Forty Winks
THE HOUSE WAS DARK, which was what you'd expect from the setting for a confrontation between the nobility of human conscience and the creeping evil of satanic temptation. On the other hand, it was less easy to fit the yellow balloons, spilled wine and half eaten party foods in with the image of dark mills and Gothic spires.
Henry Melville sat, if not disconsolately, then at least with a pervading air of flavoured melancholy, and stared at the mess in his front room. In the gloom, the deflating balloons had taken on the form of gnarled tree stumps, or mysterious figures lurking in the shadow. Melville had a very predictable imagination.
Emblazoned on his chest, in cheerful red and white which was just possible to make out in the murk, was a large, round announcement that "Now I Am 40". Melville looked at the balloons again, shifting the rubbish simile of before to make room for a more self-indulgent metaphor for his own physical decline.
His hands were resting on his stomach. A few years ago he'd had nothing there to rest his hands on. He would have considered the arms of the chair more comfy. But now there was a convenient cushion there, waiting for his tired arms to settle. He despised it.
But he left his hands there.
He had been in a relatively good mood earlier. His friends and his wife had launched this surprise party for him, full of streamers and cans of lager. But it hadn't taken him long to realise that he wasn't enjoying it at all. That, much more than the flipping over of another page in the calendar of his life, was what had dragged his mood down. When you are told old to enjoy a wee birthday drink, you're just too old. His friends had caught the mood eventually, and sidled off guiltily. His wife, thinking she understood, smiled with what she thought was sympathy, and quietly went to bed. Even the Russian Hamster had stopped gnawing at the rotastak bars and had retired to her straw hut. Melville was alone, and regretting the apple dumpling he'd had for tea.
Reaching a state of irritation with his own depressed morbidity, Henry switched on the TV, flicking through the terrestrial channels. BBC1 was showing a blank screen with an unpleasant high-pitched wail. BBC 2 was showing four people sitting round a table with a picture of London behind them. ITV had some kind of through the night chat show with a man in an expensive suit and a cheap tan, talking to someone who had enough rings through his nose to pass as a curtain rail. Channel 4 has four people sitting round a table with a picture of London behind them. Channel 5 might have had four people with a picture of London behind them, but it was a little difficult to tell. Henry switched on Sky Sports instead, and gazed unhappily at the Regional Finals of the British Sheepdog Trials. He was even more unhappy when he started enjoying it. "Oh dear..." said a voice by his ear. "That is a turn-up for the books" The voice had a dry, wheedling quality, that was more than a little mocking. "You'll be shouting 'come on Fido' soon, I suppose."
Melville froze in horror, and then turned his head slowly to see how was speaking. He had hoped it was one of his children playing games.
It wasn't.
Nestling on one of the sofa's threadbare cushions, was a warty creature, the size of a small goat. Two flinchingly sharp horns rose from a knobbled fore head. Two strangely graceful wings rested on its acned back. Its eyes were more traditional - cat like yellow orbs that shone with a light of their own, while its contorted limbs were strong and equipped with razor extremities.
"Hi." said Henry, weakly. There didn't seem to be anything else to say.
Abaddon was unfazed by this response. He'd had anything from throat rending screams to offers of tea. "Hi" was nicely in the middle range. He slunk onto the floor to address the man more comfortably.
"That's much better" It grinned a toothy smile. "Now we can talk. I'm Abaddon, by the way. "Bad" to my friends."
"Bad?"
"Yes," said the thing. "As in Michael Jackson."
Henry shuddered. He was truly in the presence of evil. "What can I do for you?"
The creature grinned. "Ask not what you can do for......" then it stopped, its face growing suddenly perplexed. "Oh, sod. That's the wrong way round, isn't it. Never mind. I've come here to make you an offer."
Henry nodded, acceptingly.
Bad went on. "It's no secret that you're none too chipper at the moment."
Melville nodded again. It was a sign of his own malaise that, rather than being overcome with terror at the size of large warty devil sharpening its claws on the cheap nylon rug, he was rather irritated by its use of the word 'chipper'.
The demon smiled toothily. "Well. I am the answer to your every desire."
Henry's face said everything.
Bad sat back on the rug and hunched his shoulders. "Okay, I don't look like much. I've not been doing the Faust thing for long. I suppose I ought to turn up in a huge circle of fire, or rend the very air with a terrifying screech, etc, but I'm trying to be a good communicator here. Just cos I'm a devil, don't mean I'm not on the level and all that. Stuff the screech - where'd that get me, eh? Far as I'm concerned, this is all just business."
