The Devil and Mr Alabanti's Right Foot

Legend tells us a great deal about what happened to George Alabanti after the devil came to collect his soul, but is light on the detail of the original pact. Speculation fills in the gaps in that part of the story: Mr Alabanti, a man of little talent and no discernible intelligence, rose to celebrity through his appearance on a television show. In no time he had acquired great wealth, a mansion house in the heart of London, another in his native Bognor. Women he had too, a beautiful young wife and many mistresses, though whether these were part of the compact or just attracted by the fame and money we shall never know.

Clarity returns to the story at the point where the devil came to collect. Mr Alabanti was waiting for him in the dining suite of his Bognor house. With him was his lawyer, Mr Bloomber. Mr Bloomber had not been present at the drawing up of the original contract. Lawyers rarely are, most good lawyers would advise their clients against any such deal. For those lawyers who are not so good, well of course they are unable to help, as they are already working for the other party.

Mr Alabanti had begun to regret his deal, as the deadline approached he realised that he was rather fond of life and no longer relished the idea of eternal torment. Mr Bloomber was known in certain circles as the very best, he had helped many a celebrity escape the bonds of their contracts on the most spurious of grounds, yet he remained independent even of the devil. He was asked to find a get out clause to the ultimate of contracts.

At the meeting everyone was polite and courteous. None of the foul-mouthed language that had made Mr Alabanti famous on the reality TV show, nor the abusive character assassinations on which Mr Bloomber thrived in court. The devil, much maligned though he is, has never had to resort to anything so lowly as bad manners .

Mr Bloomber shook the devil by the hand and made a joke about the fact that they were wearing similar suits. "Well, we're in the same business," the devil had quipped in return.

"The reason I'm here," replied Mr Bloomber in more serious mode, "is because there is a problem with your contract."

The devil made no response, but slowly stirred sugar into the excellent Colombian coffee Mr Alabanti's butler had brought them.

"It is a standard contract," he replied eventually, when he was sure that every granule had thoroughly dissolved, "in return for services rendered I lay claim to your client's soul. On the date of 1 June 2022. Today."

"You may claim your prize, but that is the issue." So saying, he unfolded the crumpled piece of paper on which a younger and desperate Mr Alabanti had scribbled down the devil's words. "I will read out the relevant passage, the rest as undisputed. 'From the date of 1 June 2022 I, George Alabanti, will pass over to the devil my living sole.'"

At this he paused, trying to catch some sign of emotion or even interest in the devil's eyes, but none was there. "That is sole, 's' 'o' 'l' 'e'. My client has given you, from today, complete power over the bottom of his foot. I will let you choose which foot. You have a choice of left or right."

The devil took hold of the paper proffered to him and gazed with seeming disinterest at the wording. The reader will remember that at turn of the last century, people were extraordinarily bad spellers, relying as they did on computers and phones to correct their mistakes, so much so that they never took the trouble to learn to spell, write, or even to think.

"I will take the right foot, the strongest."

"Of course, my client would be interested in finding a way out of this deal. He values his foot greatly and if there is anything he can give you…"

He was cut short by the devil. "There is nothing. The contract was for your client's foot and to the sole of that foot I now lay claim."

As he spoke Mr Alabanti felt a tingle at the bottom of his foot as the devil took possession of his sole.

Contract thus completed the devil took his leave, he had many souls to claim, the reader will remember that the period is now known colloquially as 'the devil's years'.

"Well that went well I think," said Mr Bloomber. Externally he remained cool and casual, though internally he was buzzing with the thrill of success, like he did after every case won, but ten thousand times more so - he had got one over the devil himself.

Mr Alabanti meanwhile, was busy trying out his newly-satanic foot, checking that it still worked. He walked round the room two times, stood on one leg, he even tried hopping. It didn't seem like a foot possessed by the devil.

With a handshake followed by an unexpected hug, Mr Bloomber took his leave. He had outwitted the devil, his greatest achievement, though nobody would ever believe him.

For Mr Alabanti the day passed with nothing untoward occurring. The foot behaved as it always had, happily ensconced in a stylish, hand-crafted patent leather shoe, moving around as Mr Alabanti walked, lifting as he climbed the stair, resting quietly on the floor as he watched television.

That night he retired to bed with his young, beautiful wife. They kissed and made love with a relish that Mr Alabanti hadn't felt for many weeks, concerned as he'd been by the pending realisation of his compact. 'Why was I worried?' he wondered. 'Having the devil in your foot's a minor inconvenience, but not as bad as a verruca.' He had had a very bad verruca when he was younger, in almost exactly the same part of the foot where the devil took root. Between you and me, the devil felt quite at home.

