Contract Re-negotiation
By Martin Taulbut
It
had been
raining hard all week. Colin Fettercairn had barely sat down and opened the
Book when the landline trilled. He sighed. Irritating. It rang a second time. Henrietta
was definitely in. He’d heard the kitchen door slam (she had an awful habit, on
returning from the food bank run, of kicking it shut). On the phone’s third chirr,
he eased his buttocks off the toilet seat and leant forward to pull his underpants
up.
‘I’ll
get it,
shall I?’ his wife called. The ringing cut off abruptly.
Releasing
the
waistband of his briefs, Colin sat upright again. Strained. He focused on the
text, struggling to decipher the ugly Gothic script. Yet the more he
tried to concentrate, the more the sigils shimmered and moved, mocking him.
He
gave up and
shut the Book. Dozens of Paddington Bears, frozen in mid-motion, gazed at him
from its blue cover. Periodically, they would re-wrap the volume, in the most
innocent paper they could find, to tame the Book or at least reduce its
malignancy. But the volume’s evil influence wouldn’t be constrained. Already it
had infected a few of the Paddingtons: their claws out, mouths contorted in a
frothy snarl, eyes bloodshot.
He
listened.
Even
through the
bathroom door, Colin could discern Henrietta’s soft, clipped Home Counties
accent. Thirty years ago, when they first met, her tone had been joyful. Nowadays
it was mostly weary, except when Colin had pissed her off. In both cases,
usually at something Colin had forgotten to do (or chosen not to do). It made
him despair. So much energy, so much time, wasted bickering.
Henrietta
stopped
speaking. There was a chirrup as she returned the headset to its receiver. After
a moment, he heard her knock softly on the bathroom door.
‘Colin,’
she
called. She sounded nervous.
‘Two
minutes,’ he
said, straining again. Eat more roughage, the doctor had said. Colin wasn’t
keen.
‘That
was them.’
Henrietta said. ‘They’re coming early.’
She paused. ‘Are you reading in there?’
‘Can
a man not
even take a dump in his own house?’ grumbled Colin.
‘No
need to be
crude,’ she said coldly. ‘We need to get ready.’
Grumbling,
Colin
did his best to finish up. He scrubbed his hands to the sound of the flush,
singing to himself so he could time it.
‘Mr
Noah built an
ark,
the
people thought
it such a lark,
Mr
Noah pleaded so,
But
into the ark
they would not go!’
After
drying his
hands, he popped the lock. Henrietta stood in the hallway in her yellow sundress,
arms folded. She frowned at him, her greying hair pinned in a bun, the faintest
trace of make-up. A good-looking woman, he thought sadly.
She
should have
left him. At least she’d have enjoyed ten, five, two years of happiness.
‘Makes
you think,
eh? How hard was he pleading?’ said Colin.
She
wrinkled her
nose. ‘Vile.’
‘I
said, it makes
you think, how hard was Noah pleading? “Oh, by the way, G’s going to flood the
world. I’ve got this big boat; you’re welcome to come.” “Sorry, what was that?”
“Oh, nothing.”’
‘Hmm.’
Colin
cut his
losses. Couldn’t make her laugh these days. ‘So. They’re coming early.’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘This
afternoon.’
‘But
when?’
‘Tea-time.’
‘That’s
not a
time. People have their tea at all sorts of times. Four o’clock for coffin
dodgers and posh folks, five o’clock for the working classes, six o clock for
the middle classes-’
‘Oh
for…pity’s…sake,’
snapped Henrietta. She turned and thundered down the stairs, headed for the living
room. ‘Don’t worry Colin, I’ll do it, I’ll organise every effing thing, don’t
worry.’
‘-Nine
o’clock for
nutters, the parents of new-born kiddies and Spaniards. Hey. Hang on, Hen.’
By
the time he
joined her, she’d already stripped the throw pillows from the sofa, placing
them into the armchair by the window. Colin watched her slide between the
coffee table and the couch. She grunted as she shoved the sofa.
‘Hey,
let me do
that Hen,’ protested Colin. ‘Come on, it was a joke-’
She
recoiled,
slapping his hand from her shoulder. ‘Don’t grab at me!’
As
she
straightened up, he noticed her familiar look of frustration. And something
else, something rarer. Fear. He put out his hand again, applying a gentler
touch this time.
‘I…was
checking
the Book,’ he said. ‘You know? To help us re-negotiate.’
‘They’re
coming,
Colin,’ she said briskly. ‘For repayment. And we don’t know even know-’
‘I
know–’ he
protested.
‘-We
don’t even know
whether the circle of protection will work…’
She
was close to
tears now. That frightened him most.
