By snodlander
Scarth was lying on Paul's desk when he returned home, staring intently at the telephone. He glanced up at his master's approach, then returned to staring at the phone.
"What are you doing?" asked Paul, with a sigh.
"Want it sing," said Scarth. "Make it sing, Master. Pleeeeease?"
Scarth's voice was a high-pitched whine at the best of times, but when he tried to be ingratiating it made Paul want to rip his own ears off.
"Sing?"
"Yes, make it sing." Scarth made a horrible screeching sound. It was a moment before the penny dropped.
"Oh, ring! No, it'll ring when it wants to."
"Sing!" shouted Scarth, and hit the telephone with its tiny fist.
"Oi, stop that. Get off my desk."
"Want it sing!" shouted Scarth in reply.
"I told you to ... oh, wait." Paul screwed his eyes up in an effort to remember. "By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment, I adjure thee to get the hell off my desk, you retarded little pixie."
Scarth slunk off the desk and stared at the phone sullenly.
"Do we have to go through that every time?" asked Paul. "Can't you just do what I say, and assume I said the 'I adjure thee' bit? Do I really have to say it every time?"
Scarth shrugged. "Rules," he said, in a manner that suggested it was more than his job was worth to break them.
Scarth was a disappointment. It had sounded so cool when he had read the passage in that ancient book. A demon to act as your own personal slave. How many level two support desk technicians could say they had their own demon? Paul envisioned a huge, fire-breathing beast with glowing red eyes and voice like a horror movie trailer. Not quite the Balrog from Lord of the Rings, but something close, something impressive. Instead, Scarth appeared in the outline of the sigil Paul had chalked on his bedroom floor.
Scarth was only huge if you considered a three-feet length of string with a couple of knots in it 'huge'. His voice sounded like a gremlin on helium. And he didn't breathe fire. He didn't do anything very impressive, not counting the ability to fart a single note for ninety seconds solid. Paul should have researched it a little more thoroughly before performing the summoning spell. If Scarth had been such a kick-ass demon, surely Paul would have heard of him. He should have held out for a succubus, but it was too late now. He was stuck with the pathetic creature.
At first Paul tried to make the best of a bad job. After all, Scarth was a demon slave, bound to obey Paul's every command (providing, of course, Paul prefaced it with the correct form of words). His first and overwhelming desire was what every young man wanted, but Scarth was not only incredibly stupid, but centuries behind the times. He hadn't even heard of an X-Box 360, let alone known how to get one.
Paul tried the second item on his wish list. He had pointed out the new office temp. "See her? That's Lauryn. Isn't she gorgeous? I want you to make her love me. I mean, by the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment, I adjure thee to make Lauryn love me, okay?"
Scarth bounded over the desks and leapt into Lauryn's hair. As she screamed, the demon repeatedly slammed her head into the photocopier, shouting, "Love Master! Love Master!" To be fair, Scarth probably had little experience in the art of seduction and romance, but he seemed to have a percussive approach to everything he did. Even making a cup of coffee had resulted in broken crockery, a dented kettle, and the sort of mess it normally takes six college students an evening to make.
"Scarth, I need to talk to you. Are you listening?"
"Yes, Master," he replied, staring at the telephone.
"Oh for crying out loud, by the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment already, I adjure thee to leave the flaming phone alone and concentrate on me, you stupid little imp."
"Yes, Master."
"You remember that talk we had yesterday?"
"Talk," repeated the demon.
"Yes, you remember?"
The demon slowly nodded his head, then said, "No."
"We talked about things you mustn't do."
"Mustn't do."
"Yes. Remember the things you mustn't do? What were they?"
"Mustn't make Lauryn love you."
"No, I said you mustn't hurt Lauryn."
"Mustn't hurt Lauryn."
"Yes. What else?"
"Mustn't eat letters."
"Yes."
The demon screwed his already wrinkled face up in an effort to remember.
"Mustn't eat singing box."
That had been quite impressive, Paul had to admit. Scarth bounced around the room when the ice-cream van sounded its chimes, then rocketed across the street, scared off the driver and ate the entire contents of the freezer. Paul had no idea where such a huge amount of ice-cream could go, but Scarth was still lying under the Mr Whippy nozzle, guzzling more gallons than logic dictated should be possible, when Paul had dragged him away.
"That's right. And?"
"Mustn't disobey Master," he said, with an air of finality.
"No, Scarth, there was something else. What was it?"
"Nothing else," he said, his gaze shifting around the room, at the desk, at the chair, at the ceiling. Everywhere, in fact, except Paul's eyes.
"Scarth! What else mustn't we do?"
"Don't know, Master," he said in a tiny voice.
"Do you want me to use the invocation, Scarth? Do you?"
Scarth looked at his taloned feet and sadly shook his head.
Out of the corner of his eye, Paul registered the flashing blue light in the street outside.
"What else mustn't we do, Scarth?"
Scarth mumbled something unintelligible.
"What?"
"Mustn't make sacrifice to Lord Roath of the Inner Circle of Pain, Destroyer of Peace, Crusher of Souls."
There were men in uniform walking down the pathway.
"That's right. So, tell me, where's Mrs Henderson who lives next door?"
The doorbell chimed.
"Ice cream!" screamed Scarth, the yell dopplering as he sprinted to the doorway.
By snodlander
| Author Note: | Because people asked for it. |
Paul stepped back to admire his handiwork. It wasn't a perfect circle, but it was good enough, he thought. He hoped, anyway. He wondered vaguely whether it should be in an unconsecrated burial ground, where they interred suicides, politicians and other soulless aberrations. Or maybe the site of an old church, bombed out in the war. The book hadn't mentioned anything about the location. He expected the supermarket car park was as good a place as any.
He gripped the small penlight in his mouth and opened the ancient book. The symbols were convoluted, and Paul didn't have much of an artistic bent, but the sigils chalked out on the tarmac looked identical. He just needed the candles, and he was set. He turned to his bag.
"Scarth!" he yelled, trying to catch the penlight as it tumbled from his mouth.
The demon paused, half-eaten candle in his hand.
"Put the candle down now!"
Scarth turned large, sad eyes up to his master.
"Ice-cream?" he asked, plaintively.
"No! Just put, I mean, by the seven scrolls of ..."
Scarth shoved the candle into his mouth, his lantern jaw crunching the wax with the speed of a jack-hammer.
"... the-Beast-of-Torment-I-adjure-thee ..." Paul raced to finish the invocation, but Scarth was too quick. Scarth lifted his hands, palm outwards, to show the candle was gone.
"Why the hell did you do that?" screamed Paul.
"Mmmmph blbble," said Scarth, crumbs of wax falling from his lips.
"What?"
Scarth swallowed. "Scarth hungry, Master."
"Do you know what I had to go through to find black candles? Do you?"
Scarth slowly shook his head.
"Bloody dozens of shops, and weird looks from the staff, too. Right! Get in that circle now."
Scarth drew back and shook his head.
"Scarth want stay, Master."
"By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment," Paul shouted, as Scarth covered his large ears with his taloned hands and wailed, "I adjure thee to get in that bloody circle before I kick you in there, you thieving little toe-rag."
Scarth slumped over to the circle, giving Paul puppy-dog stares all the way. He raised one foot and let it hover over the chalk outline. He gave Paul a long, doleful look as his lower lip trembled.
"Go on. You know you have to. You made me use the invocation, so bloody-well do what you're told."
Scarth might have been stepping into a freezing-cold bath, such was his reluctance to place his foot inside the circle. He shuddered as his foot touched the ground, his ears drooped and his shoulders sagged. He stood in the centre of the circle, scrawny arms wrapped around his thin body, and looked up at Paul miserably.
"Look, I'm doing this for your own good, understand? You're no good up here, are you? You haven't a clue what modern living is all about, and you just get into trouble all the time."
"Scarth learn. Scarth not eat anyone else. Scarth be good." His voice quavered and his large yellow eyes gleamed in the torchlight.
"No, I can't be doing with this anymore. Besides, you'll be happier down there, with all your mates and everything."
Paul turned his back on the creature and rifled through his bag. There were meant to be eight black candles, according to the book, but Paul now had only six. He took out the sword of banishment, which an hour earlier had been a simple breadknife, and cut two of them in half. That would be all right, wouldn't it? If you cut a candle in half, what you got was two candles. There was nothing in the book about them having to be the same length or anything.
"Please, Master," whined Scarth, as Paul placed the candles around the circle.
"Shut up, Scarth."
"Scarth stay?"
"Shut up, I said."
"Scarth be good."
"By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment, I adjure thee to shut the hell up," snapped Paul. He felt a little guilty, afterwards, but Scarth's voice jangled his nerves at the best of times. At the least worst times, he amended in his head, because, in all honesty, there had been no good times with Scarth. He was a liability, and as irritating as it was possible to be.
Paul walked around the circle, lighting the candles. As each wick caught and spluttered, Scarth gave a little whimper. Paul studiously ignored him.
Paul placed the breadknife of banishment at his feet, pointing towards the circle. Muttering to himself as he read the book, he unlaced his trainer and placed the rope (or, more accurately, the shoelace) of confinement over the blade. Then, holding the torch high over the book, he read out the spell.
A breeze sprung up, causing the candle flames to stretch and dance around the terrified Scarth. A chill descended as the breeze became a wind. Dust and leaves spun around the magic circle and the wind became a mini-tornado. The candles guttered and expired. Through scrunched-up eyes, Paul could hardly see Scarth, as debris from all over the car park was sucked into the maelstrom.
Finally a deafening thunderclap followed a flash that left Paul blinded. It was over. He could now wake from the nightmare curse of having a demon slave to do his bidding.
Paul squinted into the suddenly calm night and shone his torch. Scarth blinked back at him.
"What? What are you still doing there? I sent you back! You shouldn't be here."
Scarth backed away from Paul until he reached the edge of the circle. He pushed up against the invisible barrier, a look of fear on his face. His feet continued to push him back, his talons tearing long grooves into the tarmac as he attempted to push himself further than the incantation would allow him. He started whimpering, as the fear grew into terror.
"Okay, calm down. I'm not angry, I just must have misread something," said Paul, looking back down at the book.
"We need to talk."
Paul jumped at the sound of the voice behind him. Two coal-red eyes gleamed in the darkness. He took an involuntary step backwards.
"Don't step into the circle!" the invisible intruder commanded. Paul windmilled his arms. Looking down he could see the heel of his trainers almost touching the chalk circle.
A hand shot out of the darkness, grabbed Paul by his jacket lapel and tugged him forward. Paul wanted to close his eyes, but a horrified fascination dragged his traitorous eyes down to the hand that rescued him. Instead of a green and leathery arm that ended in a fistful of claws, he saw a suited sleeve, cufflinked shirt and well-manicured hands. The stranger stepped into the light shed by Paul's penlight, dropped forgotten on the floor.
In any other context, Paul would have mistaken him for a successful businessman. He appeared to be in his early fifties, clothes hand-made and expensive, salt-and-pepper hair and beard close cropped and stylish. His eyes, now he was in the light, were blue, rather than fiery red.
"Jesus, you scared me," said Paul.
The stranger winced. "Please, a little consideration. We don't use His name."
"Who are you?" asked Paul. "You're not ... you know ... are you?"
The stranger chuckled. "No, don't worry. He's too busy to deal with individual souls, unless you're very special. The curse of scaling up, I'm afraid. He's very good at delegating, though. Let me introduce myself. I'm Lord Roath."
"Lord Roath?" repeated Paul. "The Destroyer of Peace and Whatnot of Souls?"
"Crusher of Souls. You've heard of me?" he asked, pleasantly surprised.
"Sort of. Scarth keeps sacrificing things to you. Cats, newspapers, gravel, pretty much anything, really. I've told him to stop, but it's like talking to a brick wall. Well, worse really, because at least brick walls don't look like they're listening."
"Ah, yes, sorry about that. My fault, really. For the best part of three ages, Scarth had been part of my fiefdom. It's embarrassing, quite frankly. What he expects me to do with them all is beyond me. It wouldn't be so bad if he included the odd sacrificial virgin or saint, but what can you do? Between you and me, he's just a little bit simple. It takes forever to get an idea into his head, but then he just won't let go of it, no matter how much you torture him. It took nearly five hundred years in a lake of molten rock before he stopped picking his nose."
