Let me know if y'all enjoy this, and I'll post parts 2 and 3 when I've written them 
.
W
Of all the things Iain Merchant had bought, sold and bartered over the years, his soul was the least likely to yield a profit. He was not a great believer in souls. Business school had trained him to be a disciple of the dollar- a servant of shares, bonds and lucre of the filthiest kind. Metaphysics was for hippies, or worse still, arts graduates.
He stood on his balcony and looked out at the city. Lights shone in every window as cars raced up and down the labyrinthine streets, trying to find their way home. Iain regarded the scene with distaste. Every single person out there was struggling to get ahead, to make a name for themselves and hold onto it for as long as they could. Iain had been there and done that with no small measure of success. He was on top of the heap and had every intention of staying there.
There was, however, no way to make sure of it. One day a rival would emerge from the shadows and try to force him out of the spotlight. Then he would be yesterday's news, forever banished to the "whatever happened to..." section of history's gossip column.
This sobering thought stayed with Iain all through the night, pushing sleep further away with every passing minute. Morning brought with it the usual frantic schedule of meetings and phone calls, but offered no hope of a reprieve. Iain plodded through the day's work like a rusty automaton, his mind elsewhere and his concerns too ponderous to ignore.
Keeping his worries to himself was easier said than done. By half past six, all his cronies were toasting their victories or drowning their sorrows in the executive lounge. He joined them, in body if not spirit, by standing at the bar and staring into a tumbler of single malt Scotch.
Donaldson from accounts had no qualms about interrupting his dismal reverie. "Merchant!" he roared. "Whatever's the matter with you, man?"
Iain had drunk just the right amount to loosen his tongue. "No idea, Phil. Just feeling a bit out of sorts today."
"I thought as much. How you dropped the ball on that McKinley contract I'll never know."
"I did what?"
"S'true," said Donaldson between gulps of beer. "He said if you couldn't be bothered listening to his proposals, he'd have to find another investor."
"You reckon he was bluffing?"
"Didn't look like it."
Once Iain grasped the enormity of the situation, he reached out and seized Donaldson by the collar. "Help me!"
"What?"
"This is only the beginning. I'm losing it. I'll end up in the street if I'm not careful..."
"How many have you had?"
"I'm not kidding, Phil. Something's happening here and I need to stop it. Are you with me or not?"
"I would be if I knew what the hell you were on about."
Iain brought him up to speed without sparing a detail or pausing for breath. A benign smirk was Donaldson's only answer.
"Why are you looking so bloody cheerful?" Iain demanded.
"Because now I know what's wrong, and I think I can help you fix it."
"Go on."
Having looked around to make sure no-one was listening, Donaldson leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. His frequent use of the words 'grimoire' and 'necronomicon' left Iain baffled. "I beg your pardon?"
"Go to this address," said Donaldson, writing it down on a stray napkin. "They're open all hours and should have everything you need."
Iain's destination turned out to be a second-hand book store on the side of town he preferred to avoid. He went over to the counter and told the shopkeeper what he required. This was met with a gentle and somewhat patronising shake of the head.
"Don't you have it?"
"Oh yes, sir. Several copies in fact. I just think you might prefer something a little more... introductory."
Iain wondered if the old timer knew who he was dealing with. He looked at least eighty, with eyes too dim to read Time, Newsweek or Forbes. "Just give me the damned thing, will you?"
The bookseller obeyed, consulting a shelf behind the counter. He returned with an ancient tome of several hundred pages. Its cover was embossed with a string of tarnished, indecipherable letters.
"Here it is, but don't say I didn't warn you."
"Mr Merchant? I'm Dennis Roderick. Quite a gem you've got there."
"So I gather. Have you any idea what it's all about?"
"I ought to. I've been researching it for twenty years. Never seen a first edition though."
"Now's your chance. I can show you where to get one of your own as well."
Iain arranged to meet Roderick outside the book shop at eleven the following morning. He was the first to arrive, which made him the first to discover that the place no longer existed. It was empty, with yellowing newspaper stuck to the windows.
As Iain looked over the vacant storefront, someone came up beside him and did the same. He was in his middle forties, with ashen hair and the kind of face that spent much of its time prowling around university corridors and getting lost in libraries. "Dennis Roderick," he announced, offering a hand for Iain to shake. "This is a bit of a disappointment, I must say. Where am I supposed to find a copy now?"
