Bridget Jones's Tadfield Diary - Part 3
Penultimate installment of what's probably the strangest crossover I'll ever write.
Previous installments:
Part 1
Part 2
Friday 26th June
8st 4 (excellent), bra size 34D (amazing), alcohol units 32 (appalling, but understandable), cigarettes 43 (again, appalling but understandable), calories 651 (v.v. good, but more due to sheer terror than actual will power; and probably unhealthy given new weight), no. of national lotteries won 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v good), no. of immortal souls still sold to Satan 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v bad).
8:55a.m. Blurgh. Urge to be violently sick rising. Have vague memories of something strange occurring last night, but can’t quite recall what. Think that parchment and sunglasses involved. Think I’ll remain v. still and try and go back to sleep for a few minutes. Memory bound to be better after nausea and headache subsided.
12:35p.m. Oh bugger, have succeeded in grossly oversleeping. Production assistant just knocked on door to see if I was okay. Shamefully lied and said that I thought I had some sort of food poisoning. Still, at least innard churning nausea and pounding headache seem to be fading.
12:40p.m. Think bathroom scales aren’t working. Could not have lost a stone over night. Could I?
1:20p.m After getting dressed - in designer clothes that didn’t realise I actually had - went to front desk and asked if scales in room could be broken. Ms Hodges (apparent owner of hotel) kindly let me use hers. Dial went once more to 8st 4. Should feel elated at this news; especially as breasts do not appear to have shrunk in proportion to rest of body (in fact seem slightly larger and perkier than they did yesterday), yet am consumed by horrible sense of foreboding. Why?
1:30p.m. Have just noticed unpleasant blood encrusted bit of old paper on bedside table.
1:33p.m. Blood on old paper is actually writing. It tells me that I Bridget Jones have hereby pledged my soul to Satan in return for beauty (in keeping with modern standards thereof), wealth (again, in keeping with modern standards thereof) and bestowing of terrible afflictions upon all enemies.
1:35p.m. Events of last night suddenly coming back to me:
“So Anthony.” Hiccup. “What d’you do when you’re not thinking up ideas for morally degenerate reality television programs?” Hiccup.
“Me. I do lots of other morally degenerate things.”
“What like?”
“Well, don’t tell anyone. But I’m a demon.”
Drunken laughter. “Show me your horns pointy tail then.”
Offended expression. “Look Brianna.…”
“Bridget!”
“Right, right Bridget. Don’t go around showing my horns and pointy tail to people I’ve just met, you know? Not that sort of demon.”
“Sorry.”
“So you should be.” Pause. “D’you think that you should really be drinking vodka out of the bottle?”
“Why shouldn’t I, you’re doing it too? Don’t try and impose your paternalistic double standards on me, you… you chauvinist.”
“Told you, I’m notta chauvinist, I’m a demon. Liver’s not going to pack in like yours, is it? Well, cept that time in 1362. Took me ages to get a new one from the management it did.”
Hiccup. “So if you’re a demon.” Hiccup. “Does that mean you spend your nights seducing innocent maidens?”
Offended stare. “I’m notta bloody incubus either. ‘Sides, not as if you can do anything fun with an innocent maiden, is it? I’m hells top man… well, man shaped creature, on the planet. Did the Eden job, didn’t I?”
“Did you?” Hiccup.
“S’what I just said.”
“Prove it then.”
Vodka bottles suddenly refilled. “S’a blurry good trick, Anthony.”
“I know. Say, you wouldn’t mind selling your soul to hell would you? I’m a bit behind on this decade’s quota.”
Giggle. “Alright, but do another trick first.”
“What sort of trick?”
“I dunno; turn the curtains green or something.”
“Alright.” Snaps fingers.
“How d’you do that?”
Exasperated stare. “Told you twice before already. I’m a demon. Now about that soul of yours.”
1:50p.m. Alright, must not let imagination fun away with me. Would be v. gullible to think Anthony Crowley really a demon (did not after all look very demonic when he fell off bar stool). Clearly the whole thing just a silly, drunken joke. Think it was v. wrong of him to get me to sign the paper in own blood though. Probably thinks that getting vulnerable women to cut themselves is amusing. The fact that I’m now slim, pert breasted and looking ten years younger is clearly result of strict health regime and self control on my part.
2:30p.m. Have just found out that I’ve won today’s National Lottery. I switched on the news to hear name being announced as sole winner of 40 million pounds. Do not think that the sudden churning in my stomach is entirely due to ecstatic happiness. Suspect this is due to the fact that a) I haven’t actually bought a lottery ticket for weeks and b) the jackpot for the daily draw is usually not 40 million pounds. Still, no reason to panic. Probably just due to some sort of computer error. Yes, that’ll be it. Nothing to due with that bloody bit of paper.
