The Wish List E-Book

Eoin Colfer

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 254

Beschreibung

Meg Finn is in trouble. Unearthly trouble. Cast out of her own home by her stepfather after her mother's death, Meg is a wanderer, a troublemaker. But after a botched attempt to rob a pensioner's flat, Meg, along with her partner in crime, Belch, ends up in a very sticky situation. Meg's soul is up for grabs as the divine and the demonic try every underhanded ploy imaginable to claim it. Her only chance for salvation is The Wish List. But how can she persuade the pensioner Lowrie to help her when she has wronged him? And even if she can persuade him, will she really have enough good points to face up to St Peter? An unforgettable and gritty tale of life, death and an unexpected hereafter.

Leseprobe

Reviews

‘A highly imaginative blend of black humour, technology and sadness’ Book Fest 2000

‘another fast-moving plot from the best-selling author Eoin Colfer’ Books Ireland

‘a picaresque adventure in the Fursey tradition’ RTÉ Guide

For Donal ‘The Lord of Love’

CONTENTS

Reviews

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1 Double Actpage

Chapter 2 Dead as Doornails

Chapter 3 Unhappy Endings

Chapter 4 Unwelcome Visitors

Chapter 5 Makeover

Chapter 6 Kissy Sissy

Chapter 7 Football Crazy

Chapter 8 The Equaliser

Chapter 9 The Sad Bit

Chapter 10 Burst Ball

Chapter 11 A Spare Wish

Chapter 12 Double Revenge

Chapter 13 From a Great Height

Chapter 14 Here and Thereafter

About the Author

Copyright

Other Books

CHAPTER 1

DOUBLE ACT

Meg and Belch were doing a job. Meg and Belch. Sounded like some sort of comedy double act. But it wasn’t. There was nothing funny about breaking in to a pensioner’s flat.

Raptor was slobbering on Meg’s boots.

‘Do we really need the mutt?’ she hissed, wiping her dripping boot in the flower bed.

Belch turned away from the window. Piggy eyes glared out from under gelled spikes of hair.

‘Listen, Finn,’ he whispered. ‘Raptor is no mutt. He is a pure breed, from a long line.’

Meg rolled her eyes.

Belch returned to window-jimmying, worming the blade of the screw4driver between the frame and the sill.

For the thousandth time, Meg Finn wondered what she was doing here. How had she sunk this far – skulking around the granny flats with a lowlife like Belch Brennan? Her reflection glared accusingly from the window pane. For a second she saw the ghost of her mother in that face. The same wide blue eyes, the same braided blond hair, even the same frown-wrinkles between her eyebrows. What would Mam think of this latest escapade? Meg’s involuntary blush answered the question for her.

Something split in the window frame.

‘We’re in,’ grunted Belch. ‘Let’s go.’

Raptor scrabbled up the wall into the dark interior. He was the point-dog, sent in to check for hostiles. His orders were simple. Bite everything. If it screamed, it was hostile.

The pit bull was not what you’d call a stealth canine and managed to barge into every stick of furniture on the ground floor.

‘Why don’t we just ring the bell?’ groaned Meg.

‘Oh stop your whining, Finn,’ snorted Belch. ‘Old Lowrie is deaf as a post anyway. You could set off fireworks in there and he wouldn’t stop snoring.’

Belch hoisted his considerable bulk over the sill, exposing a drooping belly in the process. Meg shuddered. Disgusting.

Her partner’s face appeared from the darkness.

‘Are you coming, Finn?’

Meg paused. This was it. The line between bold and bad. The decision was hers.

‘Well? You’re not chickening out on me, are you?’

Meg bristled. ‘I’m not afraid of anything, Belch Brennan!’

Belch chuckled nastily. ‘Prove it.’

He was manipulating her, and she knew it. But Meg Finn could never resist a dare. Placing her palms on the ledge she vaulted nimbly into the room.

‘That’s how to break and enter, you big clod,’ she said primly.

That remark could cost her later. But even Belch wouldn’t waste time wrestling when there was robbing to be done. Luckily, he had the memory span of a particularly thick goldfish, so with any luck he’d have forgotten all about the comment by the time they’d completed their mission.

