“Hell is made up of Nine Circles – nine infernal rings of fire and brimstone. Each of these rings represent a different level of sin – the deeper you go, the worse the sin and its punishment. It’s no surprise that sitting dead centre of these Nine Circles of Hell, is the Citadel of Sin, home to the Seven Black Princes of Hell.

“Personally? I hate those pricks. They’re squabbling, spoiled little brats, always comparing dick sizes and fighting over each other’s toys. But as bad as they all are, they’re nothing compared to their oldest brother: Lucifer – the first of the fallen – the tantrum-thrower.

“This egotistical little shit was cast from the Kingdom of Heaven when he refused to bow to the Creator’s second progeny. But he wasn’t sent to the naughty corner. No, he was put in timeout in a bit of leftover real estate from when the universe was created – a realm of fire, brimstone, suffering, and pretty much all the worse parts of a Michael Bay movie that you can imagine – Hell.

“He was expected to learn his lesson, to learn humility. But he stood there, hellfire licking at his scrotum-sack, glaring upwards with his middle finger towards the Heavens, eager to show them all that he was better than anything in creation – to show daddy that he wasn’t going to break.

“That hubris spilled over into the mortal realm, giving humans that giant sugar cube to feed their high-horses. So, when a mortal believes he’s better than the world around him, that he’s entitled to greatness, he sends a call to the Throne of Pride.

“And Lucifer always answers…”

 

The lush green lawn stank of Spring as a tall, dark man, clad in his trademarked crimson trench coat, marched up the stone incline towards an impressive old building. If it were anywhere else, Faust would look completely conspicuous, but the lawn of the State Library of Victoria was always awash with a colourful mess of poorly-dyed hair, boot-cut skinny jeans, and ironically large-rimmed spectacles – he may as well have been one of these hipsters.

The hem of his cloak rippled behind him as he passed the tall statue of Jeanne d’Arc, taking his time to stop and sneer at her atop her steed, raising her flag valiantly in the air.

‘Looks nothing like her,’ he muttered, shaking his head and continuing onwards past the stone pillars.

His footsteps echoed off the lacquered wooden floorboards as he passed his way through the security checkpoint and into the main auditorium. Lifting his head, he couldn’t help but be impressed at the creativity of mortals – the circular rooms, old oak bookshelves and locally-painted pictures all stood without a speck of dust on them. The building had to be over 100 years old, but it was kept in such immaculate condition. If only the annexes of Hell were maintained as diligently.

He made his way up the staircase towards the end of the auditorium, hearing nothing but the faint scribbling of pen on paper and the tap-tapping of fingers across laptop keyboards behind him.

The stairs opened up into a long hall that echoed louder than the auditorium beneath as he marched through. This was clearly the Gallery Room – there was hardly anything there except for some old wooden benches, and some paintings on the walls. Faust’s blood-red eyes scanned the halls, artwork to artwork, before they landed on a colourful mess of reds and blues. Despite being far away, he could easily make out the name of the gold plaque underneath: ‘Spring Street End, by Ben McKeown’.

What was more interesting to him, however, wasn’t the tastefully-crude painting, but the two men that stood in front of it. The shorter, much older man kept pounding his metal walking frame against the floorboards and pointing at the other man with his hairy, shaky finger – he was clearly unhappy about something.

His coattails washed against his long legs as he made his way towards them, hearing their conversation as he moved closer.

‘… and why not?!’ the old man wheezed, ‘I thought the Dark Prince Lucifer would jump at a free soul.’

The younger man chuckled derisively. He was a tall, handsome young man, standing at about six feet tall, wearing an impossibly-black suit with gold buttons down the middle that screamed of opulence.

‘Gerald, Gerald, Gerald.’ His thin lips curled into an annoyingly-cocky smirk, ‘a free soul, yes, but yours is all but earmarked for me in the afterlife. So, in actuality, all that remains for me is to rest and vest.’

‘A-and what makes you think that?’ asked Gerald, his hands shaking violently on the walking frame. ‘I’ve lived a good life – a just life. Who… who knows, I might be looking down on you from the Pearly Gates.’