4:30p.m. AAAAARGH. For the past two hours have been inundated with pleading requests for money from everybody I’ve encountered. Have also discovered from production assistant that Dave the sound technician has been struck down by laryngitis and seems to be suffering from some sort of rapid onset mid-life acne.
4:35p.m. Cannot deny the evidence any longer. Have actually gone and sold my immortal soul.
4:37p.m. Query: would it be possible to claim diminished responsibility on the grounds of delusion at time of signing (i.e. the fact that did not believe demon’s really existed).
5:15p.m. After a bottle of wine and twenty-five cigarettes am feeling much calmer. Will simply burn contract and deny fact that it ever existed.
5:16p.m. Gah, the bloody thing seems to be flame retardant.
5:45p.m. Shortly after the failed burning of the infernal contract the phone rang:
“Hello?” I said, feel justifiably wary.
IN SEVEN DAYS.... OH WAIT THAT’S NOT IT. DAGON HERE: MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT. MS. JONES, IT HAS BEEN NOTED THAT YOU’VE ATTEMPTED TO INFLICT DAMAGE UPON YOUR COPY OF DOCUMENT 666A: THE SOUL EXCHANGE CONTRACT. I MUST REMIND YOU THAT SHOULD YOU ACTUALLY SUCEED IN DESTROYING THE DOCUMENT THERE WILL BE A PENALTY FOR THE REISSUE TO BE CREATED.
I gulped. “A…a Penalty?”
INSTEAD OF SPENDING THE FIRST STAGE OF DAMNATION IN STANDARD TORMENTS, YOU’LL BE SENT TO WORK IN THE IMP CRECHE.
“Crèche? But I like children.”
HAH. TRY SAYING THAT AFTER AN EARTH DAY WITH THOSE BLIGHTERS.
It was then that I took a last stab at finding a rational explanation for what was happening. “Anthony is that you. Because if this is some sort of set up for one of your sick candid camera shows then I’m going to bloody well sue.”
ANTHONY, WHO’S ANTHONY?
“Anthony Crowley.”
CROWLEY. YOU THOUGHT THAT I WAS I WAS THAT PLEBIAN BASTARD. I AM AN UNDER DUKE YOU KNOW.
Seized by what must have been a sudden instinct for self-preservation I began to apologise profusely. “Mr. Crowley produces several cruel and unusual candid camera shows, so I thought that maybe….”
IT’S ALRIGHT FOR SOME. SWANNING ABOUT UP THERE WHILE SOME OF US ARE DOWN HERE MAKING SURE THAT EVERYTHING RUNS SMOOTHLY.
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t hard working Mr Dag….”
LORD.
“Sorry, Lord Dagon.”
NONE OF THEM EVER TALK TO ME AT PARTIES, YOU KNOW. THEY DON’T WANT TO HERE ABOUT THE FIENDISH NEW FILING SYSTEM I’VE DEVELOPED OR HOW I’VE MANAGED TO RESTRUCTURE DUKE HASTUR’S PAPERWORK, SO THAT EVEN HE CAN UNDERSTAND WHERE HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE SIGNING. IT’S NOT AN EASY TASK YOU KNOW. BUT DO I GET ANY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT? NO, THEY IGNORE ME. START TO BACK AWAY WHEN I TRY TO ENGAGE THEN IN CONVERSATION ABOUT THE ALTERATIONS I’VE MADE TO THE IMP REQUISITION FORMS. BUT IF YOU BRING UP THE SUBJECT OF THAT BLESSED SERPENT OF EDEN, THEY’RE ALL EARS.
Not knowing quite what else to say to the irate voice on the other end of the line, I asked if he’d ever considered taking up a hobby. “Lots of people who work in borin… I mean, admin jobs have a creative outlet these days.”
CREATIVE OUTLET?
“Like painting or… or playing a musical instrument.”
WHAT ABOUT CARVING?
“You mean with wood?”
I WAS THINKING MORE OF LIVING BONE.
I found myself gulping once again. “Well, I suppose you could….”
AND THIS WOULD MAKE ME A MORE INTERESTING DEMON, WOULD IT?
