Something On Account
The classroom door crashed open and Peter Frost rushed in n, somewhat out of breath.
"Sorry I'm late, Ms. White," he panted, and added a trifle cryptically, "Prefect duty."
"Yes. Sally told me. We've barely started." the teacher acknowledged as he slumped into an empty desk, scattering his books and papers untidily across it.
While Jessica White waited she surveyed her sixth form English group. They were a good group with some promising candidates for the 'A' Levels. More important than exam potential (though you wouldn't think it to hear the Head or the Governors), these were a group of lively, critical minds developing well.
"I asked you to turn to Act 1, Scene 3 of Dr. Faustus," she said. "Now remember that Faustus was determined to try and conjure up Mephistopheles to supply his ambitions."
Peter with his folders, books and papers now sprawled out across the double desk said, by way of loud aside to nobody in particular, "This really is a load of rubbish."
"To the modern mind it is just superstition," agreed the teacher, noting that the tone of voice and expression of face were both just a little humorous and certainly resigned rather than resentful. "However, Peter," she continued, "we are studying the play as literature, so you'll just have grin and bear it. It is actually a highly dramatic scene and would have had the Elizabethan audience on the edge of its seat. Metaphorically speaking, of course, since most of them would have been standing anyway."
There was a smile or two at the attempted humour, then Ms. White continued, "Tim, perhaps you would read. Can you manage the Latin when we come to it?"
Tim Swale was a particularly spotty specimen with straggling hair and National Health glasses. Bright but quiet, he was not unpopular but neither was he the sort to be mobbed by the girls.
"I ought to be able to manage it, he said, cleared his throat and began to read:
"Within this circle is Jehova's name
Figures of every adjunct to the heavens
And characters of signs and erring stars
By which the spirits are enforced to rise.
Then fear not Faustus to be resolute
And try the utmost magic can perform."
Tim's voice was clear. He was chair of the debating club and possibly the best public speaker in the school, but usually too 'stiff' for acting. It was, therefore, with a little surprise that the class listened to the growing strength and vibrancy of his voice and manner as he launched into the Latin.
"Sint mihi dei Acherontis propitii!
Valeat numen triples Ichoval
Orientis princeps Lucifer
Beelzebub, inferni ardentis
Monarcha, et Demogargon,
Propitiamus vos ut appareat surgat
Mephistopholes!"
Tim's voice rose dramatically to a climax on the word 'Mephistopholes' and there came squeals of surprise as the word was accompanied by a substantial clap of thunder.
"Good grief!" was the only comment a some what be mused Ms. White could manage. As the thunder died there was a moment of total silence in which everybody looked at everybody else uncertainly. Then, a split second before the entire group would have broken out into questioning chatter, the silence was broken by a polite knock at the door and a man entered, accompanied by a cloud of smoke which trailed after him, bringing with it a smell of burning.
The newcomer was a tall, suntanned, not quite handsome person, of indeterminate age, dressed conservatively in a dark suit, plain blue shirt and dark tie. He had a dark hat, a black brief case and a rolled black umbrella.
"Good afternoon gentlemen ... oh, and ladies," said the newcomer. "May I be of service?" and politely took off his hat and laid it with his briefcase and umbrella on one of the front desks. The stunned silence continued. The teacher, considering that she was in charge and was, therefore, the person addressed by the visitor, felt she had to say something.
"Good afternoon. I ... er ... I don't think I know you. I suppose you aren't ... " her voice trailed off inadequately. "I mean you didn't come in response to ... er ... The visitor smiled benignly.
"Mephistopholes at your service," he said.
Peter, the sceptic, brushed his fingers through his sandy hair and said, so straight faced that Jessica White would thought he was deadly serious, had she no known the boy better,
"When you arrived with such a flourish we thought you were the old man himself ... you know, the boss."
Jessica could just sense the humour and could also sense that the rest of the class thought it less than funny. Mephistopholes, if it was him, took the question seriously.
"Oh no. The ... boss, as you call him, is far too busy to make this kind of call himself. However," the sun tanned visitor continued, "I am his accredited representative."
"He's management and you're sales?" asked Peter, still straight faced.