‘Who knows?’ Lucifer snorted, ‘I know.’ He snapped his fingers at Gerald and, in a puff of smoke, a worn, yellow parchment appeared in his hand – the blood red lettering at the top spelling ‘Jameson, Gerald – Ante Diem VIII Kalendas Martias MCMXXX Anno Domini’, in large loopy writing. ‘Gerald Jameson,’ said Lucifer boisterously, causing the few people in the hall to turn their heads in his direction, ‘widower with four children, two of them illegitimate, by the way. Owner of Jameson and Co. textiles, foreclosed over a decade ago after you sold it to your competitor, putting fifteen-thousand loyal workers out onto the streets. You’ve used none of your earnings for any benevolent pursuits, ignored every single charity function that had ever crossed your desk and…’ Lucifer paused, ‘you hate Kylie Minogue.’

‘What’s —who’s he?’ asked Gerald, pointisng one of his shaking fingers at Faust.

‘Ah! Very good,’ Lucifer replied, rubbing his hands together, ‘Gerald, this is Faust, Hell’s Contractor.’

Gerald blinked his weepy eyes in confusion. ‘Contractor?’

‘Think of him as our lawyer. He’s here as… would you say… a second opinion to our little tiff here.’ Lucifer then leered at Faust with his jet-black eyes. ‘Although, his tardiness is hardly appreciated.’

‘Is there a reason you summoned me, Lucifer?’ Faust asked curtly.

‘His over-familiar tone is unappreciated also,’ Lucifer sneered, ‘I have summoned you here because our esteemed friend, Gerald, here has requested a valuation on his soul.’

‘This, you couldn’t do yourself?’

‘The mortal may request for a second opinion, should they so wish, Contractor. And, watch how your address me,’ Lucifer hissed, ‘your existence is a courtesy I bestow, you would do well to remember that.’

Faust felt his own temper being tested, but as prideful as he was, he dared not incite another one of Lucifer’s epic tantrums. Wisely, he chose to swallow his tongue and face the old man.

Gerald, clearly befuddled by the situation, took a while to recover his words before he finally spoke. ‘I-I want to exchange my soul so my children can live long and happy lives.’

Faust took a long, deep sigh – something he found himself doing more and more with each visit to Earth. Here we go again. ‘I’m going to skip over the irony of that statement and get right to the long and the short of it: what you’re asking for is mathematically impossible. End o’ story.’

Gerald blinked his watery eyes in confusion, and Faust couldn’t resist but explain the situation again.

‘Put it to you this way, Gerry,’ he spoke, doing his best to maintain his patience, ‘you could ask for anything you want in exchange for your soul: a house in Toorak, a Ferrari with a matte-black finish, Kate Upton to fall in love with you… shit, anything! And Lucifer, here, would gladly snap his fingers and make it happen. But by asking for your four children to live long lives, you’re robbing Hell of the chance to reap their souls early.’

Although he hated siding with the Black Princes, Faust knew what he was saying would eventually get through to Gerald, and the truth would soon dawn on him.

‘So, you see, Gerald?’ Lucifer’s slick, icy voice slithered into the conversation, ‘it makes no financial sense: why should we take one ancient and used-up soul now, when we can potentially take four fresh souls later?’

The Contractor watched as the mortal’s face twisted from anger to defeat, and although Faust loved proving people wrong, he could not help but feel, even in its smallest element, sorry for the human.

‘I-I understand,’ Gerald wheezed, lowering his head at Lucifer’s shoes.

‘You should be thanking me, Gerald,’ Lucifer remarked, placing a hand on the old man’s shoulders and shaking him enthusiastically, ‘I’m letting you keep your soul until you die. I’m letting you enjoy your few remaining years left feeling love and happiness.’

‘Funny,’ Faust snapped, hating every moment of Lucifer’s false-humility, ‘you look more like a taker than a giver,’ he smirked, ‘in more ways than one.’

And there it was again. The look Faust knew all too well in Lucifer’s lifeless black eyes: the storm was brewing.

‘You’re dismissed,’ Lucifer hissed, his eyes alit with malice.

Exactly what Faust had hoped for!

‘Suit yourself,’ he shrugged as he marched away, ‘saves me from having to hear another sob-story anyway. Probably giving his kids another 50 years or something stupid like that.’

‘Diabetes!’ Gerald’s croaky voice echoed through the halls, causing a few passers-by to turn to him, if only to cast disapproving looks.

