FREE STUFF
The Church of the Holy Martyrs sat on top of the hill, its Victorian ghastly Gothic architecture managing to give it an air of malevolent crouching rather than jubilant soaring to the heavens. The bitter March wind blew polystyrene food containers and discarded beer cans around the overgrown graveyard where they rattled against lichen stained headstones leaning at all angles, rotting teeth in diseased gums.
The crouched figure hurried up the hill towards the church, furtive and fugitive in appearance. With a last anxious glance over its shoulder, it entered through the rusty and jammed open iron gates, trotted up the cracked stone path and hesitated before the still solid wooden door of the church. It looked doubtfully at the filthy stained glass windows covered with protective wire mesh through which dim lights could just be seen and, taking a deep breath, thrust open the door and crept into the sanctuary within.
Inside was darker than outside in the failing winter daylight but the vestibule light was sufficient to show the figure to be a man, heavily wrapped in scarf, overcoat, fur hat and gloves; almost more than was needed as protection against a winter’s day close to the start of spring and suggesting the man had unconsciously sought make-shift armour against some other threat.
Blinking in the poor light and removing hat, gloves and scarf, the man made his way down the aisle towards the altar. Part way there he stopped, confused, and made a rough sign of the cross as if it were some half forgotten ritual before sinking into a hard wooden pew a few rows from the front.
Closing his eyes he felt he was about to sleep from sheer fatigue when a hand fell roughly on his shoulder. Starting awake, he turned to see a priest, his face lost in shadows but giving an impression of age, standing behind him.
“Excuse me, Father,” he stumbled, “I didn’t see you. The light’s rather poor.”
“We save electricity as well as souls here.” There appeared to be no touch of humour in the priest’s rasping voice. “You seem troubled.”
“I came to ask your help, Father. I don’t come to your Church, I’m not even a Catholic, but I didn’t know where else to go. Can we talk in confidence somewhere.”
“As you’re not of the true faith, I don’t think the confessional is appropriate,” said the priest, “but we can talk here. We’re likely to be undisturbed. Not many people stop by in the week. You’re not the only one who is not Catholic or even religious in this part of town. Now, what can I do for you?”
“This may sound silly, Father, but I think I’ve sold my soul to the Devil. I didn’t know where I might find someone to take that seriously these days yet I haven’t slept properly for weeks now. When I do, I have awful nightmares. In fact, I half expected to be struck down dead just coming into a church.”
“You’re more likely to be struck down by a bit of loose masonry falling off the tower. As for being in league with the Devil well, wouldn’t that account for fully half of the politicians now and a great number of these so called entertainers.”
The Priest emitted a dry chuckle, presumably as a sign he was trying to put his surprising visitor at ease.
“But, carry on, carry on. Tell me your story,” and he sat behind the man. Producing a pipe from amongst his robes, the priest lit it with a match scratched along the back of the pew. The sulphurous smell of the match made the man in front of him uneasy as he remembered that sort of smell from before. But he started in with his story.
“I’m a writer,” he said, “well, a would-be writer. I’ve had some successes but not much money and I write in my spare time. A while ago, I had a dry spell as far as ideas were concerned. I’d sent out to publishers just about every short story I had written and was waiting to hear back but I didn’t feel very hopeful. Meanwhile, I knew I needed to write something fresh, something different, maybe even a full length novel but I didn’t have an original idea in my head.
“Every night, after work, I’d turn on my computer and check my emails hoping to find a message from a publisher offering me vast sums of money, well any sums really, or at least an encouraging message. But there were only stupid adverts and obvious scams. It was so depressing. I just felt that with all this access to the whole world of information, there must be something, just one thing, of use or interest or somehow fulfilling that I could find. But I never could.”
“What does it profit a man to gain the whole world but lose his soul,” murmured the priest and blew a dense cloud of smoke over the man who coughed and turned away.
“One night, just over twelve months ago, I was bored and frustrated so I thought I’d search for anything free that might be of interest; at least it would pass the time until I got some ideas. Do you know anything about computers, Father?”
“I’ve heard mention of them from time to time; some of the younger priests use them, sermons and research. I can follow your drift anyway.”
“I typed ‘free stuff’ in a search engine, a program to bring up anything with those words in it. Up came a page of possibilities: free shopping vouchers, free competitions, buy one and get one free offers, all that sort of thing.
“And then I saw an entry that said ‘Free wishes’. In fact it said something like ‘Free wishes, three wishes, health, wealth and happiness, all you could desire’, so I clicked on it to investigate further.”
“What happened?”
“There was a pause and then the site appeared on my screen. Mostly, it said the same things again, that I could have three wishes for whatever I wanted, no financial obligation, no cost at all. I thought it was some sort of fun quiz or survey or something so I clicked on the button to take me to a page to fill in personal details, name, address, age, occupation, email address, phone number and so on. I clicked on ‘send’ and the screen went blank. Seconds later, the face of a very attractive woman appeared. She somehow had every feature I have always liked in a woman from green eyes through her blonde hair to a pert little nose and sensuous, oh excuse me Father, sweet little mouth.
“It wasn’t a real woman, you understand, just a very well done animated drawing, part of a computer program.
“ ‘Well, John,’ she said. That surprised me, her talking and knowing my name although it must have been extracted from the form I filled in.”
“Amazing,” mumbled the Priest who appeared to have fallen asleep.
“ ‘Well, John, I think we can help you. Just fill in the form on the next screen telling us what you would like.’ And she went and up popped a new form. It asked me to list three things I really wanted. I put health, wealth and a meaningful relationship with a lovely girl in that order and clicked on the send button. And off it went.