Mephistopholes was still taking the conversation seriously and not altogether pleased by the last remark. "To continue the metaphor correctly, you are addressing the sales manager. I don't normally make this kind of visit in person, but this was a particularly powerful summons of the sort I haven't had for centuries. Quite a magician you must have here. Now, to business. What can I do for you? Come now. I have full authority to enter into any contract on behalf of the ... er ... firm. Now, what is your desire? Money? Power? Attraction?"
Jessica White felt that things had slipped completely out of control. "You were called by ... a mistake," she said. "We were studying Doctor Faustus and Tim there read the formula. A little too effectively perhaps."
The sun tanned face of the visitor lit up in a brilliant smile. "Studying Faustus! A whole class of magicians! Oh the master will be pleased. And so young. Such promise." He was carried away by his own enthusiasm.
"And this Tim: such power, such promise. One can forgive the odd mistake in the enthusiastic apprentice so," he looked around and beamed, "if you'll just give me the word of dismissal I'll be on my way."
Jessica felt with a growing certainty that she was somewhere inside a practical joke. "What word?" she asked.
"The word of dismissal," said the visitor. "The word."
"I don't know the word."
"How ... unfortunate," observed the visitor, rather unhelpfully.'`
Jessica wondered whether people in a complicated practical joke always felt like this. She waited.
"Of course I can quite easily leave if somebody takes up a contract."
Jessica wondered where the TV cameras were hidden. "A contract?" she repeated inadequately. "Those are the rules of business. You summon me and I sign a contract with somebody, or I am given the word of dismissal. Hopefully, with a sincerely meant 'Sorry you were troubled' to go with it. Come now, there must be somebody with desires I can supply. You, young lady." He addressed Jackie.
The reason for his choice was obvious. She was plain to the point of being 'frumpy' with no make up, a shapeless sweater, baggy jeans and short, straight, mousy hair. He was not to know that Ms. Rogers chose to look as she did.
"You young lady," he beamed, "what is your desire. Beauty? Long blond hair and a lovely figure? A rich husband?" Jackie bristled. Visibly.
Mephistopholes must have been well used to the Satanic wrath, but it was probably no worse than the wrath of the feminist when roused.
"I don't want to be a sex object, thank you very much," she hissed venomously.
The satanic visitor's smooth manner was only slightly ruffled, though he had an icy touch to his voice as he replied, "In that case, young lady, you must already be well satisfied."
He looked around the class. Sally already blonde hair, though it was quite short, and a nice figure. He selected one of the two Afro-Caribbean boys as a likely candidate for temptation. In point of fact, Kevin had been considering a deal. It was most unfortunate that the visitor chose Carlos instead, considering how widely known his views were.
"You sir. What about you?" he asked C
arlos. "Would you like wealth? Servants? A yacht? A very substantial income Jackpot on the National Lottery?
Mephistopholes wondered what was coming. The boy squared his shoulders and took a breath. Jessica knew very well what was coming, and was more than ever sure that this was a clever and well informed joke.
"Listen man," said Carlos, "Wealth should be shared. Nobody has the right to take more of the world's wealth or the world's resources than they need. When the revolution comes it will be the end of capitalists like you."
The visitor was again unruffled. "I'm not interested in offering you what's right," he said, "I'm interested in offering you what's wrong. Anyway," he added, "it will take more than a revolution to make me redundant, though it's funny how you religious types always think you can change the world."
Carlos was taken aback: this was the first time anyone had suggested he was religious and Jessica almost laughed out loud at his expression.
The visitor turned to her. "I trust the rest of the world is still out for what it can get." he remarked.
"Probably," she answered. "Thank badness for that. Now what about yourself? You could be a head teacher to morrow. You could have your own school. I could even arrange Secretary of State for Education, given a few days."
"Is that supposed to tempt me? You'd have to offer something right outside education, I think."
"That could certainly be arranged. Anyway, I have to have a contract before I can leave."
If she could only have been certain it was all a joke, Jessica would have signed, just to bring the whole charade to an end. Only, a corner of her brain wasn't absolutely certain.
"I'm prepared to sign," said Peter.
"Charming boy," said Mephistopholes. "What is your desire?"
