Here's a little story for anyone wating to guarantee financial success from their writing....

Gerald Hopkinson


Come in please, do sit down. Can I offer you something? Cup of Camp coffee? Pink wafer biscuit? No?

Call me Gerald, Gerald Hopkinson, that’s the name I use. It has the advantage of being my own, which I find rather convenient. Also it’s suitably nondescript, and unmemorable. Rather like myself I must admit. I’m certainly not the type of man to stand out in a crowd. Well, see for yourself. Rather short, a little paunchy these days, hair getting a little thin, these old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. “Once seen always forgotten,” as my ex-wife used to say, once things started to get a little acrimonious between us.

I’m afraid I look rather like a cheap and not too honest accountant. Which, in fact, I used to be in a previous life. Never desperately successful, but I managed to keep body and soul together for long enough. With my own earnings, and, I will confess, a little judicious siphoning here and there. Not a very exciting career, it must be said, but then I’ve never been accused of having a sparkling personality. The word dull has been used, but let’s not bring Sheila into it again. Though I suppose I just did.

I’m certainly done with accounting for ever now, and I find my present....position infinitely preferable. In fact I’d hesitate to call it a job, I can take a real pride in what I do. I really cherish my anonymity though, and the name and my appearance are a great help. Many of my....colleagues, take the opposite view and definitely like to be noticed. Tend to choose themselves new names and look altogether too flamboyant for my tastes. Each to his own, I suppose. They do a good job too, but such theatricality isn’t for me.

It is rewarding, and I surely never thought I’d end up spending my time this way. Not, I suppose, that the choice was entirely mine to make. Fate blows you where it will. I can’t complain, as I really seem to have found my little niche now.

Perhaps you’d care to hear a little about what I get up to? I don’t usually discuss my work very much, but, since it looks like you’ll be joining the Firm than perhaps it might help. Let me see....Ah, yes. Perhaps I’ll tell you about one of my real favourites.

Oh sorry, yes, I will try to speak up. NO, I’m afraid I can’t turn the music down. It’s always that loud. Ghastly isn't it? Specially recorded by one of our other departments. “Cheryl Cole Sings Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

Yes, yes, I quite agree, vice versa might be even worse.....and you’ll be able to find out for sure next week.

Right, where was I? Ah yes, a real favourite.

Guthrie Tybalt.

Now, on the subject of aliases, I had my doubts about that name, but it turned out to be genuine enough.

I remember that, on the day in question, I was a little pushed for time, so I met him over his lunch. Some restaurant or other in London. Nowhere very distinguished, but I remember that they had a ten pound lunch deal during the week. I’m pretty sure it was a Tuesday. I could look it up, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter.
He was just making a start on his....er...well starter when I walked in. Of course I recognised him at once, we’re pretty hot on research, so I went straight over and introduced myself.

He looked completely baffled of course. I could see him trying to figure out where he might know me from, so I quickly assured him that we’d never met, but that I had some vital business to discuss with him, which might be to his considerable advantage. That generally tends to intrigue them enough to listen for a while, especially coming from one who might possibly be a rather down at heel solicitor. Maybe a rich great uncle in Australia who’s left him a fortune?

He waved me to the chair opposite him. I declined the waiter’s offer of the menu, of course, since I wasn’t planning on staying long. I’m not much of an eater these days, anyway.

I took out my notebook. Now, I know some of you younger fellows like to have everything safely on your telephone, but I was brought up on pen and paper, so I tend to write all the details down. I refreshed my memory for a moment and then made a start.

“My name, as I said, Mr Tybalt is Gerald Hopkinson. I understand you are something of an aspiring author?”

Now this really seemed to come as a shock to him, since none of his stuff had ever seen the light of day, and he had quite a sheaf of rejection letters at home. None of them holding out any hope, apparently. Hadn’t even managed to find himself a tame agent. How could I possibly .....?

I saw something of a light of hope come into his eyes. Could it be that his talents had finally been recognised? Could this bland little fellow in front of him be a representative of some major publisher, keen to offer a huge advance for his literary masterpieces?

