THE DEVIL’S KNELL by Chris Phelon

‘It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank; an old man said to me, won’t see another one-’ Derek listened to the song on the radio for a minute, glancing out of the side window of the car, his grizzled, moustachioed face crumpling into a frown. That insidious drizzle that soaked you through before you realised how wet you were getting was still falling. The time on the dashboard clock clicked over to ten-thirty. Derek thought about leaving the car and walking up the path to Erin’s front door, but instead pulled out his phone.

‘Alright, love? It’s Dad. I know it’s late, sorry. I’m outside in the car. I’m heading down for the bell ringing, wondered if you were coming?’

      He knew the answer from the sigh. The practised excuses began to flow - she’d only just got Michael to bed, Sasha had a touch of croup, Tariq was at the pub with the lads from the restaurant, and so on. He cut her off.

      ‘Okay, no, that’s alright, love. I’ll see you tomorrow then for presents. I’ll take Winston out for a walk first. Love to the kids. And Tariq, yeah. Bye.’ Derek hung up and looked up in the rear-view mirror. The cavernous space of the Ford S-Max stretched out behind him. He started the engine, musing about trading it in in the New Year.

      He turned into Church Street and parked up outside Dewsbury Minster at a quarter to eleven, next to a flash-looking black BMW that he was surprised to see there and was sure wouldn’t last long unmolested in this neighbourhood.  ‘And the bells were ringing out on Christmas Da-’ he tapped his right earbud to cut off the music, plucked them from his ears and threw them onto the passenger seat next to the pile of presents he’d wrapped earlier. He felt like leaving them in the car overnight; they were too bloody heavy to lug back into the flat again. But, no; some thieving toe-rag would like as not take a fancy to them, and then he’d have a smashed window and no presents for the grandkids on Christmas morning. It had happened to Barry only a week before, Barry who sold programmes at Elland Road on match days since his bad leg had meant he’d had to pack up his job on the bins. Never leave anything in your car round here, or they’ll have it.

      He was fifteen minutes late. He’d told them that he might be, on account of picking up Erin, and that they should start without him. Albert would be there, with his wife Marjorie; Jack Benson too, and he usually brought his son on Christmas, whose name Derek couldn’t remember. So there’d be enough of them to kick it off. Derek could lock up after, and be back home in bed by half past midnight with any luck. Maybe one o’ clock if he wasn’t too tired to take Winston round the block for a pee before he went to bed, provided the rain had stopped.

      He put the presents in the footwell on the back seat and covered them with a blanket; can’t be too careful, even parked outside a bloody church. As he locked the car, his eyebrows arched as he realised that he couldn’t hear any bells. Albert swore blind he’d be there on time to kick it off. Now we’ll never bloody get it all done before midnight. He pushed at the door that led into the bell tower and it opened wide. Must be someone around then. Derek peered through the door and called out.

      ‘Albert? How come you haven’t got the bloody bell going yet?’ No answer. Derek hovered in the doorway, scratching at his greying temple. That bloke’s supposed to be coming along from the newspaper this year. Bit difficult to write an article about the bellringing if there is no bloody bellringing.

      There was no answer. Derek stepped into the room. There the coats were, on the back of the chairs. The electronic counter was turned on, red digits shining out; 0000. The heating had been on; the radiator was warm to his touch, but not hot. The long terelyne rope hung unmoving down from the huge bronze bell high up in the rafters; Black Tom rested there, silent and immobile. Derek scratched his chin. It was all very peculiar.

      He walked through to the kitchen. All very well playing silly buggers, but there’s a job needs doing. All down to me again, then. But first, get a cuppa on. He reached out to the refrigerator to get the milk -

      ‘Good evening.’

      The voice made Derek start. It came from behind him, from the kitchen table behind the door, where he was sure there hadn’t been anybody sitting when he’d entered. He turned around, spluttering. ‘Bloody hell, you made me jump.’

      ‘I’m very sorry about that.’ The man sat with his back to the wall, sipping on a mug of tea. He was expensively dressed, with a long black overcoat and sharp navy-blue suit, buffed shoes and the silver glint of what looked like a Rolex or some such expensive watch on his wrist. It was hard to say how old he was; his face seemed young, with blue, shining eyes, but the smartly-styled beard held flecks of grey and the flowing locks of hair rolling back from his forehead showed the first signs of a receding hairline.

      Derek straightened his back, regaining his composure. ‘Well, never mind. You must be that fella from the Chronicle, yeah?’

