His grin turned sharp, predatory.
“But that’s my bag, innit? That’s all me.”
Michael blinked. “What?”
“The sufferin’. The disease. The entropy. When the first humans decided to tell God to sod off, they handed the world over to me. Death entered creation through sin—that’s in your book, mate. I’m the prince of this world. The cancer? The birth defects? The natural disasters? That’s my kingdom. My rules now.”
The man’s laugh was genuinely amused. “But everyone gives God the credit! Takes the piss. But it’s brilliant, really. I corrupt his creation, introduce death and disease, turn the whole thing into a nightmare—and everyone blames Him for it. HAHAHA. He gets all the hate while I get all the fun.”
Michael felt something cold crawl up his spine. “Who are you?”
“In a minute. For God sake. First, answer the question. Is it God’s fault? Or is it Satans?”
“If God is all-powerful, he could stop him. So yes, it’s his fault for allowing it.”
“Could he though? Stop him?” The man tilted his head. “What if the rules are more complex than that? What if when humans chose to reject him, he had to honor that choice? Had to step back and let them live with the consequences?”
“That’s…” Michael struggled. “That’s just making excuses for divine negligence.”
“Devine neglect! I love that! Or is it respectin’ free will?” The man’s voice took on a mocking edge. “You can’t have it both ways, Father. Either God respects human choice—even when that choice leads to death and corruption—or he doesn’t. Which is it?”
“But innocent children—”
“Suffer because the world is broken. Because humanity broke it. Because sin has consequences that ripple outward.” The man’s grin widened. “Not God’s fault. Mine. And yours. Collective effort, innit? But it’s easier to blame the one who’s actually tryin’ to fix it than the one who broke it in the first place.”
Michael’s hands clenched. “This is sophistry.”
“This is theology. And you know It. You used to know it, anyway.” The man leaned back. “Here’s what really gets me though. People pray to God to fix the mmesses they reate. And sometimes he does—miracles happen, don’t they? But when he doesn’t intervene, when he lets natural law run its course, everyone says he doesn’t exist.”
He laughed. “Meanwhile, I’m over here causin’ chaos, and nobody even acknowledges my existence! It’s perfect. I get to do whatever I want, and he gets the blame. Best arrangement I ever made.”
The train rattled through a tunnel. The lights flickered.
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Michael said quietly.
“Haven’t I? I thought it was obvious.” The man removed his sunglasses. His eyes were black—and unsettlingly bright. “But we’ll get to that. First, let’s talk about morality. You said earlier there’s no God. So where does morality come from?”

“Evolutionary psychology. Social contracts. Empathy.”
“All just brain chemistry though, innit? Just chemicals firin’. So why should anyone care about morality if it’s just… programming?”
“Because we live in society. Because cooperation benefits everyone.”
“Society is my favorite. A melting pot of sin. It only benefits survival. But what if I don’t care about survival? What if I just want pleasure, power, whatever I fancy?”
Michael heard himself respond: “Then you’d be violating objective moral law.”
The words were out before he could stop them. Seminary training. Muscle memory.
The man’s grin widened. “Objective moral law? I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I don’t—I meant—”

“You can’t have objective morality without God, mate. That’s basic philosophy. If there’s no cosmic judge, no ultimate arbiter, then morality is just opinion. Just preferences.” The man leaned forward. “So which is it? Is morality objective—in which case God exists—or is it subjective, in which case I can do whatever I want?”
“It’s…” Michael struggled. “Even without God, we can derive ethics from reason. From the categorical imperative. From—”
“From principles that assume objective value, objective meaning, objective purpose.” The man’s voice was sharp with mockery. “You’re smugglin’ in theistic assumptions while claimin’ to be an atheist. You’re contradictin’ yourself.”
“No, I’m—”
“You’re arguin’ for God’s existence despite yourself. It’s brilliant to watch, really.”
Michael felt sweat on his palms. “Fine. Maybe morality requires some kind of… ground. Some foundation. That doesn’t mean it’s the Christian God.”
“Doesn’t it? Let’s think about this logically.” The man counted on his fingers. “You need a moral law. Which requires a moral lawgiver, AKA boring cunt. You need objective meaning, which requires a source of meaning. You need consciousness, which—let’s be honest—shouldn’t exist if you’re just meat bags and chemicals. You need the universe to exist at all, which requires… somethin’.”