"I sympathise. I feel I've spent an eternity in hell just the last two weeks. Still, it's all over now. I'm sorry, I didn't know you would come in person to collect him. I hope you weren't busy or anything."
"The thing is, Paul," said Roath, wrapping an avuncular arm around his shoulders, "I'm not here to collect him."
"You're not?"
"No. Oh, it's all in the small print, perfectly legal and all that, but the version of the summoning spell you used has a clause in it that gives us the option to refuse the return of goods. Sorry, chum, but you're stuck with him. A demon's not just for Christmas, you know. Look on the bright side. How many of your friends can say they have their own personal demon to command?"
"But he's so useless. He doesn't understand most of the orders I give him, and he keeps eating things." Paul looked anxiously around the deserted car park and said in a conspiratorial voice. "I think he's eaten a couple of people too."
"Yes, he does that. Not strictly necessary, of course. Being a demon, he doesn't actually need to eat, but he does have a remarkable appetite. Still, just point him at people you don't like, and that will turn your frown upside down."
"I hardly think this is a joking matter," said Paul.
"I wasn't joking, " answered Roath.
"Okay, I get it. All right, you win. Where do I sign?"
"Sign?"
"Yes. The contract to hand you over my soul. Give it here."
Roath plunged his hands deep into his pockets and had the grace to look guilty. "Well, normally that would be the way of things, to be sure. But, you see, the thing is, if we did that, we'd have to take Scarth back. And quite frankly, Mother Theresa's soul wouldn't be enough for me to take him back. No, sorry, you're stuck with him for life."
"I'm stuck with him for the next fifty years?" cried Paul, aghast.
Roath reached out with a polished, patent leather shoe and scuffed out part of the chalk circle. "No, not exactly."
"There's a way out?" said Paul, grasping at the proffered straw.
"No, I mean, it won't be fifty years. Not even close. One of the advantages of this special deal, you see. All the time you're blessed with Scarth, you're blessed with eternal youth. If I see him again in the next five hundred years, I shall be sorely upset. Well, goodnight, young man. Nice to have met you. Have fun."
He waved his hand in a complicated movement, and a cloud of smoke erupted around him. When it cleared, Roath was still standing there.
"Damn, that's embarrassing. I hate it when the ..." and he disappeared with a pop.
Paul stared at the spot for long seconds, but it became apparent that Roath was not returning. He turned round. Scarth was speculatively sniffing a candle. He looked up at his master and smiled hopefully.
"Ice cream?" he said, and bit into the wax.
By snodlander
| Author Note: | Ok, for a one-off, this is turning into a book |
"Hello, Father. Thank you for seeing me."
The priest smiled and held his hands open expansively. "It's my pleasure. Besides, it's what I'm paid to do. Please, call me Mike, my parishioners do. Now, what seems to be the problem?"
Mike wasn't what Paul had been expecting. Priests should be old, with an old-fashioned outlook that suggested they might have heard about the latest skiffle band (the Beatles, aren't they called?) but don't really approve.
They shouldn't wear faded jeans, a pair of bright red Nikes and a dog-collar over a Hawaiian shirt. They certainly shouldn't look like they were fresh out of high school. Still, when the devil drives .... Paul immediately regretted his choice of words.
"It's difficult to know where to start. I ... um ... look, I'm not a Catholic, okay? Is that a problem?"
"I rather think the Church's attitude is that it's a problem for you, but it's certainly no problem for me. Nowadays the Church can't afford to be elitist in who it talks to." Father Mike smiled, to show he was joking. "Come on, what's bothering you? It can't be that bad. The tales I could tell about some of the things people have confessed to me. Well, no, actually, I can't tell you. That would be against the rules, but, trust me; you can't tell me anything I haven't heard before."
Paul wondered just how many sins a priest that young could have heard, even if he were prison chaplain at Broadmoor. He most certainly hadn't heard Paul's problem, though. No priest had, he bet.
He took a deep breath. "I've got a demon."
Mike nodded sagely. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it? You'd be surprised how common it is. You're not the first, and sadly, you won't be the last. Even in the priesthood. Some blame the Eucharist, polishing off the leftover wine. Here, let me give you something."
Mike walked over to a desk, opened a drawer and produced a pamphlet. He sat back opposite Paul and handed the leaflet over to him.
"I know the chap that runs the local meeting. He's really nice, and it's a system that works, if you really want to rid yourself of the curse."
Paul glanced at the headline on the cover. "Alcoholics Anonymous? Ha! If only. I'm not a drunk, Father, I mean, Mike, though there are times when I wish I was."
Mike put his hand over his mouth. "Oh, crap! Sorry, I didn't mean to make any accusations. I just assumed when you said 'a demon', you meant the demon drink. Stupid of me. I really shouldn't make assumptions; they make an ass out of you and 'umption'."
He smiled expectantly. "Samuel L Jackson? No? Sorry, I'm a bit of a film buff, not that I get to see many nowadays. It was a line in ... never mind. So, what is your demon, then? Gambling? Women? Oh! It's not men, is it?"
"No!" exclaimed Paul. "No, when I say I've got a demon, I mean, I've got an honest-to-goodness, real-life demon."
Mike nodded gravely. "I see," he said. He leant back and looked at the ceiling for a few seconds, then looked back at Paul. "A demon. Right." He drummed on his knees for a moment. "When you say demon, what actually do you mean?"
"He's a demon. I mean, a little devil thing. A demonic entity. A former inhabitant of the underworld. He's a fucking demon, is what I mean!"
Mike frowned. "You mean an actual demon?"
Paul closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath. It didn't work very well. "Yes, when I said I have a demon, I meant I have a demon. An actual demon. That's what I meant."
"Okay. Listen, um, Paul, I'm going to ask you a question, but I don't want you to get upset, okay? Just chill, but I have to ask. Are you meant to be taking regular medicine?"
"What? No. I mean, I had the flu a couple of months ago, but ... Oh, wait. You mean, am I a nutter? No, I'm not on drugs, prescribed or otherwise. Sadly, I am completely sane and sober."
Father Mike leant forward conspiratorially. "Maybe a joint would calm you down a bit. What do you think?"
"I think," said Paul, trying to keep control of his anger. "I think I would like you to perform a rite of exorcism on my demon, then you need never see me again. How's that?"
"Paul," said the priest, leaning back and steepling his hands. On an older man, this might have worked. "Paul, I think you have a demon, but I think it's one inside of you. Have you tried counselling? I'm asking you this as a friend."
"I am not insane," said Paul. "I am not a drunk, a druggy or Dungeons and Dragons addict. I am simply some poor sod that has a demon that needs getting rid of."
"Okay. Where is the demon, Paul? Is he here right now?"
Paul looked at Scarth in the centre of the office, sitting on his hands as he had been commanded. Scarth closed his eyes, laid his ears back and broke wind with a protracted whistle. He extracted one of his hands and sniffed it speculatively. He saw Paul's disgusted expression, and quickly replaced his hand underneath his backside. "Scarth sit on hands, Master. Scarth be good."
"He's there, on the rug," said Paul, sighing.
"Paul, I can't see him. Sorry, chum, but there's nothing there," said Mike.
"Scarth, reveal yourself to the priest here."
"Rules, Master," said Scarth.
"Yes, I know there are rules, but you seem to be able to break them easily enough when you forget them. Show yourself."
"Scarth must serve Master, but Scarth must not show himself. Rules."
Paul smiled apologetically at Father Mike. "Sorry about this. Just give me a minute. Scarth! By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment, I adjure thee to reveal yourself to Father Mike here."
For a moment Scarth looked pained, conflicted by the paradox. Finally, he shrugged.
"Paul, please, there's no shame in getting help when you're ill," said Mike.
"Can't you see him now?" asked Paul.
"Paul, there's nothing there except ... Jesus H Christ!"
The priest fell off his chair and pushed himself backwards until he sat with his back to the wall. He looked as though he was trying to dig his way through it with his shoulder blades. He lifted a shaking hand and pointed at Scarth. Scarth lifted his own hand and pointed back at him.
"It's a ... it's a ... it ...."
"It's a demon," said Paul, helpfully.
"It's a demon," agreed Mike. He ripped open his shirt and held out a crucifix. It was barely bigger than a paperclip, but he held it the way a drowning man at sea in a hurricane would hold a straw.
"Father," said Paul. Mike continued to stare at Scarth. "Mike." He snapped his fingers. The frightened priest whirled his tiny crucifix towards Paul, then back at Scarth, seesawing between the two, trying to cover them both.
"Mike, I need you to focus, now. Do you want me to make him invisible again?"
"Yes. No! No, don't hide him. I don't want him sneaking around invisibly. Oh my God, are there any more of them?" He whipped his crucifix from side to side, trying to cover all potential invisible monsters in the room.
"No, there's just Scarth. Trust me, he's enough."
"What do you want? Why did you bring him here? Are you ... are you going to kill me?"
"No," said Paul, with exaggerated patience. "I want you to get rid of him."
"Me? What do you expect me to do?"
Paul shrugged. "I don't know. Exorcise him. That's what you people do, isn't it? Green pea soup and spinning heads, sort of thing. I want him gone, banished, back to the pit whence he came, sort of thing."
"You ... you want an exorcism? Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Where do you think we are? The Middle Ages? We don't do that stuff anymore. We don't burn heretics at the stake, either."
"Mike, look here, Mike. This is a demon, okay? It's not some kid with a dirty mouth; it's an honest-to-God demon. You want to sit down with it and talk out its problems, or you want to get a bell, book and candle?"
"Um ... right. Good point. Listen, I think we have a man that specialises in this. I read about him in Time Magazine. Um ... he's based in Nigeria, I think. I'll try to get him over. Could you, I don't know, come back in a couple of weeks?"
Paul shook his head. "I don't know how many more people he might have eaten by then," he said.
"He eats people?" Mike cried, his voice rising several octaves as he held up his crucifix again.
"When he can't get ice cream. I've told him to stop, but he's a disobedient little demon."
"Scarth good. Scarth sit on hands," said Scarth, placing his hands underneath himself again and looking eagerly at Paul.
"So, come on, Mike, are you up to it? Are you the one, or shall we seek another?"
"That ... that's from the Bible, isn't it? Yes, yes, okay. The Lord's my shepherd, and all that. Okay, just give me a moment ... yeah, okay."
Mike climbed cautiously to his feet. "Okay, right, yeah. Um ... Okay, I think I've got a book on that, somewhere."
He edged around the room, facing Scarth. Scarth, fascinated, slowly turned in sync, returning the priest's stare. Behind the desk stood a wall of books. Mike ran a shaking hand across one of the few rows of hardbacks and pulled out a large, leather-bound book. He placed it on the desk and slid his finger down the index. "Exorcism, exorcism," he muttered to himself. He flipped the pages and studied the contents, murmuring to himself and throwing nervous glances at Scarth.
"Okay, yep, seems straightforward. A lot of it's in Latin, not my strong point, sorry. I studied economics at uni, I'm afraid."
"Really?" said Paul, dryly.
"Yes. Still, I should be all right. It's all written out. Yes, this should be fine. I just need a bell, book and a candle. I'll ... I'll just pop out into the church and get them, then, shall I?" he asked hopefully.
Paul rose from the chair and stood in front of the door. "No, I don't think so. It's a big church. You might get lost. I've taken the liberty." He produced a small brass bell and a tea light from his pockets.
"Okay, I just need a book."
Paul stared pointedly at the large tome in front of the priest.
"Oh, yes, I see. Silly me. Um ... do I need holy water, do you think?"
"That's vampires," said Paul.
"Oh my God, there's vampires too? You ... I mean ... You're not a vampire, are you?"
"Let's not get silly, Mike. Don't confuse fiction with reality. There's no such thing as vampires. Just concentrate on the job at hand. You know what they say." He waved the Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet at him. "One day at a time."
Paul walked over to the desk and placed the items on front of Mike. The terrified young priest patted his pockets and produced a lighter. He tried to light the small candle, but his hands shook like an operator of a pneumatic drill. Paul covered the priest's hands with his own to steady them. Mike nodded his thanks, then as an afterthought pulled out a battered cigarette packet.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"Knock yourself out," said Paul. "Just get on with the job while you're at it."
Mike sucked on the cigarette so hard a quarter of its length disappeared in one draft. He left it hanging from the corner of his mouth as he took the book in one hand and the bell in the other. Paul stepped back out of the line of fire.
"Will it hurt him?" he asked.
"I don't know. I've not done this thing before. I shouldn't think so, though."