This was enough to make the Contractor stop mid-stride and turn back. ‘What did you say?’

At the sound of hearing Faust’s footsteps clap towards him, Gerald took a deep breath and levelled his eyes with him, his eyes burning with a determination that Faust rarely saw in mortals. ‘I want to cure my children of diabetes.’

‘You’re willing to subject your soul, your very proof of existence, to burn and rot in Hell from here until eternity,’ Faust’s blood-red eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

The old man struggled with his answer. But it wasn’t because he didn’t know the answer, no. He was contemplating whether or not this… this… Contractor, could ever understand.

‘I’ve lived a good life, sir, a very good life, but the price of that has now fallen to my children to pay.’ He spoke, staring back into Faust’s eyes. ‘It’s not right!’ he pounded his walking frame into the hardwood floor, garnering more disapproving looks from the nearby visitors. ‘I’m the one responsible. I should be punished for my own sins, not them.’

‘The Sacrifice…’ The words escaped the Contractor’s lips before he had a chance to stop himself, and, at the sound of those very words, Lucifer had come gliding in, flashing his pearly-white teeth at Gerald.

‘Well, given such a touching reason for our agreement, perhaps I can find it in my heart to reconsider.’

‘R-reconsider?’ Gerald asked, his watery eyes staring at Lucifer with hope, ‘what do you mean?’

‘It means he’s finally realised the true v—’

‘A word, Faust,’ Lucifer cut over him, shooting another one of his famous, dangerous looks at the Contractor.

The Black Prince dragged him over to the far corner of the hall in front of ‘Melbourne from the Botanical Gardens in 1867’, and, before Faust had a chance to admire the lush green and gold colours of the painting, had already started hissing at him again.

‘What in Hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘My job, Lucifer,’ Faust replied, making sure Lucifer understood he was more interested in the artwork than the conversation. ‘Full disclosure. If they’re going to sign a pact, them’s the rules.’

‘Your job is whatever I deem it to be, Contractor!’ Lucifer spat, though still maintaining what little pretences of a whisper was left. ‘We cannot have these mortals understand the value of sacrifices and noble deeds. Hell would lose all bargaining power!’

‘Then leave his soul. He’s old, his soul will join you in Hell in due time.’

‘That is not your decision to make,’ Lucifer drew himself to full height and puffed out his chest, ‘I am the Black Prince of Hell – I decide whether to reap a soul in whichever manner I please.’

‘The Law doesn’t share your –’

But Faust’s words failed him, cut short by a searing hot, unholy burn upon his flesh as Lucifer plunged both his hands wrist-deep into his chest.

‘Now, you listen to me and you listen well, cretin,’ Lucifer lashed, pushing his arms deeper into Faust, ‘you will do well to mind your tongue in my presence. You do not talk to me like that. You never talk to me like that! Not in this realm – not in any realm!’

‘My… duties supersede your… pride!’ Faust choked, his knees buckling to the hardwood floor.

‘Only when I allow it.’ Lucifer released his grip from Faust’s torso, leaving the Contractor panting and wheezing as the Black Prince straightened the lapels of his pitch-black suit and swaggered back over to Gerald.

‘As I was saying, I am willing to reconsider your proposal,’ Faust heard Lucifer’s sickly-sweet voice echo through the gallery.

He picked himself up from the floor and beat the dust from his watery, flowing crimson trench coat before re-joining Lucifer in his conference – every fibre of his very existence, fighting the horrible, contorting snarl developing on his face.

‘You’ll… you’ll reconsider?’ Gerald wheezed, his wrinkled eyes welling with tears, ‘truly?’

Lucifer flashed his pearly-whites again at the mortal. ‘I am the light-bringer, Gerald, it’s all in the name, and I am nothing, if not generous.’ He snapped his fingers and, in a puff of unholy, black smoke, a worn brown parchment appeared at his hand. ‘Your new contract with me: your four children will be free from diabetes all for the low, low price of your soul.’ He cast a warning look at Faust, ‘to which I will collect today.’

Another snap of his finger, and a small, silver letter-opener appeared in Lucifer’s other hand, to which he flipped it around his fingers and pointed the handle at Gerald. ‘Are these terms agreeable to you?’

The old man showed no hesitation in accepting the blade.