“Next thing, a message came up saying ‘Your three wishes are granted, our Wishes Software Wizard will install these in your life, just click ‘next’ to continue’. Before I could click that button, I had to put a tick in a box to confirm that I had read and agreed to the terms and conditions. They scrolled down in a little box and there seemed to be lots of them.”
“Did you read them?”
“No, there are always conditions with computer downloads and no-one ever does read them. I just checked the box and clicked ‘next’ and that was it. A line came up with green dots appearing from left to right with the message ‘downloading’. Then a box saying ‘installed’ and a bright flash of light from the screen as the computer locked up. I had to switch it off and I thought it had damaged something. I was sure I could smell burning like when you struck that match but later on nothing seemed wrong.”
The man looked at the priest who sat with his chin propped on his chest and his eyes apparently shut. Only the thin stream of pipe smoke from his mouth and the occasional suck at the stem showed he was still awake.
Reassured, the man continued.
“The next day I got an email. It said, as far as I can remember, ‘Thank you for registering with Three Wishes, your wishes are in hand and will be with you shortly’. Then it said, ‘This is to remind you that you agreed to sell your soul to the Devil in return and that your soul will be collected at the moment of your demise (please see conditions attached). You should also be aware that your demise may be earlier than would otherwise have been the case owing to the timing and workload of soul collection being outside our control’.
“I looked at the conditions which seemed to be the ones I had not bothered to read the night before and, sure enough, in red letters it said about selling one’s soul in return. I hadn’t noticed that at all.
“It gave me a nasty shock but, thinking it over, I decided it was just a silly joke played by the people who had set up the site for their own amusement; nothing to worry about. Even so, it left a nasty taste in the mouth.
“The very next day I received the first letter. It was from a new medical insurance company promoting private medical treatment. It offered a free comprehensive medical at no cost to introduce me to their services. I made arrangements and went along a week later. The medical showed I was absolutely A1, perfectly OK.”
“So you got the health part of your wish,” murmured the priest, striking another match on the sole of his boot and relighting his pipe.
“Maybe, but I dismissed it as coincidence at the time.
“Then the second letter came. It contained a debit card from a bank in the Cayman Islands I had never heard of. It also contained the PIN number and I found I could put it in any cash machine and draw out whatever sum I wished, within reason. I could also use it to pay in stores. It was never refused or questioned and I found out later that each month I would get a statement from this bank showing every withdrawal and payment was covered by a corresponding deposit in my account. But there was never any overall balance or indication of where the money came from.”
“So that was the second wish,” rasped the priest, his voice made harsher by the pipe smoke.
“I couldn’t account for it any other way but I didn’t want to think about it. Not while I could buy a nice new car, pay off my mortgage and book a holiday. Suddenly, writing stories seemed very unimportant.”
“What about the last wish, the nice girl?” More clouds of smoke emerged from the priest so that, in the already weak and yellowing light, he seemed to disappear altogether.
“I was coming to that. The third letter I received was from a dating agency thanking me for registering, of course I hadn’t, and sending me details of six likely female members who might suit me. I found just the right one, a girl who looked exactly as my fantasy woman does, and we spoke on the phone. Then we met and, not to bore you Father, we got on wonderfully. Of course, it helped that I had money to spend on holidays and clothes and other presents for her, but I’m sure she loved me, still does love me, for myself. We live together now in a new apartment over by the river; landscaped grounds, security guards, fully fitted kitchen, plasma screen TV, maid service. It’s all what I wanted and it’s all so meaningless.
“Everything I bought, every bank statement I received, only confirmed in my mind that I really had sold my soul, stupid as that sounds these days. Otherwise, what explanation could there be? And it’s been over a year now. How much longer have I got left? It nags and torments me until I can’t sleep now and I have to get help. Can you help me, Father?”
The priest was silent for a moment and then he looked up, straight into the troubled eyes of the man seated in front of him, twisted round in the pew.
“Well now, that’s a puzzle, indeed it is. After all, to be fair you did agree to the conditions of your own free will. Free will is a very important part of our religious beliefs, is it not?
“And, again to give the Devil his due, you have had all the benefits of your wishes. They all came true and you have had a healthy and wealthy existence and the love of a good woman for this last year. That’s more than many on this earth get.”
“But I don’t want it,” the man trembled visibly, “I need to give it back.”
“Give it back? That you can’t do. But I can help you in one respect. I can take away your uncertainty.”
“Oh, thank you, Father; ah, how do you mean exactly?”
“You’ve been worried about how long you have left. Well, I can set your mind at rest on that score. The answer is, no more time. I’m afraid this is the moment for your departure from this earth to something, hmm, different.”
The man stared at him open mouthed.
“You can’t mean that, you’re a priest for God’s sake; literally for God’s sake.”
“Indeed, I am, I am. But just think. God needs the Devil. Without evil how can there be redemption; without wickedness, can there be forgiveness? Think of the parable of the Prodigal Son.
“By helping the Devil in these minor duties, I actually serve God’s interests, too.”
The priest stood and suddenly seemed a great deal taller than he had earlier. His hand, as he rested it on the man’s shoulder in a powerful grip, seemed that of a much younger man.
“Now, if you’ll just go through that door over there on the left and proceed down the stairs past the crypt and keep going. It’s rather a long way but you can’t go wrong, just follow the screams.
“Something will meet you at the bottom.”
THE END