He spread his hands. “Add it all up, Father Hayes. What do you get?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said, but his voice was uncertain.
“Yes you do. You’re just afraid to admit it.”
The train pulled into Arsenal station. The doors opened. Nobody got on. Nobody got off. The doors closed. They continued into darkness.
“Here’s what I think,” the man said. “I think you never actually stopped believin’. You just got angry. Someone died—that little girl, probably. Sarah somethin’?”
Michael’s blood ran cold.
“And you prayed and prayed and prayed to that twat, and she died anyway. And you decided that meant God didn’t exist. But that’s not atheism, mate. That’s just a tantrum.”
“How did you—”
“If you truly didn’t believe, you wouldn’t be angry. You can’t be angry at somethin’ that doesn’t exist.” The man’s grin was sharp. “You’re not an atheist. You’re a believer who’s sulkin’. Big difference.”
Michael found his voice. “Even if God exists, I want nothing to do with him. A God who allows children to suffer is a God I can’t worship.”
“Even though I just explained that the sufferin’ is my fault, not his? Fuck sake he’s sill getting the credit”
“He could stop you!”
“That hypocrite? Could he? Without violatin’ free will? Without turnin’ humans into robots?” The man laughed. “You want God to interfere constantly, to wrap everyone in cotton wool, to prevent all consequences of all choices. You don’t want a God. You want a cosmic nanny.”
“I want a God who actually cares!”
“He’s a nobhead. But he does care! That’s why he became one of you, innit? Came down here, experienced the sufferin’ himself yada yada, died on a cross yada yada, to fix what you lot broke.” The man’s voice dripped with contempt. “And you say he doesn’t care brilliant. He literally died for you, and you’re whinin’ that he didn’t save one stupid brat from leukaemia that exists because of human sin in the first place.”
Michael was breathing hard. “If you’re trying to make me believe again—”
“I’m not tryin’ to make you do anythin’. I’m just pointin’ out that your logic is shaky. That your atheism is based on emotion, not reason.” The man tilted his head. “And that every time you try to argue against God, you end up arguin’ for him instead.”
“That’s not—”
“Innit? You keep appealin’ to objective morality, objective meaning, objective value. You keep actin’ as if good and evil are real things, not just preferences. You keep assumin’ the universe should make sense, should be just, should reward good and punish evil.” The man’s grin widened. “None of that works without me and him, mate. None of it.”
Michael felt something shift inside him. A horrible realisation creeping in.
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “About the arguments. The logic does hold. Even without faith, the logic holds.”
“Course it does.”

“But that doesn’t mean I have to worship him. Even if God exists, even if he’s real—I can still choose to reject him.”
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere, i can work with this!” The man clapped his hands together. “That’s the truth of it, innit? Not whether God exists—you’re realisin’ he does. The question is whether you’ll accept him or tell him to sod off and be mine”
The train rattled on. Michael glanced at the map above the doors. They should have reached King’s Cross by now. But the stations were passing in a blur—or not passing at all. He couldn’t tell.
“So here’s my question,” the man said. “You’re plannin’ to jump off that bridge tonight. You’ve got your note and everythin’. Very organised. But answer me this—why?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore. The pretending. The emptiness.”
“And what do you think happens when you jump?”
“Nothing. Oblivion. Peace.”
“Peace.” The man’s laugh was sharp. “You think death is peace? That’s adorable.”

“What else would it be?”
“Well, that depends, dunnit? On whether God exists.” The man leaned forward, and his voice dropped. “See, if you’re right—if there’s no God, no afterlife, no cosmic justice—then yeah, you just stop existin’. Problem solved.”
He paused.
“But if you’re wrong…”
The man’s grin huge.
Michael’s throat tightened.
“If God exists—and we’ve kinda established he probably does, ain’t we?—then what happens when you die?”
“I… heaven or hell, supposedly.”
“Supposedly‽” The man’s grin was terrible now. “Let’s talk about that then. Let’s talk about what determines where you end up.”