He pricked his finger with its tip and reached the bleeding wound towards the contract. ‘W-wait,’ he wheezed, his bloody finger hovering inches away from the page, ‘h-how can I know you’ll… you’ll keep your word?’

Lucifer rolled his lifeless black eyes into his head and let out an impatient groan. ‘Fine,’ he breathed, as he shut his eyes and folded his arms into a large ‘X’ across his chest, the infernal contract still dangling in between his fingers.

To a mortal, it looked as though Lucifer was praying, or meditating, but a Contractor always knows better. Faust could see it – he could see the Black Prince pulling the diabetes from the aether and into the palms of his hands.

And then, those jet-black eyes popped open. ‘And we’re done!’ he said chirpily. ‘Diabetes – gone!’ Lucifer clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. ‘Now, please sign the contract.’

In a flash of a moment, Faust had an idea – a risky idea, but it was the best one he could come up with. ‘Hang on,’ he said, clutching onto Lucifer’s outstretched hand as it waved the parchment at Gerald, ‘as the Contractor, I have to ensure all jurisdictional grantors of this agreement are amicable to its terms.’

‘Of course, I agree to the terms, you gnat!’ Lucifer hissed, ripping his arm out of Faust’s grip. ‘Why would I not?’

‘I said all jurisdictional grantors,’ Faust could not contain his joy any longer, ‘your unholiness,’ he remarked.

Lucifer bared his perfectly-even teeth and growled. ‘What… jurisdiction?’

‘Well,’ said Faust, holding his arms behind his back and strutting around, ‘he made a pact and argued about the value of his soul. That doesn’t sound like pride to me, Lucifer, it sounds an awful lot like –’

‘Greed,’ a low, grumbling voice from behind finished for him.

Lucifer took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘Mammon,’ he whispered, without even turning to address the newcomer.

Gerald rubbed his watery eyes and stared at this new man – it was like he was staring at a twin. This, this… Mammon, looked exactly like Lucifer. He was even wearing the same suit and tie ensemble. But as Mammon approached, Gerald could see distinct features that set him apart from the Prince of Pride. His thin jawline was more pronounced and sharp, shoulders slightly broader and hunched, but the most astonishing thing about him, was his eyes. His lifeless, black eyes scanned Gerald as though he was valuating a diamond or some antique – as though they could easily determine the price of anything, anywhere at any time.

‘My, my, my,’ said Mammon, stopping a few steps away from them and staring fixatedly on Gerald, ‘aren’t you quite the find.’

‘Stand aside, Mammon,’ said Lucifer, stepping in between, ‘this does not concern you.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Mammon shook his head at Lucifer, ‘for everything in the world – lust of the flesh, lust of the eyes, and the pride of life – comes not from the Father, but from…’ He raised his hands grandiosely, ‘me.’

‘Did you just scripture me, brother?’ spat Lucifer.

‘Incorrectly.’ Faust muttered.

The two brothers were too busy seething at one another to notice his smart-aleck remark.

‘Temper, temper, brother,’ Mammon tutted, waving a finger at Lucifer, ‘your pride goeth before the fall.’

‘What need have you to take this mortal’s soul? Your cup runneth over!’

‘True,’ Mammon shrugged, ‘but capital is what capital is, Luci, surely you can appreciate that.’

Lucifer growled. ‘Do not call me Luci.’

‘Umm… ladies?’ Faust interjected.

‘WHAT?!’ both princes shouted at him, again earning the ire of the visitors nearby.

‘Your lunchmeat is getting away,’ he answered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

The two brothers diverted their attention to the end of the hall where Gerald was shuffling his walking frame as quickly as he could away from them.

The Black Princes of Greed and Pride both marched after him, intercepting him before he made it to the elevators.

Before Mammon could speak, Lucifer had held the infernal contract before him. ‘I was here first,’ he said childishly, ‘he signs the pact with me.’

Mammon smirked derisively. ‘Well, if it means that much to you,’ he shook his head at Lucifer with condescension, ‘I guess I can spare you this crumb.’

And with that, he strolled over towards the painting of ‘Tower Hill, Victoria’ and examined it with his covetous eyes, no doubt determining its value.

Faust couldn’t help his amusement while watching Lucifer collect himself and continue his conversation with Gerald – it was almost as though Faust could see cartoon storm clouds above the Throne’s head.