Shutting his eyes he began to drift to sleep. Calm, content, free to enjoy his riches, his women and his life into old age. He heard the soft, gentle snore of his wife beside him. Suddenly his calm, steady world was shaken as if by a whirlwind, he felt his foot lurch from the bed and the next thing he knew he was flying through the air, onto the floor with a bash.

Recovering from the shock, Mr Alabanti checked his right foot, but it was normal again. 'Well', he thought, 'I must expect the occasional prank, after all I do have the devil in my foot'.

He staggered back to his feet. His whole right side was bruised from the fall, at his age little knocks left a mark in a way they never had in his youth, though this was just ageing, the devil can't be blamed for that, it is god himself who must take responsibility for that particular design fault.

His beautify young wife slept on, oblivious, and he climbed back into bed beside her, sleeping on his right side this time, so that his weight was pressing down on his devil-controlled leg.

Again he closed his eyes, though he was now more alert, though his foot remained inert.

The soft, silent sound of Bognor at night played in the background as he thought once more of sleep and he started to drift away from the waking world.

This time he felt the foot wake up and was ready to resist, pushing down on it with all his might. But there is more power in the devil than in any man and even from so small a base as a foot the devil had no trouble in flinging Mr Alabanti high into the air. He landed loudly on his bum, waking his wife, who searched the bed frantically for her missing husband. "Where are you?" she called, anxious, as if waking from a frightening dream.

"Down here" he replied.

"What are you doing down there?"

"I'm not doing anything, I fell out of bed."

"Oh. Well don't be so noisy. I was asleep."

"I won't. Go back to sleep."

He struggled back to bed, this time he was really aching and short of breath, being thrown from your bed with such force can really take it out of you.

He collapsed exhausted, but was wary enough to sit on his foot this time, so that the whole weight of his body was against it. The devil waited until he was nearly asleep and kicked him hard in his own rear end. Surprised by the nature of the attack, Mr Alabanti stumbled from his semi-upright posture and tumbled out of bed with all the foolery of a clown, whacking his head on the floor as he fell.

"Stop doing that," his wife complained, "I've got a busy day tomorrow." His wife was a presenter on a TV shopping channel and the next day she was due to sell a new line of summer wear. She always found it difficult when she had to wear the products, they were just so tacky. She felt like a prize winning stallion being asked to pull a cart.

"I'll sleep down here," said a voice from the floor, "I can't seem to get comfortable up there."

'This is not so bad' thought Mr Alabanti, as he made the floor as comfy as he could with a sheet and pillow, 'so I can't use a bed, this is still better than the loss of my soul'.

But as he tried to sleep on the cold, hard floor of his Bognor palace, he again felt the devil kicking and though he no longer had a bed to fall from he was unable to sleep the whole night long.

At last dawn came and he could give up any pretence of sleep.

"'You silly old man" purred his wife, "you'd rather sleep on the floor than with me."

"You're just too energetic for me," he jested, with reference to the previous night's bout of sex. They both laughed at his joke.

This day involved an early start for Mr Alabanti, as he was travelling up to London, for lunch with his agent, Felicity Bistro.

Twice he almost fell asleep on the train, only for his foot to kick and wake him. It was in a tired and miserable mood that he made his way along the Strand to his favourite restaurant, but the thought of good food and his favourite wine cheered him somewhat. Plus, he'd heard a rumour that one of the bigger soap operas was interested, a juicy bad-guy role. Even if it didn't turn into an extended run it would guarantee him a lifetime's work in pantomime.

But again he felt his foot lurch suddenly, this time dragging him into the busy, grumpy lunchtime road, straight in front of a car. Luckily the car was not moving fast and braked in time not to break him. Ignoring the insults and hoots of the disrupted traffic he trod warily back onto the path until he reached the restaurant, without further mishap.

"George," cooed a delighted Felicity, "you look fantastic," though he didn't, he was shaken and sweaty, "Come and eat. The lobster here is to die for."

The lunch was indeed superb, as was the wine, even though it was from a region of France that relied more on snobbery than taste for its high reputation and price.

"I'm afraid the soap fell through," Felicity confessed, as she ripped some watery limbs off her crustacean. "Though you may come to be thankful, you've no idea how hard it is to find work once you've been typecast in a soap."

There was also bad news on the quiz and chat shows he'd hoped to make a guest appearance on and even the usual circuit of corporate gigs had dried up.

