No-one was quite sure whose bright idea it was, but they’d all been drinking that Friday lunchtime, so tongues and brain cells were well lubricated. The auditors had been and gone, leaving only bad news in their wake. The previous progressive council had spent all of this year’s budget and a large proportion of next. When the new councillors finally obtained access to the accounts, newly elected Gerard Forthby had stared in horror, the fiscal cupboard was barer than a streaker on a hot day and they’d just made election promises they could never keep.

“We’re buggered.” Gerard slurred. “How are we going to set budgets if we’ve got no money? We’ll just about cover payroll and pensions, but that’s all.”

“We can ask central government for more funding.” said someone.

“Did that two weeks ago.” Gerard stared gloomily across the pub table. “They said no.”

“We could increase the Business rates.” Someone else said, Gerard wasn’t quite sure who.

“The High Street is half full of empty shops, as are all the pedestrian areas. No one can afford to run a retail business in town any more. There’s almost no-one left to pay an increase.” Gerard replied, staring into his beer and wondering if he dared have another on a Friday lunchtime.

“What about a conjuring?” Marnie Katreus, a hangover from the previous regime, head of planning and also a white witch said. “We’ve tried everything else. I could talk to my coven if you like.” The assembled councillors gave her pitying looks. Gerard looked blearily back at Marnie’s cornrow braided hair, crystal encrusted copper bangles and spaced out eyes, trying not to recoil from the reek of patchouli. This was the woman who put half of the planning office out of action for days by giving out home baked ‘herbal’ cookies. She was also known to keep lumps of rose quartz around her work computer to ‘absorb the harmful CO2 emissions’ and use words like “Operationalising” without provocation.

It wasn’t that Marnie was a bad person but she had beliefs. Everything from global warming passing through radical feminism stopping at baby seals and polar bears to Wiccan magic and beyond. Nor were her beliefs set in stone. Gerard was fully expecting her to come in to a council meeting one day wearing a burkha. Just because. You couldn’t tell with Marnie.

“No Marnie, please. You can’t simply magic money into council coffers. Even if you could, the auditors would have several large litters of kittens. They don’t like anomalies.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Gerard realised their futility. He was right.

*

Just before eight on the following Monday morning he arrived to find the planning office in uproar. Desks had been shoved aside to open a large circular space in their open plan offices and some strange concentric circles filled with stars and other symbols were being carefully chalked on the cheap brown carpet tiled floor. There were a lot of antique looking candles burning and the lights were off. Marnie was in there, wearing a long loose Kaftan like robe, fussily supervising.

An earnest looking plump young woman, was that their deputy head librarian? Was on her knees, peering short sightedly through heavy black framed glasses at a large medieval book on the floor, copying certain of the symbols between the circles. Another three women in their twenties and thirties wearing long loose robes like Marnie’s stood by, watching the librarian intently.

Gerard tried to push the glazed fire doors to the planning office open, but Marnie had barred them by the simple expedient of sticking a mop across the door handles.

All he could do was watch with a growing perplexed horror. “Marnie! Open this door now!” He shouted, banging on the doors with an impotent fist. Marnie looked across at him, waved absently and smiled before going back to watching her friend put the final touches to the big chalk pentagram.

“Marnie!” Gerard shouted again, mostly for effect before putting in a call to security. After navigating the call system, all he got was their out of hours voice mail.

Cursing his luck, he made his way down to the security office to find it unmanned and all the monitors set to ‘record’. A note on the door read “Office open between ten and four Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. In case of emergency call our out of hours number” It cited the toll-free phone number he’d tried earlier. Bugger. He checked his watch, five minutes to eight. Fortunately the rest of the staff wouldn’t be here until at least a quarter to nine.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the second floor, only to be greeted by a scene out of some obscene horror fantasy. The lit candles were burning with an intense red flarelight giving the beige blandness of the planning office a ghastly appearance. Marnie and her coven were standing motionless, robes doffed, backs arched, legs wide, breasts heaving. Rigid in ecstatic spasm at each point of the pentagram, facing into the chalkmarked circle, the centre of which began to boil brilliant red.

As Gerard watched, the boiling red grew slowly from a mere handspan to a column a metre across and over two tall, with a core so bright it hurt just to look at it. Gerard, hand in front of horrified face tried to look away but could not. In the back of his mind he decided not to bother with security. This was probably something well beyond their pay grade.