"You're welcome to keep mine," said Iain. "After you've told me what it means of course"
"Done."
"Don't tell me, you couldn't understand it either."
"Oh yes. All very straightforward once I got started."
"Then what's the problem?"
"This is powerful stuff, Iain. I feel I should tell you..."
"Save the lectures for your students, please. I think I know what I'm doing."
"I'm not certain you do. The thing is..."
"The thing, Mr. Roderick, is whether or not you plan on sticking to our agreement."
"Yes..."
"Then just send me the translation and stop panicking."
Iain rang off, but not before Roderick's words of caution had begun to sink in. They lurked in the back of his mind, mingling with the old man's mockery to form a heady brew of trepidation.
"You're being ridiculous. They're only trying to put you off because they want all the glory for themselves. You deserve it more than either of them, so go for it."
Iain turned to see who had spoken and concluded that it didn't matter. Whoever it was, they had a knack for good advice.
"Maleductu," Iain began. "Nosferatu, ascendum, corporalus, Daemonicus, abominablus."
Nothing. Iain tried twice more, emphasising different syllables each time in case he'd made a mistake. When fifteen minutes passed without hint of a response, he heaved a dramatic sigh and went to bed. Donaldson and Roderick would pay for this, but for now there were more important things to worry about, such as how to clean chook blood off polished floorboards.
"You didn't have to go to so much trouble, you know," said a voice from the doorway "Next time just call my pager."
The speaker walked into the glow of Iain's bedside lamp and revealed himself to be a man with slicked down dark hair wearing a grey suit. On his right wrist was Iain's Rolex.
Iain struggled to remember his lines. "I-I beseech you, Dark Master," he stammered. "Great is Your power, for Yours is the hand that wounds."
The visitor seemed amused. "Save it. I'm not the one you called, just his errand boy."
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a business card, which Iain took with trembling hands. Nick Diablo, Infernal Affairs. Tenth Floor, Recruitment and Public Relations Department.
"Why would he send you?" Iain asked. "Is he busy?"
"Very much so, Mr Merchant," Nick replied. "We have to deal with an awful lot of time-wasters in our line of work, but I can tell you're not one of them. Shall we go?"
"Where?"
"To make you an appointment."
Nick walked over to one of the lifts and pushed a button. He ushered Iain inside just before the doors slid closed. "Top level," he told the voice operated controls.
"If this thing's going up," Iain whispered. "Why does it feel like we're going down?"
"It's the only direction the old girl knows," said Nick. "Our engineers have a sense of humour."
The lift ground to a halt and opened its doors into an ornate passageway. Thinking that his pyjamas would not be suitable attire for a meeting, Iain saw that his clothes had changed to fit his new surroundings. He now wore a suit that was identical to Nick's.
"Third door on the left," said Nick. "Take a seat until your name gets called, and hope he's in a good mood."
At once Iain felt like a boy abandoned on his first day of school. "Aren't you coming in with me?"
Nick shook his head. "I would, but I'm so far behind with my paperwork it's not funny. Let me know how everything goes, okay? Maybe I'll see you around the place."
Iain watched as Nick vanished into the lift, then set off along the corridor. He arrived at the appointed door and entered what looked very much like a doctor's waiting room. He sat down on one of the vinyl-upholstered chairs and chose a magazine from the selection on the table in front of him. Most of them devoted their covers and several inches of column space to tales of his own achievements. Was this some kind of ploy to make him feel more at ease?
Iain pondered the question for a short while before a receptionist put down her phone and looked over in his direction. "Mr Merchant, the Director's ready for you now."
"It's the new look, isn't it?" said the Director with a smile. "Horns and hooves were ideal for scaring medieval peasants, but I've got to move with the times as much as anyone."
Move with them he had. The traditional demonic image had been replaced by that of a corporate go-getter. His eyes were so sharp and keen that they would never suffer the indignity of glasses.
"What can I do for you, Mr Merchant? Your kind don't often employ my services without a reason. Wealth, power or social position are the usual suspects, and your file tells me you've got all those in spades."
