“You going to be OK getting home, Eleanor?” he said. “Oh yes,” I said, “I’ll walk—it’s such a beautiful evening, and it’s still light.”
“Right then, I’ll see you on Monday,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.” He turned to leave.
“Raymond, wait!” I said. He turned back toward me, smiling. “What is it, Eleanor?”
“The Guinness, Raymond. It was three pounds fifty.” He stared at me.
“It’s OK,” I said, “there’s no rush. You can give it to me on Monday, if that’s easier.”
He counted out four pound coins and put them on the table. “Keep the change,” he said, and walked off.
Extravagant! I put the money in my purse, and finished my Magners.
Emboldened by the apples, I decided to take a detour on the way home. Yes. Why not? It was time for a spot of reconnaissance.
There is no such thing as hell, of course, but if there was, then the sound track to the screaming,
the pitchfork action and the infernal wailing of damned souls would be a looped medley of “show tunes” drawn from the annals of musical theater.
The complete oeuvre of Lloyd Webber and Rice would be performed, without breaks, on a stage inside the fiery pit,
and an audience of sinners would be forced to watch—and listen—for eternity.
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