Abigail Seltzer is a Scottish writer and ex-mental health professional based in London. Her short stories have been published in the 2013 Lightship anthology, Storgy, Gutter, Bandit Fiction, Mechanics’ Institute Review, Idle Ink, Visual Verse (as Alex Petrie) and Charlie Fish/Drabbles. Her blog is published at https://abbys.substack.com/.  She is working on both a novel and a novella, so when she gets stuck with one, she can go back to the other.

THE WORK OF THE DEVIL

The first thing I noticed as I approached Ernst Fortinoff’s meagre abode was the smell of urine.[1] He lived in a studio flat on the top floor of a building in London’s Archway Road, an area I seldom frequented. As I opened the front door, holding my handkerchief over my nose, I found him at the epicentre of the stench, reclining in a double bed that took up most of the room.      

‘Good afternoon, Mr Fortinoff,’ I said, opening a window.

            ‘Call me Ernst! Pleased to meet you! Sit down!’[2]

A battered bentwood chair stood beside his bed. On the seat lay a pile of used incontinence pads. I remained by the window.

‘How can I help you, Mr Fortinoff?’ I don’t encourage the use of first names, even if the client prefers informality,

‘They tell me you work miracles.’

‘I certainly pride myself on providing excellent service.’[3]

He produced a incontinence pad from under the covers and dropped it on top of the others. I longed for a stiff breeze to sweep into the room.

‘Before we go any further, Mr Fortinoff, I need you to read my terms and conditions.’

I handed him my booklet. Some spend days poring over the fine detail. Others give it a cursory read, keen to get down to business. Ernst fell into neither camp. He tore it up and threw the pieces in the air.

‘I can’t be bothered with all this claptrap.’

‘You do realise, Mr Fortinoff, that if you sign the contract, it will be binding. If you breach any aspect of it, I am entitled to seek redress.’

‘Phbehh.[4] Who cares about small print?’

Such nonchalance was unusual but refreshing.

‘In that case, are you happy to proceed?’

‘Show me where to sign.’

I produced a single typed page from my briefcase. I believe in keeping it simple. Ernst took it in his thick fingers.

‘You got something to write with?’

I prefer an old-fashioned fountain pen. Most people are impressed by its design, flames engulfing an inverted black cross, but Ernst picked it up without comment and scrawled on the designated line. His writing was indecipherable. I waved the paper until the ink was dry.

‘Now what happens?’ he asked.

‘Now,’ I said, placing the form in the correct folder, ‘you tell me your requirements.’

‘And then?’

‘I fulfil them.’

Ernst leant to one side and passed wind. If I could have conducted the transaction from the window ledge, I would have done so.

‘First,’ he said, ‘I want to stop pissing myself. And get rid of the wind, the heartburn and the constipation. And the arthritis. I can’t move these days.’

‘Perhaps the premium package? It offers guaranteed health in perpetuity. Obviously, it costs more.’

‘I’ll take it.’

I like a customer who’s prepared to spend.

‘Excellent. I’ll put it into effect straight away. Feel free to check’

Ernst wriggled his toes under the covers, flexed his fingers and turned his head right and left, like a careful pedestrian about to cross a road in heavy traffic. After carrying out these preparatory movements, he threw back the covers (an action which caused me to retch) and took to his feet.

            ‘I can’t believe it! Pain free!’[5] He celebrated by taking a turn round the room. ‘You really deliver what you promise.’

            I bowed my head with false modesty. Clients are always astonished by the immediacy of my interventions.

            Ernst pulled a bottle of vodka from under his flat, yellowing pillow.

            ‘To us,’ he said, deftly unscrewing the lid and taking a swig. I am seldom dismayed, but I wished he could have put his new found dexterity to better use. By changing his sheets and disposing of the incontinence pads, for instance.

            I took a step closer to the window.

            ‘We still need to discuss aftercare.’

            ‘Aftercare, schmaftercare. You’ve given me what I want, and I’ve given you what you want.’

            ‘I’m afraid it’s obligatory. As it says in the terms and conditions, I make an aftercare visit one month after the initial transaction to ensure that you have not used my services for the good of mankind. If I find that to be the case, the contract becomes null and void and I am obliged to invoke the penalty clause.’ [6]

            Ernst gave a laugh that sounded like a bath emptying. ‘I tell you, you won’t have any problems on that score.’