The column grew in intensity, silently roiling like storm clouds, gaining in intensity, giving out sharp tiny lightning bolts which sparked between the standing coven members until they formed a net of brilliant jagged filaments. In front of him the fire doors blew open and a deafening echoing voice that sounded like it ate gravel for breakfast demanded; “WHO DARES SUMMON BARBATOS, DUKE OF HELL!”

“Erm.. me? I think.” The words were out of Gerards mouth before he had time to think about them. Abruptly the fiery column disappeared. The candles were back to burning normally and there were five near simultaneous thumps as Marnie and friends fell to the floor. The mop handle snapped as the twin fire doors blew open. Gerard staggered back for a moment before regaining his balance.

In the middle of the still smoking circle, a tall bearded man who reminded Gerard of a white haired Abraham Lincoln, stood looking around at the five collapsed coven members with a slight frown. He snapped his fingers, the smoke disappeared and the coven were clothed again. The man turned to face Gerard, a polite smile on his elderly face and asked. “Would you be a good sort and scrub out that line of chalk for me.” The man said, nodding at the edge of the chalked circle. “So I can finish tidying up.” He added, beckoning a stunned Gerard into the office..

A little thunderstruck, Gerard rubbed at the chalk line with the toe of his shoe, enough to reduce the line. “Thanks ever so.” The man clicked his fingers once more and the arcane circle disappeared along with the candles, the desks were suddenly back in their correct positions and coven members seated, a little glassy eyed, at various restored workstations. “Sorry about the dramatic entrance, but it is rather expected. I’m Barbatos, duke of hell. Pleased to meet you.” He explained, looking very old fashioned in a Victorian high collared shirt and black frock coat. “Ah.” Gerard felt a rustling sensation inside his head. “Excuse me, just let me borrow your memory for a moment.” Barbatos said. There was another discontinuity and his clothing morphed into a modern business suit and grey silk tie, the beard now a more modern cropped jawline style. “Hmm.” The demon looked straight into the depths of Gerard’s soul again, there was that sense of rustling and when he blinked, Barbatos looked forty years younger. “Much better.” said the demon. “Now, what can I do you for?” He said amiably.

“You’ve got a rat on your shoulder.” Was all Gerard could say.

“Oh, Crattus you mean. Say hello to the nice mortal Crattus.” The rat stood up on Barbatos left shoulder and squeaked a greeting with a polite bob of its head. “He says he’s pleased to meet you.” Barbatos smiled. “If you missed the introduction, I’m Barbatos, Duke of Hell.”

“Er, right.” Gerard managed.

“Was my entrance all right? Not too melodramatic, but you mortals do tend to like drama.”

“It was…” Gerard said. “A bit over the top.”

“Was it? Oh.” Said the Demon amiably. “Oh well, I’m always open to a little modest criticism. So, what can I do for you?” The demon frowned slightly and there was that paper-flick sensation inside Gerard’s head again.

“Can you stop doing that!” Gerard snapped in desperation.

“Sorry, but if all you’re going to say is erm and um I’ve got to find out somehow.” Barbatos looked at Crattus, who gave a long and complicated series of squeaks and tooth clicks. “All right. But these mortals do get so touchy.” Said Barbatos to his rat. He turned back to Gerard. “You’re a little strapped for cash I gather? Previous administration a bit profligate with the public purse?”

“Yes.” said Gerard miserably.

“So you need a little financial assistance, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Hell isn’t exactly a financial institution, but if you help me, I’m certain I can assist you. How does that sound?”

“Do I have to sell my soul or something?” Gerard asked pathetically.

“Good gravy no. Souls? Now there’s a worthless currency. There’s been a major glut on the market for centuries. You’d be lucky if yours would buy a packet of breath mints.” Barbatos replied.

“I find that rather insulting.” Gerard said stiffly, finding a courage he didn’t think he had.

“And yours isn’t a bad quality soul. A little tarnished around the edges but overall good quality. If there was still a market I could make you quite a handsome offer, but nowadays…” Barbatos let the sentence trail off before adding “but there is something you can do for me.”

“Does it have anything to do with human sacrifice or fiery pits?” Gerard asked cautiously.