The room was musty, with a medicinal smell. Meg recognised it from the night she’d spent on the couch outside her mother’s hospital room. The odours made what she was doing seem all the more terrible. How could she? Steal from a helpless pensioner?

She could because she needed the money to run away. Escape from Franco once and for all. Get on the ferry to Fishguard and never come back.

Think about the ferry, she told herself. Think about escaping. Get the money any way you can.

There was old-man stuff all over the room. Tins of pills and tubs of Vicks. Worthless. Belch pocketed them anyway.

‘They could be heart pills, Belch,’ whispered Meg. ‘Your man could have a fit when he realises he’s been robbed. That’d make you a murderer.’

Belch shrugged. ‘So what? One less crusty in the world. Oh the pain of it. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re whining about. Seein’ as you’re an accessory and all.’

Meg opened her mouth to object, but couldn’t. It was true. She was an accessory to whatever happened here tonight.

‘So give up yer moaning and go through the dresser. This old coot’s got cash somewhere. All crusties do. So’s they can leave it to someone!’

Another gem of wisdom from Belch. Her hand hovered over the knob on an ancient dresser. Open it, she told herself. Open it and face the consequences. Her fingers trembled, rigid with fear and shame. Ancient photographs lined the shelves. Yellowed eyes accused her from behind smoky glass. It was no use. Meg Finn might be bold, but she wasn’t bad.

Belch elbowed her out of the way.

‘Chicken,’ he muttered in disgust.

That was when the light came on. Old Lowrie McCall stood on the stairs, brandishing an ancient shotgun. Obviously not as deaf as Belch had thought.

‘What are you two at?’ he rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep. It was a dopey sort of question really. Two intruders. Middle of the night. Up to their elbows in his stuff. What did he think they were doing?

Lowrie cocked the antique gun with his thumb. ‘Well? I asked you a question.’

Belch belched casually, hence the name. ‘We’re robbin’ the place, crusty. What does it look like?’

The old man descended the stairs, frowning. ‘Actually, tubby, that’s exactly what it looks like. Now get your paws out of my dresser before I ventilate your spotty head.’

Meg blinked. This was like something on the telly. One of those American cop shows where everyone had ponytails. If they were going to follow the script, then Belch would do something stupid, and the old chap would be forced to shoot the pair of them.

That’s not what happened at all. What happened was that Raptor recognised the enemy and aimed for a bare leg hanging from the hem of a dressing gown.

The pit bull opened its jaws until the tendons cracked and gnashed down on Lowrie McCall’s calf. The old man howled lustily, battering the dog with the shotgun’s wooden stock. But he might as well have been bashing a cement block. Once Raptor had a hold on something, he wouldn’t relinquish it until Belch told him – or it was dead.

Meg danced around frantically. ‘Tell him to let go, Belch! Tell him!’

‘No hurry. He needs to be taught a lesson after pointing a gun at me.’

‘Get Raptor off him, Belch!’ Meg screamed, and she snatched the gun from between Lowrie McCall’s fingers.

Belch blinked. The stupid girl was crying! Blubbering away like a little fairy. And she had the gun pointed at Raptor.

‘Ah here now, Finn!’ It was funny, really. Didn’t she know anything about shotguns?

‘Call him off! I’m warning you.’

Belch spoke slowly, as one would to a toddler. ‘That’s a shotgun, eejit. You shoot from there and you’ll splatter the old coot as well.’

Meg wavered for a moment. ‘I don’t care. At least he’ll die quick. I’m giving you to three, Brennan. Seeing as you can’t count to five.’

Belch mulled it over. He wasn’t used to thinking so fast.

‘One …’

Would Meg really do it? Not likely. Too soft.

‘Two …’

Then again, after what she’d done to her Stepda, Franco. And she was a girl. Who knew with women?

‘Thr–’

‘Okay, okay!’ Best not to risk it. There’d be plenty of time for revenge later. ‘Raptor! Heel, boy.’

The dog snarled, reluctant to release its wriggling prize.