"Pity," said Paul.
Mike looked Scarth squarely in the eye and intoned the Latin words in front of him. Scarth stared back for a moment, then explored the contents of a nostril with one talon.
Mike got to the end of the first paragraph and shook the little hand bell. The effect on Scarth was dramatic. His ears fanned out, his head shot up and an excited expression covered his face. "Ice cream?" he asked.
"What's he doing, what's he doing?" cried Mike.
"Don't worry. He just associates chimes with ice cream vans, that's all. Don't ask. Hurry up and finish the damn thing."
Mike glanced back to the book and started the next paragraph. He shook the bell again.
"Ice cream!" shouted Scarth, rising to his feet.
"Scarth! Sit down," commanded Paul.
Mike pointed the bell at Scarth as though it were a weapon and whimpered. His tremors caused the clapper to hit the bell again.
"Ice cream!" cried Scarth again, advancing on the priest.
"No, stay away," cried the priest, shaking the bell at Scarth in defence.
Scarth vaulted the desk and grasped the terrified priest by the shirt lapels.
"By the seven scrolls ..." Paul started intoning, but it was too late. Scarth seemed somehow bigger than normal.
"Ice cream!" Scarth thundered, and the noise of his voice seemed to be a physical thing battering at the two men. He opened his mouth wide.
"... I adjure thee," said Paul, weakly, then his voice petered out.
Scarth picked up the brass bell and shook it sadly. "No ice cream," he said, then burped loudly. A little puff of smoke appeared. He picked at his teeth with a pointed claw, then pulled out a soggy red Nike. He dropped it absently on the floor and shook the bell again.
"Sing," he said. He shook it again. "Sing, but no ice cream."
"No, no ice cream," said Paul with a sigh. "Come on, we're leaving."
Scarth dropped off the desk and slouched over to Paul, gently ringing the bell.
"Ice cream?" he asked hopefully.
By snodlander
The bookshop had not been easy to find. It was tucked down a back alley away from the main shopping streets. At first, Paul thought it closed. The windows were dusty and the light inside dim, but the door opened when he pushed it.
It was like stepping back in time. Dickens would feel at home here, thought Paul. Row upon row of bookshelves crammed the small interior. They even lined the wall of the narrow stairs that disappeared down into the basement. The atmosphere seemed somehow full of books as well, the old books giving up their paper fibre by fibre into the air, so that the room was rank with old words and forgotten sentences.
The proprietor looked as ancient as the books around him. He wore a grey shirt and a lime hand-knitted cardigan that looked as though it would disintegrate in the unlikely event of it ever going near a washing machine. He bent over a book on the counter, licking the forefinger of his left hand to turn the page, dunking digestive biscuits into a mug of dark tea with his right. A track of soggy crumbs across his chest attested to his lack of dunking precision.
"Sex magic is in row three," he said, without looking up.
"No, I'm here for ... sex magic?" asked Paul.
"Row three," repeated the old man.
"No, I'm not here for that. I'm looking for the owner."
The old man read for a few more moments, took an unopened manila letter marked 'final notice' and placed it as a bookmark, shut the book with a slam and finally looked up at Paul. His expression indicated that he did not like what he saw.
"What's your business with him?"
"I ... um ... I have some questions I'd like to ask."
"You with the tax man?"
"No."
"Rent?"
"No, I ..."
"Bailiffs?"
"No, I'm not after any money."
The old man sniffed, as if to say in his experience everyone was after money, but that he was prepared to take him at his word for the moment.
"Who are you, then?"
"My name's Paul. Are you Mister Avery?"
"I might be. What do you want?"
"I have a question about ... well, the occult, I guess. I heard you were an authority."
"Well, you heard wrong, then, didn't you. Don't know nothing about the occult."
"You don't?" asked Paul, unable to hide his disappointment.
"No. Look around you. See them funny rectangular objects. Them's called books, them is. Don't suppose someone your age ever reads books. 'Spect it's all computers and iPods with you lot. What I'm an authority on, Sonny Jim, is occult books. Nothing I don't know about occult books. If it's a question about occult books, I'm your man. I could go on Mastermind, me, specialist subject: occult books. Not the occult, occult books. Understand? Now, if you've got a question about occult books, fire away, otherwise buy a book or piss off."
"I'm looking for a book that tells me how to get rid of a demon," said Paul.
"Oh, is that all?" said Mister Avery. "Get rid of a demon? Oh, I have a hundred books on that. That's easy."
"It is?" asked Paul eagerly.
"No," said the shopkeeper. "That was called sarcasm. You can't just wave a magic wand and disappear it. For a start, have you any idea how many different species and classes of demon there are?"
"No," said Paul. "How many?"
Mister Avery looked flustered for a moment. "Lots. Shed-loads, in fact. My point is, you can't just have a generic, get-rid-of-a-demon spell. Stands to reason. There's the type of demon it is, its rank, what subculture it comes from, what the summoning spell was ..."
"Ah, I can help you with that," said Paul, lifting a plastic carrier bag onto the counter. He removed the ancient book, leafed through the brittle pages and showed it to Mister Avery.
Mr Avery looked at Paul, placed a nicotine-stained finger on the page and closed the book on it, all without once glancing at the page. After a pause, and with a sniff of contempt, he picked it up and looked at the spine. He turned it over and examined the back. Finally, he examined the front, so closely that for a moment Paul thought he was going to smell it.
"You can tell a lot about a book from its cover," he said. "Leather-bound, not too sure what animal it came from, but bearing in mind the subject, best not to enquire too closely, eh? Somewhat foxed, but commensurate with its alleged age. Title engraved then inlaid with gilt, though most of it has worn off. Binding is reasonable, no obvious pages falling out." He opened the flyleaf. "Heavy-duty paper, hand-crafted by the feel of it. No printer's name, but that's not unusual for books with a dubious moral message. It was probably a custom run. I'll give you twenty for it."
"Twenty?" echoed Paul.
"Okay, twenty five, but that's my final offer."
"I'm not selling it. That's not why I'm here. I ..." Paul looked around and leant closer. "I used it. I used an invocation from the book, and I summoned a demon, but it's all going wrong and I want to send the little sod back again."
"I see," said Mister Avery, with a voice so level mercury would not roll off it. "You used this book to summon a demon? Let's see, shall we?"
He laid the book back on the counter and opened it where his finger had been keeping his place. "I beseech the powers ..." he read, but Paul interrupted him with a yelp.
"No! Don't read it! Not out loud."
"Do you see any cabalistic sigils drawn on the floor? Have I written the runes of power on my forehead? Is there any evidence of a ram's horn anointed with the blood of a virgin? No? Well, it's not going to matter, then, is it? 'Cos that's what it says you need to have before it'll work. Where'd you find a virgin, by the way? She wasn't local, was she?"
"I just rather you didn't read it out loud, that's all," said Paul, blushing. Finding the virgin was easy. Getting up the courage to cut his own hand had been the difficult bit.
Nevertheless, Mister Avery merely moved his lips silently as he read further. Eventually, he stopped, sucked air through his clenched teeth pensively and looked up.
"Well?" asked Paul.
"What you have here, Sonny, is an invocation to summon a demon from the Pit of Pain."
For a moment Paul was too stunned to say anything. But just for a moment.
"Oh, brilliant! Marvellous! A spell to summon a demon? Well I never. I'd never have guessed."
Mister Avery leant forward on the counter and bared his yellow and uneven teeth. "Don't get shirty with me, Sunshine," he hissed, "or you can just piss off out of my shop, understand? I'm trying to help you here. You're obviously completely out of your depth. Shall we start again?"
"Yes, okay. Sorry," said Paul. "Only, I'm a bit on edge, what with, you know, my problem."
"The point I was making," continued Mister Avery, "was not so much that it was a summoning invocation, but that specifically it was from the Pit of Pain. That gives us a starting point. Your demon isn't going to be more than a level three demon at most. Powerful enough in its way, but not major league stuff. Given that you're a first-time amateur, I'd put money on it being a level one, which would be easy to get rid of. In fact, " he said, turning the page, "it's right here. Did you bother turning the page at all?"
"Yes," said Paul, his voice slow with contained impatience. "I did all that, but it didn't work."
"You must have done it wrong then."
"No. I followed it to the letter ... um ... rune, whatever. It didn't work. Some sort of get-out clause or something. They wouldn't take him back."
"How'd you know you did it right?"
"Because some other guy appeared and told me they weren't taking him back, not even for Mother Theresa's soul."
"What other guy?"
"Lord Roath, he said his name was."
Mister Avery stepped back, nodding to himself. "Lord Roath, eh?" He reached into his pocket and slipped something into his mouth.
"Oh, God, that's bad, isn't it?" said Paul. "What was that? A protection potion?"
"Tic-tac," said Mister Avery absently. "I recognise the name from somewhere. Wait, don't tell me, I'll get there."
Paul wondered how Mister Avery thought Paul would be able to tell him anything.
"First mentioned in Les Betes Diabolique, circa 1520. Had his own cult in France by the turn of the eighteenth century. What does that tell us about him, eh?" he asked Paul, as though Paul should know the answer. Paul shook his head.
"It tells us he's ambitious," continued Mister Avery. "Takes centuries, millennia sometimes, to get your own cult, yet he goes from zero to cult in under two. So, why isn't he mentioned at all in recent grimoires?"
Paul shook his head again, though the old man didn't seem to want an answer.
"Because he's not actively involved in human affairs, that's why. He's a back office boy, working his way up the management ladder. He's a bureaucrat!" Paul marvelled that such venom and contempt could be poured into a single word. "He said you couldn't return your demon?"
"That's right," confirmed Paul. "Exercising their right of refusal, he said."
"Well, if he said he had a right to refuse, he probably has. I know their type, bloody Jobsworths. Know a contract back to front, they do. They think just because they print 'your house may be at risk' on the form, they can take your home from over your head. Bastards!"
Paul suspected the shopkeeper was wandering off track onto some personal path. He tried to steer him back.
"So, I'm stuck with Scarth? There's no way out?"
"I didn't say that, did I? There's always a loophole. No lawyer ever got rich making a good contract. They get rich exploiting loopholes, and who writes them loopholes into the contract in the first place, eh? But first, you got to get your facts right. What sort of demon are you saddled with?"
Paul shrugged. "I don't know. It doesn't come with a label."
"You got yourself a binding invocation there, so it's bound to your will and body. He in the shop now?"
"Yes," said Paul, turning. Scarth was scaling a bookshelf. He stopped guiltily a foot from the top when he saw Paul looking at him. "He's over there."
"Describe him to me," said the shopkeeper.
"I can command him to make himself visible, if you want," said Paul.
"Not possible," said Mister Avery. "A demon bound to an earthly master can't reveal himself. Everyone knows that."
"He's done it before," said Paul. "I have to order him to, but he's done it. To be honest, I don't think he really understands the rules himself. He's a bit simple. Well, more than a bit simple, really. Quite a bit more, in fact."
"Okay," said Mister Avery, cautiously. "Try it."
Paul ordered Scarth to become visible. Mister Avery nodded to himself.
"What's that, then?" he asked, after a moment's perusal of Scarth.
"That's the demon," said Paul, nonplussed.
"Nope. That ain't a demon," said Mister Avery. "Not sure what it is, but it's no demon. No tail, ears like an elephant's, round pupils instead of slits. That's not a demon. I'll show you a demon, shall I?" He shuffled around the counter. Paul was not surprised to see he was wearing threadbare slippers. He pulled a book from a shelf and opened it. "There!" he said, pointing to an engraved page. "That there's a demon. Got a tail, see? Pointy ears, not flaps. Slitty eyes, like a cat's. Does it talk?"
"After a fashion," said Paul.
Mister Avery turned to Scarth. "What are you?"
Scarth turned to Paul, then back to the old man. "Scarth."
"I didn't ask your name, you idiot. What sort of creature are you?"
"Scarth," repeated Scarth.
"Either you're very stupid, or very, very clever," said Mister Avery. "I'm betting on stupid. You know what I think?" he asked, turning to Paul. Paul shook his head. Mister Avery seemed to ask a lot of rhetorical questions. "I think what you've got here is a chimera."
"Oh, right," said Paul, nodding his head. "What's one of them?"
"It's an abomination, that's what it is, and this thing is evidence of why. I think this is what you get when a demon breeds with a sprite. It has all the intelligence and magical powers of a damp sponge. So, it's your slave, then, yes?"