            I couldn’t help hoping that by the time I came back he would have washed.

            When I returned a few weeks later than promised (business had been hectic), I found Ernst not only washed but dressed and looking dapper. He wore a crisp cotton shirt and a polka dot bow tie. His flannels were neatly pressed and his shoes shone. I was astounded.

            ‘And that’s not all, Mr Nick,’ he said, when I complimented him on his appearance. He threw open his wardrobe and proudly showed off new clothes: four double breasted suits – two pin-striped, two plain, one with matching waistcoat; a suave raincoat (‘I wear it over my shoulders like Al Capone in the movies’); a black fedora hat; and a range of walking sticks, the most dramatic of which had an agate handle fashioned into the likeness of a snarling wolf.

            ‘Quite a collection,’ I said.

            Ernst looked triumphant. ‘Didn’t cost a penny. I go into some fancy dry cleaners, choose smart clothes and tell the assistant I’ve lost my ticket. They ask for some form of identification, so I say my daughter brought them in. They ask me her name and I say the first name that comes into my mind. They say that’s not the name we have here. I slap my forehead and say that’s what becomes of you when you’re old. I’ve given you her first husband’s name. What name do you have? They tell me the name, and I say “Yes, that’s her”. They smile and tell me not to worry, they’ll contact my daughter for payment. Old people. They forget things. I tell you, Mr Nick, it works like a charm.’

            ‘And the walking sticks? The bow tie?’

            ‘Those I just stole.’ He gave a sly grin as he poured two whiskies from an exquisite decanter. I didn’t like to ask the provenance of either. ‘So have I passed your aftercare test?’

            I took out his file and made some notes. ‘With flying colours.’

Ernst sipped his whisky with the appreciation of a connoisseur. ‘So now I can have something else?’

‘You’re certainly eligible. What would you like?’

‘Thirty million pounds sterling.’

A reasonable sum for a beginner.

‘In cash, gold bullion or investments?’

‘Whatever you think best.’ He drained his glass, took a linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at the corners of his mouth.

‘I recommend gold. More reliable. I also recommend that you store it in my secure vault. Staff are on hand day and night to assist with withdrawal and conversion into the currency of your choice, and as a loyal customer, I would be delighted to offer this service free of charge.’

He grabbed my hand and held it tight. ‘You think of everything. What a great guy.’

It’s so rare for me to be called great that I was almost moved to tears.

What with one thing and another, I didn’t see Ernst for several months.[7] I climbed the endless narrow stairs to his studio flat on a crisp October afternoon. To my surprise, the door was opened by an unshaven youth wearing a stained singlet and black jogging pants.

‘I’m looking for Mr Ernst Fortinoff,’ I said.

‘Oh, the old guy. Nah, he left. Said he had come into money.’

To my disgust, he wiped his nose on his arm.

‘Do you have any notion where he is?’

‘Told me he was moving to Bishop’s Avenue, but if you ask me – ’

He tapped the side of his head to show what his answer would be if asked.

I thanked him and rushed down the stairs, eager to escape the smell of urine which had returned like a refrain.

I wandered up and down the Bishop’s Avenue, a tree-lined thoroughfare of multi-million pound abodes. Nearly every house seemed to be undergoing a complete structural transformation. One building consisted of only a façade, like a house on a film set. As I watched workmen hollering to one another, bemused by the extent of the owner’s urge to remodel, a familiar voice crooned in my ear.

‘What do you think, Mr Nick?’

Ernst was resplendent in a straw boater and a striped blazer with gold buttons.

‘Is it yours?’

‘Let me show you the plans.’

He took my elbow and dragged me to a makeshift cabin in the grounds, where he unrolled sheet after sheet of paper. About half were architectural plans for the exterior; the rest were designs for the interior. His taste was unutterably vulgar.

Ernst chortled with delight. ‘Isn’t it horrible?’

‘Are the four winged cherubs over the entrance really necessary?’

‘Absolutely! And even better, the local planning department has turned down my application. They’ve never had so many people objecting.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘But I’m ignoring them.’

Whatever else Ernst might be doing, he was not falling foul of the aftercare stipulations.

‘Mr Fortinoff, this latest project certainly qualifies you to put in a further request, if you wish to make one.’

He scratched deep inside his ear, swivelling his finger around and examining the results.

‘It has to be a woman. A real knock-out who loves me for myself. A natural blonde with – ’ He cupped his hands in front of his chest and jiggled them around. ‘Enormous. And with no scruples about any kind of schtupping.’