      The man grinned. ‘Yes, I must be. Pleased to meet you, Mr Whitby.’ The voice was soft, with an accent Derek couldn’t place. Not English, but it didn’t sound foreign either. Not any type of foreign that he’d heard.

      ‘You been doing this sort of thing for a while, then?’ Derek asked.

      ‘Quite a while, yes.’ The man took a swig of his tea.

      Derek walked over to the kitchen table and flicked on the kettle. ‘Well, I’m sorry but it seems to just be me. Was anyone here when you got here? Did they say where they were all going?’

      The smile stayed on the man’s lips. ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Whitby. I took the liberty of making myself a mug of tea while I was waiting, I hope you don’t mind.’

      Derek nodded. ‘Well, I hope you found some proper milk. There’s usually only that soya muck in the fridge here these days.’ He went back over to the refrigerator, but before he could open it, the man rose from his chair and strode across the kitchen to his side, taking him by the arm.

      ‘I was wondering if you could explain the wonderful little set up you have here, Mr Whitby. For the article. I’m sure our readers will find it absolutely fascinating.’

      ‘Derek’s fine,’ he replied, frowning.  He couldn’t remember mentioning his name. Albert must have told him. The man led him through the door and back into the bell tower.

      Despite the heating having been on, the room felt cold. Derek zipped up his jacket and started to fiddle with the thermostat on the wall as the man gave a small shake of his head and chuckled. ‘You know, I heard a rather wonderful joke on my way over here,’ he grinned, ‘but for the life of me I can’t remember now how it goes. Do you ever find that, Mr Whitby? Things just go completely out of your head?  I’m afraid I must be getting old.’

      Derek frowned. ‘Not one for telling jokes. Always muck up the punchline. Anyway, I suppose you’ll be wanting to know about Black Tom, then?’

      The man nodded and gestured for Derek to begin.

      ‘Well,’ Derek began, pointing up at the enormous bronze bell nestling in the rafters of the tower, ‘it all goes back to 1434. This local knight, Sir Thomas de Soothill, loses his rag after he hears that his servant boy had missed church the previous Sunday.  So in a fit of rage, he throws him into the millpond, and the lad drowns. And old Sir Thomas, to atone like, puts up the money for that tenor bell to be installed and commands that it should be rung every Christmas Eve. That’s why the bell is called Black Tom, see, after him.’

      The man stared up at the bell. ‘Absolutely fascinating,’ he murmured. ‘What does the inscription say on it?’

      Derek chuckled. ‘Bloody hell, you’ve got good eyesight to see that from down here. Well, it says, 'I shall be here if treated just / when they are mouldering in the dust’. Sir Thomas said that the bell should be rung every Christmas Eve, one toll for each year since the birth of Christ and the death of the Devil, see? That’s why the whole thing’s called the Devil’s Knell, see? It’s a celebration of finally getting rid of Old Nick and forgives the sins of the whole world for another year.’

      The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Never send to know, eh? Sounds to me like Mr Soothill was more interested in saving his own soul after that unfortunate business with the servant boy rather than anything so altruistic.’

      Derek shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. I just know that it’s a tradition around here. And if I don’t get started ringing that bell tonight, it’ll be the first time in six hundred years that it’s not been done. And we can’t have that.’

      The man thrust his hands into his coat pockets and nodded his head sagely. ‘You’re right, Mr Whitby, we certainly can’t have that. I often wonder whatever we would do without people like you around, standing up for a man’s right to feel proud of his heritage.’

      Derek paused, searching the man’s expression, sensing a sarcastic tone to his words. He had heard that tone often enough, from his daughter and that husband of hers. But the man just stared wide-eyed at him, a faint smile playing innocently on his lips.

      ‘Right, well, I’d better be getting on. Shouldn’t you be writing all of this down?’  Derek moved towards the bell rope to check it wasn’t tangled.

      The man had wandered over to examine the digital counter, the large red numbers still reading 0000. He tapped the side of his forehead. ‘Oh, it’s all going in here, Mr Whitby, don’t you worry. So this little gadget records how many times you’ve rung the bell, yes? Going to take you rather a long while to ring the old girl two thousand and twenty-three times, isn’t it? Sounds postively exhausting.’

      Derek wondered when the others were going to come back. He shivered; it seemed to have gotten very cold in the bell tower. He glanced out of the window and saw that the rain had turned to snow, which had already started to settle on the grass verges. ‘It won’t all be me,’ he replied. ‘Everyone takes a turn. We won’t get it all done by midnight, granted, like old Sir Thomas said we’re supposed to, but we’ll get them done.’ Derek realised he hadn’t made that cup of tea. He could do with one now it had gotten so cold. He made a move for the kitchen.