"Listen. I don't believe in all this mediaeval superstition. I don't know where the joke is, but there has to be a joke somewhere. God and the Devil are just myths. The supernatural is rubbish."
"Really," said the visitor smoothly, as he produced a rolled parchment from his briefcase, "then you won't mind signing this." He unrolled the parchment and passed to Peter, to the accompaniment of a tremendous clap of thunder.
There were several squeals, mostly from the girls, and even Jessica jumped.
Peter didn't turn a hair. "I like your special effects," he remarked, without looking up from reading. "Give me a pen. "
"You sign in blood," said Mephistopholes.
"All right, so give me a knife."
Jessica considered Peter's composure either entirely genuine or very well contrived and perhaps a little foolish. Even the visitor was impressed. That gentleman produced a small, sharp pointed dagger from his briefcase and handed it to Peter, who had two or three tries before he drew enough blood to sign.
"Not so easy as it sounds, to sign in blood," He said. "There you are. Not very neat, I'm afraid."
Mephistopholes took the contract back with considerable respect. "In all my years years as an agent," he said, "you're the first client to worry about neatness.
"Your other clients didn't write essays for Miss White," replied Peter, once more being a little cryptic.
"No. I'll just roll up the contract and seal it." He took a small stick of sealing wax from his pocket and held it over the contract. There was a flash of lightning and a sizzling sound with a slight smell of brimstone and little drips of wax plopped onto the parchment, sealing it shut.
"There we are," said Mephistopholes, and returned the wax to his pocket. "Now, since you had no special requests, this was our standard contract. Wealth, irresistible attraction to women and the option of either career success and early retirement or a position of power. In exchange for your soul at death, of course."
Jessica watched the parchment and knife returned to the briefcase. "I haven't got a soul," remarked Peter.
Mephistopholes turned to him, smiling, and said with a hint of malice and menace, "For the time being you have. Good day to you all."
There was a flash and some smoke accompanied by another tremendous clap of thunder and Mephistopholes quite simply disappeared.
"Just like a stage demon," said Peter, and Jessica had to admit that it was.
"Thank goodness he's gone," said Jessica wafting the smoke away from her. "Now perhaps we can get on with the lesson. However, I don't think you should have done that, Peter."
"I'm not superstitious," said the clearly still sceptical young man.
It was then that Jessica noticed the look on Sally's face and began to wonder.
"Can I sit next to you Peter?" the latter asked in the kind of 'little girl' voice you associate the archetypal sexy blond but definitely not with the normal Sally.
"Stop joking Sally," said Peter, but she moved her books on to his table, pushing his spread out papers and folders in to a pile and herself unnecessarily close to him.
"I'm not joking," she said in the same voice," I really like you. I've never noticed before how exciting you are."
Jessica felt that things were getting out of hand again. "Not in the classroom, Sally," she said.
There was a knock at the door and it opened. A small boy entered, carrying a parcel. "Excuse me miss, but the secretary sent me miss. This parcel was just delivered to the office miss. For Peter Frost miss, and she asked me to give it to him."
"Go on then, give it to him. There's Peter Frost."
The small boy took the parcel over to Peter, somewhat overawed by the presence of the sixth form, and then left hurriedly. "Well open it darling," said Sally. "See what's in it."
"The joke continues, I suppose," observed Peter, and began to unwrap it.
"Perhaps its a box of sticking plaster, man," joked Carlos. "I hope the knife was sterilised. You might get AIDS or something."
Peter pulled the wrapping off a stiff cardboard box about thirty centimetres by sixty centimetres by sixty centimetres. When he had the box itself open, Sally leaned over to see inside and let out a scream.
"Wow," she squealed, "There's a fortune here. Look, notes." She held up three wads: two of twenties and one of crisp, new fifties. She put them on the desk. "And gold!" She held up a heavy gold necklace with a pendant on Jessica was stunned. The money and the gold might be fake, of course, but they looked real.
"Where did it come from?" she asked. "This is a pretty expensive joke." "There's a note," said Peter, "look."
Jessica read it out loud. "Just a little something on account. Unkind regards. Mephistopholes."
There was another clap of thunder with a peal of demoniac laughter. For the first time Peter wondered whether he had got a soul after all.
For the time being.