"What is?"
"So much for the communication. I'm offering you our basic package. Happiness, power, endless sex, that kind of caper." Bad straightened himself up again, perhaps spotting that he had caught Melville's interest. He may have been mildly ashamed that he had just employed a tactic similar to a magazine called "She-Devil" or "Ms Laudenum", but he didn't show it.
Henry sat up in his seat. He would have pricked up his ears, but he'd never been very good at the manipulation of his extremities. "We, urm. We're talking 'heart's desire' here, are we?"
Bad cocked his head to one side, and if savouring the phrase. "Yes. That wouldn't be entirely inaccurate".
"In return for...?"
"Oh, the usual. The sign on the dotted line promising to give your soul to Beelzebub for the duration of eternity. Nothing much. Only, and I'd like to make this abundantly clear, I will be asking you to sign on the dotted line before I hand over the Les Desire du Coeur, if you follow me. I've had one or two jokers thought they take the money and run."
To Melville, this sounded eminently reasonable. However, for some reason the proposition bothered him. "So - I give my soul, and I get fried in eternal pits of despair?"
The warty creature gave him a look of withering sarcasm. "You've been reading too much poetry, mate. You should be reading more of your Screwtape letters. We have no interest in sautéing your sole soul. Why would we do a thing like that. No, it's all about temptation and keeping scores. We keep score in souls. Just the way it is. But we won't have any burning. What do you think this is? The dark ages?"
"I'm sorry" apologised Henry, feeling genuinely remorseful. "I didn't mean to cast aspersions. I was just thinking, that if nothing bad is going to happen to me, then my heart's desire seems like an unbelievably good deal."
Bad flicked his wings casually, and hopped up onto the arm of the chair. "Since you weren't flinging aversions at me, I'll tell you. Obviously giving your soul to us isn't quite as nice as going to heaven. I mean, the view's not up to much. But you do get to meet a more exciting class of people. A really lively bunch..."
"Figuratively speaking....."
"Well, yes, what with them being dead and such like. But that's the true trade off. But of course, demon's sometimes lie".
Bad appeared to intentionally leave a dramatic pause. "Aren't you going to ask me if I'm lying?"
Melville shrugged. "I was working on the assumption that you were unlikely to tell me."
Abaddon rolled his yellow eyes. "Oh, deary me. You're supposed to ask so that we can go into the matter of the paradox."
"The what?"
"The paradox. I just said demon's lie, but if they do then I must have been lying. Therefore demon's don't lie, but in that case I might have been telling the truth and they do lie..."
"That doesn't work," Henry announced, shaking his head. He felt on firmer ground here, having had a 100% record of Clive Doig's "Brainbox" in the Radio Times. "That only works if you say 'Demon's always lie'."
"I did, didn't I?"
"No," Henry insisted. "You said 'Demon's sometimes lie', which doesn't involve a paradox, because you might have been telling the truth when you said it, but still lying about hell not being all that bad."
Bad looked mortified, his wings drooping. "Really?"
Melville nodded, apologetically.
"Oh, sod. I can never get that one right. How does it go again?"
"Demon's always lie. If you say it like that, it's a very good paradox." Henry said approvingly.
"Really?" asked Bad again, looking a little brighter.
"Top quality", the man assured. The thought occurred to Melville that either this demon wasn't all that bright, or that this was all a convincing plan to lull him into a false sense of security. He decided to probe deeper. "So, this heart's desire... What form does it take?"
Bad slunk back down on to the floor, where he casually picked at the carpet with his claws. "Oh, you know. The usual..."
Yes, of course, thought Henry - the usual, like this happens to me every Tuesday. "Sorry - a bit dense you know. The usual being...?"
"Three wishes."
"Wow."
Abaddon grinned demonically, which was only to be expected. "Good, isn't it? Couple of limits - like in Aladdin - it's just the three wishes, no more, and you can't wish for immortality."
Henry suddenly felt let down. "Why not?"
Bad waggled a talon. "Think about it - what's the use of us having a promise of your soul if you never die? We'd never be able to claim it."
At least the demon was being up-front - laying down his conditions before the deal started. That indicated that it had to play by certain rules. It also indicated.... "Made that mistake before, have you?" asked Henry, as politely as he could.