I told him about the work/life balance and how a variety of interests could help one to acquire a wider circle of friends (felt rather hypocritical at this point owing to fact that am yet to take up Pilates, chess, opera, art appreciation or any of the other cultured/healthy pursuits I vowed to study this year). Then advised him to read Rising Above the Rat Race. I said that it was a bit but worth it. He said that this didn’t matter as no self-respecting demon would go around paying for things. Proceeded to spitefully tell him that I’d observed Anthony Crowley paying for things on several occasions. He seemed happily outraged at this fact and the ensuing rant lasted until he realised that he had some minions to berate for filing copies of Writ 15645646.11111b with Writ 15645646.11111c.
GOODBYE MS. JONES. I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN AT DAMNATION.
Was a bit annoyed when the phone receiver melted.
6:30p.m. Decided that all things considered, have only one recourse: get mind blowingly sozzled.
Saturday 27th June
9st 4 (v. relieved), alcohol units 2 (g), cigarettes 5 (g), calories 3255 (80% cream cakes), no. of bookish, middle-aged poofs who turn out to be soul reclaiming angels met 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v. good).
2:20p.m. In retrospect getting mind blowingly sozzled whilst living in fear of accidental eternal damnation not best idea I’ve ever had. Spent all morning wondering whether said damnation will involve perpetual hangovers (am already certain that dress code will involve mixing lime green with bright orange and puce). Still, have now calmed down enough to attempt to think about things rationally and logically. Mark is brilliant lawyer. Therefore will phone him and explain situation. After all, literature full of clever people who’ve found loopholes in such contracts.
3:45p.m. Well, phone call didn’t go quite as well as expected. After finally managing to get through to Mark was faced with task of trying to describe predicament.
“What’s happened Bridget,” he said, sounding concerned owing to fact that I’d had member of his legal team drag him out of meeting on grounds of dire emergency back home.
“Mark,” I said, with a sob, “I’ve gone and… and….” For a moment I didn’t know what to say. Found self unable to tell him over the phone that I’d sold my soul to Satan in exchange for small waist, big tits, lots of money and vengeance upon annoying sound technicians. He’d think I’d gone completely mental. “I’ve accidentally signed a contract I didn’t mean to sign and I need to somehow get out of it.”
I could hear him sighing on the other end of the phone. “How long do you have before it comes into effect?” he asked, sounding very tired.
“Well… the rest of my life, I suppose,” I said, in a small voice.
“Bridget, I was in the middle of a meeting with Dr. Sable and Mr. White’s legal representatives. We’ve almost managed to reach a settlement for the workers affected by the contaminated tomatoes.”
“Mark, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m terrified about what’s going to happen to me.”
His voice softened. “Look, I promise to have a look at it once I get back next week, but I really have to go now,.”
“Thank you,” I said, before putting the phone down and promptly bursting into tears.
Right, mustn’t start panicking again. Mark will be home in a week. Just need to avoid dying until then.
5:55p.m. After sitting in hotel room for ages, trying to avoid anything that might, however improbably, lead to death. I decided to go and have a cigarette in grounds around the back of the Manor (Mary Hodge’s was in the lobby and assured me that I wasn’t likely to be hit by a stray paintball “we don’t do much paintballing anymore,” she said with what seemed to be a slight wince). Unfortunately the pleasant scenery of the Tadfield area was marred by the presence of the short, fat, grubby-mack-wearing vagrant I’d encountered on the bus the other day.
“Hello,” I said, sternly telling myself that one shouldn’t avoid extending common courtesy to people just because they’re socially disadvantaged.
“Alright,” he replied, sounding disgruntled.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” I continued, slightly disconcerted that there appeared to be something moving around in his unkempt hair.
“Nah, rubbish for lurking. You want an ‘orrible grey day for a good lurk, preferably with some drizzle an’ a bit o’ murky mist.” There was a disturbing note of nostalgia in his voice. “Course, now that bastard Hastur’s decided that we should start lurking with other people, I’ve got to do it by myself.”
I offered him a cigarette.
He seized the whole packet.
“What’re you lookin’ so bloody miserable about then?” he said, flicking what looked like a maggot off his right hand.
I found myself telling him about Anthony Crowley and the immortal soul contract.
“Hah,” he spat, once I’d recounted the whole sorry tale. “That bastard snake always likes to go on about how he’s above working on one soul at a time, how he can do millions at a time, but when it gets down to it he’s just the same as the rest of us. Well, apart from the fact that he doesn’t ‘ave my finesse.”
I could almost feel my mind beginning to melt as I tried to reconcile the word finesse with the revolting sight before me. “You’re a demon too then?” I asked, trying not to look too disgusted as he picked his nose.