"True, but I could lose it all tomorrow."
"And you'd prefer that didn't happen."
"Right."
"Then I may be able to help, depending on what you have to offer in return."
"My soul."
"You'll have to do better than that. If I'm supposed to keep you in the lifestyle to which you've become so undeservedly accustomed, I expect a lot more than something that's been no good to you since you started wearing long trousers."
"I don't understand," said Iain. "I thought souls were the only currency you dealt in."
"They are," the Director agreed. "With all my other clients, it's a fair exchange for the kind of life they want. You've already traded seven eighths of your humanity to get where you are, so giving up your soul's no big sacrifice."
"What else can I do?"
The Director consulted a manila folder that lay open on his desk. "Looking through your history, I see you've been blessed, or cursed as the case may be, with a particular ruthlessness. You despise sentiment of any kind, you exploit weakness wherever you find it and you have a lifelong habit of putting your own needs before anyone else's."
Iain reflected on the litany of broken promises and stabbed backs that played a major part in his rise to fame. "So?"
"So," the Director went on. "Those are qualities that could be of considerable use to me. I'm sure we'll be able to make some kind of arrangement."
.W
THE FAUST AND THE FURIOUS
© Stephen Lord 2003
PART ONE
Of all the things Iain Merchant had bought, sold and bartered over the years, his soul was the least likely to yield a profit. He was not a great believer in souls. Business school had trained him to be a disciple of the dollar- a servant of shares, bonds and lucre of the filthiest kind. Metaphysics was for hippies, or worse still, arts graduates.
He stood on his balcony and looked out at the city. Lights shone in every window as cars raced up and down the labyrinthine streets, trying to find their way home. Iain regarded the scene with distaste. Every single person out there was struggling to get ahead, to make a name for themselves and hold onto it for as long as they could. Iain had been there and done that with no small measure of success. He was on top of the heap and had every intention of staying there.
There was, however, no way to make sure of it. One day a rival would emerge from the shadows and try to force him out of the spotlight. Then he would be yesterday's news, forever banished to the "whatever happened to..." section of history's gossip column.
This sobering thought stayed with Iain all through the night, pushing sleep further away with every passing minute. Morning brought with it the usual frantic schedule of meetings and phone calls, but offered no hope of a reprieve. Iain plodded through the day's work like a rusty automaton, his mind elsewhere and his concerns too ponderous to ignore.
Keeping his worries to himself was easier said than done. By half past six, all his cronies were toasting their victories or drowning their sorrows in the executive lounge. He joined them, in body if not spirit, by standing at the bar and staring into a tumbler of single malt Scotch.
Donaldson from accounts had no qualms about interrupting his dismal reverie. "Merchant!" he roared. "Whatever's the matter with you, man?"
Iain had drunk just the right amount to loosen his tongue. "No idea, Phil. Just feeling a bit out of sorts today."
"I thought as much. How you dropped the ball on that McKinley contract I'll never know."
"I did what?"
"S'true," said Donaldson between gulps of beer. "He said if you couldn't be bothered listening to his proposals, he'd have to find another investor."
"You reckon he was bluffing?"
"Didn't look like it."
Once Iain grasped the enormity of the situation, he reached out and seized Donaldson by the collar. "Help me!"
"What?"
"This is only the beginning. I'm losing it. I'll end up in the street if I'm not careful..."
"How many have you had?"
"I'm not kidding, Phil. Something's happening here and I need to stop it. Are you with me or not?"
"I would be if I knew what the hell you were on about."
Iain brought him up to speed without sparing a detail or pausing for breath. A benign smirk was Donaldson's only answer.
"Why are you looking so bloody cheerful?" Iain demanded.
"Because now I know what's wrong, and I think I can help you fix it."
"Go on."
Having looked around to make sure no-one was listening, Donaldson leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. His frequent use of the words 'grimoire' and 'necronomicon' left Iain baffled. "I beg your pardon?"
"Go to this address," said Donaldson, writing it down on a stray napkin. "They're open all hours and should have everything you need."
+++
Iain's destination turned out to be a second-hand book store on the side of town he preferred to avoid. He went over to the counter and told the shopkeeper what he required. This was met with a gentle and somewhat patronising shake of the head.
"Don't you have it?"