Paul nodded sadly.
"It got you laid yet, then?"
"I beg your pardon?" asked Paul, affronted.
"Oh, don't give me that," said Mister Avery. "First thing a man would ask for, power over women." He leered. "Or men, depending."
"No, he's not got me laid. He's not got me anything. He has a problem understanding anything I tell him to do, and when he does understand, he just hits it. I told him to vacuum the carpet and he just beat the vacuum cleaner up while screaming 'clean'!"
"Does he exhibit any extraordinary powers at all?" asked Mister Avery.
"He can eat." Mister Avery looked unimpressed. "I mean, he can eat and eat. I saw him ..."Paul dropped his voice to barely a whisper. "I saw him swallow a person whole. Bang, and he was gone."
"Yeah?" said Mister Avery, and casually retreated behind the counter. "Well, you got yourself a problem, then, don't you? None of your demonic spells are going to work on him, him not being a demon as such. And no-one has ever written a sprite banishment invocation. No such thing, being as how no-one has needed to before, see? So, you are right up the proverbial creek, Sunshine. I'll give you thirty for the book, seeing as how I feel sorry for you."
"Thirty? That's not going to keep Scarth in ice-cream for a day."
"Ice-cream?" said Scarth, his ears perking up.
Mister Avery shrugged. "Suit yourself, but you're not going to get a better offer anywhere else."
Scarth leapt off the bookshelf and landed on all fours on the counter. "Ice-cream," he said, with an edge of menace to his voice. Before Paul could react, Mister Avery whipped out from under the counter a medallion hanging on a leather thong and held it in front of Scarth's face.
"Ha! Didn't expect that, did you, Dogsbreath? Know what this is? No? This is the seal of Arwen the Bald. Proof against all creatures of the pit. You try it on with me, Sunshine, and I will introduce you to pain that your Lord Roath can only dream of."
Scarth cowered, then leant forward hesitantly. He sniffed the medallion twisting in front of him, then bit it. As Mister Avery looked on in horror, holding the severed thong in his hand, Scarth chewed speculatively and spat tangled bits of metal onto the counter in disgust. Then he slowly turned to the trembling shopkeeper.
"Okay, listen," said Mister Avery in a voice that quavered so much it virtually minimmed. "You want to be rid of him? Okay, maybe there's a way."
"How?" asked Paul.
"Call him off, first."
"Scarth! Come here."
Scarth turned to Paul, gave Mister Avery a final glare, then dropped to the floor.
"You need to find a loophole, see? Find some way of banishing him that they haven't thought about. Only, to do that, you need help."
"From you?" asked Paul.
"No. I mean, I'd like to, but I can't. You need help from someone with power. If it were me, I'd get help from downstairs."
Paul glanced at the crowded stairway. "Downstairs?"
"Yeah. I mean, from another demon, sort of thing. Don't matter what you are, you can't climb a ladder without treading on a few fingers, and demons, well, they ain't exactly known for their forgiving nature. You want to get one of Roath's rivals on your side."
"Sounds dangerous," said Paul.
Mister Avery gave Scarth a frightened look. "Compared to what, exactly?"
Paul nodded slowly. "Okay, if that's what I have to do. Thanks." He picked up his book and returned it to the plastic bag. "Goodbye, Mister Avery."
"Goodbye," said Mister Avery. "Good luck." After the door had closed he added, "Not that there's that much luck in the world."
His right hand automatically reached out for another digestive biscuit. It patted the empty, packet-shaped space on the counter. "Oi!" he called. "Where's my biscuits, you thieving little git?"
By snodlander
"Back home?" said Scarth, looking up at Paul. "Ice-cream?"
Paul shook his head. "There's no home any more, not after what you did."
Scarth nodded. "Go home now?"
"No, I just said, we can't. The police will be looking for us by now. I've got no home, no money, no nothing, thanks to you."
It was late and the streets were deserted. Light spilled from a couple of pubs and fast food outlets, but a quick glance through the windows showed them to be virtually empty. Not that Paul could afford to waste money on frivolous endeavours like food, drink and human company. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, promising rain before too soon. He would have to find a place to crash, or at least somewhere to huddle out of the rain. Were there hostels for the homeless in towns this size? Was there an informal underground where the street people would share prime sleeping spots? Was he ready yet to lose his self-respect and beg?
There was a multi-storey car park off to the left. At least it would be dry. Paul walked up the entrance ramp and surveyed the deserted floor. The only good thing he could say about it was it had a ceiling. If it rained, he would at least be dry, but the floors were open to the chill breeze, and decor was the latest in cold concrete and harsh fluorescent lights.
He made his way to the pedestrian staircase. That would be out of the wind, at least. Inside the enclosed stairwell Paul gagged on the unmistakable aroma of stale urine. He climbed the stairs in the hope it would become more sanitary higher up. It wasn't. He opened the door at the top and walked out onto the empty roof. Trailed by his own personal demon, Paul made his way to the parapet and looked over the town.
It wasn't his town, not any more. Down there were people socialising with friends, watching TV with loved ones, snuggling up in their own beds, casually accepting such luxuries as their right. Would he ever be normal again? Would he be part of the gloriously mundane world, or was he condemned to be a life-long outcast? He recalled the dirty, bearded wretches he had tried to ignore, back when he had a life. Shuffling along the streets, muttering to themselves, swigging cheap lager. Perhaps they weren't mad after all. Perhaps they too had their own version of Scarth.
Scarth jumped onto the low wall and looked out over the city, squatting there like a poorly-animated gargoyle. Paul was suddenly filled with a hatred and loathing for the creature that had, in a few hours, wrecked his life.
"You total and utter bastard," he said quietly.
Scarth turned to look at his master. "Hungry," he said.
"You're hungry? Are you? You want some ice-cream?"
Scarth nodded eagerly.
"Well, look over there," Paul said, indicating the black night beyond the parapet. Scarth turned to look. Paul closed his eyes and shoved hard. Long, long seconds later he heard the distant thud of a body hitting the concrete. He looked over the edge into the inky blackness. All was quiet.
"Scarth?" he called. Silence was the only reply.
He turned and slid down the wall until he sat, back propped against the concrete, knees hugged close to his chest. So that was it. Paul started to cry, the whimpering turning into long, noisy sobs as the relief and the horror took hold of him.
"You alright, mate?" said a voice in the night. Paul fisted the tears from his eyes and looked up. Three young men stood before him.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. No worries," he lied, struggling to his feet. "Tough day, that's all."
"Yeah? Well, it's just about to get worse. Give us your wallet."
"You have got to be kidding me," Paul said.
"No," said the leader. "And your watch, phone, and car keys."
"I don't have a car," said Paul.
"Then give us everything you got, and if we find car keys on you, we'll give you a good kicking."
"For starters," added one of the other thugs.
"You have no idea," said Paul. "You have no clue as to what I've been through. You think being beaten up means anything to me? You think, after the last few days, you can do anything to me? What can you do, that's anywhere near the hell my life is?" The relief and angst was metamorphosing into anger. Paul was shaking. His knuckles ached, and he realised he had clenched his hands into tight fists.
The leader casually removed his hands from his jacket pockets. Paul saw the glint of a knife blade. "Don't be fucking stupid, arsehole," he said. "Just give us your stuff, and you don't get hurt."
Paul had witnessed several murders, and was pretty sure Scarth had eaten Mrs Henderson too. The police were after him. He had no job, no friends, no future, no hope. This final indignity was too much. All he had left was his life, and it was a piss-poor excuse for a life at that. He might as well join Scarth. How bad could the pit of pain be?
"You want my stuff, you sad little waster?" Paul started slowly towards them. "You think you can just take it? Over my dead body, you ...." Paul wasn't experienced in insults. He had never been in this position before. What would send these losers packing, or over the edge? "You chavs!"
"He's high," said one of the muggers. He sounded nervous. "Angel dust. Saw a mate do that once. Thought he was fucking Superman, or something. Wanted to fight the world."
The leader stood his ground until Paul and he were face to face. "That it?" he said. "You high? You got more? 'Cos we'll have that too, ta very much."
"Piss off!" said Paul, trying to put as much menace into his voice as he could. It didn't sound convincing, even to his ears.
The mugger smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was one full of contempt. He turned slightly, as if he was leaving, then jerked back. Paul felt the impact in his stomach. It hurt, but not as much as he thought it might. This was it, then. This nightmare was over. On to the next one.
He smiled at his attacker, and took a step backwards.
"Christ! You did it. You stabbed him. Hardcore!" said one of the gang, awe in his voice.
As Paul stepped back off the knife, the pain evaporated. He waited. Would he see the tunnel, or just drift off into sleep?
Or maybe just stand here, looking stupid, as the moment stretched on.
"Is that all you've got?" he asked.
The leader lunged forward. This time the knife entered Paul's chest up to the hilt. The attacker pulled the knife back out.
Paul looked down. The blade had left a neat slit in his shirt, just under the pocket. He was vaguely disappointed to see no blood. There should be a bright crimson flower of it now, if the films on TV were anything to go by. He looked back up at his attacker.
"A vest! The bastard's wearing a stab-proof vest." The knifeman grabbed Paul by his ruined shirt in one hand and swung the knife in one vicious sweep across his throat.
Paul felt the blade slice his skin, slide deeper in as it cut cartilage and flesh, tear through artery and vein. His hand flew to his neck as the pain seared through his throat. The thug pushed Paul back with a snarl.
The pain left as quickly as it had arrived. Paul removed his hand and looked at it. It was free of blood. He looked up in puzzled surprise at his attacker, and met a stare of horror and fear.
"What the ..." The youth with the knife never finished his curse, as the stair door flew open with a crash. Scarth stood for a moment, and it was apparent to Paul that the muggers could see him as well.
"Master!" screamed Scarth, and sprinted forward. For such a tiny form, Scarth moved with blurred speed. Before anyone could move, Scarth was on the first of the gang. He knocked him to the ground, then hurled him into the wall as though he were tossing a pillow. The youth hit the wall with a sickening crunch. There was a red stain on the wall as he slid motionless to the floor.
Scarth turned to the knifeman. The thug swung the knife, which screeched across Scarth's leathery skin before snapping in two. Scarth jumped onto the man, grabbing his jacket in his claws and planting his feet in the unfortunate's stomach. The thug tried a few desperate punches before Scarth brought his bony forehead into the man's nose. As the two fell to the ground Scarth stood on the man's chest, placed clawed hands either side of his head and pulled. Paul turned and dry-heaved as he heard the snap and crunch of bone.
The stairwell door slammed shut. The third gang member was nowhere to be seen.
"Master?" asked Scarth, looking from Paul to the door.
"No," said Paul. "Let him go. No-one's going to believe him anyway."
Scarth looked disappointed, but stayed where he was. "Scarth hungry, Master."
"Wait," ordered Paul. He looked around the rooftop. The missing gang member might be on his way to the police already, but that was unlikely. He was party to a robbery, after all. When day broke, though, the bodies would raise fresh questions. And Paul had thought begging was as low as he could descend.
"We need money," he said, edging towards the body crumpled on the ground. He gingerly emptied the pockets of corpse with his fingertips, fighting the gag reflex all the way.
He tried to kill you, he thought to himself. He was a lowlife robber. How many others had they mugged before you? He was pretty quick with that knife. Were you the first he had stabbed? Would you have been the last? He and his comrade were the scum of society.
And you are such a shining example of purity, a second internal voice added.
Paul stuffed the notes into his own pocket. Was that what life was worth? Hardly more than a restaurant meal. He turned towards the body by the wall. "He's yours," he said over his shoulder, not wanting to look. The corpse on the edge of the roof yielded even less money. Scarth slouched up to Paul's side.
"Scarth fell," he said, pointing to the low wall.
"Yes, you fell," said Paul. "Are you alright?"
Scarth seemed to consider this for a moment. "Scarth hungry," he said, as though that was the worst thing that could result in a six-storey fall onto concrete. Paul glanced over to the place the would-be murderer had lain. There was nothing there. The clouds were heavier than a little while ago. The rain was imminent. It would wash away the blood and other evidence soon enough. Even so, Paul wanted to be on a train somewhere far away by then.
"Knock yourself out," he said, turning from the body and walking towards the door.