‘I SAID, HEEL!’

Instantly cowed, the pit bull spat out the remains of Lowrie McCall’s calf and trotted to its master’s side.

Meg ran to Lowrie McCall. He was spasming weakly on the lino, blood pumping from his open wound. There was a pale gleam in the crimson. To her horror Meg realised that it was bone. ‘What have we done?’ she sobbed. ‘What have we done?’

Belch was unaffected by the crisis. ‘So, a wrinkly kicks the bucket a few days early. So what?’

Meg brushed the tears from her eyes. ‘We have to call an ambulance, Belch! Right now!’

Belch shook his head. ‘No can do, Finn. There’s no turning back now.’

McCall’s eyes were losing focus. ‘Please,’ he rasped.

Meg pointed the gun at Belch. ‘Get out! Go on.’

‘Forget it, Meg.’

‘I’ll take the blame. You just go!’

Belch snorted. ‘Sure. Just tell the guards you bit his leg. They’ll definitely believe that.’

It was true. Every guard in town knew Belch Brennan and his mutt. There was no way out of this one. For the first time in her life, Meg Finn wasn’t going to be able to smartmouth her way out of trouble.

Then things got worse. Belch took advantage of his partner’s consternation and snatched the gun. A yellow-toothed grin pasted itself across his features.

‘Point a gun at me, will you?’

Meg felt tears bubbling over her lids. ‘He’s bleeding bad, Belch. Dying, maybe!’

Belch shrugged. ‘So what?’ He raised his gaze to Meg. ‘And now I’ve got you to deal with.’

‘Belch! Call an –’

‘My reputation is at stake. If any of the lads ever found out a girl pointed a gun at me and lived …’

Meg knew Belch. He was going to make a big speech like he thought hard men were supposed to. By the end of it, he’d be so worked up you wouldn’t know what he’d do. Meg decided not to wait around long enough to find out. Without a word, she turned and flung herself through the still-open window.

Belch nodded at his eager pit bull. ‘Hunt, boy. Run her down.’

Raptor licked his teeth and was off. His master took his time. There was no hurry now. No one ever escaped Raptor. He knelt beside the pale pensioner.

‘Don’t go anywhere, Lowrie. I’ll be back in a minute.’

The old man didn’t answer.

Meg had a plan when she made her bid for freedom. She would run to the first house with a light on, and hammer on the door. She knew now that she would rather face the police than let old Lowrie die. Meg made only one mistake. One fatal mistake. In all the confusion and darkness, she turned right instead of left. Left led into a central courtyard, overlooked by practically every one of the granny flats. Salvation. Right led into the maintenance area. The central aerial and gas tank. Dead end.

Raptor skidded around the corner, invisible but for gleaming teeth and snorts of steam billowing from his nostrils. He stood his ground, blocking the alley back from the maintenance area.

‘Shoo!’ said Meg hopefully. ‘Home, boy.’

If the dog could have chuckled derisively, he would have. There was no way the girl was getting past.

Belch’s shadow fell across the confined space. ‘You’re a rubbish criminal, Finn. Running straight down a cul-de-sac.’ The twin gun barrels poked from the shadows, like black eyes.

‘Belch. For God’s sake. Call an ambulance – it’s not too late.’

‘’Fraid it is. For you, anyway.’

The curve of the gas tank was cold against Meg’s back. The line of the weld rubbed along her spine. Nowhere to go. The gun barrels swivelled and aimed at her.

‘Cop on, Belch. This isn’t funny.’

‘I’m not laughing, Finn.’

It was true. He wasn’t.

‘You’re not going to shoot me. So just give me the few punches and get it over with.’

Belch shrugged. ‘I’ve no choice, really. It’s all right for you. You’re only a kid, but I’m sixteen. Responsible for my own actions. This’ll mean prison. And I think you’d squeal.’

Just yesterday Meg would’ve said: You think, Belcher? Pull the other one. But not now. This was a different Belch. This was how he was in the dark.

‘I won’t squeal, Belch, sure I’m an accessory.’