“I’m a Duke of Hell. An’ if you ask me, you should be glad you flogged your soul while you still ‘ad the chance. Alright, you might suffer eternal agonies that make you wish to the last fibre of your being that you could stop existing, but at least you won’t be surrounded by any of them poofy angels up there.” He then, seemingly spurred on by the fact that I was too polite to run away right there and then began to list his grievances against an angel called Michael, Anthony Crowley and that ‘lyin’ cheatin’ bastard Hastur’.
I gave him my copy of Overcoming Co-Dependence and suggested that he might need professional help to deal with the holy water flashbacks.
9:20p.m. Amazing, wonderful, brilliant news. My soul is not longer the bought and paid for property of Satan. I was sitting miserably in the restaurant at the Manor, trying to eat an overcooked steak, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a man in a tweed jacket with a concerned expression on his face.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked. The phrases ‘Oxford educated’ and ‘flamingly gay’ instantly sprang to mind.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“It’s just that I’ve been here for twenty minutes now and within that time you seem to have started crying three times. I couldn’t help but be concerned.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, aware that I was on the verge of another bout of self-pitying sniffling. “I’ve just had a terrible week.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
I found myself staring at the table. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said soothingly, taking this as a cue to sit down on the chair opposite me. “I’m used to hearing strange tales. Especially in Tadfield. Did you know that the Antichrist was born here, in this very building?”
I dropped my fork. “Antichrist! Are you a demon too?”
The man looked shocked and rather hurt. “Oh no,” he said. “Quite the opposite.”
“You mean you’re….” I found myself to awe struck to continue.
“An angel, that’s right. Though I really would appreciate it if you didn’t ask to see my halo. I can’t help but think that it’s rather crass and showy to start glowing in public unless absolutely necessary.”
For the second time today I found myself pouring out the story of me, the reality TV producer who turned out to be a demon and the accidental soul contract. When I’d finally finished he patted me on the hand. “Oh dear,” he said gently, yet with a strong undercurrent of disapproval. “You really must learn not to consume so much alcohol. Especially not with disreputable sorts like Crowley.”
I didn’t argue. “You’ve met him before?”
“Dear girl, I’ve known the old snake for over six thousand years. Though I must say that tricking inebriated women into signing their souls away is usually beneath even him. I think that stern talking to is in order.”
“It won’t do any good,” I said, feeling another pang of self pity coming on. “I’m already damned.”
“Well,” he said, seeming at once rather distracted by something behind me. “I don’t know about that.” I turned around to see what he was suddenly so preoccupied with, only to spot Anthony Crowley walking smugly through the door.
He seemed to smile as he saw the angel (part of mind couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more than eternal conflict was going on between them), before suddenly freezing as he noticed me.
“Er, hello Aziraphale, and, er, Bridget.”
Was v. proud of self for not attempting to claw his eyeballs out there and then.
“Hello Crowley,” said the angel, in tones that suggested that were incredibly polite yet inexplicably threatening.
There were several seconds of pointed silence.
“Look, I can explain everything,” he blurted out.
“Really my dear, do go on.”
“She took advantage of me when I was drunk.”
“She took advantage of you?”
“Well, she kept demanding proof that I was a demon. And you can’t get much greater proof of infernal nature than the fact that somebody can buy your immortal soul, can you?”
They proceeded to argue about the incident for the next half hour in the manner of an old married couple. Had I not been so worried am certain that would have found it rather endearing. Finally, Aziraphale (angel’s name) announced that they’d have to talk to somebody called Adam.
One phone call later - in which Mr. Crowley explained the situation in an extremely apologetic fashion to this ‘Adam’ person - and my soul was once again in my possession.
“Now dear girl, you will try and look after it a bit better this time, won’t you?”
I nodded.
Aziraphale beamed and ordered three rounds of cream cakes.
10:25p.m. Blurgh. Bloody cream cakes. Where the hell did I put the Alka Selzer.
11:50p.m. Woke up by ultra annoying phone call from Cinnamon Productions.
“We’ve decided that with everybody else doing the rural dystopia thing we might as well can Rural England Uncovered.”
“What!”
“We want something pleasant and nostalgic instead. You know, with village fetes and stuff like that. Real Sunday teatime viewing.”
“But….”
“We’re sure you’ll think of something.”
Village fete? Where the hell am I going to find one of those on a Sunday?
11:55p.m. Tadfield Fete: Sunday 29th June 12:00 - 4:00p.m. on the village green.. Who the hell put that flyer there? Aziraphale was right. Is definitely something v.v.v.v.v. strange about this place.
1:23p.m. Wait a minute. Wasn’t Adam the name of the boy I interviewed on Wednesday?
