Tony woke up with a start. The green crystal display of the bedside clock said 3.30 a.m. The reason for his disturbed sleep sat regarding him with a look of malevolent amusement. The imp, perched on top of the clock had eyes of the same, deep, luminous colour, disturbed by the occasional swirl of red incarnate which somehow seemed to carry a cold flame inside the creature’s skull..Eyes which reminded Tony of someone with a hellishly bad liver complaint.
The imp said,“Good Morning, Tony. Don’t just lie there. Today is your big day” His voice was surprisingly cultured, with just a hint of the aggressive salesman. “Today couldn’t be bigger if you won the Reader’s Digest Annual Draw. Out of the thousands of people who live in your estate, you have been specially selected. You could be eligible to be the biggest National Lottery winner ever ! Subject, of course, to the usual. Terms and conditions may apply”
Tony, still half asleep, lay back and reflected. What a funny looking bloke. And what a novel approach. Much more original than junk mail. He had had his share of that in the past. Nearly as much junk mail as bills came popping through his front door. Was this another, very unusual, con trick?
The imp read his thoughts with uncanny accuracy. “This is no joke. You should be grateful for the honour. Members of my profession don’t make many house calls these days. I just thought you might appreciate a little luck. Furthermore, I’m not a bloke. We don’t have genders where I come from. There’s no call for it. I’m a hermaphrodite”.
By now, Tony was fully awake. A Lottery winner eh? He could feel the hot surge of greed surging through his blood. No more bills. No more worries. Oh to have all the money in the world, and a life of unimaginable luxury. He could almost taste the cash. But could it really happen ?
“Terms and conditions may apply” the imp repeated, with a devilish grin. “Just sign the contract, where I’ve marked it. Just there! By the fiery cross . You can live to be a hundred, and I’ll give you the six numbers for tonight’s draw. You’ll have all the money you’ll ever need, and plenty of time to spend it. Absolutely no hidden clauses”.
Tony reached for his biro. “No ! no ! no ! ”, said the imp. “We still have some sense of tradition.” As if by magic, he produced a penknife and a quill pen. “In blood, if you please. It goes without saying that it has to be yours, of course”.
As Tony signed up, completely ignoring the small print, and the pain from his slit thumb, he asked, “What’s the catch? You’re very obviously no angel, so you must have some satanic tricks up your sleeve”
“Not at all Tony. I’m on your side. Completely. But I must warn you, I’m not the only supernatural entity on the planet. For instance, God doesn’t like rich people all that much. Remember all that eye of the needle stuff. I don’t think He’ll be that interested in poor little you, but it pays to be careful. There are others! You might never believe it, but there are some demons about with absolutely no scruples at all. They don’t care whom they do business with. They would even consider working with those lottery bosses for instance. Rich people don’t like parting with money, and the fat cats will all have contracts, just like yours, purely to protect their own interests. Which means that you’ll have to be very careful of their damned representatives. Still, I’m sure you’ll manage. Cheers!”
He picked up the completed contract and disappeared in a burst of flame, leaving a slightly charred copy for Tony. Tony glanced again at the clock. Four digits had mysteriously expanded to twelve. 14 – 21 -- 28 – 31-- 40 -- 46.
As he grabbed the contract and frantically scribbled the numbers down, the clock returned to normal.

3.31 a.m.

One magical minute had made his fortune. With a satisfied sigh, he snuggled down into his warm bed. He felt too excited to sleep, but he closed his eyes anyway. And against all the odds, he dropped off.
The next time he opened his eyes, the room was still dimly lit. He stretched out and considered how he would spend his cash. New house. New car. New clothes. New girl friend.
New alarm clock !

He sat up with a start. Was it his imagination, or was it getting darker? A quick glance at the clock made his heart race. It was 6.00.p.m. Early evening. How could he have slept that long?. There was surely deviltry afoot.
He jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. A splash of water in his face. Then quickly into his clothes. Struggling to find his keys, he fled to his car. Turning the key in the ignition produced a horrible, grinding clunk. The gremlins, it seemed, were at work with a vengeance. Abandoning his reluctant machine, he began a steady jog to the news agency. Thirty minutes to spare.
When he arrived, hot, breathless, and disorientated, he was met with a queue. No amount of cajoling or persuasion could advance his place. His offers of bribes large enough to satisfy their wildest dreams were met with jeers and catcalls. They all knew he was always broke. He waited his turn in a frantic turmoil of impatience. Slowly, ever so slowly, he edged forward. The clock ticked on remorselessly. With two minutes to closing time, he arrived at the counter. At last! Now it was his turn. He had his entry slip, he had his biro. But what of the numbers. How could he possibly forget the numbers? He racked his memory trying to piece together those few fateful moments when he had made his pact with the Devil. In his mind’s eye, he saw the singed paper, holding those very special figures, still sitting on the bedside table.
The assistant, a new girl, regarded him impassively, tapping her fingers on the computer terminal in an act of arrogant possession. Time was running out. She gave him a look of bored contempt as he blubbered his sorry tale. His lofty ideas, his hopes and aspirations all gone, burst like a transient soap bubble dashed by a stray gust of wind. He was doomed to spend the best part of a hundred years in poverty, tortured by thoughts of what might have been. And after? What of after. His immortal soul would roast in the pit for all eternity. This was surely part of a horrible nightmare.
The stark reality of his situation simply emphasised that this was no dream. His pen, grasped tightly in frustration, and waving like an impotent banner, had opened up the wound on his thumb. As the girl saw the blood dripping from his hand her expression changed. Tony looked into her face and began, finally, to understand.
When her malignant green eyes swirled with a rich speckling of scarlet triumph, his bewildered and terrified mind fled into the darkest recess of his brain.

And Tony began to scream !

Copyright © 2003 Thomas Vaughan