‘True. Still …’

Belch let the sentence hang. Meg knew the onus was on her to prove her loyalty. She had to say what he wanted to hear.

‘Who cares?’ she mumbled, the words grating like broken glass in her throat. ‘Who cares if another wrinkly dies? Not me, that’s for sure.’

Belch studied her face, looking for the lie. Apparently he found it.

‘Sorry,’ he said, cocking the shotgun. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Then came the big mistake. The one that made all others on this night of bungling seem like minor errors. It was the last Belch would ever make.

Meg was right, Belch didn’t intend to shoot her, just scare her a bit. Due to his hooligan ways, Belch Brennan was familiar with shotguns and their scatter patterns. He was perfectly aware that firing at this range would probably ignite the gas tank, and blow them both to hell. But a little warning shot, over her head – that was a different matter. Belch pointed the barrels almost vertical and leaned on the trigger.

Meg saw it in his eyes. Saw exactly what he was going to do. Was he mad?

‘No, Belch – don’t!’

But it was too late. His finger was half-way through the motion. No time to change his mind. Not that Belch wanted to. His mouth was already grinning at the thought of Meg’s expression.

The boom was tremendous, filling the confined space and pulsing through the alleyway. It rattled around Meg and Belch’s heads, bursting their eardrums. But they didn’t care, because by that time they were both dead.

One little pellet did it. One tiny ball-bearing with a nick on its curves. The nick acted like a fin, sending it spiralling off its intended course. It hissed downwards, superheating the air in a nanosecond. A new gas tank would have stopped it, and this one should have been replaced a decade ago. The rusted metal collapsed under the minuscule onslaught, allowing the white-hot sphere access to highly flammable gas – BOOM!

A blackened chunk of metal smashed into Meg Finn, knocking her soul clean out of her skin.

The first few moments as a spirit are very disconcerting. The mind still thinks everything is the way it used to be, and tries to force physics onto the spirit world. How can I be flying down a vast tunnel and looking at myself spread-eagled across a ruptured gas tank? Obviously impossible. Conclusion: I’m dreaming.

So, Meg Finn told herself, I’m dreaming. A nice dream, for a change. No stepfathers with axes, or big lumps of guards trying to stuff her into the back of a police van. She decided to relax and enjoy it.

The tunnel was so huge as to appear boundless. The illusion was shattered by rings of blue light that pulsated along its length like the heartbeat of some fantastic creature. Other dots floated in the slightly liquid air. Meg realised these motes were, in fact, people.

People floating in a tunnel? Hadn’t she heard something about that before? Something about a tunnel and a light.

So, Meg Finn told herself: I’m dead. She waited for the revelation to have some tremendous impact on her. Nothing. No convulsions. No screaming or hitching sobs. It was as though the tunnel itself had anaesthetised her mind. Not that her life had been any great shakes in the first place. She was probably better off out of it. Maybe she’d even get to see Mam again. Although her mother was probably in heaven, and Meg doubted that she was headed that way.

Maybe she could con Saint Peter with the sociology thing. It wasn’t my fault. Society is to blame, blah di blah di blah. Always worked in juvenile court. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place when Meg milked the story of her Mam’s accident. Heaven might be a harder nut to crack.

Someone was calling her name. Must be an angel sent to talk her down the celestial landing strip. Still, though, a bit woofy for an angel. You imagined them playing harps, with voices as sweet as … well … angels. Whatever this was, it sounded like it was chewing on a potful of tarmacadam.

Meg turned slowly. She wasn’t the only person floating on this particular current. Someone, or something, was spinning along beside her. One minute it was a dog, the next a boy. Canine features bubbled under a human skin, poking through like computer effects. It was horrible. Grotesque. Yet strangely familiar.

‘Belch?’ said Meg uncertainly. ‘Is that you?’

Her voice sounded strange. Like there were holes in it. The thing that had been Belch could only howl in Scoobeydoo fashion. But it was her partner, all right, unmistakably so. And it looked like the gas tank had done a real job on the boy and his mutt. Belch and Raptor, all mixed up like they’d been dumped in a blender. Oddly enough, the new mix suited Belch. As though it had been inside him all the time.