His request was banal in the extreme.

‘I would be happy to arrange that. She will arrive this afternoon.’

In a cartoon, Ernst’s eyes would have been hanging on stalks and his tongue lolling.

When I next returned, the house in all its horror was complete and Ernst’s woman, a pneumatic creature called Ilse, comfortably installed. Ernst greeted me with a spring in his step and a toupee on his head. He had lost weight and wore his shirt unbuttoned, showing a mass of greying chest hair. He took me inside to a vast, octagonal entrance hall, at the centre of which was a star shaped swimming pool, beside which Ilse reclined, clad in nothing but a cat’s cradle of a bikini. In each of the eight corners of the hall were glass and gold elevators, leading to each of the eight wings of the house. Through the enormous smoked glass windows, I could see an outdoor swimming pool, tennis courts and a bandstand (‘If I’m doing it outside, I like my musicians to play the march from “Aida”’). Ernst snapped his fingers and a butler appeared bearing champagne.

‘I take it everything is satisfactory,’ I said.

‘I’ve never been so happy. This one – ’ he pointed his thumb at Ilse and gave a sigh of fulfilment. ‘It’s like dying and going to heaven.’ I doubted it was. ‘Let me show you around.’

He led me through countless corridors, into sumptuous suites and on to breathtaking balconies. The entire edifice was furnished like an outsize brothel, with golden beds, crimson drapes and murals of copulating couples. At last we emerged on to a roof garden, complete with carved nymphs and gushing fountains. We stood side by side admiring the view, which now included a topless Ilse tanning herself on a sun lounger by the outside pool.

‘When I started out in life,’ Ernst said, ‘I never imagined I could have all this.’

He spoke in a reflective tone. It made me uncomfortable.

‘We were poor,’ he said. ‘Who wasn’t? I was number seven out of ten. Three died before I was born. The rest died later.’ He drained his glass and set it carefully on the parapet. ‘All I knew in life was getting by. Those words were always on my father’s lips. “It doesn’t matter what you do as long as you get by.”  So I learnt to get by, using whatever means I could.’ He gave me a crooked smile. ‘I wanted to be a movie star, did you know that?’

I could easily imagine him posturing on the silver screen.

‘But someone like me never got those kind of chances. And once the war came -’ He shook his head. ‘They took us to one of the death camps. My whole family died there.’ He gave me a piercing stare. ‘Did you do that?’

I started, not expecting to be addressed in the middle of this reminiscence.

‘Do what?’

‘The killings. The gas chambers. Two of my sisters were shot dead in front of me.’

A strange emotion arose in me. Some might call it guilt.

‘I mixed in a little here and there. You must remember, Mr Fortinoff, that I only do as people ask. I’m a facilitator, not a censor. From a business point of view, the war was a profitable era.’

Ernst continued to stare at me.

‘So many lives lost.’ He moved his glass along the parapet, and with a quick flick of his fingers, knocked it over the edge. ‘Like this we were destroyed.’ Far below, Ilse looked up and waved, her untrammelled breasts bouncing enthusiastically.

‘I saw horrible things.’ Ernst spoke so quietly that I feared for his state of mind. ‘Things a human being shouldn’t see. When I think of what I did to get by -’ He buried his head in his hands. For one terrible moment I thought he was crying, but when he looked up, his eyes were dry. ‘Now I have this wonderful house, a beautiful woman, and all I need to complete it -’ as he spoke, I could hear his exclamation marks returning ‘- is to be twenty five again!’

The change of mood was disconcerting but I remained mindful of my duties.

‘May I clarify whether you wish to remain twenty five, or age in accordance with the normal laws of time? Before you decide, you should be aware that you have only a year left of your allotted life span.’

He looked surprised. ‘But I asked to be twenty five. I should have years left.’

‘It’s in the terms and conditions. The more services you request, the more your life span decreases.’

‘One year,’ he said in dismay.

I wanted to console him. He had been an exemplary client.

‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Fortinoff. I’m willing to give you an additional two months, as a loyalty bonus. And if there’s anything more you want in the next fourteen months, I’ll throw it in for free.’

He put his arm around me and – I can think of no other way to express this – for one insane zillionth of a second, I envied Ilse.

‘Mr Nick,’ he said, ‘you are an angel.’

