Darkness and light.

Shadows and pain.

They were inextricably linked, feeding off each other, enhancing each other.

Darkness and light.

Shadows and pain.

All it ever took was a single spark to banish the absolute black, but in that moment the two came together to give life to something new. The shadows. Everyone knew that the real monsters hid in the shadows, not in the dark. No amount of light could make them less monstrous. All it ever succeeded in doing was changing the face of their evil into the more familiar masks they wore every day as they moved among us. But then that was the essence of evil, wasn't it? Looking normal. Some mornings it wore your neighbour's face, some afternoons it looked like your best friend, some evenings it masqueraded as your lover and late at night your father confessor. It came dressed in familiar skin, and for a while there you even welcomed it.

For a while.

A narrow slash of yellow underscored the ancient oak door that imprisoned the man. The jaundiced light only lived for an inch before the darkness overwhelmed it. He'd lost track of how long he had been in there. It couldn't be anywhere near as long as it felt. He'd woken naked and cold with a fierce thirst and a tongue that didn't feel like it belonged in his mouth. He had a shit-smeared blanket for warmth. At first, he'd sworn he'd rather freeze, but that stubborn resolve had weakened. Now he clutched the blanket around his shoulders and shivered as he tried to ignore the crust and the smell.

He'd given up shouting and hammering at the door. No one came. He'd made bargains with the darkness, promising not to prosecute them if they just opened the door. He'd even wait long enough for them to slip away. No one ever needed to know who they were. Being a public figure brought all kinds of unexpected trouble, and being a politician meant there was always someone who hated him. Every policy decision transformed him into someone's own personal Antichrist, no matter how well-meaning it was. He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. There was nothing he could do but wait it out.

He struggled to piece together what had happened. The memories were fragmented and confused, a side-effect of the drugs they'd pumped into his system. There had been an invitation. He remembered that much. It had been nicely written on a small white card. There had been a time and a place, beneath a cryptic message that urged him to Remember Bonn.

No, not remember, it was something else, a foreign word. Latin? Memini. Remember Bonn. Bonn. Was this about the climate conference? It was hard to believe anything he'd done there could have warranted this. He tried to think. Everything was dulled with the lingering fog of the sedatives. There had been a lot of back-channel negotiations, plenty of incentives changing hands, nothing unusual. He'd done things he shouldn't, including one diplomatic gift that was barely legal. Was that it? How could the shadow know about that?

He heard movement on the other side of the door. Gaoler or rescuer?

He stumbled to his feet, the blanket hanging on his shoulders, and hammered on the door until his knuckles were raw.

More movement, and then they were gone and silence reigned supreme. He slumped down against the wall, hunger tearing away at his gut, confusion soaking his thoughts. The plates of his skull threatened to pull apart on their biological fault lines.

Somewhere in the darkness hope died.

It wasn't a prank. There was nothing harmless about it.

He was lost.

When the bolt finally ratcheted back he had no voice left to beg with. When the key turned in the lock and the door opened he had no tears to soften the pain as he blinked desperately against the light. The air was filled with the smell of his own urine.

'Please,' was the only word he could muster, and even that was barely a whisper. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling behind him turned the figure in the doorway into a shadow.

'I hope you've made your peace with God,' the shadow said.

'What do you want?' Four words. Now, at least, he could find the words if not the strength to deliver them.

'What makes you think I want anything?'

'Everyone wants something,' he said, ever the politician looking to make a deal.

'I want nothing from you.'

That threw him. It had to be a lie. He needed it to be a lie. 'Then why am I here?'

'You must undergo a trial. If you succeed, I will allow you to confess your sins.'

'I don't understand.'

'A test of faith. Don't tell me you have forgotten everything?' He shook his head. It might have been denial. It might have been disbelief. 'You disappoint me.'

'I need water, please. A drink.' As he reached out the blanket fell away from his shoulders to expose a ripe belly matted with a wire of greying hair and flaccid cock that had shrivelled up to the size of his thumb and was all but lost in the tangle of more hair. 'Please.'

The shadow held something out to him. It took him a moment to realize what it was: a plastic water bottle.

'Is this what you want?'

He nodded.

'Good. That should make the trial interesting at least. It's always better if there is a genuine dilemma,' the shadow said. 'Resist the temptation to drink from this bottle for the next twenty-four hours and I will hear your confession. I will cleanse your body and your mind and you will find your release.' The shadow placed the bottle on the floor and kicked it, sending it skittering away into one of the dark corners.

He scrambled on his hands and knees, clutching at the darkness as he reached for the bottle.

The door slammed, the key turned in the lock, and the bolt slid back into place.

This time there was no light.

He fumbled around frantically, his hands finding only empty darkness as he crawled on all fours. All he could think about was the water and his overwhelming need. His hand came down in something wet and his heart sank. He lowered his face to the dirty stone slabs ready to lap at the water like a dog until the astringent reek of his own piss had him recoiling and laughing at himself in disgust and relief.

He kept on searching the darkness until he found the bottle. He crawled back into the far corner and pressed his back up against the wall. He clutched the bottle to his chest.

Twenty-four hours.

There was no way he could go that long without breaking the seal on the bottle cap. It already felt like days since he'd last had a drink. It wasn't a trial, it was torture. Just one sip. Not even a swallow. Just the feel of the cool refreshing wetness on his tongue. He didn't have to swallow, just savour it. He could dip his finger into it and run the tip across his cracked lips. That wasn't drinking, was it? The shadow had said resist the temptation to drink. He hadn't said don't open the bottle. Don't wet your lips. Don't drink. That was specific. He convinced himself there was a loophole, a way to save himself from the hell of his trial, or at least lessen the torment.

He was weak.

He had always been weak.

He knew who he was. He didn't hide from his weaknesses.

The thirst was all he could think about.

It was the devil inside his head, whispering its need over and over until his fingers fumbled with the plastic cap.

He pushed his finger down into the neck, then tried to moisten his lips, but that was never going to be enough. It only served to...