I disabused him of this notion fairly quickly. I try not to be unnecessarily cruel to clients. The necessary cruelty is quite amusing enough.

“I have come, Mr Tybalt, in answer to your offer of a business proposition, made on the evening of......er. ...(I took a look at the notebook again, though I knew the date well enough, I do like to heighten the drama a little)...the 24th of this month.”

He looked completely blank. They generally do, as you might expect. What was I drivelling about? He’d offered no business proposition to anyone.

“Yes, indeed you did sir. You were clearly heard to shout the offer. Your exact words, it seems were that you would sell your bloody soul to the Devil if you could just get some success with this writing.”

Completely stunned of course, as the majority of them are. How on Earth could I know? Who had told me? What kind of lunatic was I?

I gave him The Look. You’ll learn it quickly enough once you get started on your basic training. It’s very necessary. It tends to compel silence and attention, and also seems to plant a seed of conviction in them. They start to believe. Really, they have to believe....it’s not as if we can show them evidence in the middle of a restaurant, is it?

“No lunatic at all, Mr Tybalt. Merely a rather junior representative of the....er....gentleman you invoked.”

He seemed rather offended by this. Junior representative, indeed? Where was the man himself if this was all genuine? Why should he be dealing with some underling?

Yes, arrogance indeed, but I did say he was a writer and an artistic genius in his own estimation, no doubt. They tend to take themselves frightfully seriously. Always banging on about the depth of their prose, the breadth of their vision and how it sets them apart from ordinary mortals.

I did my best to soothe his piqued ego.

“Well, Mr Tybalt, He is far less involved in the day to day business of late. There is an awful lot of Global work to supervise, and it’s not as if He can be everywhere at once, as is rumoured to be the case with the ....er....opposition. He has a small army of operatives to do the .....er.....customer facing work these days. I am honoured to be one of them.”

Of course, he pointed out that I don’t look anything like the Earthly representative of Beelzebub, and I agreed. There’s always a sense of disappointment when they see me. I find it helps, takes away the fear. Almost makes them feel as if they’re in control.

“Yes, quite. But then wandering into a West-End restaurant with horns, tail and fiery pitchfork might arouse rather too much interest. I prefer a rather more low key approach. Now, if you don’t mind, I am in rather a hurry, so perhaps we could get down to business?”

Of course, it’s the usual response from him. He was only joking, just a turn of phrase, nothing that anyone could take seriously. Certainly not legally binding, or enforceable.

“I doubt we’ll be taking the matter before a judge, Mr Tybalt, and of course an offer to trade does not constitute a commitment. But before you make a decision, let me tell you what my....er....organisation can do for you.”

He listened of course. They always do. Not for nothing is The Boss known as the Tempter. Been at it ever since that apple business and it’s one of the skills they stress most in training. Offer them exactly what they want.

“Now, in exchange for your soul, which, let’s face it, you don’t really use and wouldn’t miss, we would undertake to guarantee you success with your writing. Perhaps not on the global scale, not quite a Harry Potter or a Fifty Shades since those ladies have already made their.....er...bargains, but certainly you’d be spoken of very respectfully in literary circles, perhaps even a Booker win......”

To my surprise he was not interested. Apparently literary respect was not his definition of success with his writing. He was after something far more important.

Of course, money.

If he was going to barter his immortal soul, he wanted to be sure that he could achieve fame and wealth with his doggerel. No, no, I suppose that isn’t fair, since I never read any of it. Don’t plan to either. Don’t really get much time for relaxation these days. He had a counter-proposal. He wanted every word he ever wrote from now on to be worth money.

Well, this seemed slightly out of my discretion, so I told him I’d have to consult a superior. I called my Departmental Head. They’ll give you your own phone once you’re fully fledged. Apple of course, they’ve been in league with us for decades.

It wasn’t an easy sell to the Management, rather tough in fact. There was quite some discussion at the other end, and I think it was referred right up to Senior Demon level. I put up a pretty convincing argument, I pride myself. Inside ten minutes I had an offer to put to him. Just as well, as I was getting pushed for time and he was on dessert.