By snodlander
Paul woke, his neck painfully frozen in place by the awkward position he had slept in. He slowly twisted his head, stretching the kinks out of his neck. Scarth lay in the luggage rack over the seats, a gangly leg hanging over the edge. He was awake. Paul hadn't seen him sleep at all in the few days they had been together. Scarth muttered to himself occasionally. Paul strained to make out what he was saying, but it wasn't in any language he knew, nor, judging by the harsh guttural noises, any language he wanted to know.
"Scarth, what are you doing?"
"Nothing, Master. Scarth good. Scarth stay here, like Master say, but Scarth very hungry."
"Tough, get used to it."
Paul looked around the carriage. It was empty, except for a couple at the other end who murmured together in hushed tones. Hardly surprising, considering the early hour. The rest of the world wasn't awake yet, let alone travelling to work.
"What were you saying, just then, when I was asleep?"
"Scarth good."
"Yeah, yeah. Good boy, give yourself a medal. Now, what were you saying?"
Scarth rolled over and looked down on Paul with large yellow eyes. "Just words."
"I know they were words, Scarth. What did they mean? What were you doing?"
Scarth, in as much as his alien face would allow, looked embarrassed.
"Scarth say prayers, Master."
Paul stifled a laugh. "Prayers? You're kidding me. You? What do you pray for?"
"Pray Lord Roath of the Inner Circle of Pain, Destroyer of Peace, Crusher of Souls not hurt Scarth."
What had Roath said, when they'd met? Centuries in a lake of burning lava for picking his nose?
"Master good. Not hurt Scarth. Give ice-cream."
And push Scarth off the top of a multi-storey car park, Paul's treacherous inner voice added.
"Yeah, well, just do it quietly, okay? So I can't hear."
Closely-packed houses passed by the train window. They'd soon be there. Paul was desperate to get away from his home town. It would only be a matter of hours before the authorities caught him if he stayed, and he didn't think 'my demon did it' would be an adequate defence. At first the impetus had been to run from, but the ticket office had demanded the answer for where he was running to. The first train in the morning terminated in London, which seemed more attractive the more Paul thought about it. He could disappear there. Didn't hundreds of people do exactly that each year? Plus London was full of the weird and the wonderful, the nuts and the fruits. Somewhere in the many backstreets there'd be someone who could help him with the occult. Wouldn't there?
The public address system ding-donged. Scarth fell out of the luggage rack and hit the floor in a tangle of spindly legs and arms. "Ice-cream?" he asked, eagerly.
Paul held his finger to his lips. "Shh!"
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving at Euston station in approximately five minutes. Thank you for travelling with Great Western. Please ensure you have all your possessions with you before you leave."
Paul gave a wry grin. Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if he could just abandon Scarth on the seat and never claim him? Know that after three months all rights of ownership would be void, and Scarth would be put up for public auction.
He picked up his bag and jacket and walked along the aisle towards the doors. To his disappointment he could hear the pad of Scarth's feet on the carpet behind him.
Even at this early hour, people crowded the terminal concourse. Groups huddled in front of the timetable boards, heads craned to be the first to catch the platform number of their train. Individuals rushed to catch their train, even if they had a score minutes before it left. People dragged reluctant luggage on wheels that skipped and shimmied across the marble floor. Paul watched in fascination as people sidestepped Scarth without noticing the small, green-skinned demon in their path. Scarth seemed to have an invisible force field around him that people just naturally avoided. Or maybe it was just Londoners' jaded lack of curiosity, for they seemed to be unable to see Paul as well.
Paul was struck with indecision. He didn't know anyone here. Where would he go? What could he do? Three police officers stood in the middle of the vast hall, chatting while passing bored eyes over the early commuters. One looked at Paul for an instant before looking on. He couldn't stay here, parked in the middle of the station concourse. He might as well have a 'Please talk to me, officer' sign illuminated over his head. He strode as nonchalantly and quickly as he could out of the doors and into the grey London morning.
Across the road stood a McDonalds. Paul sat at a window seat and ate a lukewarm breakfast while Scarth slurped a McFlurry. He had to prioritise. What did he need to do?
He started a list on the napkin.
Get some money
Find somewhere to sleep
Find someone to help get rid of Scarth
That was the big one, of course. How the hell did you even start? Put an ad in the local paper? For Sale: One demon, eats people and ice-cream. Free to good home. The nearest thing to a demonologist he knew was Frank, back at work. Back when he had a job, anyway. Frank played Dungeons and Dragons on-line until the small hours, but that hardly qualified him as a leading authority on the underworld.
Paul made a sub-list, indented under the Scarth task.
Visit libraries
Visit bookshops
Search Internet
Scarth licked the inside of the tub with a long purple tongue and held the tub out for Paul to see. "Ice-cream?" he asked.
Paul gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. He didn't want people to get the impression he was a nutter that regularly talked to himself. He had agreed with Scarth to give him one, and only one, ice-cream, providing he behaved. Scarth licked the tub again, in the forlorn hope there were a couple of molecules he had missed. Paul returned to his list. Should he risk other denominations? Didn't the Jews exorcise demons? What about Muslims? He had a vague feeling Hindus worshipped them. Maybe he could palm Scarth off onto a Hindu temple as a deity. But then the vision of Scarth swallowing Father Mike in one gulp returned to haunt him. He wouldn't risk another exorcism just yet, not unless he was desperate.
Just how desperate do you think you can get?
Scarth screwed his face up and farted. Paul detected the slight aroma of sulphur. He sighed. Quite apart from being a murderous creature of evil, Scarth was the most disgusting creature Paul had experienced.
The young woman at the next table turned and gave Paul a dirty look. Yet again he was being blamed for Scarth's misdemeanours. He wasn't a bad person. Why was this happening to him?
Because you summoned a demon from hell and unleashed it on the world.
Well, there was that.
Paul rose from the table. Scarth dropped off the chair and scurried hopefully towards the counter, but Paul made for the door. Scarth stood in the centre of the restaurant, casting anxious glances between Paul and the ice-cream machine, then ran after his master.
By snodlander
Paul's feet ached. He had walked the length of Charing Cross Road for hours, visiting all the little second-hand bookshops. They all expressed interest in Paul's book. Most had offered considerably more than Mister Avery to buy it, but none had any specialist knowledge of the occult. One mentioned a Wicca bookshop in the west end, but Paul was tired of walking. He found an Internet cafe in Tottenham Court Road, ordered a coffee and muffin for lunch, and surfed.
Google produced nearly a quarter of a million hits on 'exorcising demons'. They all seemed to be evangelical church websites, either advocating exorcism as the cure for whatever ails you, or warning against dabbling in all demonic practices, from listening to pop music to reading the horoscope in the local papers. None seemed to offer a practical guide on what to do if you had an actual green goblin with a penchant for human flesh dogging your footsteps.
Googling 'spell books' was even worse, with countless links to Amazon offering everything from English exam revision books to Victorian love spells. It was hopeless. If Scarth was any indicator, the demonic underworld was centuries behind the time. It was unlikely they would have their own website. The portals of hell did not include a web portal.
Paul spread his net wider. 'London covens' revealed several promising links, though they were mainly all-female affairs. Paul imagined new-age hippies and life-long spinsters meeting once a month under the full moon and complaining about the injustices of a male-dominated society.
In desperation he searched for 'Roath', and was surprised at the number of results that were returned, but a moment's investigation revealed they were all for a part of Cardiff that shared its name with the demon Lord. 'Scarth' unsurprisingly revealed no demonic hits at all.
A light drizzle started outside, and Paul remembered the other items on his list. He would need a place to stay and money. The search for a way to rid himself of Scarth, though important, wasn't as urgent as sorting himself out for the night. After all, Roath had reckoned he had five hundred years or more on this earth.
What could he do to earn a quick buck? Paul didn't want to subject any more muggers to Scarth's wrath. There must be something an indestructible young man with an invisible demon could do to get money legitimately. Well, more legitimately than murder, anyway.
He pulled Scarth away from a cursing surfer. Scarth had the remains of what looked suspiciously like the end of a network cable stuck between two fangs. They stepped out into the miserable dampness. Paul had enough money in his pocket for a meal, but definitely not for a London hotel room. He walked down the back streets of the city. Perhaps a pub would have a cheap room for the night.
The Kings Head wasn't a pub that welcomed tourists. It wasn't that the landlord refused them service; money was money, after all. It was just that the general ambience wasn't conducive to tourism. 'Ambience' in this context consisting of worn linoleum from the early seventies, beer rings on the tables from even earlier, and regulars that often didn't have their full complement of ears or eyes. It was a working man's pub, providing you didn't enquire too closely exactly what work they did.
Dumpster was in a good mood. Last night he had won a monkey on the dogs, and the money in his pocket and the beer in his belly put him in a rare generous mood. Not fiscally generous, because every pint he bought for someone else was a pint he couldn't drink himself, but generous of spirit. He laughed freely at the ribald jokes and insults that real men exchange between each other. 'Real men' in this context being men who, free from the domestic restraints they were subjected to by unreasonable wives at home, could drink themselves senseless and make hysterically funny, original comments about the barmaid's breasts. And when the challenge for an arm-wrestling tournament issued forth, he contented himself with the look of defeat on the face all those that challenged him, without actually breaking their arms.
As the bar chanted 'Champion, champion,' Dumpster stood and raised both massive fists in the air. "C'm on, then, you pansies!" he yelled. "Anyone else want a go? Come on then, if you think you're hard enough!"
"Excuse me." The voice could hardly be heard above the laughter. "Excuse me!" It was louder this time, though the timorous tone was unmistakable. The babble dropped in volume and the regulars parted. No-one had ever uttered those words before, local manners regarding 'Oi, Sunshine' the only acceptable means of address.
A young man stepped forward. His hair was plastered to his head from the rain outside, and his clothes gently steamed in the muggy atmosphere of the pub. In his hand he clutched a plastic carrier bag revealing the outline of, no, surely not, a book?
Dumpster jutted his chin at the stranger in enquiry. "You lost, sonny? Didn't your mummy tell you to go straight home after school?" This was rare wit indeed, and the bar erupted in laughter. The youngster smiled gently and waited for the noise to subside.
"No," he said. "But that's exactly what your wife told me."
Silence fell like an acre of pillow. The landlord moved surreptitiously to the centre of the counter, where he kept the pickaxe handle handily out of sight. Some of the more nervous regulars covered their eyes with their hands, though they spread the fingers wide enough to see the spectacle. An old man by the fire said in a loud voice, "What did he say?" and was shushed by his companions.
Dumpster slowly walked up to the young man, as deliberately and inevitably as a glacier. He pulled himself up to his full six feet three height and adjusted the wide leather belt over his vest.
"My wife?" he said quietly.
People in the immediate vicinity tried to back away, whilst not giving up their prime viewing spot.
Dumpster roared. People winced and held their breath. It was a few seconds before they recognised the sound. Dumpster was laughing. His huge belly shook like a jelly in an earthquake. His normally red jowls turned crimson.
"My wife!" he howled, and the rest of the bar accompanied him. It wasn't as entertaining as a massacre, but when a big man like Dumpster laughed, you joined in.
Dumpster slammed a huge hand into the young man's shoulder, almost knocking him to the floor in bonhomie. "My wife! Bloody hell, that's a good one. If you ever met 'Er Indoors, she'd chew you up and spit out the pieces. Ha! My wife? My wife? That's bloody priceless, that is. A skinny streak of piss like you and my old woman?" And Dumpster exploded in fresh laughter.
When the general merriment had died a little, Dumpster wiped his eyes on his ham-like forearm and placed both fists on his hips. "Who'd have thought a little lad like you would have a set of balls?" he asked, looking him up and down. "So, you a comedian, or just suicidal?"
"I just thought, I don't know, seeing as you had run out of people to arm-wrestle, you might want to have a go against me."
Dumpster's jaw dropped, and then he broke into fresh peals of laughter. "You? Against me? Leave it out, I'm going to have a heart attack at this rate. You should be on the telly, you should. You're funnier than Morecambe and Wise, you are. Here, here, let me have a feel of your muscles."
Dumpster lifted the man's arm by the wrist and felt his biceps. "Here, he's smuggling an 'en's egg under here," he called to the assembled crowd.
"So, do you want to wrestle, or are you frightened of losing?" said the stranger.
"Ooh!" cried the crowd. Dumpster stopped laughing, suddenly serious. Beer could only make a man generous to a point. He nodded.
"Right, sit yourself down, Sonny. But if I snap your arm like a twig, remember: you challenged me."
