Mortimer was a clever young man – the apple of his parents’ eyes. But when he was sent to attend university in the city, he began to sour like a bad fruit. He fell in with a rough crowd and stopped going to classes. Soon he was spending his days at the dog track, gambling away his parents’ money. When that was gone, he started borrowing from the local gangsters – in fact, he borrowed so much that soon he was heavily in debt.
Mortimer was too proud to beg his parents for more help – so instead, one fateful Christmas Eve, he borrowed money from every gangster in town and bet it all on one greyhound. The dog got scurvy halfway through the race and died. Mortimer was done for. Soon every hoodlum in the city was going to be knocking at his door, demanding money he didn’t have.
So he did the only sensible thing a man in his position could do: he locked himself inside his library, sank into an armchair with a shotgun, and put his head in his hands.
‘I’m doomed!’ Mortimer cried. ‘Oh, what I wouldn’t give for another chance.’
‘Perhaps I can be of help,’ said a voice.
Mortimer leapt to his feet. He thought he was alone, but there was a man sitting in an armchair behind him. Mortimer was confused – he didn’t even own another chair. And yet there was the man, sitting in the shadows and helping himself to Mortimer’s whisky like the two of them had been friends for years.
‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’
The man laughed. ‘That’s no way to talk to a guest on Christmas Eve, Mortimer!’
Mortimer blinked. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘Everyone knows you, Mortimer!’ said the man cheerily. ‘Come, have a drink with me.’
Mortimer sat down, baffled. He had no idea how this man had managed to get inside his house – all the doors were locked. Mortimer couldn’t even see what the man looked like – but he was filled with a terrible sense of dread in his presence. It crept up his legs like he’d stepped on a nest of spiders.
‘Poor old Mortimer,’ said the man. ‘You’re in a fine old mess, aren’t you? Up to your eyeballs in debt, without a penny left to pay those gangsters!’
Mortimer had forgotten about his problems for a moment, but now they came flooding back. ‘What can I do? Those gangsters will send my body to my mother in pieces!’
‘What a Christmas present that would be!’ sighed the man, shaking his head. ‘You’re lucky I came when I did. As it so happens, I’m in the business of helping those in need.’
The man leaned out of the shadows to refill his glass. Mortimer could see him now, clear as day. He wore an elegant suit, with a silk tie and a pair of polished brogues – but the man had no head. Instead, where the collar ended, there was nothing but a pillar of white smoke pouring out of his shirt like a chimney. The man took a sip of whisky and placed the glass beside him. A mouthful of smoke was left floating on the surface like a cloud.
‘Are you … the Devil?’ Mortimer asked, terrified.
The Devil laughed. ‘They were right about you, Mortimer – you’re a smart lad! And a smart lad like you deserves some help when he’s down on his luck.’
He held out his hands. They were as wide and as white as polished plates, piled high with gold coins. Mortimer’s eyes sparkled just looking at them. There was more money than he needed – much more. Enough to pay off all his debts and live like a king afterwards.
‘All you have to do is ask,’ said the Devil.
Mortimer glanced up. ‘What’s the catch?’
The Devil leaned back. ‘There is no catch. I’ll give you all the money you need, and I ask for nothing in return.’
‘Don’t you want my soul?’ said Mortimer. ‘You are the Devil, aren’t you?’
The Devil gave him a look that suggested he was raising his eyebrows behind the white smoke.
‘Mortimer – why would I expect an intelligent man like you to exchange his immortal soul for a handful of gold?’
Mortimer took a good, long look at the Devil. The Prince of Darkness wasn’t anything like he’d expected. He’d always been told the Devil was a monster – but instead, he was friendly, well dressed and polite. Perhaps, thought Mortimer, I’ve been wrong about the Devil all along.
‘You really want nothing in return?’ he asked.
The Devil nodded, wafting the smoke into billowing waves.
‘Fine,’ said Mortimer. ‘I’ll take your offer. Leave me all the money I need and go.’
The Devil smiled. ‘Your choice, Mortimer.’
And just like that, Mortimer woke up. He had fallen asleep in his armchair; the bottle of whisky was empty beside him. He gazed around the library, and let out a nervous laugh.
‘It … it was all a dream! Of course – how could I be so stupid? Everyone knows there’s no such thing as the D—’
Mortimer trailed off. The library was filled from floor to ceiling with money – piles and piles of it. All of his furniture had been replaced by sacks of gold; all his books had been replaced by shelves of banknotes.