"Oh yes, sir. Several copies in fact. I just think you might prefer something a little more... introductory."
Iain wondered if the old timer knew who he was dealing with. He looked at least eighty, with eyes too dim to read Time, Newsweek or Forbes. "Just give me the damned thing, will you?"
The bookseller obeyed, consulting a shelf behind the counter. He returned with an ancient tome of several hundred pages. Its cover was embossed with a string of tarnished, indecipherable letters.
"Here it is, but don't say I didn't warn you."
+++
Iain didn't leave his townhouse for several days, during which time he kept a careful eye on stock prices and trawled through occult web pages. When no information about the book appeared, he subscribed to a newsgroup and posted a message asking for help. His e-mail was soon flooded with enthusiastic responses from collectors all over the globe. Few of these contained genuine offers of assistance and fewer still were from the local area. Once Iain found one that satisfied both categories, he clicked 'reply', typed in a few words of thanks and added his mobile phone number. The return call came within half an hour."Mr Merchant? I'm Dennis Roderick. Quite a gem you've got there."
"So I gather. Have you any idea what it's all about?"
"I ought to. I've been researching it for twenty years. Never seen a first edition though."
"Now's your chance. I can show you where to get one of your own as well."
Iain arranged to meet Roderick outside the book shop at eleven the following morning. He was the first to arrive, which made him the first to discover that the place no longer existed. It was empty, with yellowing newspaper stuck to the windows.
As Iain looked over the vacant storefront, someone came up beside him and did the same. He was in his middle forties, with ashen hair and the kind of face that spent much of its time prowling around university corridors and getting lost in libraries. "Dennis Roderick," he announced, offering a hand for Iain to shake. "This is a bit of a disappointment, I must say. Where am I supposed to find a copy now?"
"You're welcome to keep mine," said Iain. "After you've told me what it means of course"
"Done."
+++
Iain had the book delivered by courier to Roderick's faculty office, then sat back and waited for the phone to ring. It did, and the news wasn't good. "Don't tell me, you couldn't understand it either."
"Oh yes. All very straightforward once I got started."
"Then what's the problem?"
"This is powerful stuff, Iain. I feel I should tell you..."
"Save the lectures for your students, please. I think I know what I'm doing."
"I'm not certain you do. The thing is..."
"The thing, Mr. Roderick, is whether or not you plan on sticking to our agreement."
"Yes..."
"Then just send me the translation and stop panicking."
Iain rang off, but not before Roderick's words of caution had begun to sink in. They lurked in the back of his mind, mingling with the old man's mockery to form a heady brew of trepidation.
"You're being ridiculous. They're only trying to put you off because they want all the glory for themselves. You deserve it more than either of them, so go for it."
Iain turned to see who had spoken and concluded that it didn't matter. Whoever it was, they had a knack for good advice.
+++
At first glance, the book's contents made no more sense in contemporary English than their original language. Iain soon learned, as he had while studying Shakespeare at school, that the words only came to life when they were read aloud. Some were still a mystery, but Roderick had included a phonetic pronunciation key to make things easier. Iain practised all the incantations until he knew them by heart and when he felt confident enough, moved onto the next stage of the summoning. He obtained some red and black candles, placed them in a circle and grimaced as the stench of their burning invaded his nostrils. He then acquired a live chicken, and snapped the animal's neck to fashion a pentagram from its entrails. The ritual called for an offering, so Iain took off his Rolex and placed it in the centre. Watches like that weren't cheap, but if the plan worked the way it was supposed to, he could afford as many of them as he would ever need."Maleductu," Iain began. "Nosferatu, ascendum, corporalus, Daemonicus, abominablus."
Nothing. Iain tried twice more, emphasising different syllables each time in case he'd made a mistake. When fifteen minutes passed without hint of a response, he heaved a dramatic sigh and went to bed. Donaldson and Roderick would pay for this, but for now there were more important things to worry about, such as how to clean chook blood off polished floorboards.
"You didn't have to go to so much trouble, you know," said a voice from the doorway "Next time just call my pager."
The speaker walked into the glow of Iain's bedside lamp and revealed himself to be a man with slicked down dark hair wearing a grey suit. On his right wrist was Iain's Rolex.