The demon coughed with embarrassment. "Well, yes. Some people like to take advantage of a novice imp. Damn unfair, I say."
Henry tried to look sympathetic and understanding, but inside he was quite excited. If a demon could fall for that one, he could certainly fall for something subtler. But there were one or two things that could go wrong with his embryonic plan, so he elected to go with the flow for just now. Henry was also dimly aware that he ought to be afraid. The problem was he just couldn't be bothered. "Anyway, I had to bring in this new rule. But that's it. The rest is yours for the taking. Apart from ruling the world. We've already promised that one to someone."
That made sense, Henry agreed silently. If everyone wished to rule the world then you could only grant their wishes in three month portions. It all sounded too good to be true.
Their had to be a catch. Obviously selling your soul was a minor inconvenience, but there had to be another catch.
"I know what you're thinking," said the devil.
Henry flicked his gaze up to meet that of the demon. "You do?" he asked cautiously.
Bad nodded. "You think I'm going to promise these things, then you sign your soul away and the wishes get forgotten. Well, it just isn't like that."
Henry spread his arms wide, almost motivating himself to move from the sofa. "The thought never crossed my mind!"
"Oh yes?" one of Bad's scaly eyebrows arched pointedly. "Pull the other one, it's got hell's bells on. But we expect that. Everyone expects demon's to cheat. Probably because we normally do. I'm no angel myself. Not to worry though. We've got it all in writing. You do sign away your soul first, I admit, but it's all in writing that you get your wishes afterwards."
"I give you my soul first?" Henry blustered. Or at least he tried. He'd never been quite sure how to bluster. "That sounds very dodgy. "
There was a flash of red flame, and suddenly Abaddon was holding a black scroll, which appeared to be inlaid with glowing orange writing. A scaly claw waved his soothingly.
"It's written here in distilled hell fire, mate. '/, the undersigned of the underworld, hereby declare that the three wishes* of the soul donator shall be granted up receipt of the promise of the aforementioned ethereal construct.' You can't miss it."
"What's the asterisk?"
Bad coughed. "It reads "*with exception of all world ruling initiatives, and any wishes involving large quantities of jelly.""
"Any particular reason?"
"You don't want to know, really you don't."
Henry frowned. He hated it when people said that. "No, I do. That's why I asked."
Abaddon growled in the back of his throat, and his eyes glowed purple for a moment. "If you want to push it mortal, then it's just that I don't want you to know. Got that?"
For the first time, Henry motivated himself enough to be frightened. He shrank back in his sofa and murmured assent.
Bad's eyes faded back to slitted yellow. "Right. Sorry about that. But no-one mentions the jelly, is that understood?"
"Yes."
"Right. Anyway, here's the document. Read it. Don't stare to long at the hell fire though. It can give you a blinding headache."
That makes sense, thought Henry. How to stop people studying the small print - dangerous writing. He stretched out and took the paper. Strangely, there was no small print. Just the three ruled on immortality, world domination and jelly. It all seemed above board, if a little below firmament. The space for the signature was directly below: "I promise to reimburse the promise of the bearer's soul with his/her heart's desire." What a dreadful sentence, thought Henry. But he could find no get out clauses. It occurred to him that if you are a devil, then your potential clients are naturally suspicious of you. In your own way, you have to be completely above board. If you were an angel, on the other hand, you could get away with murder. "Those are the only limits?" He sought final confirmation. "Immortality, World Ruling.... and Jelly?"
The room was still exactly as it had been when Abaddon had entered the room. The deflated balloons still hung limp and wrinkly on their bits of string. The soft glow of streetlights still seeped through the curtains enough to give the room a healthy collection of shadows. And in the middle of the floor, his eyes now the yellow they had been before, the quietly sitting, but unmistakably demonic, shape of Abaddon nodded. Politely.
Henry held out a hand. "Pen." He demanded.
Bad twitched a wing, and a long, red feather (with, strangely, a gold nib marked "made in Germany") quill appeared in Henry's fingers. The man nodded his thanks, and scrawled quickly across the black paper. He underlined his surname with a flourish, and handed both quill and paper back to the hell-born interloper. Then he sat back, and thought about phrasing his wishes.
Abaddon sat back on his reptilian haunches, and silently waited for instructions.
"My first wish," said Henry slowly, careful not to waste his opportunities, "is to be young for a thousand years."
