The name on the door was printed in large, bold letters. “Mr Wormwood”, it stated, and below that, in smaller type: “Elected Officer, Infernal Affairs Division”. The glass underneath the lettering was dirty and yellowing, and the sickly electric light in the corridor did nothing to improve the shabby look of the place. There were no windows to provide natural light; not this far underground. Mike had lost count of the number of stairs he had walked down to arrive here.
His nerves were beginning to get the better of him. The corridor was long, poorly lit and apparently empty - there were no other doors he could see. A single chair sat against the opposite wall, but that was all. He considered turning around and walking away without even knocking, but this was his first job offer in the six months since he'd left college. He couldn't afford to blow it.
Gathering himself, Mike took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Briefly, he saw a dim shadow moving behind the glass, then the door swung open. A faint, unpleasant odour drifted out from the room. In the doorway stood a small, dapper looking man in the later years of middle age. He was dressed in a neat brown suit, and his face was dominated by a large pair of spectacles which magnified his watery eyes. An almost comically bright bow tie sat at his collar. He regarded Mike balefully, then his lips pulled into a grin.
“Michael!” he exclaimed. The voice was rich and plummy, reminding Mike of English nobility. “How good to see you finally. And on time, too! Wonderful. Punctuality is my watchword, you know.”
The man extended a hand.
“Jarvis Wormwood. Pleased to meet you,” he said. Mike extended his own hand.
“Uh, hello, sir,” he said. His hand was grasped and pumped enthusiastically. Wormwood's grip was dry and unpleasant, and Mike concealed a shudder.
“Your hair is shorter than in your photograph, Michael. I must apologise, It took me a moment to place you. Do come in, won't you?”
Mike stepped into the room and looked around. It was darker than the corridor, uncomfortably warm, and the smell was stronger. The furniture was sparse, but looked expensive. A burnished mahogany desk stood at one end of the room with two elegant chairs on either side. Along one wall sat a red leather sofa, cracked and darkened with age. A single filing cabinet stood beside it on the bare floor. Mike's sense of unease grew as he looked into the corner of the room.
In the shadows gathering there, Mike saw the floorboards were broken and burned in a circle above a large, dark hole in the earth underneath. The walls and surrounding area were filthy with dirt, and Mike thought he could see hundreds of fingermarks tracked into the grime, as if someone had tried to climb out. All of the tracks disappeared into the blackness of the pit below.
Puzzled, and a little shocked, he turned and saw Wormwood gesturing to one of the chairs.
“Sit, Michael, sit. We have a lot to cover,” Wormwood said. He pointed over at the hole. “And don't worry about that, we will take the correct measures before we begin,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“I was told this was a clerical position, Mr Wormwood?” said Mike, alarmed. Something was not right here. “I don't think...,” he began, but Wormwood flapped a hand at him, cutting him off.
“Government, Michael. Government. There's more to it than you think. Much more. More to it than the public will ever know. Can ever know. Infernal Affairs is a very minor office, in the grand scheme, but very necessary.” Wormwood leaned back into his chair. “You see, Michael, everything is governed, in one way or another. Government goes way beyond what you see on the daily news. There are no secrets to those that Govern. Magic, ghosts, aliens, and so on. Those in charge know the truth of all these things.”
He gave a girlish chuckle.
“This Office deals mainly with the Arcane. Specifically Demons, Michael.”
Mike was suddenly aware his mouth was hanging open.
“When we get our instructions, we summon an appropriate demon and direct it to its target. Simple enough business, really,” Wormwood continued. His voice was emotionless, and Mike got the impression the man had made this speech before. Many times. Sweat trickled down his back.
“When it has completed its assignment, we deliver it home. We don't question the why and wherefore of it all. Orders, instructions - all just another level of bureaucracy, really,” Wormwood said, and smiled. “I've been watching you for some time now, Michael. You have potential. You were ruthless, academically. You have a nasty streak in you. I think you may fit in well here. Of course, the choice is yours.” He folded his arms across his chest.
Mike felt as if he was glued to the chair. This had to be a joke. From behind him, he heard a strange rustling noise. He realised with growing horror it had come from the ragged hole in the floorboards. Wormwood was grinning. Mike leapt up, and ran for the door.
There was an awful, gurgling laugh from somewhere below. Mike pulled frantically at the door, but it wouldn't open.
“Michael, you have a choice to make. The things I've told you... must remain secret. We all serve, in silence, or... the alternative is worse, I'm afraid.” Wormwood's voice was almost gentle. “My assistant is on its way. Join us, and you'll get along famously together. Otherwise...,” he shook his head, sadly.
Mike remembered the fingermarks leading into the darkness.
He turned, and when he saw the thing that was pulling itself up from the hole, he understood there was no choice to make, after all.