“I don’t believe in—”
“You’re startin’ to though. I can see it. You’re realisin’ the logic holds. The arguments work. God exists, even if you’re furious with him and I think he’s a cunt.” The man spread his hands. Becoming a human scale
“So. Heaven or hell. Which one for you?”
Michael’s hands were shaking. “I don’t know.”
“Let me help you figure it out. You’ve been a priest for twenty years. You’ve performed sacraments—baptisms, marriages, confessions, last rites. All the Goddy stuff. You’ve helped people. You’ve been kind. You’ve followed the rules, even when you didn’t feel anythin’.” The man tilted his head. “By Catholic doctrine, you’re saved. Grace doesn’t require your feelin’s, mate. It works regardless of whether you feel it.”
Michael blinked. “Then—”
“Right now, despite your doubts, despite your anger, you’re goin’ to heaven. Congratulations.”
Relief flooded through Michael, immediately followed by confusion. “Then why are you—”
“But.” The man held up one finger. “There’s a big exception. One unforgivable fuck up. One choice that changes everythin’.”
The temperature in the carriage dropped.
“Suicide.”
Michael’s breath caught.
“See, every other sin—you can repent. You can ask forgiveness. Even murder, even rape, even genocide—if you genuinely repent, God forgives you. That’s the deal.” The man’s voice was soft, almost gentle. “But suicide? You remove your own ability to repent. The moment you jump, you cut off your connection to grace. You choose damnation by default.”
“That’s not—”
“It is though. That’s the rule. And rules is rules, innit?” The man’s grin widened. “So here’s the situation, Father Hayes. Right now, you’re saved. Despite everythin’, you’re goin’ to heaven. But if you jump off that bridge tonight—if you make that choice in anger and despair—you damn yourself. Forever.”
The lights flickered. Michael looked at his phone. Still 11:51 PM.
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Michael said quietly.
“Do i need to?” The man removed his gloves. His hands were very pale. “You’re a smart man, Father. Who else would know all this? Who else would care whether you live or die?”
“An angel?”
The man laughed—really laughed. “In a manner of speakin’. Though I was the prettiest one, before I got myself kicked out that boring place.”
Michael’s blood turned to ice.
“Yeah,” the man said, his East London accent thick with amusement. “You’re catchin’ on now, aren’t ya?”
“You’re—”
“The Devil. Satan. Lucifer. The Adversary. The Prince of Lies.” He grinned. “Though tonight, I’m tellin’ you the truth. Swear to God. HAHAHA Bit ironic?”
Michael couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t—
The window to their left shattered inward—except it wasn’t glass. It was reality itself, cracking. For just a moment, Michael saw the man’s true form reflected there:

—Wings like burnt parchment, tattered at the edges—
—A face of terrible beauty, corrupted and twisted—
—Eyes that burned with ancient fury—
—Something that had been an angel once, the most beautiful thing in creation, now warped beyond recognition—
Then it was gone. The man—Satan—was just a bloke in a nice suit again.
“Why?” Michael managed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t want you.” Satan’s voice was flat. “I really, truly, genuinely don’t want you, you’re a crap sinner”
“But—”
“Let me explain somethin’ about how this works.” Satan leaned forward. “I collect sinners. The wicked. The cruel. The ones who choose evil over and over and over. People who hurt others for pleasure. People who destroy lives for profit. People who look at sufferin’ and decide to create more of it. I hurt those fuckers its sooo fun.”

He gestured to the cracked window, and Michael saw glimpses: souls in torment, demons, endless caverns of screaming.
“They belong there. They earned it. They chose it through action after action after action. Hell is justice for them. It’s what they deserve.”
Satan’s grin faded.
“But you? You’re just pathetic, broken. Just tired. Just hurt. You lost faith because a little girl died and you couldn’t save her. Boohoohooo and now you’re plannin’ suicide because you’re feelings have a booboo, not because you’re wicked.” He shook his head. “You don’t belong in hell, Hayes. You belong in heaven. And it pisses me off that you’re about to throw that away.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because its a waste!” Satan’s voice rose, genuine frustration breaking through. “I’ve been collectin’ souls for millennia, and most of ’em deserve it. But every so often, I get one who doesn’t. Someone who makes one stupid choice in a moment of despair and dooms themselves forever. And I have to take ’em because those the rules.”