Abaddon produced a small shorthand notepad from somewhere, and scribbled this down with a small biro. At first nothing more happened. Then, as Henry sat on his sofa, he spotted that several of the balloons had begun to reinflate. By the time he realised that his middle-aged spread had been sucked back into his body, and that his glasses no longer improved his vision, but in fact made it ten times worse, the balloons around the room were huge and colourful. A broad smile crept across his face, and he looked at the warty creature with gratitude.
Abaddon shrugged. "A thousand years we can do. Hope you like it. What next?"
Henry thought fast. What else could he wish for? And when he thought of something, how best to put it to get the best deal? What did he need? What would he need over a thousand years?
For a moment he thought about asking to be a great footballer. But then it occurred to him that with a thousand years to practise, he could probably be a fairly good footballer anyway if he so wished. And that went for many other skills he could have wished for.
So, choose something that couldn't be learned.
"Give me top quality Richard Branson style, but much better, entrepreneurial business sense. "
The demon's biro flickered across the page.
Henry's head became full of ideas. He thought about his current job and ways it could improve. Then he cast aside thoughts of his job, and thought of new jobs, new challenges, new ways of pouring millions of pounds into his bank account.
"Like it?" asked the devil.
"Very good," approved Henry. "I like it."
Abaddon grinned toothily. "Well, come on then old boy. Make your last wish count. You have traded your soul for it, after all."
The sheer scale of the trade impacted on Henry's new business sense like a brick. Was this a good investment? Were you giving away a chance at reincarnation? A small internal Henry shook its head morosely. What had he let himself in for? The new, shiny business man in him decided it was going to have to ask for a very big pile of cash in return for this. He opened his mouth.
But then the business sense - in fact, the bit he had asked for, the truly remarkable beat anyone business sense, put the brakes on again. Hang on. Business is as much about bending the rules as it is about money. Think over those clauses again.
"Come on, come on," urged Abaddon, like a scaly Jeremy Paxman. "I haven't got all day you know. What do you want? Money? Sex? Good looks? Come on, spit it out!"
Henry stood up from his seat, and walked his new, young body over to the window. "I've already given you my soul, haven't I?"
Abaddon rolled his slit-pupilled eyes in impatience. "I think we covered that one. Yes, you have. And now I'm giving you whatever you want in return. So hurry up".
"Fair enough," agreed Henry. He turned to face the demon. "I would like..." he began.
Abaddon paced forward, eager to hear what this final wish would be.
"I would like...." Henry said again, mulling his words over, checking for errors, and above all calming his nerves.
"Yes? Yes?" Screeched Abaddon, biro at the ready.
"I would like.... my soul back, please."
The small demon was halfway through scrawling that on his pad before he realised what had been said. Then, as before, its eyes took on the colour of flame. As it spoke, its voice dropped several octaves, until it was a low, and thunderous bellow. "WHAT DID YOU SAY?" It demanded.
Henry didn't know if he was imagining it or not, but Abaddon appeared to be growing larger. He tried vainly to control the beat of his heart. "You heard," he squeaked, as bravely as he could.
"YOU CANNOT WISH FOR YOUR SOUL BACK-IT IS NOT YET IN OUR POSSESSION! "
Henry continued to think fast. Being given business sense had, as a by-product sharpened up his day to day thought processes. "That's not entirely true. Firstly, you made it perfectly clear that the first act of the deal was the handover of my soul."
"OF THE PROMISE OF YOUR SOUL! "
"B-but the way I see it," Melville was flagging now. Abaddon had grown to the size of a pony, and was slowly creeping across the carpet, green drool dripping from his jaws. "The way I see it is that, as a demon, you are outside the normal timespan of human mortality, and that the promise of my soul, although 1000 years prior to the collection of that spirit, means the same an eternal being as having my soul already."
"YOU CHEATING LITTLE BUGGER! AND AFTER I TOLD YOU HOW I'D BEEN TRICKED BEFORE! HOW COULD YOU? I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED. LITERALLY!"
"My soul? Now, please?"
For a moment it looked as though Abaddon was going to spring on him and tear his heart out. But then the flame subsided slightly, and the biro scrawled across the page. This time there was nothing substantial to indicate that the wish had been granted, but Henry could tell by the infuriated expression on the demon's face that the transaction had
been carried out.
"Thank you," said Melville.