“How dreadfully old fashioned.” Laughed Barbatos. The rat Crattus was giggling too. “Nor do we take…” the demon lord stifled another snigger “Virgins.” Crattus abruptly fell over and lay on it’s back, quivering with laughter. “Sorry, bit of a demonic in-joke there.” there was a long pause punctuated with stifled giggles. “Can we go somewhere more private to discuss this?” Barbatos said when he had recovered his composure.

Gerard checked his watch, it was ten past eight. People would be arriving within the next twenty minutes to start what is loosely known in the British public sector, as ‘work’. Specifically not answering the phone, bulk deleting emails, forgetting paperwork, arranging collections for sundry birthdays, christening and wedding parties, along with discussing what was on the telly last night and what a bunch of tossers the opposition’s sports team were on Sunday. Also attending meetings and holding various ‘diversity’ training sessions which are often deployed as a work avoidance strategy when all else has failed.

Escorting Barbatos to an empty meeting room and firmly locking the doors from the inside, Gerard sat down carefully on the opposite side of a generous sized conference table, a leftover from the previous administration, to the visiting demon lord. “Well you already know what we want. What do you want in return? I’d like to know that before we do any signing of contracts in blood.” Gerard said carefully, eyeing Barbatos like one would a large hairy spider in a vivarium with a dodgy lid.

“Planning permission.” said the demon lord.

“What? What kind of planning permission?” Gerard asked.

“For a retirement home.”

“A retirement home?” Gerard gaped, failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

“For demons.” Barbatos said companionably.

“Riiight.” Drawled Gerard sceptically. “Do you have anywhere in mind?”

“There’s a nice little spot we own in your area and would like to develop. Very rural with nice views.”

“Is that it?”

“Planning is difficult. Especially for non-mortals. We’d appreciate some inside help.”

“What will that get us?” Gerard asked. “In terms of money?”

“What’s the price of gold nowadays? How would it be if the county archaeologist found say, ten million in Spanish gold meant to fund the Jacobite uprising in Scotland?”

“Scotland’s miles away.” Gerard objected.

“But the hoard isn’t.” Smiled the demon lord.

“You mean it’s…” Gerard’s voice tailed off.

“Not far away at all.” Barbatos gave him a small smile. “And on council property…” The demon lord tantalised.

“You’re joking!” Gerard blurted.

“On this occasion, no. So, can we have our planning permission?”

“If it were down to me, of course, but there are procedures, you know, rules.” Gerard hedged.

“Which I’m assured that you will apply assiduously.” Barbatos said oleaginously.

“Hang on, what about the gold being treasure trove? Antique gold coins can be quite valuable and it all has to go through the coroner’s office.”

“Who your council pay for.” Barbatos gently pointed out.

“Are you suggesting I can blackmail a coroner?”

“No, no, no my dear fellow. Blackmail is such an ugly term. What I’m suggesting is a word here, a word there. A judicious application of some form of reward to rule in the council’s favour. I happen to have heard the Coroner for Treasure who deals with your area is keen on some form of civic distinction. I’m sure a nomination for a CBE or even a knighthood from, shall we say, certain senior members of a grateful district council would not be unappreciated. Her husband by the way is a terrible social climber.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m a demon lord of hell. It’s what we do.” Barbatos gently reached across the table and patted a perplexed Gerard on the sleeve.

“Do you have any plans? Ones we can approve?” Gerard asked.

“Oh yes. Arriving this morning by courier. All in perfect order. Forms properly filled in, no objections etcetera.”

“No objections? Are you sure of that?”

“Trust me. I’m a demon. The Nimby’s will be taken care of.”

“Oh, but can I? Trust you I mean?”

“Oh yes. We know precisely where the gold is and if you agree, all shall be yours.” Barbatos extended his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“Planning for funding? This isn’t a trick is it? I mean I won’t have signed my soul away will I?”

“Oh for Purgatory’s sake Gerard! If we really wanted your soul we wouldn’t bother to ask. I mean, do you think we demons are that two dimensional?” Barbatos said scathingly. “You mortals, really.” He sat back and withdrew his offered hand.

“I didn’t even know demons could retire.” Gerard protested.