‘That was generous of you,’ he said, walking up to Mammon and staring at the painting with him, ‘and to think they say you take indiscriminately.’

‘Yes,’ said Mammon, ‘I am good to the Little Horn, aren’t I?’

‘Still, the Greedy Prince showing philanthropy,’ Faust chuckled, ‘the Bible’s got it so wrong.’

‘I can hardly call this philanthropy – just an old man and a relic of a time-worn soul. I think Luci only wanted this out of pride.’

‘His soul might be worth more than you think,’ Faust shrugged, feigning interest in the painting.

This certainly caught the Greed Prince’s attention. As predicted, Mammon turned his head and, with his cold black eyes, stared straight into Faust’s blood-red retinas. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘Think about the deal he’s making, Mammon,’ said Faust, ‘giving up your soul for the sins of the ones you love? So that they won’t pay the price on your own head?’

A glint of wanting flashed through Mammon’s eyes. ‘The Sacrifice.’

‘You didn’t see him before,’ Faust continued as Mammon’s covetous eyes fixed themselves to Gerald and Lucifer, ‘I’ve never seen a mortal with more resolve in his eyes than that old-timer. I wonder how powerful his soul is now with that much determination – a soul that may even be worthy enough to pass through the Pearly Gates.’

‘No,’ Mammon whispered, seeing Lucifer passing the same silver dagger to Gerald, ‘it should be mine.’

As soon as Gerald’s finger pricked red with blood again, something snapped within Mammon. He charged at Lucifer and swatted the contract out of his hands. ‘It should be mine!’

‘It does not belong to you!’ said Lucifer, clutching his wrist.

All this excitement was too much for Gerald to bear – he clutched his chest and groaned, collapsing to the floor as the two Black Princes of Hell argued over him, paying him no mind.

Faust rushed over to the mortal and leant over him.

‘M-m-my… my chest,’ Gerald choked, foam flowing from the side of his mouth.

Faust showed no concern on his face, but a flicker of mercy passed through him. ‘Sleep,’ he said, touching a finger to Gerald’s wrinkled, sweaty forehead. Immediately, his body fell limp, and he was in a deep sleep. He was alive, that much was certain, but it seemed his heart-attack was temporarily suspended.

Faust stood up and turned to the Princes, still arguing about the soul like squabbling seagulls over a French-fry.

‘The pact has been written under my dominion!’ Lucifer shouted.

‘But under my discipline!’ Mammon returned.

‘Oh, brother,’ Lucifer hissed, his eyes narrowing and his fist clenching the contract tight, ‘do not test me, not up here.’

‘You do not get to monopolise the flow of souls, Luci,’ Mammon spoke, showing no signs that he was willing to back down, ‘the Laws are the Law.’

‘Let us clarify, then.’ Lucifer pointed his finger at Faust, ‘you, Contractor! What say you on the matter?’

‘Let’s find out.’ Faust reached into his coat pocket and produced a small, silver bible. He already knew what he was going to search, but continued to leaf through it for effect – had the Princes been paying attention, they would see that Faust was reading the book upside-down.

‘Here we are,’ he said, placing his finger on a random page – it was a chapter on how to wash corpse dust off of clothing. ‘Section 126 of the Pacts of Hell – Ante Bellum: Encumbrances.’

“Should a soul’s rightful ownership come into contest from the intended parties – that’s you two idiots – the disputing parties have but two choices: declare war over the soul, or have the soul barred from any and all agreements to the Engines of Hell.”

Faust snapped the bible shut and pocketed it. ‘There you have it, girls: fight or fuck off.’

‘It does not belong under the Banner of Pride,’ Mammon spat.

‘You will not yield?’ asked Lucifer.

Mammon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Never.’

‘Alright, then,’ Faust clapped his hands together, ‘I’ll go let cry the dogs of war.’

Both brothers looked at each other – each of their lifeless, black eyes burning with contempt for one another. Neither dared be the first to speak, but both knew what had to be done. No matter how great a value Gerald’s soul, it wasn’t worth a civil war in Hell.

‘Then I’m barring his soul from any future pacts,’ said Faust, holding his fingers together in front of them, preparing to snap, ‘are we agreed?’