"Never mind George, you deserve a break. Take a trip while you've got the chance, the work will be pouring in within the next few weeks."

Of course, the work didn't pour in. Mr Alabanti didn't realise, but he had worked his last celebrity job. Without the devil out there rooting for him he really did have nothing to offer the world of entertainment and even Felicity with her thick book of contacts couldn't find employment.

The next six days passed miserably. Without work Mr Alabanti was bored and sometimes resorted to watching his wife at work, selling goods she loathed to people she loathed. Sleep was impossible and rather than annoy his wife he located to a separate bedroom, where he made up as padded and protective a perch as he could on the floor.

Sex too had become forbidden, after the devil had interrupted every attempt at intercourse with a range of right-foot behaviour designed to thwart all lustful urges. Eventually, such was his frustration with life with the devil in his instep, he arranged for a special wheelchair to be built, with metal straps all along the right hand side. Once the chair was delivered ten of his friends came to force him into it.

What a fight it was. The devil kicked violently and maliciously. Mr Alabanti fell over in the midst of it and lay on the floor kicking out at everything and everyone. Several of his friends were seriously injured and didn't return his calls from that day on.

But the devil lost out again. The leg was overpowered and strapped down. Fight as he might, the devil could not kick away cold metal straps.

So the devil resorted to a strategy he knows so well. He simply waited. After all, he had already waited 25 years for Mr Alabanti' sole, and he knew that he wouldn't remain trapped in a wheelchair forever.

In fact the devil had to wait just eight days. Mr Alabanti hadn't realised how hard it would be, as he could never leave the wheelchair, couldn’t so much as loosen the straps. He ate in the chair, slept in it, even went to the toilet in it, using a commode of the type that had gone out of fashion a century earlier.

But it was sex that finally made him relent. He had never been able to give a convincing explanation to his wife as to why he had locked himself in a wheelchair. Though she had accepted many eccentric celebrity behaviours from him, this was too much and she demanded her conjugal rights. Demanded them with a winning smile and even more winning show of cleavage.

He was delighted when the foot didn't react to being released. 'Perhaps the devil's forgotten about me and my foot' he thought, 'after all he must have more important things to do, entire governments to run, drugs gangs, terrorists, publishers‘.

But of course, the devil has time for every single one of his clients, even for a humble right foot that hadn't been washed for a week. He was simply waiting for the right opportunity to extract proper revenge.

After a satisfying, if stiff-legged bout of sex, the couple fell asleep together. That's right, Mr Alabanti slept. Even strapped down in the wheelchair the foot had moved about sufficiently to make full-on sleep impossible. Now the devil had seemingly gone away and he disappeared into a deep, deep and blissful sleep.

His wife couldn't wake him when she left for work. Lunchtime approached and passed and he slept on. He didn't rise until late afternoon. He had a light lunch and a coffee and decided to take a walk in the garden, enjoying the freedom of his apparently devil-free legs. Once in the garden, however, the devil seized his opportunity and there was nothing Mr Alabanti could do to stop him. The right foot sped off across the lawn, dragging a hapless Mr Alabanti behind it.

Oh yes, he shouted, oh yes, he struggled, but the power of the devil is bettered only by the power of the devil ired, and the devil had never been so angered.

Mr Alabanti's foot ran on and on, across fields, along roads, over bridges, and Mr Alabanti had no choice but to follow it. Occasionally he managed to scramble along on two legs, but mostly he lacked the strength and was dragged by his all-powerful right foot. Few people tried to help, as his behaviour looked so eccentric to a casual eye that nearly all stayed away, those who did dare near were rewarded with a kick in the eye.

His body soon became battered, bruised, bleeding and broken, but the devil's drag was relentless, unceasing and lasted many days and many nights. He was dragged half way round the country, though to him it seemed like half way round the world. He barely had the energy left to breathe.

Eventually the devil came to a halt at the edge of a cliff, where he left Mr Alabanti’s foot to appear before him in full form.

"I hope you understand the displeasure you caused me," he began, "if I am given your right sole in fair contract then I want full use of that sole. The devil does not use a wheelchair."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't quite good enough. I need you to promise that you'll never try that stunt again, or anything similar, like sawing your leg off. If you don't give your word you'll find yourself at the bottom of that cliff."

"I promise," said Mr Alabanti, though he knew that a spoken contract with the devil was binding and that he had given away any chance to resist ever again.

"Then we have a deal. But I must away for a while, I have wars to plan, TV schedules to disfigure, I will let your foot alone. You have a month without me." And with that he was gone.