‘I
know, Hen.’ he
said softly. ‘But let me help.’
She
gave a short,
mirthless laugh. Nodded.
‘Great,’
he said.
‘Let’s go.’
They
prepared. Hen
drew the blinds (oak), leaving the narrowest of gaps in the slats so they could
keep an eye on the back garden in case they appeared that way. Bit by bit, she
laid the bundles of twigs along the windowpane, then started on the skirting
boards. Meanwhile, Colin fetched chalk, a bottle of salt and the special
thermos from the kitchen. He drew a circle on the floor in chalk, as wide as he
could. They might have to remain within it for a long, long time.
If
it succeeded.
When
the hoop was
complete, Colin took a bottle of salt and sprinkled it around its perimeter. (Why
was everything made of plastic? Although he supposed he wasn’t in the strongest
of positions to criticise others’ myopia.) Good. Now for the oil. Picking up
his thermos, he popped the spout and began to pour. Viscous fluid, a mixture of
olive oil, cinnamon, myrrh, and ground galangal, trickled onto the floor. Progress
was slow: he tried to leave a decent
space between the outer ring of fluid and the inner of salt. Again, the scholars
were ambiguous whether mixing would invalidate the effect, but he wasn’t keen
to take the chance. He stepped back, scrutinising his work. Huh.
‘Hen.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Done
the Oil of
Abramelin,’ he said, proudly.
Hen
sniffed. ‘Are…you
sure you got the proportions right? It smells very cinnamony.’
‘I
followed the
recipe,’ he insisted.
‘I’m
not having a
go…’ she said. ‘It’s just…’
‘Yeah,’
he said. ‘I
know. Can you have a look to see if I’ve missed a bit? You’ve a better eye than
me.’
She
got up,
nodding, and paced around the circle, pointing at a couple of spots. ‘There.
And there. And…no, I think that’s ok.’
‘Cheers,’
he said,
filling in the gaps she’d highlighted. ‘Uh.’
‘Is
there much
left?’ she said.
Colin
joggled the
thermos, sloshing the oil about: it felt light. ‘Not much. Do you think-’
‘Do
we have the
time?’
Colin
cleared his
throat. ‘Not sure we have the ingredients.’
‘But
we’ve still
got plenty of the root, and that big bag of cinnamon-’
‘It’s
the olive
oil. That was the last bottle.’
‘But
we always get
more!’ protested Hen. ‘Restock every week.’
‘Yeah,
but the
recipe uses quite a lot of it, doesn’t it?’ lied Colin. ‘I mean, if you want, I
can nip out and get some more.’
‘They’re
going to
be here any minute,’ said Hen. ‘It’s not…viable. Look. You get the water into
the centre; we’ll have to hope-’
BING-BONG-BING-BONG,
BING-BONG-BING BONG. The doorbell’s volume got Colin every time. Then turned,
and started to make for the kitchen, but Colin grabbed her, pulling her into
the circle.
‘The
medals!’ she
said. ‘And the water! They’re still on the kitchen worktop!’
‘I’ll
get them,’
he said. ‘Stay there.’
He
ran through, seizing
the red felt box, snatching up the carrier bag, then dashed back. In his haste,
his foot caught a bundle of twigs, sending it skittering across the living-room
floor. Colin stumbled but managed to steady himself in time. He stepped with
exaggerated care over the rim of the doubled-edged circle. Snapping open the
case, he offered it to his wife: Hen selected a medallion and slipped the chain
around her neck. He took his medal and did the same, before setting the box
down awkwardly at their feet.
They
stood in
silence for a moment.
‘We
should have-’
Colin began. He hesitated.
‘Say
it,’ said
Hen.
‘Had
kids. I mean,
I know, I know…’
‘You
know why.’
‘Adoption
then. We
could’ve adopted. Y’know, an older kiddie, they’d be in their thirties, that’s
old enough to stand-’
Henrietta
stared
at the settee barrier. She fidgeted with the medallion, letting the chain run
through her fingers. She turned, and her eyes glistened.
‘You’re
talking
about this now?’ she said. She shook her head. ‘Anyway. So much we were going
to do.’
‘Yeah…we
could’ve
tried harder in our careers,’ he said.
Hen
raised her
eyebrows.
He
was glad she
didn’t mention his…working life trajectory. Consultancy. He could do that.
After sticking two fingers up to the health board, and then lasting eight
months at the civil service, he was going to…going to…use his contacts to…
‘I
mean,’ Colin
went on hastily. ‘You were always going to finish that graphic novel, weren’t
you?’
‘Mm,’
she said.