Previous installments:
Part 1
Part 2
Friday 26th June
8st 4 (excellent), bra size 34D (amazing), alcohol units 32 (appalling, but understandable), cigarettes 43 (again, appalling but understandable), calories 651 (v.v. good, but more due to sheer terror than actual will power; and probably unhealthy given new weight), no. of national lotteries won 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v good), no. of immortal souls still sold to Satan 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v bad).
8:55a.m. Blurgh. Urge to be violently sick rising. Have vague memories of something strange occurring last night, but can’t quite recall what. Think that parchment and sunglasses involved. Think I’ll remain v. still and try and go back to sleep for a few minutes. Memory bound to be better after nausea and headache subsided.
12:35p.m. Oh bugger, have succeeded in grossly oversleeping. Production assistant just knocked on door to see if I was okay. Shamefully lied and said that I thought I had some sort of food poisoning. Still, at least innard churning nausea and pounding headache seem to be fading.
12:40p.m. Think bathroom scales aren’t working. Could not have lost a stone over night. Could I?
1:20p.m After getting dressed - in designer clothes that didn’t realise I actually had - went to front desk and asked if scales in room could be broken. Ms Hodges (apparent owner of hotel) kindly let me use hers. Dial went once more to 8st 4. Should feel elated at this news; especially as breasts do not appear to have shrunk in proportion to rest of body (in fact seem slightly larger and perkier than they did yesterday), yet am consumed by horrible sense of foreboding. Why?
1:30p.m. Have just noticed unpleasant blood encrusted bit of old paper on bedside table.
1:33p.m. Blood on old paper is actually writing. It tells me that I Bridget Jones have hereby pledged my soul to Satan in return for beauty (in keeping with modern standards thereof), wealth (again, in keeping with modern standards thereof) and bestowing of terrible afflictions upon all enemies.
1:35p.m. Events of last night suddenly coming back to me:
“So Anthony.” Hiccup. “What d’you do when you’re not thinking up ideas for morally degenerate reality television programs?” Hiccup.
“Me. I do lots of other morally degenerate things.”
“What like?”
“Well, don’t tell anyone. But I’m a demon.”
Drunken laughter. “Show me your horns pointy tail then.”
Offended expression. “Look Brianna.…”
“Bridget!”
“Right, right Bridget. Don’t go around showing my horns and pointy tail to people I’ve just met, you know? Not that sort of demon.”
“Sorry.”
“So you should be.” Pause. “D’you think that you should really be drinking vodka out of the bottle?”
“Why shouldn’t I, you’re doing it too? Don’t try and impose your paternalistic double standards on me, you… you chauvinist.”
“Told you, I’m notta chauvinist, I’m a demon. Liver’s not going to pack in like yours, is it? Well, cept that time in 1362. Took me ages to get a new one from the management it did.”
Hiccup. “So if you’re a demon.” Hiccup. “Does that mean you spend your nights seducing innocent maidens?”
Offended stare. “I’m notta bloody incubus either. ‘Sides, not as if you can do anything fun with an innocent maiden, is it? I’m hells top man… well, man shaped creature, on the planet. Did the Eden job, didn’t I?”
“Did you?” Hiccup.
“S’what I just said.”
“Prove it then.”
Vodka bottles suddenly refilled. “S’a blurry good trick, Anthony.”
“I know. Say, you wouldn’t mind selling your soul to hell would you? I’m a bit behind on this decade’s quota.”
Giggle. “Alright, but do another trick first.”
“What sort of trick?”
“I dunno; turn the curtains green or something.”
“Alright.” Snaps fingers.
“How d’you do that?”
Exasperated stare. “Told you twice before already. I’m a demon. Now about that soul of yours.”
1:50p.m. Alright, must not let imagination fun away with me. Would be v. gullible to think Anthony Crowley really a demon (did not after all look very demonic when he fell off bar stool). Clearly the whole thing just a silly, drunken joke. Think it was v. wrong of him to get me to sign the paper in own blood though. Probably thinks that getting vulnerable women to cut themselves is amusing. The fact that I’m now slim, pert breasted and looking ten years younger is clearly result of strict health regime and self control on my part.
2:30p.m. Have just found out that I’ve won today’s National Lottery. I switched on the news to hear name being announced as sole winner of 40 million pounds. Do not think that the sudden churning in my stomach is entirely due to ecstatic happiness. Suspect this is due to the fact that a) I haven’t actually bought a lottery ticket for weeks and b) the jackpot for the daily draw is usually not 40 million pounds. Still, no reason to panic. Probably just due to some sort of computer error. Yes, that’ll be it. Nothing to due with that bloody bit of paper.