“Look Gerard. After a few millennia torturing damned souls the shine tends to wear off. No matter how well indoctrinated you are. We’re all getting rather fed up with stab, crush, scream all the time. It’s become very tedious. Never mind the hearing damage from ambient noise levels. You mortals can get really shrill. That and I know at least a thousand demons are off sick at any one time with repetitive strain injury.”

“Demons get ill?”

“Sounds strange, doesn’t it? Immortal creatures and all. Some of the lower ranks wanted to start a union for Hades sake. They even tried to go on strike for better working conditions. So after a couple of centuries upper management put together this plan to have a retirement home for superannuated demonic folk. Then you popped up, so we got inside that girl’s head to get her and her friends to do the necessary summoning and here we are. We’ll need them again to open a new occult gateway, but that won’t be a problem, will it?”

“You’re not going to hurt them are you?” Gerard asked guiltily.

“Certainly not.” Barbatos was affronted. “We’ll borrow their minds and bodies for half an hour to kick things off and then send them home with nothing more than a mild hangover and some rather fuzzy memories of a good time had by all. If the gateway fails for any reason we borrow them again. They won’t know a thing. Marnie certainly won’t, she spends most of her life permanently stoned.”

“I had noticed.” Gerard confirmed stoically.

“So, deal?” The hand was extended again. This time Gerard carefully shook it. For a demonic handshake it felt quite dry and clean, not in the least scaly or supernatural. “Excellent. I’ll drop a notion with your archaeologist and away we go.”

“Do I have to do anything?”

“Not yet. Just recommend your coroner for a knighthood in a week or so and we’re all set.”

“What now?”

“Well I’m off to file my report and we’ll be in touch.” Barbatos smiled. Then he was gone. Only a faint wisp of sulphur tainted the air to indicate anything untoward had passed this way.

Gerard made a point of passing by the planning office, only to find it’s denizens all focussed on their jobs for once. For the rest of the day he felt cautiously optimistic.

*

Precisely one week later Gerard received an excited email from the district archaeologist’s office. He read it carefully with a small smile. Seven rather scruffy antique wrought iron bound wooden chests had been found in the county archives. The documentation attached indicated that they had been given to the museum by an anonymous donor way back in 1853 and sat gathering dust ever since. For the first time in centuries, the first box had been opened with an antique key found in the previous district archaeologists desk. Inside the first box was a mix of Spanish and French gold coinage and ingots. To the value of over a million pounds. The next two boxes contained mostly rough-cast Spanish ingots of about ten troy ounces each. To the tune of three million, then the other four boxes were filled with silver coin at half a million each. When he read this part of the message Gerard’s heart gave out a little ‘ting’ of joy. Cinderella was going to the ball and they would get their extra funding. How nice of the demons to put all that gold and silver in the district archives.

A quick check on the computer indicated that the planning consent for Samiel Bros (Developments) retirement complex was progressing well. Gerard rubbed his hands gleefully. All this and gold too! They could easily afford to upgrade the old park now and might even fill most of the local potholes. On the other hand, they already had the gold, so if planning fell through…

A chittering on his desk from Crattus cut that treacherous thought down in mid stride. That bloody demonic rat had been popping up every time he so much as thought about reneging on the deal. Now it was lounging against his desk phone with an insouciance that was almost insulting. Gerard glowered at it. The rat just gave him the finger and sniggered.

Gerard affected a ‘You’re just a supernatural rat, what do you know?’ demeanour and began looking through some of the proposals currently littering his desk. He quite liked the idea of the Gerard Forthby Leisure centre and day spa, although the cost would easily swallow up of all their new found capital.

Another week later he was basking in the glow of his own good fortune when his office phone rang. “Hello Gerard. Heard you’ve had a bit of a windfall.” It was Douglas Midwrent, his opposite number at the county council.

“We have, thank you.” Gerard replied guardedly. What did Midwrent want? Odious little man. “Not that it’s the business of County.”

“A little bird tells me there’s a recommendation in for an honour for the Coroner of Treasures.”

“So what?” Gerard feigned disinterest.

“From your office.” Drat! How had County found out about that?

“Internal post delivered it to my office by mistake.” Midwrent continued.