Her
day job,
working for Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, was so tiring. He felt ashamed
of his mockery, of her move into that field, using her law degree to investigate
tax evasion and avoidance. And then moving further up the corporate ladder,
training staff to do the same. Okay, the windfall of cash that came with the
agreement meant they didn’t have to worry about the mortgage, but they still
had to eat and pay utilities. So why did he keep taking the mickey? Why hadn’t
he been kinder?
It
was the Book,
he thought. It changed them, made them nastier. G- knows he’d blamed it (and
she had too, on occasion). Or perhaps they grew older, and their perspective
shifted.
It
had been so
simple in the beginning.
In’07
they were
all set, a couple of post-grads, recently married, all ready to move into their
new home. Hen’s father, avuncular Henry, would see them all right. That was
June. But in July, old Henry took a fatal heart attack while walking his dog, across
Tring Park. And all avuncular Henry’s assets went on paying off his creditors.
So, there they were, struggling to pay off their debts and deal with all the
fallout and the grief and paperwork. So much paperwork. Hen, his Henrietta, had
been so broken. A few months later, the Great Recession struck, and it was hard
enough to get any job, let alone a decent one. But they’d signed the mortgage,
and tears and arguments wouldn’t make those payments.
There
seemed no
escape.
Until
Henrietta
found the Book.
She’d
been working
in a charity shop, all must and the smell of wee, sorting through a pile of
random donations, when she pulled out the Book from beneath a pile of baby
clothes and old jigsaws. The binding felt wrong: leathery, and somehow unclean
to the touch. Animal skin, of course, they’d agreed. All those dozens of
volumes which purported to be bound with…well, in long-pig skin…they were
testing them all the time and revealing them to be fakes. She’d shuddered, set
it aside. During her shift, though, her thoughts kept returning to it. And then
she’d smuggled it back to the house. Colin, her Colin, he liked a good laugh,
he was into Raimi and Lovecraft, he’d appreciate it. And so, one night, after a
few drinks, after daring each other, they tried the summoning spell.
They
hadn’t
expected it to work. Who even believed in immortal souls anyway? Twenty-four
years was aeons away. They’d think of something by then…to…to…
‘Ah,
hell mend us,’
Colin said aloud.
BING-BONG-BING-BONG,
BING-BONG-BING BONG.
He
felt her hand
brush his: their fingers interlocked as they braced themselves.
They
heard the metallic
rapping of their letter box. ‘Hell-lo? Anyone in?’
Hen
gave a start.
‘That was Father Diamond. He couldn’t have…I was careful…’
TIP-TIP-TIP-TAP.
Now it was Colin’s turn to jump. Knuckles on glass. Through the wooden slats of
the blind, he made out the black shirt, glimpsed the white collar.
‘Is
it all right
for me to come in?’ came Diamond’s muffled voice.
‘Come
in David,’ called
Colin. ‘Back door’s open.’
‘Why
did you do
that?’ hissed Hen.
‘Maybe…maybe he can help us,’ said Colin.
They
heard the
kitchen door open and the priest’s clear voice:
‘It’s a bit…sensitive. Things missing from the
chapel. Now I know-’
Diamond,
a slender
young red-headed man in his early thirties, emerged in the living-room. His
nervous smile gave way to bafflement. He gawped at the fascine and holly sprigs
strewn about their room. The sofa jammed in the doorway. And the Fettercairns
in the circle.
‘…St.
Benedict’s
medals?’ said Father Diamond. He sniffed. ‘Is that…holy anointing oil? Are…are
you two in trouble?’
‘Father,’
said
Hen. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much trouble we’re in.’
‘David,’
said Colin.
‘We, uh, we’re expecting…’
‘Someone?’
said
Diamond. ‘Something? You can tell me. Look, this is silly, let’s go into
the kitchen, we can talk it over a cup of tea.’
Colin
was about to
step forward, then hesitated. He and Henrietta exchanged a look. His wife
mouthed his concerns: In any form.
‘Sorry
about this,
David,’ muttered Colin.
In
unison, Mr and
Mrs Fettercairn flicked their bottles of water.
Colin’s splash missed, but Henrietta’s was more accurate, dousing the
priest’s shirt. A cloud of steam obscured the curate from view, and there was
an unpleasant whiff of tangy, putrid beef. They heard Diamond cry out, drop his
charity tin (there was a tinny crunch of change when it hit the floor). The
priest ripped open his shirt and pulled it from his body. He let the garment
fall, still smoking.
When
the smoke
cleared, they saw an ugly purple wound on his pigeon chest where the water
struck.
Diamond
sucked his
teeth. ‘Ahh. Cunts.’
‘How
stupid-’ began
Colin.