He stood abruptly. The lights went out completely.
When they came back on, the carriage was gone. Michael was standing in darkness. No—not darkness. Dim red light, like dying coals.
“Let me show you what you’re choosin’,” Satan’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “Let me show you what happens if you jump.”
He grabbed the priest by the neck, nails digging.
The tunnel walls began to change. To melt. To open up into something vast.
Michael screamed.
He was standing on a precipice overlooking an impossible cavern. It stretched down and down and down, so far that the bottom was lost in red mist and smoke. The heat hit him like a physical force—not the clean heat of fire, but something worse. Something that smelled of burning meat and sulfur and human waste and rotting flesh all at once.
And the sounds. God, the sounds.
Screaming. Millions of voices, maybe billions, all screaming at once. Not the quick scream of sudden pain, but the endless, grinding scream of agony that never stops, never lessens, never becomes bearable. Screams of people who had been screaming for centuries and would scream for eternity.
“Welcome to my kingdom, cool innit?” Satan said from beside him. He still looked like a man in a suit, impossibly casual against the horror around them. “Proper look, yeah? No tourist sanitised version. The real deal.”
Michael couldn’t look away.
The cavern was carved into levels—circles, descending deeper and deeper. And on each level, souls were being torn apart.
On the nearest level, Michael saw a man strapped to a table made of what looked like obsidian. A wooden pole covered in what looked like broken glass penetrating his rectum. Demons surrounded him—twisted into mockeries of beauty. One had too many limbs, all ending in surgical instruments. Another had a face split vertically, each half grinning independently.
They were skinning the man. Slowly. Methodically. Peeling strips of flesh from his body while he screamed and thrashed. Blood pooling. But the worst part—the part that made Michael’s stomach heave—was that the flesh grew back. As soon as they peeled a strip away, new skin formed, nerve endings and all, ready to be flayed again.
“That’s Marcus,” Satan said conversationally. “Serial killer. Twelve women. Great work Tortured ’em for days before killin’ ’em. Thought he was clever, thought he’d never get caught.” His East London accent was jarring against the screams. “He gets skinned alive every day. Been goin’ for about three hundred years now. He’ll be goin’ for three billion more. And then three trillion. And it never ends, mate. Never. The pole is a new addition. I got bored”
Michael tried to close his eyes but found he couldn’t. Satan was making him watch.
“Keep lookin’. You need to see what you’re choosin’.”
On the next level down, a woman was suspended by hooks through her shoulders, spinning slowly over a pit of fire. But it wasn’t normal fire—it was cold fire, fire that burned without light, that hurt in ways that physical flame couldn’t. Her mouth was open in a constant scream, but no sound came out. Her vocal cords had been severed.
Satan appeared next to her, pushing her slightly so she swung a little as she rotated.
“That’s Jennifer,” Satan said. Back with Micheal now “Drowned her three kids in the bathtub because they were crampin’ her style. Never repented. Thought she’d get away with it.” He grinned. “The silent scream is my favorite bit. She screams and screams but can’t hear herself, can’t get any relief from vocalizin’ the pain. Just silent agony. Forever.”
Michael felt vomit rise in his throat.
“Keep watchin’.”

The next level was worse. A massive wheel, like something from a medieval torture chamber, but impossibly large. Hundreds of bodies were chained to it, and as it turned, they were crushed against stone, bones breaking, organs rupturing, skulls cracking. Then the wheel turned further and they healed—instantly, completely—just in time to be crushed again.
“HAHAHA soo much fun” Satan shouted.
“Child abusers,” he said simply. “All of ’em. Priests, teachers, parents—people who were supposed to protect kids and diddled ’em instead. They get crushed. Healed. Crushed again. The pain never dulls. The body never adapts. Every time feels like the first time.”
Michael was shaking. “Stop. Please.”
“Can’t stop, mate. You need to see.” Satan’s voice was harder now. “You need to understand what you’re throwin’ yourself into.”
On the next level, demons were forcing souls to eat their own organs. Pulling out intestines and making them chew, swallow, digest. Then the organs would regenerate and the process would start again. The souls were vomiting and crying and begging, but the demons just laughed—sounds like breaking glass and screaming metal.
