The Dotted Line

 

So l folded the contract and hid it at the back of the wardrobe, deep in a coat pocket. I forgot about it, sort of anyway for fifteen years. But recently I found a post-it note on my computer screen saying: It’s pay-back time! My world crumbled around me.

See, I had made a pact with the Devil. He had kept his part of the promise, and he was reminding me that I now had to keep mine.  But how could I? It would destroy me and destroy my family. I did not know what to do and where to turn. Of course it was my own stupid fault for being greedy.

I told my wife. She said:

‘Just go on doing what you are doing, dear. It’s fine.’

She wasn’t really listening. If she knew everything, she would certainly leave me.

Thinking of what I was supposed to do, I went to the local police station. The duty sergeant looked at me and said:

‘Come back when a crime has been committed, pal, OK? We are busy enough!

I went to the local council.  The social worker sat behind a desk piled up high with files.  Two phones were ringing. He gave me a form to fill in.

‘We’ll get back to you.  I a few weeks, maybe. We will see when someone is available to speak with you.

I found a psychiatrist and paid him a ransom for a consultation. I could come that same day.

‘Sit down and relax,’ he said. ‘The tissues are on the table; help yourself, to water and coffee as well.’ A silence fell.  He looked at me over his expensive spectacles.

‘So what seems to be the problem?’

I told him.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘You are very brave, Michael. It is very good to reach out for help and make yourself vulnerable. We need to explore your decisions so we can come up with a solution. Now, time’s up, would you like to make an appointment for next week?’

Outside, the sun was shining.  It was a glorious day, but I could not enjoy it.  I had only a few days left. If a solution didn’t materialise, there was only one way forward.

I walked past a church and, on an impulse, went in. If anyone would know how to deal with the devil it would be a priest. I found him in the front pew.

‘Is it confession you’re after, my son?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks,’ I said, ‘but I do need urgent help to beat the devil.’

I told him the whole story. When I was finished, I saw him back up a little.  He grabbed his crucifix and made the sign of the cross.

‘You’ll need the full works, son. An exorcism and I can’t do that. I will phone the bishop.  Come back in a week or so.’ He scuttled away into the sacristy.

I could not think of anything or anyone else to turn to.  The only way out was to take my own life. I kept walking, thoughts churning in my head. After what seemed hours, I ended up on a bench. A woman sat beside me; she looked like a homeless person; a tattered hold-all at her feet and an oversized, grubby overcoat.

‘You could do with some cheering up,’ she said. ‘Anything amiss?’

I told her everything. And I mean everything, with all the sordid details. She held out her hand.

‘Give me the contract, will you?’ She dug out a pair of spectacles from her pocket. They were repaired with tape. She read the contract, muttering.

‘Found it! It says here in the small print that if you find someone willing to take over the contract from you, you can do that. I will!’

‘Would you really?’

‘Right you are, son. I have no children so I can promise all I want but won’t be able to hand over a grandchild to the Devil.’

She took the contract, my pen and signed the document with a flourish.

‘You are free. And maybe I will have a little of your money-luck. God knows I can use it.’

Just then the Devil appeared. He was seething.

‘You are cheating!’ he said. ‘You promised me your grandchild!’

‘Well, you are not getting her.’ I pointed at my female saviour. ‘Ask her.’

The Devil knew he’d been tricked.  He threw a hissy fit but when he saw he was getting nowhere he imploded with a soft plop. Only a piece of flint was left.

I felt my heart slowing down and a great weariness leave me. I hugged my saviour, looking for words to thank her.

‘Go, home,’ she said, ‘you’re off the hook.’ She waved the contract. ‘Oh Michael, in the future: read the small print!’