‘I’d
a whole
routine worked out, too, all very elaborate,’ hissed Diamond. ‘Feigning
surprise, being all empathetic, believing your story, offering to help. Blah,
blah, blah, it was all going to be beautifully subtle. Beautifully
subtle. And then when you stepped out of the circle-’
‘Wait.
We…want to
re-negotiate,’ said Hen.
‘Re-negotiate?’
said Diamond. He snorted. ‘What with?
‘Colin...he didn’t sign it.’
‘What?
Mar dhea.’
scoffed Diamond.
‘Check
it then,’
said Hen.
The
priest huffed.
He snapped his fingers and a parchment appeared. He unwrapped it:
‘See.
“…the
undersigned hereby agree to exchange their immortal …see, their… their
immortal soul(s)…their immortal soul(s)...signed, Henrietta Fettercairn…signed…signed…”’
The
priest frowned
and turned the parchment over.
And
over.
‘Fine,’
spat Diamond.
He shook his head. ‘He’s off the hook, Henrietta. But you aren’t.’
‘Don’t…’
gabbled
Colin. ‘Don’t do this Hen.’
‘If
I were you,
Colin,’ said Diamond. ‘I’d let her have her martyrdom. Mrs Fettercairn?’
'Before…before
you
do that,’ Hen swallowed. You…you might want to check your agreements for 1981. Henry
Penning. My father.’
‘Ah,
c’mon,
Henrietta, you’re taking the piss,’ complained Diamond. ‘Right. O-kay. Fine,
so.’
Diamond
turned to
the side, lowering his voice slightly as he spoke to some unseen listener:
‘…Hello?
Hello?
Yeah. I’ve got a right one here. Wants a check on her old fella. Penning. Henry
Penning. Daughter’s a Henrietta. Yeah, ha, ha, I know. Eighty-one, she says. I’ll
hold…’
The
trio waited
for a moment. The priest gave a twisted little smile. He hummed a few bars of a
jolly tune. ‘Ah, you’re back. Everything…?’
His
grin began to
fade.
‘Yeah?
No, ye
can’t be…I hear what you’re saying, so. But…the investment here, my time…Hello?
Hello? Ah. For….’
The
priest
scowled.
‘Right,’
said
Diamond, through gritted teeth. ‘It appears that I’m a bit premature collecting
for you Mrs Fettercairn. But I’ll be back. Forty, fifty years. I can wait,’ he
snarled. ‘And then we’ll see.’
With
that, he was
gone.
Five
minutes
passed.
Cautiously,
the Fettercairns
left their circle. In the spot where the priest had stood, an unpleasant, eggy,
smoky odour lingered. Together, they staggered through into the kitchen. Colin
went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine; Hen found the
glasses. They poured; they drank. Finally, Henrietta spoke:
'Dad…’
she said.
‘He made his own deal. It was a tough time with the business. He didn’t use his
own soul for collateral, though. He used-’
‘…His
first-born
child’s,’ muttered Colin.
‘Yes,’
agreed
Henrietta. ‘He regretted it, of course. But there was no way to change it.
Couldn’t live with himself. But here’s the thing about contracts. If a party
makes a mistake – like say, they try to buy a thing they already own, it
invalidates the deal.’
‘How…’
‘It
was in his
paperwork,’ sighed Hen. ‘Along with the Book. Come on Colin, did you really
think someone left that horrid thing in a charity shop?’
‘Why…?’
‘I
guess I didn’t
tell you because…well, we were desperate. And I wasn’t sure it would work
anyway.’ She shrugged. ‘Big organisations. They can be a bit…uncoordinated.
Sloppy.’
‘Forty
or fifty
years, eh?’ Colin said. ‘Time enough for re-negotiation.’
‘Yep.’
Hen nodded.
Her eyes twinkled. ‘How about…we start that now?’
And
for the first
time in ages, they smiled in unison.
Through
the glass,
Colin and Henrietta saw the colourful arches of a rainbow in the blue afternoon
sky. Even the rain had stopped. It was going to be all right,
thought Colin. They-
But
as he watched,
the rainbow fizzed and shimmered: its edges darkened, as the segments of the
spectral arc faded to monochrome. From upstairs, the Fettercairns heard the
crackle of an ancient speaker, and the scratchy jolt of a needle falling into
place. The lyrics came through clear, over the jaunty strains of an acoustic guitar:
‘God
showed
Noah by the Rainbow Sign,
No more
water but
fire next time…’
Henrietta and
Colin looked at each other, knowing there was no record player in their home. They
listened to the song, longing for it to end, dreading its conclusion. Sunlight
streamed through the living-room window, warming them.