The armchair where the Devil had been sitting was still there. Tattooed into the fabric was the scorched outline of a man, sizzling in the darkness.
Someone hammered at the door.
‘Mortimer – open up! We know you’re in there! We just want to have a quiet, reasonable chat with you.’
Mortimer recognised the voice at once – it was Face-Smasher O’Sullivan, the most violent gangster in the city. Mortimer opened the door, and sure enough a patient queue of hoodlums was waiting outside with clubs and chains and bricks. Before any of them could strike the first blow, Mortimer handed each of them a bag of gold.
‘There you go, gentlemen!’ he said. ‘Everything I owe, plus interest. Merry Christmas.’
The gangsters left, puzzled and slightly disappointed. Just like that, Mortimer was debt-free – and he had barely even scratched the surface of his new wealth.
Mortimer had been due to spend Christmas morning with his family, but he didn’t much see the point in doing that any more. Instead, he filled a suitcase with money and set out for the poshest street in the city. It was a row of glorious mansion houses, each one more beautiful than the last. Mortimer knocked on the first door and a woman answered. She was wearing a nightgown and looked extremely irritated.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ said Mortimer. ‘I’d like to buy your house.’
He held out a stack of banknotes a foot tall. The woman’s eyes boggled – but she shook her head.
‘Are you out of your mind? It’s Christmas morning! My children are opening their presents! I’m not going to kick them out in the middle of the street just because—’
Mortimer doubled the stack of money in his hand.
‘Give me ten minutes,’ said the woman.
In less than five, her children were standing on the pavement bawling their eyes out, and Mortimer was the new owner of their house.
He didn’t stop there – he bought every house on the street, until the pavements were covered in weeping children. He smashed through all the walls connecting them so that his mansion stretched from one end of the street to the other. It was the biggest house in the city – and it was all his.
Mortimer ordered a fleet of horse-drawn carriages to carry all the money from his library, and started to live like a king.
*
The next year passed in a blur. Mortimer was the richest man in the city – he wore the finest clothes, ate in the finest restaurants, and wore so much gold jewellery that he started to get backache from carrying it around all the time. Money left his hands in a constant stream – there seemed to be no end to his newfound wealth.
But of course, there was an end to it. In twelve short months, his money dried up. It seemed to happen in an instant – one moment he was loaded, the next he was penniless. But it was even worse than that. On days when Mortimer had forgotten to bring his wallet – which happened often – he’d ask bars, casinos, restaurants and dog tracks to loan him money instead. They were only too happy to oblige – after all, Mortimer was the richest man in town. But now he was broke – again – and he owed thousands of pounds. Hundreds of thousands, in fact. He was in more debt than ever before.
So it was that the following Christmas Eve, Mortimer found himself slumped in another armchair in another library, cradling another shotgun. Of course, this armchair was plusher, and the library was bigger, and the shotgun fired diamonds instead of bullets.
‘What have I done?’ cried Mortimer. ‘I should have confessed to my family when I had the chance – I haven’t even seen them in a year! Now I’m really done for!’
‘Perhaps I can be of help,’ said a voice.
Mortimer turned round. The Devil was once again sitting in an armchair behind him, drinking whisky. But Mortimer couldn’t help noticing that the Devil looked different this time. He was taller – twice Mortimer’s height, in fact. He towered over the chair he sat in like a hawk in a sparrow’s nest. The smoke that billowed from his collar was darker than before.
‘Oh, Devil!’ cried Mortimer. ‘You have to help me – the money you gave me wasn’t enough! I need more!’
‘Why didn’t you ask sooner, Mortimer?’ said the Devil. ‘That can be easily fixed.’
Mortimer gulped. ‘But … will it be the same deal this time? You don’t want my soul?’
‘I only want to help, Mortimer,’ said the Devil kindly.
Mortimer breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Good! Then fill up this library with money again – and this time, give me all I’ll ever need so I can never run out!’
The Devil nodded, rippling the black smoke.
‘Your choice, Mortimer.’
And just like that, Mortimer woke up. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The vast library was packed with gold and jewellery, right up to the rafters. He had never seen so much money in his life – a hundred men living a hundred lifetimes could never hope to spend it.
So Mortimer decided to try.