‘Belch? Get a grip, will you?’

The dog-boy could only stare in horror as his fingers morphed from stubby digits to pit-bull claws. Tears and slobber rolled down his face, dripping in large gobbets from a furry chin.

Oh no, thought Meg. First I get saddled with him on Earth, now I have to put up with him for all eternity!

‘Meg! Help me.’

Belch was giving her the puppy eyes. Pathetic.

‘Get stuffed, Belch! You tried to kill me!’

She blinked. Belch had killed her! He’d killed them all!

‘Murderer!’ shouted Meg.

The old Belch would have retaliated. But not the new thing. He just … it just whined pathetically.

‘This is all your fault, Belch!’ screamed Meg. ‘I told you not to shoot! I told you!’

They hurtled around a bend. Up ahead the tunnel split in two. That didn’t take a whole lot of figuring. Up and down. Good and bad. Heaven and hell. Meg swallowed. This was it. Payback for all the cruelty she’d inflicted on the people of Newford.

The currents bore them along at a terrific speed. There was no friction. No winds whipping at their clothes or ballooning their cheeks. Just an increasing heat-blast from the lower branch of the tunnel. As they drew closer, Meg could make out cinder-blackened figures with pitchforks dislodging stragglers clinging to the wall. Hurrying them along on their way to hell.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening to her. Fourteen-year-olds didn’t die; they went through a troublesome phase and grew out of it.

Meg could see details now. The red demon-eye glow of the tunnel creatures. The silvery glint of their prongs. The job satisfaction in their grins.

Belch whined in dumb terror, pinwheeling his arms in the heavy air, as if that could save him. Meg steeled herself.

The gate to hell loomed before them. It seemed as large as the sun, and almost as hot. Meg balled her fists. She wasn’t going down easy.

Then her course changed. Just a nudge to starboard, but enough to steer her away from the lower passage. A relieved sigh exploded from her lungs. Purgatory, limbo, reincarnation – she didn’t care. Anything was better than whatever waited at the end of the red tunnel.

The Belch-Raptor combo wasn’t so lucky. In a second the fiery current had him and he was gone, spinning into the inferno.

Meg had no time to worry about the fate of her associate. Whatever power had been guiding her suddenly vanished, leaving her careering with the force of her own momentum. The tunnel wall reared before her. It looked soft. Soft and blue. Please let it be soft …

No such luck. Meg smashed into a unforgiving surface with an Earth speed of four hundred kilometres per hour. Not that speed makes any actual difference on the spiritual plain where kinetics are out the window. That’s not to say that it didn’t hurt.

CHAPTER 2

DEADAS DOORNAILS

The Devil was not happy.

‘Two,’ he said, drumming filed nails on the desktop. ‘I was expecting two today.’

Beelzebub shuffled nervously. ‘There are two, Master … sort of. I have them … it … whatever … in pit nineteen.’

‘Two humans!’ hissed Satan, tiny lightning bolts sparking between his horns. ‘Not one youth and his dog! How did a dog get in here, anyway?’

‘They were … blended together. One heaven of an accident,’ stammered his aide-de-camp, consulting a clipboard. ‘The boy is a true disciple. Very impressive human cycle. Bullying, torturing animals, theft, murder. A rap sheet as long as your tail. And the dog, a real hound of Satan. Tetanus injection sales have risen by fifteen percent in the first quarter.’

The Lord of Darkness was not impressed. ‘He’s a plodder.’

‘The dog?’

‘No, you cretin! The boy! Unimaginative, brutal.’

Beelzebub shrugged. ‘Evil is evil, Master.’

Satan wagged a fine-boned finger. ‘No, you see, that’s where you’re wrong. That’s why you’re a minion, and I am the undisputed Lord of the Underworld. You have no vision, Bub, no flair.’

Beelzebub’s fangs quivered in his mouth. He hated being called Bub. There wasn’t another being in the universe who would dare to use that condescending abbreviation … well, perhaps just one – a certain saint named Peter.