4:30p.m. AAAAARGH. For the past two hours have been inundated with pleading requests for money from everybody I’ve encountered. Have also discovered from production assistant that Dave the sound technician has been struck down by laryngitis and seems to be suffering from some sort of rapid onset mid-life acne.
4:35p.m. Cannot deny the evidence any longer. Have actually gone and sold my immortal soul.
4:37p.m. Query: would it be possible to claim diminished responsibility on the grounds of delusion at time of signing (i.e. the fact that did not believe demon’s really existed).
5:15p.m. After a bottle of wine and twenty-five cigarettes am feeling much calmer. Will simply burn contract and deny fact that it ever existed.
5:16p.m. Gah, the bloody thing seems to be flame retardant.
5:45p.m. Shortly after the failed burning of the infernal contract the phone rang:
“Hello?” I said, feel justifiably wary.
IN SEVEN DAYS.... OH WAIT THAT’S NOT IT. DAGON HERE: MASTER OF MADNESS, UNDER DUKE OF THE SEVENTH TORMENT. MS. JONES, IT HAS BEEN NOTED THAT YOU’VE ATTEMPTED TO INFLICT DAMAGE UPON YOUR COPY OF DOCUMENT 666A: THE SOUL EXCHANGE CONTRACT. I MUST REMIND YOU THAT SHOULD YOU ACTUALLY SUCEED IN DESTROYING THE DOCUMENT THERE WILL BE A PENALTY FOR THE REISSUE TO BE CREATED.
I gulped. “A…a Penalty?”
INSTEAD OF SPENDING THE FIRST STAGE OF DAMNATION IN STANDARD TORMENTS, YOU’LL BE SENT TO WORK IN THE IMP CRECHE.
“Crèche? But I like children.”
HAH. TRY SAYING THAT AFTER AN EARTH DAY WITH THOSE BLIGHTERS.
It was then that I took a last stab at finding a rational explanation for what was happening. “Anthony is that you. Because if this is some sort of set up for one of your sick candid camera shows then I’m going to bloody well sue.”
ANTHONY, WHO’S ANTHONY?
“Anthony Crowley.”
CROWLEY. YOU THOUGHT THAT I WAS I WAS THAT PLEBIAN BASTARD. I AM AN UNDER DUKE YOU KNOW.
Seized by what must have been a sudden instinct for self-preservation I began to apologise profusely. “Mr. Crowley produces several cruel and unusual candid camera shows, so I thought that maybe….”
IT’S ALRIGHT FOR SOME. SWANNING ABOUT UP THERE WHILE SOME OF US ARE DOWN HERE MAKING SURE THAT EVERYTHING RUNS SMOOTHLY.
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you weren’t hard working Mr Dag….”
LORD.
“Sorry, Lord Dagon.”
NONE OF THEM EVER TALK TO ME AT PARTIES, YOU KNOW. THEY DON’T WANT TO HERE ABOUT THE FIENDISH NEW FILING SYSTEM I’VE DEVELOPED OR HOW I’VE MANAGED TO RESTRUCTURE DUKE HASTUR’S PAPERWORK, SO THAT EVEN HE CAN UNDERSTAND WHERE HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE SIGNING. IT’S NOT AN EASY TASK YOU KNOW. BUT DO I GET ANY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT? NO, THEY IGNORE ME. START TO BACK AWAY WHEN I TRY TO ENGAGE THEN IN CONVERSATION ABOUT THE ALTERATIONS I’VE MADE TO THE IMP REQUISITION FORMS. BUT IF YOU BRING UP THE SUBJECT OF THAT BLESSED SERPENT OF EDEN, THEY’RE ALL EARS.
Not knowing quite what else to say to the irate voice on the other end of the line, I asked if he’d ever considered taking up a hobby. “Lots of people who work in borin… I mean, admin jobs have a creative outlet these days.”
CREATIVE OUTLET?
“Like painting or… or playing a musical instrument.”
WHAT ABOUT CARVING?
“You mean with wood?”
I WAS THINKING MORE OF LIVING BONE.
I found myself gulping once again. “Well, I suppose you could….”
AND THIS WOULD MAKE ME A MORE INTERESTING DEMON, WOULD IT?
