by Donna Hosie
I’m about to go and get the last candidate—this Miss Pallister—when the door of the accounting office crashes open and in strides The Devil.
I nearly fall to the floor in shock, and even Septimus has to hold on to the back of his chair for support. The Devil never leaves the Oval Office—ever.
“I want to see it now, Septimus!” screeches The Devil, pulling at his goatee. “He has pushed me to the edge of reason. I want to see the virus tested now. He has sent me an invoice for the damage the cherubs have done to the Pearly Gates. He says I have corrupted them. I’ll show Him corruption. He won’t be whining about graffiti when I have unleashed Operation H on His foul, vile, disgusting angels. We’ll be hearing their screams from here. In fact, I intend to record their agony and will release it as a free download—oh, hello, Mitchell, I didn’t realize Septimus had company.”
I mumble something that sounds like a cat being castrated. If I open my mouth too wide, I’ll vomit on The Devil’s shoes.
“Perhaps we should go back into the Oval Office, sir?” replies Septimus. He is sweating profusely.
“Yes, yes,” mutters The Devil. “Well, good night, Mitchell. Sweet dreams.” He skips back through the door, which automatically closes behind him.
“Take the rest of the night off, Mitchell,” says Septimus quietly. He pulls out his wallet and gives me some cash. “Why don’t you conduct the final interview for today well away from the CBD?”
I take the cash and nod. I have no intention of staying on level 1 longer than necessary. Septimus leaves through the connecting door to the Oval Office. I am alone. Better get this over with, I think, and I pull open the main door to the accounting chamber. It swings wide with an eerie creak. I stick my head out, look left and right, and I see Miss Pallister . . . or rather, I see her hair. It’s mad and awesome, as if a nest of dark-brown snakes has settled on her head.
“Is Mr. Septimus ready now?” she asks with a nervous smile that shows off cute dimples.
“Miss Pallister?” I’m talking to her hair. I really shouldn’t do that. It might upset her.
“Yes.”
Behind me, the phone starts to ring, but I ignore it. The voice mail picks it up.
“This is Mitchell Johnson, The Devil’s intern. Please leave a message after the screams . . .”
Mitchell Johnson, that’s me. Four syllables and nothing more.