A Promise Kept
Doyle had done a lot of thinking over the summer. He no longer celebrated his birthday, though obviously he noticed the passing of time - saw the date on the newspapers. It wasn't just the anniversary of his birth anymore - it was the anniversary of his death as well. His death of sorts, at least - his death as a human, his death of the life he wanted to live. It was 1998, he'd now been a demon for three years … and things had gone from bad to worse.
But this year, he had something to think about - Whistler's words, his offer, to contemplate. He didn't know how long he had to make a decision, or how he should let the PTB know when he had made it but still he kept turning it over in his mind and wondering what he should do next. Three months later, and he hadn't reached any conclusions, but he hadn't rejected the idea out of hand either.
As the summer came to an end, and the fall beckoned, and the anniversary of the day Harri had left him grew closer, he started to think about it more and more seriously.
So much of what Whistler had said seemed preposterous - especially in the light of day, when Doyle looked around his apartment, looked at his life and saw what it was. The idea that he could become someone, that he could be a guide to a champion … perhaps a hero, himself... anytime he even came close to believing that was possible it would only take one look at his empty liquor bottles, or one sneeze, and he would realise how far fetched and impossible that was.
But then he thought about how Whistler had told him this was his opportunity to atone, to put right that room full of slaughtered bodies, that dead little girl - and his desire for redemption, his need to be forgiven became so overwhelming that he started to believe maybe it could be true again … until the next time he sneezed.
Sometimes, the things Whistler had said to him seemed so fantastical that he wondered if maybe he had dreamed the whole thing, or hallucinated. He had been pretty drunk that night, drunk enough to pass out in the gutter, maybe he was drunk enough to see things that weren't there, and hold conversations with men who existed only inside his head.
In fact, if it wasn't for the abandoned hat sitting on his coffee table, he would dismiss the whole thing as something his mind had cooked up in his drunken stupor. But there it sat, the light brown fedora which was definitely not his. But then … maybe he had just found the hat, and made up the rest? He really had been very drunk that night.
...
It was in early September when he finally did more than just remember, when he finally took a step towards doing - something - anything different. He was on his way to a poker game, being held in a demon bar, when he walked past a greasy, little diner which looked familiar. He stopped and stared at it, frowning. Well, of course - this part of town - he had probably walked past it a hundred times, that was why he knew it. Not because he'd been in there one, dark night a few months ago...
Despite knowing it would mean he missed the first round, his feet walked him into the diner - almost without his mind's agreement. It was exactly the way it had been on the night he thought he remembered, or possibly hallucinated, three months ago - down to the sticky floor and dying pot plants.
The place was mostly empty, a young couple sitting at one table - from the state of their clothes and the grease in their hair, Doyle figured they were probably down and outs - they were just kids, probably runaways. Once upon a time, he would have been able to direct them to a shelter, make sure they were safe, help them out. That wasn't him any more, he hadn't been that man for a long time… he hoped the kids would find someone else who could help them out.
He remembered Whistler's words, telling him he could be someone again, he could become one of the helpers rather than one of the hopeless. But he wasn't there yet. There was nothing he could do for that young couple now.
He slid into the booth he had sat in all those months ago, remembering Whistler sitting opposite him. If the diner was here, if this booth was here … then maybe it had really happened. Maybe he should take what Whistler had said seriously.
A shadow loomed across him and he looked up to see the waitress at his table. She was young - very young. Far too young to be in work, she should be in school. He wondered if she was another runaway, but one taking better care of herself than the homeless couple across the diner. Her hair was in pigtails and in her little gingham waitresses uniform and white sneakers she seemed so ridiculously childlike.
But when he looked in her eyes, he saw a look he knew all too well. It was the look he saw whenever he happened to see his own reflection. There was pain, deep in her eyes; she had seen too much, her world had been pulled out from right underneath her and she was running from something that hurt too much to bear. Just like him. He wondered what it was that she was running from.
'You ready to order?' she asked. Her voice was sullen.
He dropped his eyes, not liking to see all that pain staring back at him, and his gaze raked over her name badge. 'Just a coffee,' he said to her. 'Please.' She nodded, poured him a cup and walked off to wait on another table.
Sipping his drink slowly, he started at the empty bench opposite him, trying to conjure Whistler up in his mind, trying to decide if he had been real, if he had really meant what he said when he told Doyle he could change, could become someone more … worthwhile. Whistler had said Doyle was about to join the payroll of the higher powers which seemed … well, it seemed crazy. Like the kind of crazy a seriously drunk man might hallucinate.