I told him about the work/life balance and how a variety of interests could help one to acquire a wider circle of friends (felt rather hypocritical at this point owing to fact that am yet to take up Pilates, chess, opera, art appreciation or any of the other cultured/healthy pursuits I vowed to study this year). Then advised him to read Rising Above the Rat Race. I said that it was a bit but worth it. He said that this didn’t matter as no self-respecting demon would go around paying for things. Proceeded to spitefully tell him that I’d observed Anthony Crowley paying for things on several occasions. He seemed happily outraged at this fact and the ensuing rant lasted until he realised that he had some minions to berate for filing copies of Writ 15645646.11111b with Writ 15645646.11111c.
GOODBYE MS. JONES. I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN AT DAMNATION.
Was a bit annoyed when the phone receiver melted.
6:30p.m. Decided that all things considered, have only one recourse: get mind blowingly sozzled.
Saturday 27th June
9st 4 (v. relieved), alcohol units 2 (g), cigarettes 5 (g), calories 3255 (80% cream cakes), no. of bookish, middle-aged poofs who turn out to be soul reclaiming angels met 1 (v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v. good).
2:20p.m. In retrospect getting mind blowingly sozzled whilst living in fear of accidental eternal damnation not best idea I’ve ever had. Spent all morning wondering whether said damnation will involve perpetual hangovers (am already certain that dress code will involve mixing lime green with bright orange and puce). Still, have now calmed down enough to attempt to think about things rationally and logically. Mark is brilliant lawyer. Therefore will phone him and explain situation. After all, literature full of clever people who’ve found loopholes in such contracts.
3:45p.m. Well, phone call didn’t go quite as well as expected. After finally managing to get through to Mark was faced with task of trying to describe predicament.
“What’s happened Bridget,” he said, sounding concerned owing to fact that I’d had member of his legal team drag him out of meeting on grounds of dire emergency back home.
“Mark,” I said, with a sob, “I’ve gone and… and….” For a moment I didn’t know what to say. Found self unable to tell him over the phone that I’d sold my soul to Satan in exchange for small waist, big tits, lots of money and vengeance upon annoying sound technicians. He’d think I’d gone completely mental. “I’ve accidentally signed a contract I didn’t mean to sign and I need to somehow get out of it.”
I could hear him sighing on the other end of the phone. “How long do you have before it comes into effect?” he asked, sounding very tired.
“Well… the rest of my life, I suppose,” I said, in a small voice.
“Bridget, I was in the middle of a meeting with Dr. Sable and Mr. White’s legal representatives. We’ve almost managed to reach a settlement for the workers affected by the contaminated tomatoes.”
“Mark, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m terrified about what’s going to happen to me.”
His voice softened. “Look, I promise to have a look at it once I get back next week, but I really have to go now,.”
“Thank you,” I said, before putting the phone down and promptly bursting into tears.
Right, mustn’t start panicking again. Mark will be home in a week. Just need to avoid dying until then.
5:55p.m. After sitting in hotel room for ages, trying to avoid anything that might, however improbably, lead to death. I decided to go and have a cigarette in grounds around the back of the Manor (Mary Hodge’s was in the lobby and assured me that I wasn’t likely to be hit by a stray paintball “we don’t do much paintballing anymore,” she said with what seemed to be a slight wince). Unfortunately the pleasant scenery of the Tadfield area was marred by the presence of the short, fat, grubby-mack-wearing vagrant I’d encountered on the bus the other day.
“Hello,” I said, sternly telling myself that one shouldn’t avoid extending common courtesy to people just because they’re socially disadvantaged.
“Alright,” he replied, sounding disgruntled.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” I continued, slightly disconcerted that there appeared to be something moving around in his unkempt hair.
“Nah, rubbish for lurking. You want an ‘orrible grey day for a good lurk, preferably with some drizzle an’ a bit o’ murky mist.” There was a disturbing note of nostalgia in his voice. “Course, now that bastard Hastur’s decided that we should start lurking with other people, I’ve got to do it by myself.”
I offered him a cigarette.
He seized the whole packet.
“What’re you lookin’ so bloody miserable about then?” he said, flicking what looked like a maggot off his right hand.
I found myself telling him about Anthony Crowley and the immortal soul contract.
“Hah,” he spat, once I’d recounted the whole sorry tale. “That bastard snake always likes to go on about how he’s above working on one soul at a time, how he can do millions at a time, but when it gets down to it he’s just the same as the rest of us. Well, apart from the fact that he doesn’t ‘ave my finesse.”
I could almost feel my mind beginning to melt as I tried to reconcile the word finesse with the revolting sight before me. “You’re a demon too then?” I asked, trying not to look too disgusted as he picked his nose.
