Tim Pratt - Sympathy for the Devil

“Whit for?” Davy sniffed the beer suspiciously: “This smells pish.” He pushed it away. “Whit is it ye owe me for?”

“For taking that mortgage and the job on the street-cleaning team and for pissing it all down the drain and fucking off a thousand citizens in little ways. For giving me Jaimie and wee Davy, and for wrecking your life and cutting Morag off from her parents and raising a pair of neds instead of two fine upstanding citizens. You’re not a scholar and you’re not a gentleman, but you’re a truly professional hater. And as for what you did to Morag-”

Davy made another fist: HATE. “Say wan mair word aboot Morag…” he warned.

The Devil chuckled quietly. “No, you managed to do all that by yourself.” He shrugged. “I’d have offered help if you needed it, but you seemed to be doing okay without me. Like I said, you’re a professional.” He cleared his throat. “Which brings me to the little matter of why I’m talking to you tonight.”

“Ah’m no for sale.” Davy crossed his arms defensively. “Who d’ye think Ah am?”

The Devil shook his head, still smiling. “I’m not here to make you an offer for your soul, that’s not how things work. Anyway, you gave it to me of your own free will years ago.” Davy looked into his eyes. The smile didn’t reach them. “Trouble is, there are consequences when that happens. My employer’s an optimist: she’s not an Augustinian entity, you’ll be pleased to learn, she doesn’t believe in original sin. So things between you and the Ultimate are… let’s say they’re out of balance. It’s like a credit card bill. The longer you ignore it, the worse it gets. You cut me a karmic loan from the First Bank of Davy MacDonald, and the Law requires me to repay it with interest.”

“Huh?” Davy stared at the Devil. “Ye whit?”

The Devil wasn’t smiling now. “You’re one of the Elect, Davy. One of the Unconditionally Elect. So’s fucking everybody these days, but your name came up in the quality assurance lottery. I’m not allowed to mess with you. If you die and I’m in your debt, seven shades of shit hit the fan. So I owe you a fucking wish.”

The Devil tapped his fingers impatiently on the bar top. He was no longer smiling. “You get one wish. I am required to read you the small print:

“The party of the first part in cognizance of the gift benefice or loan bestowed by the party of the second part is hereby required to tender the fulfillment of 1 (one) verbally or somatically expressed indication of desire by the party of the second part in pursuance of the discharge of the said gift benefice or loan, said fulfillment hereinafter to be termed ‘the wish’. The party of the first part undertakes to bring the totality of existence into accordance with the terms of the wish exclusive of paradox deicide temporal inversion or other wilful suspension contrary to the laws of nature. The party of the second part recognizes, understands and accepts that this wish represents full and final discharge of debt incurred by the gift benefice or loan to the party of the first part. Notwithstanding additional grants of rights incurred under the terms of this contract, the rights, responsibilities, duties of the party of the first part to the party of the second part are subject to the Consumer Credit Regulations of 2026…”

Davy shook his head. “Ah dinnae get it. Are ye tellin’ me ye’re givin’ me a wish? In return for, for… bein’ radge a’ ma life?”

The Devil nodded. “Yes.”

Davy winced. “Ah think Ah need another Deuchars-fuck! Haud on, that isnae ma wish!” He stared at the Devil anxiously. “Ye’re serious, aren’t ye?”

The Devil sniffed. “I can’t discharge the obligation with a beer. My Employer isn’t stupid, whatever Her other faults: she’d say I was short-changing you, and she’d be right. It’s got to be a big wish, Davy.”

Davy’s expression brightened. The Devil waved a hand at Katie: “Another Deuchars for my friend here. And a drop of the Craitur.” Things were looking up, Davy decided.

“Can ye make Morag nae have… Ah mean, can ye make things… awright again, nae went bad?” He dry-swallowed, mind skittering like a frightened spider away from what he was asking for. Not to have… whatever. Whatever he’d done. Already.

The Devil contemplated Davy for a long handful of seconds. “No,” he said patiently. “That would create a paradox, you see, because if things hadn’t gone bad for you, I wouldn’t be here giving you this wish, would I? Your life gone wrong is the fuel for this miracle.”

“Oh.” Davy waited in silence while Katie pulled the pint, then retreated back to the far end of the bar. Whaur’s Tam? he wondered vaguely. Fuckin’ deil, wi’ his smairt suit an’ high heid yin manners… He shivered, unaccountably cold. “Am Ah goin’ tae hell?” he asked roughly. “Is that whaur Ah’m goin’?”

“Sorry, but no. We were brought in to run this universe, but we didn’t design it. When you’re dead, that’s it. No hellfire, no damnation: the worst thing that can happen to you is you’re reincarnated, given a second chance to get things right. It’s normally my job to give people like you that chance.”

“An’ if Ah’m no reincarnated?” Davy asked hopefully.

“You get to wake up in the mind of God. Of course, you stop being you when you do that.” The Devil frowned thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, you’ll probably give Her a migraine.”

“Right, right.” Davy nodded. The Devil was giving him a headache. He had a dawning suspicion that this one wasn’t a prod or a pape: he probably supported Livingstone. “Ah’m no that bad then, is that whit ye’re sayin’?”

“Don’t get above yourself.”

The Devil’s frown deepened, oblivious to the stroke of killing rage that flashed behind Davy’s eyes at the words. Dinnae get above yersel’? Who the fuck d’ye think ye are, the sheriff? That was almost exactly what the sheriff had said, leaning over to pronounce sentence. Ye ken Ah’m naebody, dinnae deny it! Davy’s fists tightened, itching to hit somebody. The story of his life: being ripped off then talked down to by self-satisfied cunts. Ah’ll make ye regret it!

The Devil continued after a moment: “You’ve got to really fuck up in a theological manner before she won’t take you, these days. Spreading hatred in the name of God, that kind of thing will do for you. Trademark abuse, she calls it. You’re plenty bad, but you’re not that bad. Don’t kid yourself, you only warrant the special visit because you’re a quality sample. The rest are… unobserved.”

“So Ah’m no evil, Ah’m just plain bad.” Davy grinned virulently as a thought struck him. Let’s dae somethin’ aboot that! Karmic imbalance? Ah’ll show ye a karmic imbalance! “Can ye dae somethin’ aboot the weather? Ah hate the cauld.” He tried to put a whine in his voice. The change in the weather had crippled house prices, shafted him and Morag. It would serve the Devil right if he fell for it.

“I can’t change the weather.” The Devil shook his head, looking slightly worried. “Like I said-”

“Can ye fuck wi’ yon sun shield the fuckin’ Yanks stuck in the sky?” Davy leaned forward, glaring at him: “’Cause if no, whit kindae deil are ye?”

“You want me to what?”

Davy took a deep breath. He remembered what it had looked like on TV, twenty years ago: the great silver reflectors unfolding in solar orbit, the jubilant politicians, the graphs showing a 20% fall in sunlight reaching the Earth… the savage April blizzards that didn’t stop for a month, the endless twilight and the sun dim enough to look at. And now the Devil wanted to give him a wish, in payment for fucking things up for a few thousand bastards who had it coming? Davy felt his lips drawing back from his teeth, a feral smile forcing itself to the surface. “Ah want ye to fuck up the sunshade, awright? Get ontae it. Ah want tae be wairm…”