“Gluttons,” Satan said. “People who hoarded food while others starved. CEOs who kept their workers in poverty. Billionaires who watched people die of hunger and did nothin’. They eat themselves now. Forever. I kick em every so often for something to do.”
Lower still, Michael saw souls being torn apart by other souls. Humans ripping into each other with teeth and nails, tearing flesh, breaking bones, gouging eyes. And the worst part was the expressions—they hated each other. Pure, absolute hatred that would never fade, never be satisfied, never end. They would torture each other for eternity and never stop wanting to.
“Genocides,” Satan said. “Mass murderers. People who stoked hatred and watched the world burn. Now they burn together. And they hate each other so much, they’ll never stop, never tire, never find peace. Just endless violence and endless hate.”
Michael was crying now. “Please. I understand. I understand.”
“Nah you don’t. Not yet.” Satan grabbed his shoulder, and his grip was like iron. “Because you haven’t seen where YOU’D go.”
The world shifted. They were suddenly on a different level—higher up, away from the worst torments. But it was still hell.
A man sat in a small stone room. He wasn’t being actively tortured. He was just… sitting. Staring at the wall.
“That’s Thomas,” Satan said. “Jumped off a bridge in 1847. Depressed. Lost his wife to tuberculosis. That’s a great death, coughing blood the works. Good man, otherwise. Lived a decent life. One bad choice.”
Michael watched. The man wasn’t moving. Just sitting. Staring.
“Doesn’t look so bad, does it?” Satan’s grin was terrible. “Keep watching.”
Michael looked. The man’s face was wet with tears. His lips were moving, forming words over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all he does,” Satan said softly. “Sits there. Thinks about what he lost. Heaven is right there, just beyond reach, and he knows it. Knows he could have had it. Knows he threw it away for one moment of despair that passed. His wife’s in heaven, waitin’ for him, and he knows he’ll never see her again.”
The man’s face suddenly contorted in anguish. He screamed—really screamed—and began clawing at the walls. His nails broke and bled, but the wounds healed instantly, and he kept clawing, kept screaming, kept sobbing.
“That happens every few hours,” Satan explained. “The full realisation hits him again. The weight of what he lost. The knowledge that it never ends. And he breaks down completely. Then he goes numb for a while. Then it hits him again. Forever.”
Satan pointed to another cell. Another suicide. This one was a woman, young, maybe twenty-five. She was banging her head against the wall, over and over, trying to knock herself unconscious. Blood everywhere. But she couldn’t. There was no unconsciousness here. No sleep. No rest. No escape.
“That’s where you’d go,” Satan said, and his London accent was gone, replaced by something ancient and terrible. “Not the worst torments. Not the flaying or the fire. Just… that. Endless awareness of what you threw away. Endless regret. Endless knowledge that heaven was yours and you chose this instead.”
He spun Michael around to face him.
“And I’d have to watch you being a sad sack. Have to listen to you sobbin’ and apologisin’ for the next trillion years. And it pisses me off, Michael, because you don’t belong here. You earned heaven. You worked for it. You served that prick even when you didn’t feel him. And one bad night—one moment of pain—would throw it all away.”
Satan waved his hand and suddenly they could see more cells. Dozens of them. Hundreds. All suicides. All just sitting or pacing or crying or screaming. All trapped in the endless knowledge of their mistake.
“Some of ’em been here for thousands of years,” Satan said. “Still just as aware. Still just as regretful. Time doesn’t help. Nothin’ helps. They’ll be like this when the universe ends. And then for trillions of years after that. And then trillions more.”
Michael was sobbing now. “I don’t want this. I don’t want this.”
“No shit! Then don’t choose it!” Satan’s voice rose to a roar that shook the cavern. “Don’t jump off that fuckin’ bridge! Don’t throw yourself into my kingdom because you had one bad day!”
Suddenly they were back in the tube carriage. The screams cut off. The heat disappeared. They were just two men sitting across from each other in a fluorescent-lit train.
But Michael could still smell the sulfur. Could still hear the echoes of screaming in his ears. Could still see that man’s face, tears streaming, mouth forming: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you’re choosin’,” Satan said quietly. His sunglasses were back on. He looked human again. “That’s what happens if you jump. Not oblivion. Not peace. That.”