Abaddon snarled. "THEY'LL KILL ME FOR THIS! THIS is THE SECOND TIME I'VE MESSED UP - THEY DON'T GIVE YOU A THIRD SHOT. I TRIED TO PLAY FAIR - I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING UP FRONT, AND YOU SCREWED ME."
Henry shrugged, but almost felt sorry for his demonic victim. "It's not your fault that they left a loophole in their contract."
But his platitudes obviously had no effect, for the burning fires reappeared in Abaddon's eyes, and his rate of growth began to accelerate. "MAYBE, BUT YOU THINK THEY'LL CARE? AND IF I'M GOING TO BE TORN LIMB FROM LIMB, SO ARE YOU." The sharp claws, which had seemed relatively
harmless, now glittered threateningly in the dull light. The demon paced forward, jaws agape, then leant back on its haunches, ready to leap and kill in a single movement.
The time froze. Like jelly.
Henry stepped back. His balance gone, he placed his hands down on the sideboard for support. And placed his hands in a bowl of dessert.
Jelly.
He wasn't quite sure how it came to him, or why, but as the demon came flying through the front room towards him, talons outstretched, Henry calmly flung the bowl of Jelly in its face.
Abaddon still crashed into him, but the razor sharp claws had been directed back at the demon's own face, trying to scrape the gelatinous mess of strawberry flavoured goo from its scales. Abaddon screamed, and smoke began pouring from its skin. The fires in its eyes began not just to shine, but to burn, and the slitted pupils began to roil in their sockets. The (by now) huge scaly body began to collapse in on itself, and the mortified demon
began to subside pussily into the carpet. The eyes, bubbling as they were, still managed to glare at Melville, and mouth, vomiting fire and blood, still managed to speak.
"YOU KNOW, " it rasped. "THAT WAS A REALLY CHEAP TRICK. "
And then it died.
Melville staggered over to the sofa and collapsed on it, his breathing heavy, and his brow streaming sweat. He rolled onto his side, to stare across the room. Next to the gently smouldering pile of burnt devil, was the black scroll. He reached out his hand, and just managed to catch the paper between his fingers.
Looking at the scroll again, he could see that his wishes had been added, inscribed in the hellfire dilute.
i. Longevity & youth to a total of 1,000 earth years [tick]
ii. Business sense, entrepreneurial over and above the official Richard Branson marker [tick]
iii. 1 Soul, returned, unused, undamaged..... [tick]
A tired smile appeared on his face. It was nice to know things had worked out.
iv. I don't know what you're laughing at.
Henry stared as the letters scritched their way across the page.
v We'll get you yet, Mr Smug.
"I'm sorry?" said Henry, aloud.
vi. So you should be. Watch your back.
"I didn't do anything wrong. It's not my fault your lawyers are shit." He stopped. "What was all that business with the jelly, anyway?"
vii. We can't say.
"Why not?"
viii. Why do you think? We can't have people melting demons all over the place. Most inconvenient.
"Look, thanks for the longevity and the business sense, but I'm afraid I don't want anything more to do with you." Henry began to put the scroll down.
ix. Wait! [The writing looped hugely across the paper.] Before you go - don't forget - we've got a thousand years to get you back. Be warned.
x. We are not to be trifled with.
"Oh, sod off," snapped Melville, and ripped the paper up. There was delicate puff of smoke, the briefest scent of haddock, and then the scroll was gone.
His anger didn't last long, though. It was difficult to remain irritated when the cause of your mid-life crisis (i.e. the fact that you were mid-life) and been happily removed. His thoughts began to take on a subtle difference. Before, he had often spent his time thinking of nasty things that he would like to do to his boss. Now, he began to think of vengeful but completely above board things that he was going to do to his boss, culminating in taking over the company. Today E&H Postle & Partners, tomorrow, ze vurld.
The thought drew him up. Ze vurld. The demon had said that they could give him the world because they couldn't give it to everyone. Did that mean it already belonged to someone? And if so, who was it.
Henry Melville smiled, and sank comfortably back amongst the cushions that clashed so horribly with his sofa. He was going to find out who ruled the world, and topple him. If demon's had to obey the rules of contract, they probably had to observe the laws of business. Melville would track down the ruler of the world, and buy him out.
He glanced down at his rug again. The remains of Abaddon had completely dissipated, leaving only the stain of strawberry jelly, and a streak of runny custard. "Not to be trifled with" snorted Henry. "That's not how it looks from where I'm sitting."
This was going to be fun.