“I’m a Duke of Hell. An’ if you ask me, you should be glad you flogged your soul while you still ‘ad the chance. Alright, you might suffer eternal agonies that make you wish to the last fibre of your being that you could stop existing, but at least you won’t be surrounded by any of them poofy angels up there.” He then, seemingly spurred on by the fact that I was too polite to run away right there and then began to list his grievances against an angel called Michael, Anthony Crowley and that ‘lyin’ cheatin’ bastard Hastur’.
I gave him my copy of Overcoming Co-Dependence and suggested that he might need professional help to deal with the holy water flashbacks.
9:20p.m. Amazing, wonderful, brilliant news. My soul is not longer the bought and paid for property of Satan. I was sitting miserably in the restaurant at the Manor, trying to eat an overcooked steak, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a man in a tweed jacket with a concerned expression on his face.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked. The phrases ‘Oxford educated’ and ‘flamingly gay’ instantly sprang to mind.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“It’s just that I’ve been here for twenty minutes now and within that time you seem to have started crying three times. I couldn’t help but be concerned.”
“It’s nothing,” I said, aware that I was on the verge of another bout of self-pitying sniffling. “I’ve just had a terrible week.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
I found myself staring at the table. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said soothingly, taking this as a cue to sit down on the chair opposite me. “I’m used to hearing strange tales. Especially in Tadfield. Did you know that the Antichrist was born here, in this very building?”
I dropped my fork. “Antichrist! Are you a demon too?”
The man looked shocked and rather hurt. “Oh no,” he said. “Quite the opposite.”
“You mean you’re….” I found myself to awe struck to continue.
“An angel, that’s right. Though I really would appreciate it if you didn’t ask to see my halo. I can’t help but think that it’s rather crass and showy to start glowing in public unless absolutely necessary.”
For the second time today I found myself pouring out the story of me, the reality TV producer who turned out to be a demon and the accidental soul contract. When I’d finally finished he patted me on the hand. “Oh dear,” he said gently, yet with a strong undercurrent of disapproval. “You really must learn not to consume so much alcohol. Especially not with disreputable sorts like Crowley.”
I didn’t argue. “You’ve met him before?”
“Dear girl, I’ve known the old snake for over six thousand years. Though I must say that tricking inebriated women into signing their souls away is usually beneath even him. I think that stern talking to is in order.”
“It won’t do any good,” I said, feeling another pang of self pity coming on. “I’m already damned.”
“Well,” he said, seeming at once rather distracted by something behind me. “I don’t know about that.” I turned around to see what he was suddenly so preoccupied with, only to spot Anthony Crowley walking smugly through the door.
He seemed to smile as he saw the angel (part of mind couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more than eternal conflict was going on between them), before suddenly freezing as he noticed me.
“Er, hello Aziraphale, and, er, Bridget.”
Was v. proud of self for not attempting to claw his eyeballs out there and then.
“Hello Crowley,” said the angel, in tones that suggested that were incredibly polite yet inexplicably threatening.
There were several seconds of pointed silence.
“Look, I can explain everything,” he blurted out.
“Really my dear, do go on.”
“She took advantage of me when I was drunk.”
“She took advantage of you?”
“Well, she kept demanding proof that I was a demon. And you can’t get much greater proof of infernal nature than the fact that somebody can buy your immortal soul, can you?”
They proceeded to argue about the incident for the next half hour in the manner of an old married couple. Had I not been so worried am certain that would have found it rather endearing. Finally, Aziraphale (angel’s name) announced that they’d have to talk to somebody called Adam.
One phone call later - in which Mr. Crowley explained the situation in an extremely apologetic fashion to this ‘Adam’ person - and my soul was once again in my possession.
“Now dear girl, you will try and look after it a bit better this time, won’t you?”
I nodded.
Aziraphale beamed and ordered three rounds of cream cakes.
10:25p.m. Blurgh. Bloody cream cakes. Where the hell did I put the Alka Selzer.
11:50p.m. Woke up by ultra annoying phone call from Cinnamon Productions.
“We’ve decided that with everybody else doing the rural dystopia thing we might as well can Rural England Uncovered.”
“What!”
“We want something pleasant and nostalgic instead. You know, with village fetes and stuff like that. Real Sunday teatime viewing.”
“But….”
“We’re sure you’ll think of something.”
Village fete? Where the hell am I going to find one of those on a Sunday?
11:55p.m. Tadfield Fete: Sunday 29th June 12:00 - 4:00p.m. on the village green.. Who the hell put that flyer there? Aziraphale was right. Is definitely something v.v.v.v.v. strange about this place.
1:23p.m. Wait a minute. Wasn’t Adam the name of the boy I interviewed on Wednesday?