‘These impulse sinners have no staying power. Their life expectancy is too short for them to wreak any real havoc. One major sin and they’re gone. No planning, you see. No thought of getting away with it.’

Beelzebub nodded dutifully, as though he didn’t get treated to this lecture at least a dozen times a millennium.

‘But you give me one creative sinner and he’ll be spreading the gospel of misery for decades before anyone catches him. If ever.’

‘True, Master. Very true.’

Satan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t be patronising me, would you, Bub?’

‘No,’ croaked a very nervous senior demon. ‘Of course not, Master.’

‘Glad to hear it. Because if I thought for one second that I didn’t have your undivided attention, I might move you from that apartment overlooking the Plain of Fire, and into the Dung Pit.’

Beelzebub flicked a forked tongue over suddenly dry lips. Dung was all very well at work, but you had to switch off, sometime.

‘Honestly, Master. The new boy is exceptional. Especially in his new … state. A bit rough around the edges, certainly. But I’m sure he’ll make a fine spit turner.’

‘Spit turner! We’re up to our wings in spit turners. I need some arch demons, someone with a sense of humour.’ The Devil smoothed his jet black goatee. ‘The other one. That girl I was planning to greet personally. Where is she?’

Beelzebub flicked a page on his clipboard. ‘Actually …’

‘Don’t tell me.’

‘We had her all the way through the tunnel …’

‘You lost her.’

Beelzebub nodded miserably.

‘The one soul I tell you to look out for and you lose her. I think you’re getting a bit old for the job, Bub.’

‘No, Master, no,’ stammered hell’s Number Two, well aware what happened to demons past their prime. ‘The closed circuit cameras are down and we have to rely on tunnel mites for information. You know how unreliable they are, especially if they’ve been chewing soul residue.’

Satan sighed. ‘Excuses, Bub. That’s all I’m hearing. Excuses. We have all the technology. Limbo surveillance, the ectonet. And here we are relying on the gibberings of some inebriated tunnel mites.’

‘Myishi assures me the system will be back on-line shortly.’

Satan scowled. ‘Do you know how much that technophile’s soul cost me? A fortune. And he can’t even fix a few monitors.’

‘Soon, Master –’

‘Now! I want that errant soul found. It could just be snagged on a stalactite in the tunnel. If it’s up for grabs, I want it grabbed.’

‘But, Master,’ protested Beelzebub, ‘a lawyers’ convention bus goes over the Grand Canyon this afternoon. We’re expecting a bit of a glut.’

Satan rose to his hooves. The tailored pinstripe he wore combusted in blue flame, exposing the red sinew beneath.

Always the theatrics, thought Beelzebub.

‘I don’t care about lawyers. Who’s going to sue me? No one. I want that girl! Have you read her file? Did you see what she did to that stepfather of hers? Brilliant. Totally original.’

The Devil’s tone became silky smooth. His most seductive. And dangerous.

‘Find her for me, Bub. Find her and bring her here. I don’t care if you have to send a retrieval squad into the tunnel. Get her …’

Beelzebub waited for the inevitable threat.

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll be holding interviews for a recently vacated position.’ He paused pointedly. ‘Yours.’

Satan loped into a corner, and began tearing strips from the suspended carcass of a cow. The meeting was over.

Beelzebub barrelled down the pulsating corridor, vaporising drone souls indiscriminately with his trident. Their final squealing sizzle didn’t cheer him up like it used to. He hated it when the Master got in one of his obsessive moods. He had to have exactly that soul, and no other would do. And God help … Beelzebub blinked nervously … Lucifer help the demon who disappointed him. He quickened his pace. You shouldn’t even think the G word in this building. Somehow the Master always knew.

What was so special about this particular soul anyway? Some Irish girl. Admittedly it had been always a bit special when you nabbed someone from the ‘Land of Saints and Scholars’, but that golden age was long gone. These days there were as many Irish down here as there were in America.

Beelzebub hopped into a gloomy alcove, pulling a black mobile phone from the folds of his silk kaftan. Lovely little thing. All shiny and impressive. Myishi had run him up a pair. Top secret. Not even the boss knew about them. Devious admittedly. But he was, after all, a demon.