"Do you want to make it interesting?" asked the stranger, reaching into his pocket and putting five pounds on the table.
Dumpster sneered. "A fiver? Call that interesting? Might as well flush it down the loo, my old son, because either way, it's the last you'll see of it."
The two men faced each other across the table. "Just to be clear," said the younger of the two, "the objective is to get your opponent's hand onto the table."
"Yes," said Dumpster slowly, as if to an imbecile. "Plus, you've got to try not to cry like a girl, okay?"
"Okay."
The two men placed their elbows on the table and grasped each other's hand. Dumpster smiled as the young man strained to push Dumpsters huge arm, then picked up his pint and took a long draught with his free hand. He showed no sign of effort as he kept his arm still against all of his opponent's strength.
"Okay, now push!" said the young man, wheezing with the effort. Dumpster slammed the young man's hand into the table.
"Oops, I meant to keep that going for another minute or two. I must have got bored," said Dumpster.
"No!" cried the other man. "Not that side. I meant push it the other way, you idiot. That side, over there. Jeez, how difficult can this be?"
"Alright, no need to beat yourself up. You didn't actually expect to win, did you? Take it like a man, for Christ's sake."
"Again."
Dumpster shook his head. "Don't be stupid, Sunshine."
The young man slammed another five pound note on the table.
"Again," he repeated.
"Why not make it a pony then, if you're that keen?"
The young man frowned.
"What's a pony?"
"Twenty-five quid."
He sorted through his pockets. "Look, I've got, I don't know, about seventeen all told. Here, there's my watch too. That good enough against your twenty-five?"
"Good enough."
"Okay, and just to make it absolutely clear to everyone ..." The stranger stared pointedly into empty space. "I'm going to push your hand over and put it on the table just here, on this spot, okay?"
"No," said Dumpster. "You're going to try to do that, but then you'll cry like a girl again when I take all your money."
The two men squared up again and grasped hands. Almost immediately, the stranger smashed Dumpster's fist into the table. A shocked silence filled the room.
The stranger reached out for Dumpster's wager, but Dumpster slammed a hand down on his wrist.
"I wasn't ready, you slippery little bastard. You caught me by surprise. We're evens. Got to have a decider, right? Double or quits?"
"Fine."
"Okay. And just to make it fair, Old Tom here will count us in. Count to three, will you, Tom?" he said to an old man by the table, with a sly wink.
"Sure. Ready, gentlemen? One ... three!"
Dumpster pushed at the youngster's unresisting hand. Their arms stopped suddenly at forty-five degrees. Dumpster strained, the tendons on his thick neck standing proud. Then, almost casually, the challenger pushed Dumpster's arm back again and over into the table.
"Again?" asked the smiling stranger.
Paul pulled the money into a neat heap and put it carefully into his pocket. He nodded at a stunned-looking Dumpster. "Thanks for playing. Anyone else up for a challenge?" No-one answered. They had witnessed Dumpster lose time and again to the young man who looked as though a stiff breeze would blow him over. Dumpster had continued to bet until four hundred pounds had passed from one side of the table to the other, sure in the knowledge he could beat such a wimp. Each time he lost only strengthened his conviction he could win the next time.
Paul rose. Dumpster jumped up.
"No! You can't leave just like that. Not with my money. You got to give me a chance to win it back." Dumpster stuffed his hands in his pockets, and took them back holding nothing but loose change.
"Let it go," said Paul. "Here, I didn't mean to take it all." He took a ten pound note and held it out to Dumpster. Dumpster stared at it with contempt.
"You cheated. I don't know how, but you cheated, you thieving little streak of piss. Gimme my money back!" Dumpster swung a clumsy roundhouse punch. It would have won no awards for style, but Dumpster's technique didn't need it. All he needed was power, and he had that to spare.
Paul rolled over and sat up. He tested his jaw gingerly, but there was no damage, of course. He stood. "Ow," he said, for the show of it. The crowd murmured. As a rule, people didn't stand up after Dumpster hit them.
Dumpster saw Paul stare into space and mutter something. That was not unheard of after Dumpster thumped someone.
Paul lashed out, connecting his fist with Dumpster's jaw. Dumpster laughed.
"Call that a punch? My mum ..." Dumpster collapsed on the floor, before he could divulge what his mum punched like.
"It would have looked better if you punched at the same time as me," said Paul.
"Sorry, Master. Hit again?"
"Wait."
Dumpster heaved himself off the floor and squared up to Paul. Paul adopted what he hoped looked like a fighter's stance. Dumpster turned his head to one side and spat out a tooth.
"Never had a man knock me down before," he said. "Least ways, not one man on his own. Jim!"
Jim, the landlord, leant forward, his hands under the bar gripping tight onto the pickaxe handle. It would be an interesting experiment to see if it could stop Dumpster. An interesting experiment, but a potentially very short one. "Dumpster?"
Dumpster wrapped a meaty arm around Paul's shoulders. "This streak of piss just knocked me to the floor. Get him a pint of what he fancies. Get me a pint while you're at it. Streak's paying."
By snodlander
Paul slowly regained consciousness. He didn't want to, but the pressure behind his eyeballs was only exceeded by that of his bladder. Paul screwed his eyes open against the morning light. He lay fully clothed on top of a single bed in a tiny room. The murmur of traffic outside the window suggested that Paul was several hours behind the rest of the city's population.
Scarth squatted on the ancient radiator, looking out on the street below. "Scarth hungry," he said, without looking round.
"There's a surprise," muttered Paul. "Where are we?"
"High," said Scarth.
"No, I meant - never mind."
Paul tried to recall the events of the previous night. There had been drinking. A lot of people seemed to want to buy him beer after the arm-wrestling. Dumpster had adopted him as a sort of mascot, and that bought him an honoury membership of the local community. The end of the evening was vague.
"Are we in the pub, still? Is this the Kings Head?"
"Pub," said Scarth, in a tone that suggested he had no idea what Paul was talking about.
"Are we in the same place where you hit the big man?"
"Place, yes. Big man gone. Scarth find big man?"
"No, you stay here, okay? Stay here, in this room. I'll be back in a moment."
Paul sat on the edge of the bed and gripped the side until his head and stomach settled. His invulnerability seemed not to extend to hangovers. He took a big breath and stood. The world didn't end, so he made a tentative path to the door.
Outside ran a narrow corridor with identical doors to his own. It was illuminated by a window at the top of a stairwell at the far end. Paul made his way towards the stairs, using his hand to support himself on the wall as he went. The last door on the left by the stairs had a pink plastic plaque, which bore the legend 'Bathroom' in a flowery cursive script. He pushed the door open.
It was a bathroom. It had to be, because it had a toilet bowl and a sink in it, but the plumber must have been a contortionist to fit it all in. Paul entered and shuffled round till he could close the door. It didn't have a lock, but he could easily hold it closed with a foot jammed against it while he sat on the seat. He whistled tunelessly while he relieved himself, in the hope it would warn any other residents. The walls were painted a sickly yellow, peeling patches showing the plaster behind. The taps dripped, painting brown streaks down the washbowl. There was a newspaper tucked behind the water pipes under the sink. Paul pulled it free and opened it. It was a copy of the Sun, four weeks old. Page three had been torn out, but he read it anyway, while nature took its course. Afterwards he looked around for the toilet paper. An empty cardboard tube was the only evidence that there had once been such a creature, but it was long gone. Paul thumbed through the newspaper until he found a page without any photographs of people, and tore it into squares.
Afterwards he ran the tap and splashed his face with water. He felt slightly more human, though his clothes felt dirty against his skin. He would have to see if the accommodation ran to a shower somewhere, and buy some new clothes.
A little more refreshed, he returned to his room. Scarth was still looking out of the window.
"What's so fascinating?" asked Paul, as he hunted under the bed for his shoes.
"Master?"
"What are you looking at?"
"People. Lots of people. And moving boxes, but no ice-cream boxes."
"I shouldn't think you'll get any ice-cream vans round here. They'd find their wheels stolen if they parked for more than five minutes."
Paul laced the shoes up tight.
"Listen, if I go out for the day, will you stay here and be good?"
"Scarth good."
"Yes, for any given value of good. How far can I go and leave you alone?"
"Scarth serve Master. Scarth must be with Master."
"Yeah, but what if, I don't know, I travelled really fast and left you behind?"
Scarth shook his head. "Must be with Master. Rules. Must be able to serve Master. Bad to leave. Scarth good."
This was getting Paul nowhere. The bookseller had said Scarth was bound physically to him, but he knew he could go some distance without him. Six storeys, at least. What would happen if he jumped on a plane to Australia? Would Scarth magically appear by his side? Would it kill the demon? Would it kill both of them? And could he live with himself if Scarth was left alone and unsupervised?
"Okay, I'm going to see what the score is downstairs. You stay here. You don't eat a thing, understand? Not a thing, and definitely not any person. Do you understand?"
"Scarth be good, but Scarth hungry."
"If you're really good, you might get an ice-cream. Maybe."
"Scarth good," replied Scarth, eagerly.
Paul made his way down the staircase. A door led onto the bar of the Kings Head. The landlord was stocking the shelves behind the bar with bottles of beer.
"Morning, Streak," he said.
"Good morning, um, Jim, isn't it? And the name's Paul."
"You look like shit, old son. Hungover?"
"I've had better mornings," admitted Paul.
"You need something to settle your stomach. Hair of the dog?"
"God, no. I'm never going to drink again."
Jim chuckled. "Heard that before. Breakfast?"
"A cup of coffee and a slice of toast would be grand, thanks." Paul sat on a bar stool.
"Joan!" yelled Jim. Paul winced and held his temples gingerly.
A middle-aged woman with short, bottle-blonde hair and a dog-end hanging from the corner of her mouth appeared in the doorway behind the bar. "Shout a bit louder, Jim. They didn't quite hear you the other side of the river."
"Less lip and a bit of breakfast for our guest."
She wiped her hands on her cleaner's smock. "You must be Streak," she said. "Heard all about you. You don't look like you could raise a smile, let alone raise your fists."
"The name's Paul. It was a lucky punch, I guess."
"Yeah? If you're that lucky, I'd buy a lottery ticket, if I were you."
"If he were that lucky, he would be tucking into some breakfast by now. Get in the kitchen, woman, and earn your wages."
Joan cocked her head at Jim and said to Paul in a stage whisper, "Bloody slave-driver, he is. Chef was never in my job description."
"Nor was gossiping, but, my God, you do enough of that."
Joan shook her head and disappeared into the back.
"Don't worry, Streak. She does a reasonable breakfast, and she's taken a shine to you."
"She has?" Paul hadn't noticed.
"Yeah, but not like that. You try anything on, and I'll cut you deep, understand?"
Paul held his hands up. "Hey, your wife is safe with me, Jim, honest."
Jim snorted. "You ever track my wife down, you're welcome to the cow. Joan's my sister."
"Understood, but don't worry. She's not my type."
Paul lifted the bar flap and walked over to Paul's side.
"What does that mean, 'not your type'? She not good enough or something?"
Jim was wearing a T-shirt that showed muscles that rippled under his tattoos. He had the lean body of someone who exercised regularly. Although Scarth seemed to be his protection against injury, he didn't seem any defence against Paul feeling pain. Besides, Paul didn't want a repeat of the car-park incident.
"No, I just meant, um, she's a smoker, that's all. I'm a non-smoker."
Jim stared at Paul for five long seconds, then winked.
"Relax. I'm just messing with you. Except about the bit cutting you if you hurt her," he added, as Paul relaxed. "Quite frankly, I don't think she's anyone's type, not for long, anyway. Her last one lasted six weeks, which was four more weeks than I reckoned he'd last.
"Here." Jim pulled out a wad of notes and handed it to Paul. "I looked after your money for you last night. It's all there, minus your bar bill and your bed and breakfast."
Paul took the money. "Thanks." He hadn't even missed the money.
Jim continued to sit there, looking expectantly.
"I appreciate it," continued Paul, not knowing what Jim expected of him.
Jim sat down on the bar stool next to Paul. "How'd you do it?" he asked.
"Sorry?"
"The arm wrestling. You were cheating, stands to reason, but I'm stuffed if I know how. So, I'll ask again, how did you do it? And before you come over all innocent, I survive by servicing my regulars, not some northern hustler. You come the raw prawn with me, and you'll find I don't forgive as easily as Dumpster."