Mammon sneered at Faust. ‘Fine.’

‘Lucifer?’ Faust turned to Lucifer.

The Proud Prince stared at Faust’s fingertips, and then at the contract in his hands. He was so close – so close to a soul. He couldn’t quit now, not when the bargain was about to be struck. He stared back again at Faust’s fingers, rubbing together, eager to prove him wrong.

Against his better judgement, Lucifer spoke. ‘Fine.’

Faust’s fingers snapped, and the infernal parchment in Lucifer’s hand burst into a ball of black flames, falling to the hardwood floor in a tiny pile of ash.

Mammon, the Black Prince of Greed, stared at the pile and sniffed the air in disgust. ‘What do I care,’ he said, turning down the hall and to the stairway, ‘there are plenty of souls ripe for the picking.’ His footsteps clopped on the hardwood floors, leaving Faust alone with Lucifer in the art-filled hall.

‘Don’t feel bad, Luce,’ Faust remarked, ‘some you win, and some you lose.’

‘You…’ Lucifer seethed, ‘you cost me a soul, Contractor!’ The Throne charged at Faust, his hands glowing a fire-red and snaking towards his chest.

Faust stood his ground – he was ready this time. He darted forward with speed unmatched by the Devil himself and clutched his fingers around Lucifer’s throat, lifting the Prince off the ground.

Lucifer’s limbs thrashed and flailed about as Faust squeezed the breath from his mortal meat-suit.

‘Now, you listen and you listen well, you little shit,’ he whispered, pulling Lucifer close to his face, ‘don’t think just because we’re roomies in Hell that you own me. I was there when you were born. I was there when you fell, and, if I wanted to, I can rest your head against the brimstone Thrones of the Citadel and break your demonic neck in front of all your little minions. Do you understand me?’

Lucifer answered with more kicks and choked curses, testing the Contractor’s temper. ‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, shaking Lucifer a little, ‘I didn’t fucking hear you?’

Lucifer answered in the form of a weak, simpering gurgle, and Faust threw him down onto the wooden floor of the gallery. He whipped out the silver bible from his pocket again, and flicked through the pages near the back.

‘Eieci te de regno et misit in abyssum!’ he shouted, pointing a finger at Lucifer.

Lucifer scurried away from Faust, but didn’t make it far. He let out a choked scream as his mortal body burst into flames and, within seconds, was nothing but a small pile of dust on the hardwood.

 

Faust knelt down to Gerald, and shook the old man awake. The mortal’s wrinkly, watery eyes fluttered open. It seemed like Gerald was perfectly fine until he realised where he was and his body resumed the heart-attack the Contractor had suspended moments ago.

‘I-I-I-I c-can’t…’ Gerald choked, clutching his chest.

‘You don’t have a lot of time, old timer,’ said Faust, doing his best to show what he imagined sympathy to be, ‘just… try to be still.’

‘W-w-what’s happening…?’

‘You’re going to die,’ said Faust indifferently.

‘B-b-but my… my… ch-children?’

‘They’re already cured. Lucifer jumped the gun on this one.’ He cast a glance over at the pile of paper-ash on the floor next to them. ‘He made the blunder of giving you the baby without the labour pains, so don’t worry.’

Gerald reached over and grabbed Faust by the collar, pulling the Contractor close. ‘Th-thank you, sir. Thank… you for n-not letting them… p-pay.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, peeling Gerald’s hand off him and lowering the old man down gingerly onto the floor. ‘Now, lie still, they’ll be coming any moment now.’

‘Who’s… coming?’

Faust smirked at the convulsing man lying before him. ‘Angels.’

‘Oh my god!’ shouted an onlooker from down the hall. ‘Someone call the ambulance!’

Faust stood up and addressed a young student rushing towards Gerald and laying her jacket under his neck. ‘Keep him comfortable,’ he said to her as she whipped out her phone and frantically dialled triple-zero.

The Contractor stood and corrected his crimson trench coat as a flush of mortals came running out of the other halls for a better look.

He quickly turned and marched away, his coat billowing behind him like waves of a blood-red ocean, past the quiet area of the library, past the security screen, past the paramedics that ran through the entrance, and no sooner had the soles of his black shoes hit the sunlight, he vanished.

And so, ends the First Interim…