Deal with the Devil

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

"So it begins," Alastair said, laying his top hat on the hallway table of his palatial home. He had just come from a wonderful luncheon and was full of the rewards of a comfortable life.

Having removed his coat and hung it, he loosened his tie, rolling up his sleeves, ready for a potential battle ahead. He cricked his neck from side to side and headed into the library to pour himself a Scotch and wait.

He sat in the red winged armchair, clicking his fingers to light the fire and sipped on his whisky, savouring its warmth in his belly.

Not long, a figure appeared.

"Father," Alastair said.

Before Alastair was an old man, unkempt and virtually rotten.

"You're here a little earlier this year, I see." Alastair took another swig of his drink, delighting in its fiery taste.

"Let out for bad behaviour," the old man grinned. "The Devil strikes a hard bargain but I like to see it's been worth it."

Alastair gazed at the old man as he looked around the library.

"Do you ever read any of these books?"

"Father..." Alastair interrupted him.

Heat flashed in the old man's eyes. "What? Not in the mood for chit chat?"

Alastair sighed. It was always like this. Happy at first to see him and then, it easily deteriorated into a fight.

"Like that, is it? Well, tonight I rate my chances. The swap is on!" The old man grinned maniacally, revealing yellow stumps in between gaps and the smell that emanated from his gaping mouth was from the very pits of, well, Hell.

"The Devil's not big on dentistry, then? Whisky?" Alastair raised his eyebrows at his father who scowled at him before nodding. Alastair turned to get a glass and it was then that his father made his first strike.

Alastair raised his finger and the old man was slammed into a wall of books, his head ignominiously struck by a falling Barnaby Rudge.

"You'll have to do better than that, Father," Alastair said, back still turned. "It's going to take a lot more than that to beat me and send me to Hell."

The old man groaned, muttering "You bastard" and picked up the book and adding, "I fucking hate Dickens. Too weighty all round."

"You're starting earlier each time you come," Alastair said, going over to his father, helping him up and handing him the glass. With a swish of his arm, the books returned to the bookcase. "Hell getting to you?"

The old man rubbed his head and quaffed his whisky. "Well, it's no picnic. Why don't you find out for yourself?" The old man waved his hand and the poker from the fireplace flew towards Alastair's head. Nonchalantly, Alastair ducked and the poker struck Shakespeare's Sonnets with a dull thud.

"I can see I'm up against it," the old man sighed. "I should have tried harder years ago. I'm rotting away."

Alastair felt a pang of guilt but there was no way that he was going to end up like his father. After all, it wasn't him who made a deal with Beelzebub to secure a life of wealth, health and prestige.

"You know, you could give me one year, son," the old man suggested.

"I could," Alastair said, the old man's face brightening, before adding, "But I won't."

"You always were a fucker," the old man spat and an ice pick flew directly for Alastair's heart where he parried it away, the chink as it hit his enormous ruby ring adding insult to injury.

"I learnt from the best," Alastair smiled wanly.

Like he'd been punctured himself by a well-placed ice pick, the old man deflated.

"I'm not going to win, am I?"

"No, you're not." Alastair paused. "But I do have a plan."

The old man raised his head. "To save me?" He looked pitiful.

"Yes. Although it may or may not work." Alastair looked thoughtful.

The old man sat up. "What is it?"

"I can't say. You'll have to trust me. I would hate for him to thwart our plans and keep your soul." Alastair poured his father more whisky. "Or gain mine."

"Why should I trust you?" The old man looked at his son, this piece of himself.

"You shouldn't. Probably. But then, what choice do you have?"

The old man sighed.

"I am your only hope."

Silence descended.

"Alright," the old man agreed. "I have your word?"

Alastair nodded.

"I'm trusting you, boy," and eyed him suspiciously.

Alastair smiled, some might say devilishly. Who knew misplaced paternal trust would win the battle?

Hell was making his father soft.

And Alastair in the thirteenth hour had kept himself out of it for another year.

***

800 words on the nose

The details of Liam's challenge are here:

This was inspired by another fiendish entry to this unofficial challenge by my good friend, Donna Fox (HKB), which you can read here:

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