Paul had no reason to doubt Jim, and one look at the serious expression on his face told Paul that to lie to Jim would be as dangerous as trying it on with his sister. He had no choice, he had to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
"Tai Chi," he said.
"Ha! I thought so. I knew it had to be some Kung Fu crap, with that weird punch and everything. You shouldn't have taken all Dumpster's dough, though."
"I tried to give some back," protested Paul, "but he hit me."
"Of course he hit you, shit-for-brains. You don't offer charity to someone like Dumpster. Jesus, have you no common sense? You play darts?"
"No, not really."
"Okay, he'll be back tonight. No point in a rematch, because he'll know if you throw it, so play a game of darts with him. Fifty quid should see him right. How long do you want the room?"
"I don't know. A few days, probably. Is that okay?"
"Yeah. The Old Bill don't come around here, 'less there's a riot."
"The police?" asked Paul, innocently.
"You've got no luggage and no money you've not hustled. I'm not as green as I'm cabbage-looking. It's not a problem, I often don't rent rooms to people that aren't here, if anyone asks. That's why it's forty quid a night for a shit room."
"I don't suppose that forty quid stretches to a shower, does it?"
"No, but forty-five will get you access to a bath, if you don't use all the hot water."
Joan reappeared with a tray and placed it on the bar counter. Paul's coffee and toast had magically transformed itself into a mug of tea and a full English, consisting of two greasy fried eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, mushrooms and fried bread. And toast.
Paul smiled weakly. "A couple of slices of toast would have been fine," he said.
"Can I be honest, Streak?" she said, in the tone of someone who was going to be honest anyway. She banged a crusty bottle of brown sauce next to the plate. "You look like shit. You need something to settle your stomach, and there's not a better breakfast in the city."
| Author Notes | The Sun is a tabloid newspaper known for its, erm, basic news reporting. Page three has a large photo of a topless or naked woman. A 'Page three girl' had entered the language to mean a glamour model. |
By snodlander
Paul didn't trust Scarth on his own, so he took him when he went clothes-shopping. Scarth rode the shopping trolley as though it were a rollercoaster ride. He stood in the basket, leaning forward and calling out the occasional 'faster!' as Paul bought a few changes of clothes and a cheap holdall.
Paul browsed a rack of T-shirts and chose a few. As he dropped them into the trolley, he noticed an absence of Scarth. The aisle was clear. He listened for screaming, but all seemed normal. Rounding the display he spotted him on a circular clothes rack. It was one of those that allowed a shopper to stand still and rotate the rack, for the man too lazy to walk around it. Scarth was holding onto the rack as it spun on its axle, feet flying as the centrifugal force sent his body wide. Every couple of rotations it slowed enough for Scarth to make contact with the ground, whereupon he would gallop a few paces and launch himself again. Shoppers moved around him as if he wasn't there. Scarth's invisibility cloak seemed to cover objects he interacted with as well, unless demonically possessed shop fittings were everyday occurrences to the sophisticated London shopper.
Paul grabbed Scarth and pulled him off the rack. "Stop it! You want us to be thrown out? You're causing a scene."
Paul looked around. Apart from a curious stare from a member of staff, people were ignoring him. Perhaps talking to himself was attracting more attention than Scarth's antics
It wasn't bespoke tailoring, but even so, it ate into his reserves of cash. He dared not use his cards. He had better not hustle at the Kings Head, either, now that he was staying there. Still, that was a problem for tomorrow. Now he had a change of clothes, he could start on the long-term plan of ridding himself of Scarth.
After a quick return to the pub to drop off his shopping and to change, he decided to continue his search at the Wicca store one of the booksellers had told him about. He took Scarth to the tube station. Scarth skipped over the turnstiles easily enough, and the pair weaved through the crowds to the escalators. As they reached the top and he saw the moving stairs, Scarth suddenly screeched and clung to Paul's leg. Paul stumbled to a halt.
"Cramp," he said, as fellow commuters pushed past with dirty looks and impatient 'tuts'.
He limped over to the wall, swinging the demon on his leg, and pretended to tie his shoe lace.
"What the hell is up with you?" he hissed.
Scarth's long ears were flat along his head and his eyes wide with fear. Paul could feel him shaking.
"Scarth be good, Scarth be good," he whined.
"Fine. You've not killed anybody for over twenty-four hours. Good boy. Now stop messing about and let's catch the train."
"Scarth be good," the demon repeated. "Good Master. Please don't hurt Scarth. Scarth be good. No ice-cream. No sacrifice. Scarth good."
"What is wrong with you? We're just catching the tube, is all. Stop being such a pain."
Scarth screamed, a long, unholy squeal that sounded like fingernails screeching down the blackboard of the soul. Paul closed his eyes, paralysed until the noise stopped.
"Don't ... ever ... do that again. Ever!" said Paul. "What is wrong?"
"Not the pit of pain, Master. Pleeeease!"
"What are you talking about? We're just ... Oh, wait. You think we're going into hell, is that it? You think that's the route to the underworld?"
Scarth nodded miserably. "Scarth be good."
"Listen, it's just a train, that's all. We travelled on the train yesterday, remember?"
"Train?" asked Scarth.
"Yes, train. You know." Paul struggled to explain in words Scarth might understand. "The moving box we used yesterday. Fast. You remember the moving box?"
Scarth nodded,but his expression didn't change.
"Okay, so we're just going on another train, alright? Only for a few minutes, and then we'll come back up again. I promise you, it's not hell. Well, not the hell you think it is."
Scarth looked unconvinced.
"Look, just come with me, okay? Trust me."
Scarth looked up at Paul with wide, tear-brimmed eyes. Then he looked towards the escalators. "Please, Master," he said.
Paul looked around. Passerbys were giving him odd glances. It would only be a matter of time before a member of staff noticed him.
"Okay, you're not giving me a lot of choice. By the seven scrolls of the Beast of Torment, I adjure thee to follow me down the escalators, I mean, follow me down there, okay?"
Paul grabbed Scarth's wrist and dragged him towards the escalators. Scarth pulled back like an errant toddler. Paul stood on the moving staircase and looked back. Several steps back a suited city gent was giving Paul an odd look.
"Cramp," said Paul, holding his shoulder and circling his arm. He faced front, wishing this truly was the entrance to hell, and the ground was swallowing him forever.
They waited on the platform, Scarth looking back and forth as though he was certain of imminent death, but unsure of the direction from which it might come. He wailed as the dragon's breath issued forth from the tunnel, announcing the imminent arrival of a train. Paul forced him aboard and sat on one of the few vacant seats. Scarth sat on the neighbouring seat and looked as miserable as only a demon can.
As the train travelled west, it filled with tourists, shoppers and business people, but though people stood, hanging from the ceiling straps, no-one seemed tempted to sit on the seat where Scarth sat in despondent invisibility. Paul wondered if air-conditioning was demon-possessed, people only noticing its hum when it unexpectedly stopped. Had he been possessed by a particular demon through puberty, making him invisible to all the girls he was attracted to?
The train pulled into Leicester Square, and Paul hauled the shaking Scarth off the train. His talons scraped across the tiles as Paul dragged him through the tunnels. They stood in silence as the escalator carried them up to the exit hall. When they saw the exit into the daylight, Scarth gave a shout of joy and, leaping over the turnstiles, cavorted in the sunlight outside.
"No pit, no pit. Master good. Scarth good. No pit," exalted Scarth, jumping up and down.
"Yeah, whoopee for us," said Paul. "Now, let's see if we can find this shop."
By snodlander
The shop had a Soho address, on the border between the sleazy sex shows and the trendy tourist cafes. It took Paul a good half an hour to track it down. The shop front consisted of a narrow door and a small window crammed with statuettes of dragons and fairies. As Paul entered, he had to duck to avoid the paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling. Chimes and dreamcatchers fought for space with necklaces and crystal pendants. The darkness of the interior made the back of the shop difficult to see after the sunshine outside.
Near the door, a bored shop assistant stood behind a glass counter. She seemed barely out of school. She tried hard for the Goth look: her eyes and lips bore black make-up, she wore a black shawl over her black T-shirt, and she busied herself painting black varnish onto her nails. Her one concession to the summer weather was her belt; a dark grey. The whole look would have been dramatic, Paul thought, if she were forty pounds lighter. The Goth look really only worked on consumptive youths.
Paul stood in front of the counter. After a moment he coughed to attract her attention.
"Sex magic is at the back," she said, eyes fixed on her nails.
"Why does everyone ... Look, I'm not here for that. I wondered, do you have any books on demonology?"
"Books are at the back," said the teenager, waving her wet fingernails. She looked up and saw Paul's face for the first time. "Next to the sex magic," she added.
Paul warily groped his way into the dark interior. The smell of incense gave the darkness an almost physical feel, as though black gauze curtains hung from the ceiling. Much of the merchandise seemed made of glass or china. How many years bad luck would he subject himself to if he stumbled in the gloom and broke something? On the other hand, how much worse could his luck get?
A baby spotlight shone on the bookshelf. Paul scanned the shelves quickly, studiously avoiding looking at anything that might involve sex. Most of the display featured modern paperbacks on world religions. One section covered Wicca and witchcraft, but they seemed more of the Mother Gaia, 'hug a tree'-type books. He eventually found the demonology section, if four books could be said to form a section. It nestled uncomfortably close to 'Love spells and sex majick.' It seemed a feature of all the books to misspell words. 'Fairies' became 'faeries', 'vampires' became 'vampyres'. If all else failed, the authors saw fit to add an extra 'e' onto the end of words.
Paul flicked through all four books. Two merely catalogued demons and their traits from history, one claimed to be humorous, entitled 'Keeping Demons for Pleasure and Profit', and the last described demons as 'misinterpreted earth spirits, demonised by the Christian church'. Paul turned to regard Scarth, sniffing at a display of karma CD's. He couldn't imagine any right-thinking person who wouldn't demonise Scarth.
He scanned the rest of the shelves and quickly decided they were useless for his particular needs. He returned to the employee of the month at the till.
"Do you have anyone here who is an authority on ... um ..." an authority on how to banish a genocidal demon back to hell? "the supernatural?"
"Madam Tara does readings in the afternoons Monday to Thursday. Palm readings, horoscopes and crystal healings," intoned the shop assistant.
"No, I don't need a fortune teller. I need ...." What did he need? A miracle, or whatever the equivalent intervention from the other team was called. "Do you have, I don't know, lists of local covens, or something? Or a professor of demonology who ... shops here ... regularly?" He petered out, realising how lame it sounded.
The look on the assistant's face strongly suggested that she knew exactly what sort of man wanted to meet witches, and, by the way, they don't dance naked in the full moon, not all the time, anyway, and besides, just two streets away there were establishments that could cater exactly to his needs, perverted as they were. Which was quite a facial expression, given that it was in black and white.
"I just have ... questions." Paul had been here before. When someone had a particular opinion about you, whatever you said merely confirmed it. He should cut his losses, but every time something drove him to dig a deeper hole.
"Questions about witchcraft, and rituals, and demonology. And stuff."
The Goth stood still, her wet fingernails frozen in mid wave, staring at Paul with an 'I've heard that before' expression.
"No? Right, sorry." He looked back at Scarth. The demon wore headphones attached to the music display, his back turned towards Paul. "I'll just, you know, check the books again, sort of thing," he said, edging back towards Scarth. The shop assistant stared silently at him as he casually sauntered towards the sex majick books with all the nonchalance of a pervert.
"Scarth!" he muttered, pretending to look at the books. Scarth made no reply. Paul checked the front of the shop. The Goth was painting her other hand, her interest in the sex maniac gone.
"Scarth!" he hissed. He looked at Scarth. He was standing at the CD display, his eyes closed. Paul nudged him with his shoe. Scarth opened his eyes. To Paul's amazement, the demon's eyes were full of tears.
"Sing," said the demon, his voice hoarse with wonder.
"Yeah. Mood music for menopausal women. Wonderful. Come on, we're going."
"Sing," he said again, his voice trembling with emotion.
Paul lifted one of the padded earpieces from Scarth's head. Scarth grabbed Paul's wrist and tried to put his ear back in the headphone.
"We're going. Come on."
"Sing!" said Scarth, with urgency. "Want sing. Sing!" He snatched the earphone out of Paul's hand and placed it back on his head. A rapt expression fell across his face.
A woman entered the shop and started talking with the Goth on the counter. They both looked towards Paul, then continued their conversation.
Paul snatched at the headphones and held them high as Scarth leapt to regain them.
