“I don’t understand, doctor. You said she had more time… but doctor, I… no, she’s only five… but, we… it’s not about prolonging her life, it’s about… no, you said the results were promising… please tell me there’s something we can do for her. Please, anything. But it’s… but it’s not fair! No, I… no… yes, I understand… yes. I… thank you for trying…”

 

The tails of his flowing, crimson-red cloak danced in the wind as his long, slender legs pounded the pavement down the streets of Manhattan. He could see it up ahead – a horned, yellow head popping upwards through the ground and then back down again like some demonic game of Whack-a-Mole.

As Faust approached each hole in the concrete, the demon would have already popped upwards further down the street.

‘That’s it – fuck this!’ he shouted, feeling his patience wearing thin.

He leapt high into the air, higher than mortally possible, and dove downwards towards the pavement, breaking through it as though it were liquid.

The empty night streets were marred with shrieking, cursing and the sound of horrible scraping against stone, before the Contractor emerged from across the street, crashing upwards through the pavements like some sort of reverse-dive.

Held in a headlock, and doing its best to break free, was the decaying head of a beige, fetid demon. It screeched and thrashed about, biting and gnawing at the air as Faust struggled to keep in subdued.

He steeled his already steely resolve, concentrating on the peculiar, golden orb clutched in the demon’s talon – it was gnashing its fangs through the air towards the orb and Faust knew he had little time.

With his free hand, Faust gripped the demon by one of its horns and, with great effort, snapped it clean off the demon’s forehead. The demon fell to the floor, rolling and screaming even louder than before, clutching its head in agony.

The Contractor lit up a cigarette as he stepped over the cowering imp, taking due care to kick it in the ribs as he so did, and retrieved the orb that rolled away from its talons. It was flawless – a perfect sphere that radiated a golden light, almost like a miniature sun.

Faust was lost within the swirling of lights before a loud grunt behind him jolted him back to reality.

‘Under Section 48 of the Pacts of Hell – Ante Bellum,’ he said, turning to the demon, still writhing on the ground, ‘I, Nyxanoth Faust, find you in violation of the Balance. I now judge thee, damned.’ Reaching into the inside of his jacket, he produced a small silver bible and flicked forward to the Rites of the Damned. ‘Mors ultima linea rerum est,’ he read, ‘in morte requiesces!’

The demon’s skin started to char and burn and it, almost as though it was suddenly jerked to its senses, leapt off from the ground and lunged at Faust, it’s burning, sharp talons outstretched, reaching for the Contractor’s chest.

Faust braced himself for impact but felt nothing but a clod of ash splash against his coat.

‘Fucking earth demons,’ he muttered, patting ash and soot from his clothes, ‘all you had to do was give me the soul. That’s it.’

He stared down at the remains of what used to be the demon – a grey pile of dust. Snarling, he took one last drag of his cigarette and threw it into the pile, stepping onto it and leaving his footprint in his wake, before, in a swirl of crimson red, he disappeared into the night.

 

Sitting in the emergency ward of St. Clare’s Hospital was a man, resting his head against his arms and leaning against the headboard. If it were not for his stylish, though heavily stained, clothes, anyone would believe he were older than fifty. His hair was grey from stress. His eyes, sullen from sleeplessness and his hands that rested against his face, were shaky and pale.

But although he seemed dishevelled, he was happy. He kissed the forehead of the little girl that slept soundly before him, feeling the warmth of her skin upon his dry chapped lips. She was finally healing.

The doctors could not explain what happened – how the aggressive cancer that tore through her delicate body had just suddenly stopped. She was responding positively to chemotherapy to the point where the cancer was completely gone. ‘One of life’s great mysteries’, they told him. But he knew better.

‘Here’s a coincidence,’ said a snide voice from the doorway behind him.

He turned his shoulders to see a stern looking man, donned in the strangest of red trench coats he had ever seen – it flowed almost like blood.

‘What’s a coincidence?’ he asked the stranger, wiping a joyful tear from his eye.

Faust glided into the room until he stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at the man and his daughter. ‘St. Clare’s Hospital was originally in one of the boroughs of Hell’s Kitchen.’

‘It must be fate,’ the father smiled.

‘Call it whatever you want, Pete.’

The Contractor’s sudden, curt attitude sent a wave of silence through the room before Peter found the strength to cut the awkwardness. ‘Her cancer’s gone.’

‘You expected otherwise?’