There were no numbers on the phone pad. Just some function buttons. This was a private line. There was only one person he’d ever call. His warty finger hovered over the pad for a moment, then pressed. He had no option. The apartment was at stake. And getting good accommodation in this neighbourhood was sheer hell.

Saint Peter was not happy. If he was such a big-shot holy saint, how come he had to sit outside the gates all the time while the rest of them enjoyed the fruits of heaven? Why couldn’t James ever take a turn? Or John? Or Judas, for that matter. If there was anyone that owed him a favour, it was Judas. There was a strong contingent of the opinion that the tax collector shouldn’t be up here at all. And if it hadn’t been for Yours Truly putting in a good word for him, he’d still be floating around purgatory with the rest of the don’t-knows.

Peter heaved open the cover of his ledger. What he wouldn’t give for a good mainframe. A powerful server with plenty of workstations. But you rarely got any computer buffs up at the Pearlies. Most of them came out at the other end of the tunnel, especially since Lucifer began offering his ‘own your own soul after a century’ deal. So he was still stuck with balancing the accounts manually.

The points system was complicated, developed over thousands of years. And, of course, new transgressions were added every year. Members of boy bands and mime artists were two recent categories with heavy loading.

The system was straightforward enough. Even if you had enough plus points on your sheet to keep you out of hell, that didn’t mean you were a shoo-in to heaven. There was purgatory, limbo, or reincarnation as a lower life form. If it was a close call, you got an interview with the chief apostle. Everyone said he was a bit quick with the reject button. A million souls on the lower levels prayed for the day Peter got his marching orders.

High above Peter’s head, the tunnel’s mouth pulsated in an azure sky. It was a fantastic sight if you cared to look, but Peter barely spared it a glance.

A soul floated from the mouth and ascended gently to the floor of Peter’s office. The saint ran his finger down the lists. Luigi Fabrizzi. Eighty-two. Natural causes.

‘Mi scusi,’ said the Italian.

‘Behind the line, please,’ muttered Peter automatically, jabbing his pen at the floor.

Mister Fabrizzi glanced downwards. Brass trapdoor hinges protruded from the marble tiling.

‘You’re cutting it pretty fine, Fabrizzi,’ commented Peter, in flawless Italian. The gift of tongues, another little bonus from the boss. ‘Good early life, but you’ve been a right old nettle the last ten years.’

The Italian shrugged. ‘I am old. It’s my prerogative.’

Peter leaned back. He loved Italians. ‘Oh really. And where exactly does it say that in the Bible?’

‘It’s not in the good book. I feel it in my heart.’

Peter ground his back teeth. Who except an Italian would argue at the gates of heaven?

He totted up the points quickly. You’d be surprised how all the little misdemeanours added up.

‘I don’t know, Luigi. The whole Mafioso thing in the fifties. I’m afraid it’s put you over the limit.’

Fabrizzi paled. ‘You don’t mean …?’

‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Peter, reaching covertly beneath the rim of his desk for the limbo button.

The Italian clasped his hands in prayer … and the phone rang.

Peter rolled his eyes. Beelzebub again. Couldn’t that demon do anything on his own? He pressed the receive button.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s me. Beelzebub,’ came the hushed reply.

‘You don’t say.’

‘A bit of a problem down here, compadre.’

‘I thought you liked problems.’

‘Not this kind. My job is on the line.’

‘Oh,’ said Peter. ‘That is a problem.’

Even though the archangel and the demon came from different ends of the spectrum, theologically speaking, they had, over the past few centuries, established something of a rapport. Nothing major. No exchanging of trade secrets or anything like that. But both men realised the similarities between their jobs. They also realised the mutual benefits of keeping the earthbound spirits from destroying the planet. After all, what would be the point of spirits without bodies? So they kept in touch. So far their little communiqués had averted several presidential assassinations and a world war. If Beelzebub were to be replaced, the new Number Two might not be as accommodating.

‘Ah … mi scusi, Santa Pietro?’ said the suddenly polite Luigi.