      The man had stepped into the shadows at the far wall. He spoke no louder than he had previously, but his words seemed to stop Derek in his tracks, as if a command had been screamed. ‘I don’t think anybody else will be coming along, Derek. It sounds as though tonight you’re all on your own.’

      Something churned deep within Derek’s stomach, something dark and knotted. He remembered when he’d felt that sensation before, sitting at Mary’s bedside in that godforsaken hospital. He stopped at the doorway and turned to stare at the man. ‘What are you on about?’

      The grin had returned. ‘You’ve always had to do it on your own, haven’t you, Derek? That ungrateful daughter of yours. With her useless article of a husband. I don’t imagine the children will turn out much better. It’s all rather going to the dogs, isn’t it? Not like it used to be. Not in your day.’

      The man moved slowly away from the wall and towards Derek as he was talking. He wasn’t smiling anymore. ‘There just isn’t any respect. For tradition. For values. How long was Mary waiting in that hospital bed, waiting for someone to come? All she wanted was someone to take away the pain. Not too much to ask, is it? That’s what I’m on about, Derek. No respect. You work hard all your life for your family, and at the end, when you’re just lying there, screaming in agony, begging for someone to come and take the pain away, nobody even has the decency to do that.’

      Derek stared into the man’s pale blue eyes. He was very close now. Derek murmured a reply.

      ‘What was that, Derek? I didn’t catch it,’ said the man, cupping an ear.

      Derek’s reply, when it came, was whispered. ‘I had the decency to do it. I did,’ The man smiled again, nodding in acknowledgment. Derek drew a sobbed breath. ‘I took her pain away,’ he continued, his voice once again almost inaudible.

      ‘Yes, you did, Derek. As I said, not too much to ask, was it? And it was so easy. As soft and as simple as a pillow over the face. That’s what I like about you, Derek. You’re not a man who’s afraid of doing what needs to be done. Of speaking the truth. That’s what I can’t stand about this medieval nonsense,’ the man scoffed, gesturing up at the bell in the rafters. ‘I mean, there is still such a thing as factual accuracy, even in this internet age. The Devil’s Knell, indeed.’ He gave a short, derisive laugh, lips drawing back, teeth showing. ‘Although, to be fair, I must admit that even I didn’t know this pathetic little charade existed until I read about it online. The information age is truly a wonderful thing, isn’t it?’

      Derek watched frozen to the spot as the man reached up and, with an impossibly long arm, cut the rope from inside the bell with a fingernail as sharp as a butcher’s knife. The rope fluttered the twenty feet to the floor and curled at Derek’s feet. The man picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘So there’ll be no more Devil’s Knell, Derek. I must say, I don’t know which annoys me more, the hypocrisy or the lies. I’m afraid that on occasion, it rather does somewhat make me lose my temper.’

      The man held Derek in his stare for a moment, then turned to leave. At the door, he stopped and looked back, eyebrow raised. ’Do you know,’ he said, with a lilt of jollity in his voice, ‘I’ve just remembered how that joke went.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a red and gold Christmas cracker, decorated with figures of trees and angels. He proffered one end to Derek, who found himself grasping it tightly. After a second, the man pulled on the other end sharply, and a loud bang echoed around the bell tower, making Derek jump. A small piece of paper and a yellow folded hat fluttered to the floor. Derek’s eyes followed their descent. When he looked back up, the man had gone. He heard the sound of the black BMW outside pulling away into the street.

      After a minute or so, Derek felt able to move again. He stared at the piece of paper on the ground for a second, then bent to pick it up. A sentence was printed on it in large black letters.

      ‘HOW MANY BELLRINGERS CAN YOU FIT INTO A REFRIGERATOR’?

      Derek held the piece of paper in his hand as he turned his head towards the kitchen. He moved slowly across to the door, and peered at the large refrigerator in the far corner of the room. Despite feeling an overwhelming urge to flee out into the snow, through the frozen streets and back to the familiar warmth of his flat where faithful old Winston was waiting, he found himself walking over to it and grasping the handle. He noticed the clock on the wall out of the corner of his eye. Somehow it was nearly midnight. He paused, for what seemed like an eternity. Then he flung the refrigerator door open and stared inside.

© Chris Phelon 2026