Michael couldn’t stop shaking.
“And before you think I’m lyin’, tryin’ to trick you—I’m not.” Satan’s voice was flat. “I’m the Prince of Lies, yeah, but every word I’ve said tonight is true. Because I don’t want you. I’ve got plenty of souls who deserve it. I don’t need yours.”
The train began to slow. They were pulling into a station.
“That’s Finsbury Park,” Satan said. “Your stop. The one you planned to get off at before headin’ to the bridge.” He stood, straightened his suit. “So here’s your choice, Father Hayes. You can get off. Walk to your bridge. Jump. And I’ll see you in about thirty seconds, down in one of those cells, where you’ll spend eternity regrettin’ it.”
He paused.
“Or you can stay on this train. Ride it back. Go home. Sleep. Wake up tomorrow. And never, ever have to see that place again.”
The doors opened. The platform was empty.
Michael couldn’t move. The images were burned into his mind. The screaming. The endless regret. The man in the cell, clawing at walls that would never break.
“I’ve been doin’ this for millennia,” Satan said softly. “Takin’ souls. Watchin’ humans throw away paradise.
He stepped toward the door, then looked back.
“Between you and me? Your God is insufferable. Self-righteous. Takes all the credit when people recover from diseases I caused. Gets all the prayers. Drives me mad.” His grin was bitter. “But he’s real. And he wants you alive. And as much as I hate admittin’ it—you should listen to him.”
“Why?” Michael whispered. “Why save me?”
“Because every so often, I like to prove a point.” Satan’s grin sharpened. “That even the Devil has standards. That even I can see when someone doesn’t belong in hell. And because—” He paused. “Because I remember what it was like. Before the fall. Before the pride ruined everythin’. I remember heaven. And I wouldn’t wish this on someone who could still have it.”
The doors started to close. Satan held them open with one hand.
“What’s it gonna be, Father?”
Michael looked at the platform. The exit. The path to the bridge. Then he looked at his hands—shaking, covered in cold sweat. He could still hear the screaming in his head. Could still see those cells.
“I’m going home,” he whispered.
Satan’s grin widened into something almost genuine. “Brilliant. Knew you had some sense in you.”
Michael stood on shaking legs but didn’t move toward the doors.
“I believe,” he said suddenly. “I believe God exists. I believe heaven is real. I believe… I believe it all.”
“I’m sorry,” Michael said, and he wasn’t sure who he was talking to. “I’m sorry I gave up. I’m sorry I stopped believing. I’m sorry about tonight.”
“Don’t apologise to me, mate. I don’t care.” Satan stepped back onto the platform. “Save it for him. He’s the one who’s been waitin’ to hear it.”
The doors closed. Satan stood on the platform, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a bloke waiting for the next train. He raised one hand in farewell.
“Remember what you saw tonight,” his voice came through the glass, muffled but clear. “Remember where you almost went. And when life gets hard again—and it will—remember that one moment of despair isn’t worth an eternity of regret.”
The train pulled away. Michael pressed his face to the glass, watching Satan disappear into the darkness of the tunnel.
Then he was alone in the carriage. The normal sounds returned—the rattle of the train, the hum of the lights. His phone buzzed. 11:52 PM. Only one minute had passed.
Michael pulled the note from his pocket. Read it one last time. Then he tore it into pieces and watched them fall to the floor.
Father Michael Hayes rode the train home. And when he got there, he knelt beside his bed—something he hadn’t done in three years—and prayed. Not because he felt anything. Not because he was certain of anything except the images burned into his mind.
But because he had seen hell. Had seen where he would have gone. Had seen the endless regret, the eternal awareness of what he’d thrown away.
And because even Satan himself—the Prince of Lies, the adversary of God—had tried to save him by showing him the truth.
“God,” Michael whispered into the darkness of his room. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you. I’m still angry about Sarah. I still don’t know why children suffer. But I believe you’re real. I believe heaven is real. And I believe… I believe you want me alive.”
He paused.
“Help me. Please
The Devil had just saved a soul by telling the truth. And he’d done it with a grin and a London accent, complaining about God the whole time.
The irony was perfect.

Credit: Don Campbell

Instagram