‘No, it’s just…’ his hand ran from the bed onto his chest, clutching onto the crucifix he wore beneath his shirt, ‘I was raised a Catholic and I just never though that in my dire time, I’d be turning to the Prince of Lies for help. Even more still, that he came through for me.’

‘There’s so much irony in that sentence you can write a Hallmark card with it.’ The Contractor reached into his pocket for another of his signature, black cigarettes, but, not wanting to add any more irony to the situation, thought better of it. ‘Being a Catholic in a Catholic hospital making deals with the Devil… your God’ll be mighty pissed at you, Pete.’

‘Whatever awaits me in the afterlife, I will gladly endure for my Lucy.’

‘Oh? Your consciousness being ripped into two: one to endure nothingness forever and the other to endure eternal suffering means no-never-mind to you?’

‘I can endure.’

‘For now,’ Faust snorted.

Again, another uncomfortable silence.

‘Why are you here?’

Faust straightened his coat and spoke professionally – it was time for business. ‘Section 33 of the Pacts of Hell – Ante Bellum requires me to lay down the terms of this contract’s amortisation.’

‘I know what happens: after I die, I go to Hell. And I’m okay with that.’

‘And what about before that, smart ass?’ sniped the Contractor, itching to light up his cigarette, ‘what about your current life?’

‘What… what do you mean?’

‘Over time, you’re going to find that your body will be incapable of feeling things – love, anger, passion, sadness, empathy, sympathy… all this, you’ll feel none of it. Like your body will be entirely numb throughout.’

‘That… doesn’t sound so bad?’

‘Are you listening to me?’ Faust shook his ebon head, incredulous, once again, at the stupidity of humans. ‘One day, you’re going to see Lucy at her dance recital and you’ll feel like your body can’t applaud her. When she walks down the aisle on her wedding day, you’ll be incapable of kissing her and wishing her luck. You won’t love her anymore. Does any of this make sense to you?’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ Peter defended, ‘it’s better than the alternative!’

‘Better for who, Pete: Lucy or you?’ ignoring all pretences of civility, the Contractor whipped out a black cigarette from the inside of his coat and held it to his lips, ‘you’re, ironically, a Catholic. You know she’ll go to a better place. You’re just too much of a coward to admit to yourself that you’ll have to live the rest of your life alone.’

‘She’s five! She’s only five, Faust! She deserves a full life!’

‘Yeah, she does. But now, she’ll live a full life with a dad she’ll one-day hate and resent. That’ll make for a nice childhood, ay Pete?’ The cigarette, almost manifesting Faust’s annoyance sparked to flame, and he took a long, well-deserved drag from it, before blowing the smoke over his shoulder, away from the sleeping girl.

‘I had to save her!’ Peter insisted.

‘You weren’t trying to save her, you were trying to save yourself! You were selfish and scared and unable to cope with being alone. Why did you think it was Lucifer who answered your call? Selfishness is born of Pride, you fuckwit!’

‘You’re not a father, Faust, you wouldn’t understand.’

‘You know what? You’re right. I don’t understand… why I’m having this shitless conversation with you right now.’ He extinguished the cigarette in a nearby flowerpot, adorned with pink ribbons and a large ‘get well soon’ sign pinned to it. ‘I’m out.’

And with that, the Contractor glided out of the room, leaving Peter to stare at the fluttering of his crimson tails.

He was alone.

The Contractor was wrong.

Peter did an honourable thing for his daughter – she was going to go to high school someday, ballet classes someday, bring a boyfriend home for him to meet someday… everything was going to be fine from here on in.

His still-shaking hands caressed Lucy’s face as he stared lovingly at his daughter. But every time his fingertips touched her skin, he felt them get colder, not because she was cold, but because he could not feel anything else.

The little girl stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes gingerly. ‘I love you, daddy,’ she whispered, before falling back into slumber.

He opened his mouth to return her love but felt a catch in his throat. As if someone, or something, clutched his windpipes every time he tried to utter the words ‘I love you’ back to her. Minutes went by and all he could utter in return was: ‘me too’.

He sat there in the dark, watching his daughter sleep. Was she his daughter though? She must be. But why, with every touch of her skin, every fond memory invoked in his mind, she seemed more and more like a stranger to him.

Sitting and staring still, his mind raced for fond memories of them both. But try as he may, he could not find anything in his memories that evoked the same feelings he had only hours ago.

He sat, only inches from her, but at that very moment, Peter felt like they were ten thousand miles apart.

And so ends the tale of the Father… and the Contractor.