“Really? I must have words.” Gerard said through gritted teeth. “Not that it’s anything to do with me. The lady in question is well respected and who supports many good causes. We routinely send recommendations to Horse Guards for OBE’s and the like. So do you. What of it?”

“Well, the timing.”

“Timing of what?”

“You finding all that lovely gold, so conveniently deposited in the district archives.” Midwrent’s voice could have greased a fleet of axles. “You’re not the only people to be short of funds.”

“Well thank you for calling with congratulations, but I’m rather busy right now.”

“The archives that used to be owned by County.” Midwrent continued. “At least until your incorporation in 1854. So, considering that those chests were donated in 1853, officially that gold belongs to County.”

“Really? Thank you for letting me know, but county signed a lot of things, you know, buildings, artefacts and whatnot over to the new district council at that time. Any claims on any of the artefacts within the archives would have been passed over at the same time.” Which might have been true. “Any claim from county on that basis would probably be given short shrift.” Gerard said faux-confidently and rang off.

Inside his head, his inner man was running around in panicky little circles, but outwardly he was ready to bluff to the death for the money he’d braved damnation for. The rat was leaning on the phone, eyeing him meaningfully. “Go on. Report back why don’t you?” Gerard snapped. The phone rang again.

“Gerard.” Said an awfully familiar voice. “Crattus tells me you’re having a spot of bother. I hope this doesn’t impact on our little arrangement?”

“No, no.” Gerard said, trying not to sound too hasty. “That is a work in progress. I’m just encountering a few minor glitches.”

“Yes, Midwrent. We know.”

“Did Crattus tell you?”

“No, we just possessed his PA for a minute. We’ve dealt with local authorities before.” Barbatos said mildly. “We know what to expect. Relax Gerard. Our deal is not in danger.”

“Thank goodness for that. Oh sorry, no offence.”

“None taken. Crattus tells me you’ve been having doubts.”

“A bit.” Gerard saw no reward in lying. Especially when they could riffle through his thoughts at will.

“Perfectly natural. However, the money is in your hands, our planning is being expedited. Cheer up. Bye now.” The line went dead. Deader than it should be, thought Gerard gloomily.

There was a knock on his office door. The door opened. It was the portly figure of Hussain Bingh, their very multicultural Mayor. Gerard gave him his best smile. “Hussain. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hussain sat down, tried to set his fleshy features in a smile and failed. “Hello Gerard.”

“What’s the problem Hussain? You look like your restaurants have all been closed by the food inspectors. Oh no, they haven’t have they?” Gerard asked diplomatically.

“It’s this find. The gold.” Hussain said after a loaded pause.

“Isn’t it good news?” Gerard asked carefully.

“Look Gerard, not to put too fine a point on it, it’s Spanish. My local Imam is kicking up a stink. Says it’s crusader gold and we shouldn’t touch it.”

“What?” Gerard said before a cynical thought bubbled up in his soul. “Oh all right. How much does he want?”

“Just a modest donation to the local Islamic centre.” Hussain gave him an embarrassed smile.

“I said. How much?”

“A million?” Hussain hazarded, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“He’ll get fifty thousand and that’s that.” Gerard said firmly.

Hussain opened his mouth to bargain for more, but then he saw the look on Gerard’s face. Instead he stood up, they shook hands and Hussain left. That set the tone for the next six months. Every special interest group beat a path to Gerard’s office door. Each with an agenda, each effectively demanding money with menaces. Even so, he managed to retain just over half the money for a larger project until he began to despair of ever seeing another penny. Until he came back from lunch one day to find two business suited people waiting in his office.

“Mister Forthby I presume?” The older of the two, a man with tight wavy grey hair and a slightly superior manner, greeted him with a self involved smile.

“Er yes?” Gerard eyed the pair of them cautiously as he sat down behind his desk.

“I am Milford Caine and this is my colleague Mr Compton Winyates. Treasury.”

“Gentlemen. Can I help you?” Gerard said carefully, he knew a ticking bomb when he saw one.

“Your council has come into a good deal of foreign specie of late.” Stated Caine.

“Yes.” No point in lying, half the world knew. “It’s got us out of a very deep hole, financially speaking.”

“Yes. We of Her Majesties Government do appreciate your recovery of such a wonderful historical artefact, however, the gold in question belonged to rebels against the crown and as such is subject to, shall we say, certain rules.”

