MOSS SIDE BARROW BOY PART FOUR

Before any dipping of the toes in the market, though, Mr Bernstein hauled me in front of the press to be officially unveiled as the new Manchester City boss.

"How long do you think you'll last?" asked one scum hack.

"Longer than Steve Coppell, I hope," I said, attempting a diplomatic joke but being met with a collective shuffle of feet.

"Do you think you can achieve promotion at the first time of asking?" I started to answer; you know what I mean the usual rubbish about it being too early to say, when my employer took to the microphone.

"I'm delighted to say that Terry is hugely confident of winning the First Division championship. That's why he's here."

"Oi David, what are you talking about?" I whispered, as surreptitiously as possible. "You can't make promises like that. What if it goes wrong?"

"I've got £7.5m worth of promises," he said confidently. I looked into his puppy dog eyes, and saw only trust, blind faith. It hasn't been like this for me since that time at Wembley when I told Gazza it was just a scratch.

After the formalities, I got out of there and retreated to my office to think. As far as I was concerned, the squad wasn't good enough as it stood, and needed to be cut down with combine harvester ruthlessness. I already had my eye on Stefan Selakovic as a potential star player, but Mick had assured me that there was little chance he was going to move to the second tier in England. As I opened the door to my darkened room, I could see a figure sat behind the desk, waiting. There was a strong whiff of sulphur in the air. And it wasn't coming from me, at least not all of it.

"Strike a light, it's the Devil!" I exclaimed.

"All right, Terry old son, pull over a chocolate éclair and let's talk."

"What are you doing here?" I stammered, always a little shaken at seeing Satan. He had this habit of turning up when I least expected it, as though for maximum dramatic effect. "I haven't seen you since…"

"That's right, 1996; just before England beat Spain on penalties. Sorry your luck didn't hold out."

"That's okay. It's ancient history now."

"Oh, and thanks for the favour you did for me in Australia. That was one hell of a job. Excuse the pun."

"No problem, Satan. Always glad to do a turn for the lord of flies."

"Glad to hear it. Now listen, I'm here because I hear you're having a spot of bother at Manchester City."

"Blimey, you're right there," I said, head in hands. "It's a nightmare. The Chairman thinks we're going up without a hitch, but the team's rubbish. I'm being tipped off about a certain player but there's no way he'll agree to come here."

"Yes I know, Stefan Selakovic." It was starting to get enormously hot. Satan was regarding me kindly, but the temperature was going through the roof. "Turn your radiator off will you, Terry? I'm sweating cobs over here."

"Sorry," I said, and did what he bade.

"What would you think if I guaranteed you Selakovic? What if I offered him to you?"

"I'd be grateful, of course."

"How grateful exactly?" I sighed. He always did this, made me promise my soul or some other part of me I wasn't going to need.

"Eternally, you mug."

"Excellent," he replied, drawing the word out for all that it was worth.

"Come on, Satan, drop the act. What do you want in return?"

"Nothing, nothing. What do you think I am? Damnation's pawnshop? Call this a freebie, if you like, a gift for past services rendered."

"Oh, all right then. Capital of you."

"But…" Here we go, I thought. This was Ol' Nick all over, going through the motions.

"But what?"

"I might require a small favour from you sometime in the future. Nothing much, just a little something for me."

"You've been watching too many gangster movies down there, Lucifer," I told him. "Your act's starting to get hackneyed."

"Sorry, Tel son. Life's boring in the eternal flames of hell these days, you know. Ever since Robert Maxwell croaked, he's been doing a lot of the legwork for me. It's sweet of him, but I haven't got much to do apart from watch three-hour Coppola and Scorcese epics. Mind you, Robert has let me join his pension scheme."

"That's kosher, my son," I said. "So we're going to get our man?"

"I can gift wrap him if you like. Slap a ribbon around him and a bow on his noggin."

"No ta, Beelzebub, though the sarcasm is appreciated." I looked up, and Satan had already vanished. I was on my own, but the sulphuric aroma remained. It was the last time I would go to that curry house in Rusholme, for certain.

Click here for Part Five.