No one has called me that for millennia.

Fourteen months passed. I heard no more from Ernst and after some uncharacteristic pangs, he vanished from my thoughts. It came as a surprise to read his name on my day’s roster.

The house had fallen into disrepair. A cherub had fallen to the ground, several of the four storey high windows were smashed and Ilse no longer exposed her charms to all onlookers. In her place, a disreputable collection of people sprawled around the empty pool. I could have sworn that one of them was the grubby tenant of Ernst’s former residence.

Ernst himself was unrecognisable. He wore nothing but a pair of shorts and a gold chain round his neck. His body was tanned and muscular, and in place of the toupee was a thick head of blonde hair.

‘Mr Nick,’ he said. ‘Are you here to take me away?’

He sounded relaxed, unlike the majority of my clients who invariably beg for more time.

‘I’m afraid I am.’

I gestured towards my coach and horses. He gave the house one last look and blew a kiss to the crowd beside the pool. They waved and whooped. I suspect they didn’t know what was happening. I opened the carriage door. With a serene smile, he placed his foot on the running board but it slipped off. He tried again. The same thing happened. The old Ernst materialised before me and just as quickly vanished as a sudden overwhelming smell of urine made me gag.

‘Poor old Mr Nick. I’d better explain what’s going on.’ Both old and new Ernsts faded in and out. ‘Once I had everything I wanted, I grew bored. I found it more satisfying to encourage others to run wild. Drugs, sex, children – I am proud to say that my house became infamous as a centre of decadence. The police knew about me, but with my money I never went behind bars. But the tragedy is that I don’t want to be bad. The irony is that because of you I have no choice.’

            By this time I had spewed up a foul smelling liquid.

            ‘I was brought up to get by,’ Ernst said, ‘but I was also brought up knowing right from wrong. If we needed something – and God knows we always needed something – we didn’t steal. We worked for pennies, we sold our belongings, we bargained, we begged. No matter what we had to do to get by, we never harmed anyone. But come the war -’ Ernst shrugged to show that words were inadequate to describe its effects. ‘Everything changed. There were no rules. What was right became wrong, and wrong right. When I reached the death camp, I saw that something new was needed to get by. Look at me.’

            His tone was commanding. The two Ernsts stood side by side.

            ‘I was good looking, don’t you think? A handsome, blonde teenager is bound to catch the eye of a few important people. In exchange for certain regular favours, I was spared and put to work in the hospital as an orderly. Here I quickly learnt that I was not expected to heal but to kill. One day my father came in with dysentery. He died two days later, but not of his illness. His death was not the first I caused, but it was the hardest. After that, taking lives became easy.’

            ‘How did you kill them?’

            ‘I injected them. First with drugs, and when those ran out, with their own urine. The death it caused was slow and painful. Often it required repeated injections. I draw some relief from the fact that my father fell ill while the supplies of medication were adequate.’

            ‘What has this to do with me?’

            The putrid air made it hard to breathe.

            ‘Oh, Mr Nick, surely you know. By facilitating the evil of a few, you destroyed millions. Evil is a contaminant. One drop, and a pure solution is completely spoiled.’

            The two Ernsts fused into one beautiful, terrible being.

‘I’m grateful to you for fulfilling my wishes, but because of what happened in the war, I have no my soul. And because of that, you have no hold over me.’

            Even as I appreciated the magnificence of the con, an exquisite sadness seized my heart.

            Shortly after, I arranged for Ernst’s house to burn down. He tried to escape by jumping from a balcony, only to be impaled on the spike of a sun umbrella on the terrace below. If I could not have his soul, business required that I should have his life. Yet even now, all these years later, I cannot piss without thinking of him. And as I make my rounds of customers new and old, I have never lost hope that one day a door will open and Ernst will be standing on the other side.

---

[1] This took place in 1995, a time when I still visited every customer in person.

[2] I’ve used exclamation marks to convey the declamatory flavour of Ernst’s speech, but from now on will omit them unless needed. I should also add that he spoke with an accent indicating central European origins.

[3] I don’t advertise. People who want me know how to find me.

[4] I have rendered the noise he made to the best of my abilities.

[5] This was one of the occasions when an exclamation mark is necessary.

[6] Section 14, paragraph 3, section 1, points d to f; or d through f if you are American.

[7] The historically minded amongst you will remember the war in Central Europe. The contract alone took me three weeks to negotiate.