Without the devil's great power the broken-boned Mr Alabanti had no way of moving from where he was and relied on a chance discovery by a passing would-be suicide, who raised all manner of official palaver to rescue him, including an air ambulance.

"Really, the state you're in," the doctor had said when he'd recovered consciousness "you should have been on the bottom of that cliff not the top. Any chance of telling me what happened?"

But Mr Alabanti didn't or wouldn't explain and remained a medical mystery.

A month passed. He returned home to find his wife gone, moved in with her co-presenter. The divorce papers waiting for him cited his unreasonable behaviour and claimed the London house as her own.

One day out of hospital was all that he had to enjoy before the devil returned. He sat in Mr Alabanti's lounge stirring sugar into Columbian coffee. So good is the devil's eyesight that he can watch every last grain of sugar dissolve and when that sideshow was over he turned his attention to Mr Alabanti.

"Did you enjoy your month without me Mr Alabanti?"

Mr Alabanti decided not to mention his divorce or the period of oblivion in hospital. Instead he said: "I did."

"Then perhaps we have an arrangement that could work. I leave you alone for a month at a time, though of course you'd have to do something for me."

"What would you have me do?"

"Oh, just a minor sin, a token really. How about adultery? It shouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, especially with your wife gone."

Of course adultery was one of Mr Alabanti's regular sins, so it was not a problem finding someone with which to commit the act. "This is a fine way to get rid of the devil" he thought as he lay half asleep after a bout of intercourse, "having sex with a beautiful woman."

But when four weeks had passed the devil again called to set his next sin, he chose a different, less convenient, challenge.

"This time something to stretch you more I think Mr Alabanti, a little bit of theft."

"But I can give you any money you need."

The devil laughed, a friendly laugh. "Oh no, I don't want you to steal for that reason Mr Alabanti. It's just for the sport, to show you can do it, it'll just be a trifling amount. And nothing complex, no cracking open bankvaults."

"Well, I'll do what I can," he replied, non-committally. Not all theft is bad, he thought, robbing the rich is perfectly acceptable these days, we're all Robin Hood fans now. But, of course, the devil wasn't recruiting for a gang of merry men with which to bring about a redistribution of wealth. In spite of what you may read, the devil is not a socialist.

The devil led Mr Alabanti into town. "That's the man I want you to steal from" the devil explained, pointing at a Big Issue vendor he had seen on occasion as he passed through the town centre.

‘If I rob that vendor‘, he reasoned, ‘there's nothing to stop me paying him back ten-fold tomorrow‘.

The devil purchased a coffee from a nearby stall and watched Mr Alabanti fulfil his task, which was surprisingly easy. The vendor kept his money in a bag strapped around his waist, but the strap was only loosely knotted at the side. Mr Alabanti crept up behind him, gently slipped the knot apart, grabbed the bag and ran.

The vendor tried to chase after him, but Mr Alabanti had inadvertently undone his trousers at the same time as the money bag and they dropped around his ankles, causing him to stumble and fall.

He counted his takings when he got home, just £45. The next day he planned to walk into town and pay a large sum to the vendor for his troubles. But when he turned on the breakfast news that morning he was surprised to hear his name mentioned while he was in the kitchen buttering croissants. 'That's funny' he thought 'Felicity didn't mention any press release.'

As he returned to the lounge, mouth full of croissant, he was still being talked about. 'This is excellent publicity' he thought, but immediately realised it wasn't, as he recognised the face of the vendor.

Mr Alabanti watched the news item in a state of nervous shock. Altogether the story lasted ten minutes, the sort of publicity that most celebrities would kill for, well at least the devil hadn't asked him to do that.

He had forgotten two things when he'd stolen the money. The first, was that he was widely recognised (one of the things he'd wished for in his initial compact with the devil). Secondly, that there was a security camera at the very spot where the vendor had stood - his crime was broadcast again and again on the 24 TV news channels that they had in olden times, when people had nothing better to do with their lives.

He unplugged his phones, which he knew would soon be buzzing. He decided not to got out to pay the vagrant, who would already have made a fortune from selling his story. Even if he was to pay him now, it would look contrived.

He spent the next month keeping out of the public gaze. Aside from reporters, nobody tried to contact him anyway.

The devil returned month after month, with another task for him , each slightly more immoral than the last, though all of them clever crimes unlikely to result in Mr Alabanti being caught - in spite of the prank with the vendor the devil had no desire for his foot to spend a long term in prison. Each time, dejected by his depleted standing and lonely from his lack of friends, he was sufficiently dispirited to accept the task foot.