“It’s not treasure Trove, the Coroner of Treasures has ruled on that.”

“And a very sage ruling it was.” Cain said with an insincere smile. “However, the gold in question formed part of a consignment meant for the destabilisation of the crown of Britain, and under the rules of conflict, like all such assets, is subject to summary confiscation.”

“What?!” Gerard exploded.

“Calm yourself Mr Forthby. We are not here to take, we are here to explain.” Said Caine.

“To facilitate.” Added Winyates.

“The problem is that the gold in question originated from the Spanish Government, who have contacted the Foreign Office, who in turn asked us to investigate the matter.”

“You’re not giving it back to the Spanish are you?” Gerard stared at his visitors.

“Certainly not. No indeed.” Caine smiled. “However, finds of such national significance must be safeguarded. I’m surprised you haven’t had armed robbers. I take it you feel the gold is in a safe place?”

“Our local bank has a good strong room.” Gerard said nervously.

“Yes. We took the opportunity to look.” Caine said. By the looks on their faces, it was clear neither Caine and Winyates approved. “With your permission we would like to move the gold to a secure facility.” The inflection on the word ‘secure’ further implied that they didn’t think much of the bank’s vault. “Sign here.”

A document was placed in front of Gerard. He hesitated. “What am I signing?”

“Permission.” Replied Caine. “Just a formality.”

“This means you can take the gold.”

“For safe keeping” Caine said smoothly.

“Whose?”

“The nations of course and a grateful nation will not forget those responsible for such a valuable assets recovery.” Caine’s voice could have lubricated a fleet of trucks.

“How grateful?” Gerard said suspiciously.

“Shall we say four million?” Caine replied. His tone implied that this was a not to be repeated offer. Gerard sighed heavily and signed. Winyates took the document, gave a brief tight smile, then made a quick text.

“What happens now?” Gerard asked. Caine and Winyates stood to leave.

“Our security people will collect the gold and a bank transfer made to the South Carney District Council”

“Oh.”

“Good day Mr Forthby.” Caine said with a wispy smile, then he and Winyates left Gerard to calculate how much of that amount would be left. After all the promises he’d been blackmailed into.

*

A year later, Barbatos arrived to see the unveiling of Gerard’s project. “Construction of our new facility is coming on nicely.” He said. “How about yours?”

“Finished.” Gerard replied without humour. “I’m just off to witness the unveiling.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“If you want.” Gerard said tartly and picked up a large umbrella. “It’s not far. We’ll walk.”

“Is anything wrong?” Barbatos asked as they made their way out to one of the smaller municipal parks. The rain was falling quite heavily and gutters flowed like miniature rivers. Large puddles formed on the roads as blocked up drains began to make their presence felt. Gerard had to move quite quickly at least twice to avoid being deluged by passing traffic.

At the park, the project that the remainder of the gold had paid for awaited the Mayor. A very damp garden assistant stood vigil, hunched over in hooded waterproofs, obviously wishing they were elsewhere. The mayoral Daimler arrived, the Mayor got out, cut a tape and hopped quickly back into the car before the garden assistant had even pulled off the tarpaulin. “He didn’t even bother making a speech.” Gerard complained.

The mayoral Daimler pulled away, the garden assistant dumped the tarpaulin in a wheelbarrow and strode determinedly off in search of warmth and hot tea.

That left Gerard and Barbatos standing witness on soggy municipal turf feeling the damp soaking into their shoes. Barbatos, very diplomatically, said nothing.

“This is it.” Said Gerard angrily after a few sullen minutes. “This is all we got! After all that? Three park benches and a bicycle rack? Where did all that money go?”

“They’re not even very nice park benches.” Observed Barbatos gloomily.

“And the bike rack’s already got rust on it. Was it really worth it?” Gerard snarled. Following this outburst there was a long, ragged silence. Gerard Forthby and Barbatos, Duke of Hell stood under their umbrellas watching the rain falling on the council’s latest showpiece project. The end bench was already graffiti gang-tagged. From behind the second bench Gerard could almost swear he heard that sneaky little demon rat sniggering.

At length Barbatos said. “The pub’s open.”

“Good idea.” Replied Gerard Forthby. As if you needed a reason to drink on a day like this.

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