Iain struggled to remember his lines. "I-I beseech you, Dark Master," he stammered. "Great is Your power, for Yours is the hand that wounds."
The visitor seemed amused. "Save it. I'm not the one you called, just his errand boy."
He reached into his breast pocket and produced a business card, which Iain took with trembling hands. Nick Diablo, Infernal Affairs. Tenth Floor, Recruitment and Public Relations Department.
"Why would he send you?" Iain asked. "Is he busy?"
"Very much so, Mr Merchant," Nick replied. "We have to deal with an awful lot of time-wasters in our line of work, but I can tell you're not one of them. Shall we go?"
"Where?"
"To make you an appointment."
+++
Iain accompanied Nick into what was once his kitchen. It had since become the foyer of a multi-storey office complex. Nick explained that the transformation was something to do with "interdimensional shift" but offered no further details. Iain nodded and tried not to look lost. The building was no different from the hundreds of others he visited during the course of his professional life. He was just startled by the absence of cooking appliances that had been there only moments ago.Nick walked over to one of the lifts and pushed a button. He ushered Iain inside just before the doors slid closed. "Top level," he told the voice operated controls.
"If this thing's going up," Iain whispered. "Why does it feel like we're going down?"
"It's the only direction the old girl knows," said Nick. "Our engineers have a sense of humour."
The lift ground to a halt and opened its doors into an ornate passageway. Thinking that his pyjamas would not be suitable attire for a meeting, Iain saw that his clothes had changed to fit his new surroundings. He now wore a suit that was identical to Nick's.
"Third door on the left," said Nick. "Take a seat until your name gets called, and hope he's in a good mood."
At once Iain felt like a boy abandoned on his first day of school. "Aren't you coming in with me?"
Nick shook his head. "I would, but I'm so far behind with my paperwork it's not funny. Let me know how everything goes, okay? Maybe I'll see you around the place."
Iain watched as Nick vanished into the lift, then set off along the corridor. He arrived at the appointed door and entered what looked very much like a doctor's waiting room. He sat down on one of the vinyl-upholstered chairs and chose a magazine from the selection on the table in front of him. Most of them devoted their covers and several inches of column space to tales of his own achievements. Was this some kind of ploy to make him feel more at ease?
Iain pondered the question for a short while before a receptionist put down her phone and looked over in his direction. "Mr Merchant, the Director's ready for you now."
+++
Iain stepped into an office whose luxurious carpet made up for its dim lighting. He returned the occupant's handshake and forced himself to speak in reply to the friendly greeting he received. "You're not quite the man I expected," was the best he could think of. "It's the new look, isn't it?" said the Director with a smile. "Horns and hooves were ideal for scaring medieval peasants, but I've got to move with the times as much as anyone."
Move with them he had. The traditional demonic image had been replaced by that of a corporate go-getter. His eyes were so sharp and keen that they would never suffer the indignity of glasses.
"What can I do for you, Mr Merchant? Your kind don't often employ my services without a reason. Wealth, power or social position are the usual suspects, and your file tells me you've got all those in spades."
"True, but I could lose it all tomorrow."
"And you'd prefer that didn't happen."
"Right."
"Then I may be able to help, depending on what you have to offer in return."
"My soul."
"You'll have to do better than that. If I'm supposed to keep you in the lifestyle to which you've become so undeservedly accustomed, I expect a lot more than something that's been no good to you since you started wearing long trousers."
"I don't understand," said Iain. "I thought souls were the only currency you dealt in."
"They are," the Director agreed. "With all my other clients, it's a fair exchange for the kind of life they want. You've already traded seven eighths of your humanity to get where you are, so giving up your soul's no big sacrifice."
"What else can I do?"
The Director consulted a manila folder that lay open on his desk. "Looking through your history, I see you've been blessed, or cursed as the case may be, with a particular ruthlessness. You despise sentiment of any kind, you exploit weakness wherever you find it and you have a lifelong habit of putting your own needs before anyone else's."
Iain reflected on the litany of broken promises and stabbed backs that played a major part in his rise to fame. "So?"
"So," the Director went on. "Those are qualities that could be of considerable use to me. I'm sure we'll be able to make some kind of arrangement."
TO BE CONTINUED