"Mr Alabanti" the devil said to him one day, about a year later. "All these misdemeanours are starting to get tedious. How would you like to lose me from your foot forever?"

"Of course I'd like that" he replied cautiously, "but I'm sure there's a catch. What would you have me do?"

The devil straightened his tie in the mirror. To the human eye it looked perfect already, but the devil sets himself high standards.

Well, I'll give you freedom on the detail, your decision entirely. All you need to do is kill someone. You could go to an old folk's home and finish off on some old man who's about to die anyway, or extract a revenge on someone, your wife's lover perhaps."

"I'm not sure" he replied truefully, "I've committed a few crimes for you it's true, but murder..."

"It doesn't need to be murder, go to the hospital and switch off the life support of someone who's suffering, or suffocate a newly born baby - at a day old they're too small to be considered human life."

Sensing his resistance, the devil decided to use time as a weapon again, restricting it this time, forcing a decision.

"It is your call Mr Alabanti, but you appreciate I have a full schedule: either you agree to my task, or I will be forced to return to your foot, forever this time, and I am not feeling merciful. Your choice, lose me or take me forever."

For once though, Mr Alabanti's decision was on the side of morality. Tempting though the devil's offer was, for what loss would there have been if a dying old man was put out of his misery early, this was the one crime he knew he could never commit.

"I have decided," he confided "I cannot do it."

The devil looked inside Mr Alabanti and saw that he meant what he said. Rather than tolerate further dissent he said. "In that case I will return," and with a slight tingle in his sole the devil was back.

The devil raised hell for a while, kicking and dragging Mr Alabanti around his living room, causing damage to all the trendy modern furniture contained therein.

Eventually the devil tired of the punishment. As he lay in an exhausted stupor Mr Alabanti realised that he was doomed to eternity with the devil in his foot and decided to do something about it. He resolved to kill himself, as he believed that life was no longer worth living. He called a taxi and was driven to the top of a cliff just outside Bognor. He walked towards the edge, then, kneeling down, kissed the earth goodbye. Apparently there was no living person he felt the need to kiss, just the soil.

At the edge, he gazed down at the rocks below, jagged edges one of which would deliver mercy to him, but before he could leap he felt the devil awake. His right foot powered away from the edge, dragging him with it, for the devil did not want his foot to die on him, not after all his effort.

Mr Alabanti didn't need to take a taxi home, as the devil, dragged him back carelessly across rocks and busy roads. When he arrived home he was again bruised and bleeding.

Of course, he reasoned, I was foolish to attempt suicide by jumping, when the devil has control over my leg, I must try another method. To this end he took all the pills he could find in his bathroom cabinet and lined them up on the table, together with a can of fizzy pop to help him swallow. But the devil was aware of his plans, which were once more easily scuppered, as without warning he found himself kicking over the table and stamping on each of the pills in turn.

Try as he might Mr Alabanti could not deprive himself of his life, not whilst part of him belonged to the devil. By the time the devil next visited, he had come to a decision.

"You're never going to leave me alone are you? Not 'til you get my soul, you're merciless."

The devil quietly helped himself to a cup of the fine Columbian coffee and waited for the sugar to dissolve, down to the single last grain. Around him the world waited on his answer.

Eventually the coffee was as he liked and he took a sip. Thus refreshed he was able to reply.

"I'm afraid I am. Utterly merciless." He paused to take another sip, though it was always the first taste of a new cup that the devil enjoyed. "Or you could say determined. As you say, I get what I want."

"So I suppose I'd better just give it to you."

The devil let the offer hang in the air, not simply savouring the words, more like watching them go round; for so keen is the devil's eye that he can see the very waves of sound reverberating through the air towards him, and nothing looks so sweet to the devil's eyes as sound waves offering up a soul.

"Mr Alabanti" the devil replied, "you are offering me your immortal soul, you and I both understand the meaning of your words and meaning is not subject to error of spelling. You realise that this is your last moment of life?"

Mr Alabanti dried the tears he couldn't stop from forming in his eyes.

"I understand."

"Then savour it."

And Mr Alabanti did savour it and that fraction of a second of life was more precious than anything that had gone before. But moments don't last forever and Mr Alabanti felt the devil take up residence in his soul with a similar tingle to when he had entered his foot, and in the passage of another moment Mr Alabanti was no more.

The devil, for once in his long, long, life, felt a touch of sadness as he collected his due. He'd rather enjoyed being a foot.