He stopped going out to fancy restaurants – instead, he bought every chef in the city and paid for them to live in his house. Each evening, they’d present him with a variety of meals – Mortimer would choose one he wanted and throw the other two hundred away. Instead of spending his nights at dog tracks and casinos, Mortimer had his own dog track and casino installed in the mansion, complete with hundreds of people paid an hourly wage to stand around looking like they were having a good time. Mortimer installed his own cinemas, ice rinks, fairgrounds and theatres right beside him, and when he ran out of space, Mortimer simply bought every house in the next street and smashed through the walls.
As Mortimer’s house grew bigger, so too did Mortimer. All that fine dining made him enormous, and within a few months he was so fat that he couldn’t walk around his mansion any more – instead, he sat on his pile of gold like a sultan and made people come to him. He’d throw money when he liked them, and throw money at them when he was bored.
Soon, another Christmas arrived. Mortimer was celebrating this one in style, eating a whole roast goose by himself while thousands of hired guests cheered and praised him.
‘Mortimer’s the best!’
‘Three cheers for Mortimer!’
‘Have you lost weight, Mortimer?’
Mortimer took another huge bite of goose – and choked. His eyes grew wide, and his face turned bright red. He tumbled from the pile of money and collapsed on the floor, clutching at his chest.
‘Hey! What’s wrong with old fatty?’ said one of his guests.
‘He’s having a heart attack!’ said another. ‘What do we do?’
‘Quick!’ said the first one. ‘Grab as much money as you can before he dies!’
Mortimer’s fake friends piled wads of cash into their pockets and scattered from the house like rats, leaving him to perish on the floor. Mortimer lay alone, gasping his final breaths in the empty room.
‘Please!’ he cried. ‘Someone! Anyone!’
‘Perhaps I can be of help,’ said a voice.
Mortimer looked up, his face dripping with sweat. On the other side of the enormous room sat the Devil, back in his old armchair – but once again, he looked different. The chair had become red-hot embers where he touched it. The smoke that poured out of his collar was now deepest black, filling the room like a volcano.
‘Devil!’ cried Mortimer. ‘Oh, you have to help me – I’m dying!’
‘I can see that, Mortimer,’ said the Devil. ‘How much money would you like this time?’
Mortimer shook his head. ‘No! I don’t want any more money – I want life!’
The Devil shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mortimer. It’s your time to go.’
Mortimer’s eyes widened with horror.
‘Please – I just want another day! Enough to see my family again and ask for their forgiveness! I’ll give you whatever you want – anything!’
The Devil chuckled. ‘And what do you have that I might possibly want, Mortimer?’
Mortimer swallowed hard. He knew the answer.
‘I … I’ll give you my immortal soul!’
The Devil paused. ‘Your soul, you say?’
Mortimer nodded. ‘Yes – it’s all yours! Just don’t let me die!’
The Devil gave a deep sigh, and stood up from the armchair. He made his way across the room towards Mortimer, growing taller and taller with every step. The smoke that billowed from his neck grew blacker and thicker, pouring up into the ceiling like a waterfall; his elegant suit burned to ashes. The lights in the room went out one by one as he passed them.
‘I’m afraid that won’t do, Mortimer,’ said the Devil, his voice growing louder and louder. ‘You see – your soul is mine already. You gave it to me a long time ago.’
Mortimer gasped. ‘No … We had a deal! You said the money was free! You said you weren’t going to take my soul!’
The Devil laughed. ‘Clever boy, aren’t you Mortimer? I never took your soul – you gave it to me willingly.’
The Devil stood over him. Mortimer could see his entire body was covered in thick, coarse hair, and his bright white hands had sharpened into terrible claws. He was so tall that his smoking head touched the ceiling.
‘I gave you more money than you ever needed. Did you give it to those that did? No. Did you use it to make a difference to the world? NO. Did you return to your family, who gave you everything they had? NO! You used the money to turn yourself into a bully, a sloth and a tyrant. I didn’t have to do a thing, Mortimer – you handed me your soul on a platter!’
The Devil crouched down low, until Mortimer’s face stung and sizzled with the heat that roared off him. Mortimer tried to turn away, but it was too late – he was dying. When the Devil next spoke, his voice was as loud as a thunderstorm.
‘It was your choice, Mortimer. And you chose Hell.’
The smoke parted, and with his dying breath Mortimer finally saw the Devil’s face that had lain hidden behind the smoke all this time.
It was his own, staring back at him.