Excerpt: Hell On Earth

Any questions?"

"Is the ship sailing anywhere?" asked Paula.

Doris smiled. "Corfu, but not tonight, it's at anchor for now. Don't worry, you'll still be in Hell when you wake up tomorrow."

"Who's thowing the party?" asked one of the other casuals, a late teenage girl with an East End accent.

"Remember what I told you about keeping secrets?"

"Yes, miss."

Doris lowered her voice. "Beëlzebub."

"Gosh!" The girl appeared to be impressed. "Who's he?"

"You've never heard— The Prince of Darkness."

"A real prince! Think of that!"

Twenty minutes later the light from the distant ship was already piercing the darkness. The Dormobile bumped to a stop and parked on a weather-beaten quayside and Doris led the six casuals, who now had some idea of why they were there, up the gangplank and onto the great ship. Doris led them to the kitchens at the stern, showed them a pile of waitress uniforms and introduced Johnnie, the head chef, who started by giving out paper cups of cheap coffee and went on to brief the team about the menu and where everything was. Strange, thought Paula, listening to him, I didn't think a head chef would swear like a trooper. Yet here he was, telling them all to drink their fucking coffee, get their goddamn frocks on and listen carefully. "Catterick Pealty goes on in a quarter of an hour and talks bullshit for twenty minutes, then there's ten minutes to shoo everyone into the dining room and hand them a sherry, and after that the match starts. You've got," he looked at his watch, "forty-five minutes before I start dishing the food out, so make the most of it. After the whistle goes, you'll be working until you drop. Four courses and coffee, then I want complete fucking silence from you lot while Beëzebub addresses the crowd, after that we clear up."

"Can we have a fag while Beëzebub's talking?" asked the girl with the East End speech impediment.

"Yes," said Johnnie, showing indulgence for a second, "as long as you're in the corridor I don't mind. No fags in the kitchen and none in the dining room either. I don't want some posh bastard complaining to the Captain and leaving all of us in the shit."

"Anything else for us to look out for?" asked Paula.

"Just don't drop the dinners on the floor," said Johnnie sarcastically.

The great ballroom was mainly a dance floor, with some armchairs and sofas set out around the oak panelled bar at one end, and a small stage at the other. It was not completely dark, but not light enough to read either: the right level of lighting, the crew must have thought, for sensuous close dancing. A five piece band was sorting out their instruments, scores and stands at the back of the stage. As the guests started to arrive, a footman called out their names.

"Mr and Mrs Aanandita," called the footman, and Aanandita and her beau looked around the ballroom and headed for the bar.

"You," Johnnie pointed at Paula, "Playtime's over early. Get behind the fucking bar." He tossed her a key on a keyring. "Before dinner drinks."
Paula looked at the keyring: the label said, "Chillers." She walked down the corridor and took up a place behind the bar.

Couples were arriving steadily. "Lord and Lady Reith... Mr and Mrs Mainsplug... Mr George Osborne and Mr Andrew Feldman... Mr and Mrs Bynne..."