How could the higher powers want him? He was nobody. He was nothing. Less than human. Less than a man.
He ripped open a packet of sugar and tipped it into his drink, stirring it in rather more aggressively than necessary. The idea of higher powers actually existing, and actually being out there and intervening seemed like madness, now he thought about it.
Growing up in Ireland, he had been forced to mass every Sunday - though to his mother's despair he had never made altar boy. Being told that there was someone ineffable and above them all, watching them all the time, ready to intercede on their behalf - to help, or to punish - had been a constant refrain in school, at church; everywhere he turned there had been a priest ready to tell him about the Almighty. And he had never believed.
He'd kept his scepticism quiet, he didn't want to get whacked by a ruler or have chalk thrown at him by an angry nun… or get a clip round the earhole from his ma, but nevertheless, he had never believed. Not in God, not in a higher power, not in ineffable beings watching and intervening.
He had read the book about the PTB after his vision, he'd made a trip to see The Oracles, he knew there was more to this world than most people realised, things science could not explain and things the law did not allow for… but he still hadn't really taken the idea of God like figures seriously.
But now, if Whistler was real - and telling the truth - it seemed that there really was something out there - something more… and that something was watching Doyle, looking to help him atone for what he had done.
He remembered the dead little girl, her little pink shoe and felt the now familiar overwhelming wave of shame and guilt and sorrow crash over him. There could be no atonement. He must be making this up, it must just be a mixture of guilt and drink; he had created Whistler in his mind to try and make himself feel better. It surely wasn't a coincidence that he and Whistler were so similar: same size, same dress sense. Maybe he'd just sat here, drunk out of his skull, and had a conversation with a version of himself that he had imagined; a version of himself that had his shit together and told himself what he wanted to hear...
Someone appeared at his elbow, he looked up. The waitress was offering him a refill, but it was a different woman. This one was middle aged. He frowned. 'What happened to the other girl?'
'She took sick, I'm covering her tables.'
'Right.' He held out his cup for a refill, thanked the waitress and went back to his thoughts. He must have missed more than the first round of his poker game by now - but he wasn't ready to leave. He wanted to know if Whistler had been real, if what he had said could possibly be true - and so he just sat there, for hours, across from where Whistler had sat, trying to decide if it had been real or not.
He got through a lot of cups of coffee.
...
The sun set. The fluorescent lights grew brighter. The waitress slapped his bill down on the table. He took the hint and dug in his pocket, pulling out the spare change he had there. He dropped the coins on the table and looked at them. There was enough to cover the coffee … but not the tip. He'd sat there for hours, nursing one refillable coffee - and he had nothing to give the waitress for her trouble.
'Sorry,' he mumbled, looking embarrassed.
She scooped up the change and tutted. 'Typical - you English never tip.'
He opened his mouth to correct her… and then decided he couldn't be bothered to get into it. Besides, if she already thought badly of the English, there was no need to damage the reputation of the Irish. He was sure England wouldn't mind. 'I'll come back later and give you a proper a tip,' he promised her.
She snorted, 'sure you will.'
'No I will.' He read her name badge and memorised it. 'I promise.'
...
It wasn't until a week later that he walked past the diner again - and remembered his promise. He felt in his pocket and pulled out a couple of bucks. Feeling pleased that he was actually going to keep his word, he headed inside and went up to the counter.
The young waitress behind the counter was tall; taller than Doyle. Her greasy hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she looked tired, but she gave him a sunny smile when he approached her.
'Can I help you?' Her voice was surprisingly high pitched.
'Yeah - uh - is Barbara working today?'
'Yeah - she's right over there,' the young waitress pointed across the diner, to where Barbara was waiting tables.
'Thanks - uh -' his eyes raked her badge, ready to say her name - but what he saw made him frown. 'Uh - thanks.' He nodded and went over to Barbara.
The middle aged waitress recognised him at once, 'if it isn't the big spender himself,' she said wryly.
'Ah - now - a promise is a promise and I keep mine.' He pulled the notes out of his pocket and handed over the long delayed tip.
She looked at it, 'well that's my retirement paid for,' her voice was sardonic.
He breathed a laugh, 'that's more than the coffee cost,' he said. 'I'll spend more next time. Listen…' he glanced around and lowered his voice, 'wasn't that waitress - Anne - a different person last week?'
