“Good evening young man. How did your mission to the wilds of Ungamunga fare?”
The last thing Henry needed was a discussion with the vicar on bringing the good word to untamed regions of the world. He quickened his pace.
“Er, I converted all the Ungamungians, Vicar.
“Scuse me, I’m late for my flight. Just jetting off to sort that lot out in Cannibolia. Lots of heathens out there, y’know.”
The reverend gentleman waved his Sunday sermon notes at the receding figure. “Fight the good fight, Henry. Keep up the splendid work, m’boy.”
On the morning of the seventh day Henry Mawdsley had perked up considerably. He had lain late in bed thinking up a brilliant plan. Walter Furlong, his old archenemy, the dullest, most cynical boy in the whole of Olympia Avenue Primary Juniors, was the very fellow to try it out on. Henry flagged down a passing car and jumped in beside the driver, an old lady on her way to afternoon bingo.
“Olympia Avenue School, quickly! There’s a foreign spy trying to get the exam papers from the principal’s safe. I’m from the Secret Service.”
The antiquated car screeched its way around into High Street, leaving a burning strip of rubber tire tread for twenty yards. Mrs. Kamenish clamped her hat on tight, making clicking noises with her dentures as she booted the accelerator, sending the needle hovering between eighty-five and ninety.
“Heehee! Don’t worry, young feller. I drove an armored staff car all over Europe in World War Two, I’ll get you there pronto!”
Pale and somewhat shaky Henry made his way to the gates, in time to see the pupils emerging for lunchtime recess. Walter was one of the last, his lips set in a perpetual sneer of disbelief as Henry walked alongside him.
“Walter, what would you say if I told you I was the world’s biggest liar?”
Walter seated himself upon the school wall staring coldly at Henry. “I’d say you were correct, Mawdsley. You definitely are the biggest liar in the world. I’ve always known it.”
Henry nodded in agreement as he warmed to his subject.
“And what would you say if I told you not to believe a single word from my mouth?”
“Then I certainly wouldn’t.”
“Honestly?”
“Cross my heart and hope to go bang if I do.”
A tear of pure relief sprung from the corner of Henry’s right eye. He stared happily into the scornful face of Walter Furlong. At last, here was someone who actually disbelieved him.
“Walter, you’re an angel!”
No sooner were the words out when Walter dug a Frisbee from his schoolbag. Setting it on his head like a halo he leapt from the school wall, both hands joined devoutly, furiously flapping his shoulder blades together as if they were wings.
Henry clasped his head in his hands and cried bitterly.
“Do not weep, Henry, for I have come from heaven to comfort you.”
Henry gritted his teeth. “Oh bug off, Walter, you stupid baboon.”
“Whuh, whuh, whooh, hoohooh!”
Walter puckered his lips, scratched his bottom, and with his arms dangling low, he ambled off in search of trees to swing from.
Folk in the shopping district shook their heads sadly at the boy who stood shouting aloud, “I’m Henry Mawdsley, the world’s worst liar!”
A chorus of agreement echoed back from five hundred mouths. “Yes, you are!”
“Honestly I am, the worst liar in the world!”
“We believe you, Henry Mawdsley!” they called back en masse.
The seventh day drew inevitably toward its close.
It was an hour before midnight. The wind sighed like a lost soul around the deserted streets and rain lashed ceaselessly upon the gilded plate-glass windows of the town’s fanciest restaurant. Henry Mawdsley poked his fork glumly at a giant whipped cream and spun-chocolate eclair, a half-finished can of cola stood in a champagne bucket full of ice at his elbow. He moodily dismissed the headwaiter, who was standing by with a tray of lobster fricasseed in lemonade with marshmallows (one of Henry’s favorite dishes whose recipe he had given to the special chef).
“Take it away, Duprez. The very thought of eating food tonight makes me feel quite ill. I can’t bear the sight or the smell of it near me without wanting to be sick.”
The headwaiter’s face took on a distinctly greenish pallor at this remark. “My feelings also, Monsieur Henri!”
The temperamental Duprez flung the dish through the open doors, out onto the pavement. It was followed by a veritable cartload of food from the other diners, all of whom had to believe Henry and were feeling quite sickened. Some of them began actually fighting each other to phone for ambulances because Henry had mentioned sickness. Normally this would have caused Henry to roar with laughter, but a deep depression had settled over the head of Henry Mawdsley. The time was drawing near when Nick Lucifer would leave his fiery regions to claim Henry’s soul. The awful realization of what would befall him when the clock struck twelve began to dawn upon him.
Then the restaurant lights went out.
“Evairyone remain calm, eef you please. I am certain it is, ‘ow you say, a small electrical fault.”
Duprez lit a candle on one of the tables. Other diners (some still feeling sick) followed his example.
Immediately the restaurant became a cavern of flickering yellow light and dancing shadows. The short hairs on the back of Henry’s neck stood up rigid. Nick Lucifer was sitting next to him.
“Time to go, Henry Mawdsley!”
A howling gust of wind slammed both the restaurant doors wide open. All the candles were extinguished by the gale. Nick Lucifer took firm hold of Henry’s arm, and, as if in a dream, Henry allowed himself to be led out into the street. A large black old-fashioned limousine with no driver was parked at the curb. At a snap of Nick Lucifer’s fingers the doors creaked slowly open.
“Back to my office, boy. We have business to conclude.”
The big black car slid noiselessly through the rainwashed streets and the moonless night. Henry Mawdsley stared miserably out of the darkened windows at the town he would never see again. Nick Lucifer produced a lighted cigar and a glass of port wine from his pocket. He sipped and puffed triumphantly as he surveyed his glum victim.
“Well, Henry, cat got your tongue? No more lies to tell me?”
The car came to a halt in the park, right beside the bench where the two had first met each other. Henry felt something shove him outward. He landed upon the gravel path; the big black car had vanished. He was alone with Nick Lucifer.
“Now there’s only you and me, Henry, nobody else. Still, I don’t suppose anyone would believe all of this. But we know different, eh?”
Henry nodded dumbly as Nick Lucifer walked into the bushes. Crimson light and amber fumes poured forth from the underworld. “Follow me, Henry, let me show you your new home. It’s just beneath my office. About four hundred miles down.”
Henry felt his legs moving. He was walking toward the fiery pit when a voice like a thousand harps playing in a sunlit glade halted his progress.
“Stop, Satan, you have no right to possess this mortal soul!”
A blazing golden radiance shone about the form of the speaker. Henry blinked. Nick Lucifer covered his eyes and muttered something completely unprintable as the Archangel Gabriel approached. Henry forgot his peril momentarily—he had never seen a real angel before. Gabriel stood at least a foot and a half taller than any human (because of his large folded wings, which looked like an immense white mohican punk hairdo). He wore a soft white flowing garment and had the kindest blue eyes in the universe. His voice rang out like several hundred ghetto blasters relaying Beethoven’s Pastorale. “Back, back to your pit of Eblis. Begone, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, you shall not have the soul of Henry Mawdsley!”
Nick Lucifer produced the scrolled parchment. Puffing furiously on his cigar he waved the document aloft.