“Well, Mr Tybalt, my superiors have a further proposition. From the time of signing the....er....contract, it has been decided that every word you write will be worth the sum of five British pounds.”

Now this REALLY got his attention. I suppose the licking of the lips could have been due to the Strawberry tart, but I rather think not.

“There is however, one additional...er...proviso. Each word you write henceforth will shorten your life by one minute.”

Now this he didn’t like at all. In fact he nearly choked on the last piece of strawberry tart. He wanted no part of it. He was not about to sign over his precious life span for a few measly quid. Well, I smiled a little, we were moving into my old area of expertise.

“Come now, Mr Tybalt. Let us consider the figures. For say a hundred thousand word novel, you would earn five hundred thousand pounds.”

I started using the calculator function. Yes, they’re fully functional, just with some extra numbers you won’t find on Human phones.

“And writing this will take a hundred thousand minutes from your life expectancy. Just over sixteen hundred and sixty hours. Sixty-nine days. Just short of ten weeks. Ten weeks for five hundred thousand pounds? It seems a fair exchange to me. And, remember, it comes off the end of your life. But, if you’re not interested.......”

I’d hooked him. Of course I’d hooked him. I could see it in his eyes. What writer wouldn’t take that deal? Actually, who wouldn’t take it whatever their artistic pretensions? What plumber wouldn’t jump at it? All that money for ten weeks? But then I saw his brain ticking over rapidly. Maybe a million for twenty weeks. Just five months. And that sort of money would bring fame too. Fame brings all sorts of things. Houses. Cars. Girls. Maybe boys, I never bothered to enquire. Oh, he was properly hooked, I let him reel himself in.

What did he need to do?

“Oh, it’s very simple Mr Tybalt, you merely sign the contract that I’ve already had drawn up.”

Well, that’s not strictly true of course, but whatever’s agreed with head office is always on the contract when you take it out of the file. No, I don’t know how it happens, it just happens. Lying to a client? Come now, young man, we work for the Lord Of Evil, not Goldman Sachs. The truth is highly over-rated.

He wanted to know whether a mere signature would be binding, and, of course, I reminded him that we wouldn’t be testing it in any court. The Boss would be happy with it, and Tybalt would have no room to wriggle out.

I brought out the contract and a pen. He trotted out the usual joke about signing it in blood, naturally. Over five thousand souls I’ve.... er........ processed, and they never fail to make that comment. I gave a weak smile.

“Ink will be fine Mr Tybalt....now if you’d care to read it through......”

They never get very far with it, of course. “I, Guthrie Tybalt, hereinunder referred to as ‘The Damned’ do solemnly pledge and dedicate my immortal soul......’. Well, you've read one, I’m sure. I’m told they used to be a little simpler, but His Lordship saw some film or other and pinched the wording. He’s never reluctant to steal things. I watched Tybalt’s eyes start to glaze over after the first three paragraphs, and then he reached for the pen.

Job done. Lunch done too, as it happened, and he called for the bill.

“Thank you, Mr Tybalt. That concludes our business, and I really must be popping off now.”

Well, of course, he wants to know what happens now. What does he have to do?

“Why, nothing at all, sir. The contract is signed. Every word you write from now on is worth five British pounds and will shorten your life by one minute. Your soul is forfeit to my....er...Principal, at the end of that time. I wish you a good afternoon.”

I was pretty sure he still didn’t quite believe it, but time was short, I had my result, so I left. I saw him sign the credit card slip out of the corner of my eye as I opened the door and headed out into the street. I hovered outside a games shop for a moment or two. I always used to like jigsaw puzzles in a previous life, though Sheila used to say it was one more sign of my complete lack of any drive, ambition or personality.

I never regret killing her.

Well, Tybalt came out with a huge smile on his face and headed across the road.

I don’t believe he ever saw the bus that hit him.

They absolved the driver of all blame at the inquest. A most conscientious man, with thirty years of service and a fine record for punctuality. In fact his bus was actually two minutes early that day.

Yes, you’ll like this job, it’s very rewarding.

And they never, never read the small print.