"Stop messing about, you retard. We have to go, now!"
"Sing?" pleaded Scarth. "Sing, want sing. Give Scarth sing. Pleeeeease?"
"People are looking. We have to go. We can't stay here all day. Move!"
The woman moved towards Paul. Paul gave an exaggerated yawn, casually placing the headphones over the top of the CD display, out of reach from the diminutive demon, and started to walk towards the door. The woman barred his way. To be fair, it would have been difficult not to bar his way in the narrow confines of the shop. They met between a stand of large wooden African tribal masks and shelves of herbal cosmetics.
"Hello," she said. Paul squinted. All he could see was her silhouette against the sunlit shop entrance, but she was trim, dressed in long skirts, and had a halo of long hair.
"Hi," mumbled Paul.
"Zephyr tells me you have some questions about Wicca."
"Zephyr?"
The woman leant close. She smelt of summer fields and cool woods.
"Her real name is Sharon," she whispered confidentially, "but don't let on you know. Young girls need those sort of things until they have the life-experience to be confident in their own selves."
"Okay," said Paul, slowly. She made it seem as though it was an onerous secret he should guard with his life. "Do you own this shop?"
She laughed. "Me? You're joking. No, I just come here for the incense and the vegan soap. I'm Vanessa. Friends call me Ess."
"Paul," said Paul. "Friends call me ... um ... Paul, I guess."
"So what do you want to know, Paul?" she asked.
"I was just wondering about ... erm ... supernatural entities, sort of thing, really." In this tourist trinket shop, talking to a strange woman, the whole thing seemed absurd. How did you go up to a total stranger and say, 'I have a murderous demon. How do people normally get rid of one?'
"You're a seeker," Ess said, knowingly. "There are several books that could help you on the Wicca religions. It's not an organised religion, so different groups have different deities and principalities, or at least different names for the same one. Do you want help choosing one?"
"Well, no, not really. It was more ...." Paul wondered if Ess could see his face colouring. It all sounded so stupid. How did you just come out and say it? He took a deep breath. "It's more demons I'm interested in. Protection from, banishment of, that sort of thing."
"Come here a moment," commanded Ess, walking towards the front of the shop. Paul followed. In the daylight by the counter Ess stopped and turned. She was much younger than Paul had guessed from the tone of her voice. She was in her early twenties, dressed in what Paul could only describe as hippy chic, as though Christian Dior had come out with a Woodstock collection. Her hair was nominally straight, but so wispy it looked as though it could trap and hide a comb for years. Or possibly a lost tribe of pygmies. The overall effect did nothing to free Paul's tangled tongue.
She studied Paul closely, until he became uncomfortable.
"You have one of the most remarkable auras I have ever seen."
Over her shoulder Paul could see Zephyr (aka Sharon) looking at him. Her sneer suggested that all perverts have weird auras.
"Are you a twin?" she asked.
Paul shook his head. "I'm an only child."
"That's most odd. It's just your aura seems to be lopsided. It's as though ..." Ess looked back into the shop. Paul followed her gaze. Scarth sat on top of the CD display, headphones back on his head. "It's like your aura is being sucked away, as though it includes someone else. I've never seen anything like it."
Zephyr's nod suggested she saw something like it every day, when seedy men mistook the shop for one that sold altogether more exotic goods.
"Maybe I just have bad posture," Paul joked.
"I think we really should chat, Paul," said Ess, earnest concern exuding from every pore. "Seriously. You need that aura sorted out. And I'd be happy to answer your questions too, if I can. I just need to buy a couple of things here first, but really, we need to talk."
The aura comment disturbed Paul. He had always considered it so much New Age hokum, but Ess' perception of it was uncanny. "Sure, okay. I ... I'll just have another quick look at the books, and I'll meet you outside, okay?"
Zephyr's look suggested she knew exactly which books he was going to peruse.
Paul stood by the CD stand and grabbed Scarth around the waist, holding him on his hip as though Scarth were a wayward child. He marched towards the door, trying to walk as naturally as possible while holding the squirming demon. Zephyr regarded his approach suspiciously.
"Nice, um, nice Goth look," he said, as he passed.
She shot a glare of contempt. "It's Emo, actually," she snarled at his back.
By snodlander
On the street Scarth wailed like a sick fire engine. "Sing gone!" he cried. He still wore the headphones, the coiled wire bitten through a foot from the earpiece.
"Yes, sing gone. Just shut up for a moment."
"Sing," he screamed, and struck the headphones with his fist.
"No, the sing has gone. It's dead. You killed it. It's gone."
"Sing!" Scarth's voice rang with anger and desperation. He hit the headphones so hard that for a moment he staggered.
Paul snatched the headphones off of Scarth's head and marched down the street. He threw them into a litterbin hanging on a lamppost.
Scarth threw himself onto the ground and grasped Paul's leg in his claws.
"Scarth sorry," he sobbed. "Scarth good. Bring back sing. Scarth not kill it. Sing, please?" He turned his nightmare face up to Paul, and the tears coursed down his cheeks. He sneezed, and a gob of green snot hung from a nostril.
"Oh God," said Paul, turning away. Scarth scared him now. It was hard enough to deal with a demon that ate people. How did you deal with one hysterical with grief? Hysterical and unsanitary?
A few yards down the street, an electrical shop displayed its goods in a small shop window. Genuine Bolex watches nestled side by side with Chinese nodding cats and suspiciously cheap cameras.
"Wait here," he ordered, and shook his foot free. He disappeared into the shop, and reappeared a few seconds later, pulling the contents out of a plastic blister pack. He took the minature transistor radio and hit the scan button. Then he handed it over to Scarth.
"Here," he said, giving the earpieces to Scarth. "Radio Two. Terry Wogan. Knock yourself out."
Scarth mournfully took the earpieces. He sniffed long and loudly, a sound that would put a starving man off food for life, and went to put one of the earbuds in his mouth.
"No. Put it in your ears. Your ears." Paul mimed putting the earpieces in his ears.
Scarth tentatively put the earpieces in, then his face shone like the sudden appearance of the sun from behind thunder clouds.
"Sing!" he breathed in wonder. "Sing!"
"Listen," said Paul. Scarth gazed unfocussed into space. Paul pulled an earpiece out. Scarth snatched it back and screwed it in again. Paul wiped his fingers on his jeans. The earpiece had been in Scarth's ear seconds, and already had a waxy feel to it. He reached out and hit the off button on the radio. Scarth's face became a mask of horror.
"Sing dead," he cried.
"I'll switch it back on in a moment, but you have to listen to me first, okay?"
"Sing now!" demanded Scarth.
"Listen first!" countered Paul. "You can listen to the singing, but you must be good. Follow me, alright? Don't go wandering off. And don't eat anything. Or anybody. Just be good and stick with me. Do you understand?"
"Scarth good. Sing?"
Paul shook his head resignedly. He hoped the radio was a good move. It might distract him from his more destructive habits, but he didn't want Scarth to wander off and be lost forever in the city. He hit the on button.
Ess stepped out of the majick shop and spotted Paul. She smiled and strode towards him with a determined gait.
"Before we start," she said, stopping just short of Paul, "Zephyr tells me you're a sex pervert. Are you?"
"What? No, not at all," protested Paul.
Ess lifted her chin and looked suspiciously down her nose at him. "Why were you asking for the sex magic books then?"
"No, I wasn't. I never mentioned them. It was her. She just assumed ...." Paul realised that Ess was grinning.
"Sorry, I couldn't resist," she said. "Don't mind Zephyr, she thinks every man's a sex maniac. When she gets to my age, she'll find disappointingly few men are."
Her age, as far as Paul could make out, was perhaps twenty three. But she carried herself with such confidence it was only faintly amusing to hear her talk about herself as though she were twice that age. You would have to be self-confident to stride the streets of London dressed as she did. Not that she dressed badly, far from it. She dressed distinctively. Her bright, layered skirts busied themselves with swirls and waves of patterns, the cream cheesecloth blouse bore no evidence of environmentally-suspect bleach, and the whole ensemble was cluttered and adorned with ethnic necklaces, bracelets and trinkets that amounted to pounds of extra weight. On her it worked, somehow. It helped she had the sort of natural good looks that turned hearts, if not heads. The one fly in the (not tested on animals) ointment was her hair. Somewhere between blonde and ginger, it floated and frizzed as though she held a Van de Graaff static electricity generator.
Ess hitched the cotton bag across her shoulder. "Just in case, though, let's go to Soho Square. There's the gardens, we can sit on the grass in front of a hundred witnesses, and anyway, I'm meeting some friends there later. Because you never know," she said, hooking her arm through Paul's and striding off, "you might not be safe with me alone."
Paul glanced anxiously behind them. Scarth trotted in their wake, a gormless smile on his huge jaw.
It took them ten minutes to reach the gardens, every second of which Paul was acutely aware of the close proximity of the attractive woman. Ess, on the other hand, appeared to be oblivious to Paul. He wondered if she always grabbed people like this. Probably. She didn't appear to be capable of uncertainty, grasping life (and Paul) and leading it wherever she wanted.
The gardens were crowded with tourists, office workers and students. In the great British tradition, they hogged the sunlit patches on the lawns. Ess, by contrast, picked a deserted patch shaded by a large sycamore. She folded her legs elegantly, collapsing with a dancer's grace into the lotus position, her skirts naturally falling to cover her legs.
Paul seemed clumsy in comparison. He tried to cross his legs flat on the ground, but couldn't even get close. In the end, he settled for hugging his knees in front of him.
Ess her closed her eyes, her back straight, her hands held in the classic yoga position on her knees. She breathed in deeply and held her breath for several seconds. "Feel that?" she asked.
"What?"
"Life," she said. "The grass, the roots of the trees, the thousands of microbes and insects and the people, all connected." She opened her eyes and looked at Paul. "And you're sat there thinking you've been trapped by a loony, eh?"
"No," said Paul, colouring, wondering if she could read minds.
"You've got questions about Wicca. Fire away, and I'll answer as best I can. But it will cost you."
"How much?" asked Paul, aware of his dwindling money reserves.
"Afterwards, you have to let me sort out your aura, okay? Even if you don't believe a word of it. Just because you don't think you have an aura, doesn't mean your aura doesn't think it has you." She grimaced. "You know, that sounded so much better in my head. Anyway, shoot. What can I tell you?"
"Well, it's not witchcraft I've got questions about, so much."
"Just a point, Paul," she interrupted. "It's no big thing, but a lot of Wiccans don't like the term 'witchcraft', okay? It's derogatory, and gives the people the idea that ..."
She was interrupted by the jingle of a mobile phone. It took a moment for Paul to place the tune.
"Bewitched?" he asked with a grin, as Ess dug into her shoulder bag.
"Shut it," she laughed. "I can say it, you can't."
She glanced at the facia, then held the phone to her ear.
"Hi, Oz.... I'm in Soho .... Yes, of course I've got it," she said, patting her bag as though the caller could see it. She squealed with shocked laughter. "You are a dirty old man. I am shocked and appalled you should suggest such a thing to an innocent young flower like me.... Oh, behave, you'll just have to wait.... Because I'm with a friend, that's why.... Oz, if you were twenty years younger, you wouldn't need the ointment, now would you.... About an hour, I guess. See you then. Bye."
She folded the phone and dropped it into her bag. "Sorry. That was Oz," she explained, rather unnecessarily. "He's such a sweety, but he is an outrageous flirt. I bet if I said yes, he'd run a mile. Now, if it's not Wicca, what do you want to know about?"
By snodlander
"A demon," said Ess, when Paul finished telling her about Scarth. "I guess that would explain the aura."
Paul was impressed. She didn't think him insane, she didn't try to run and she didn't make any judgement. Paul might have said that he had a football, for all the effect it seemed to have on her.
"Where is he now?" she asked.
Paul looked around. Scarth sat on the grass a couple of feet away. He looked back at Paul with the sort of innocent look that only the truly guilty can give. Paul leant over and hit the off button on the radio.
"What are you up to?" he asked. Scarth held out his empty hands and shrugged.
"Tell me, what are you doing?"
Scarth swallowed hard. "Nothing, Master. Scarth good." He pulled a face and spat. A pigeon feather shot out. Scarth stamped his foot over the evidence.
Paul shook his head and switched the radio back on. "He's over there," he told Ess.
"And he's invisible?"
"Most of the time, yes. He can reveal himself to individuals, but it's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
Paul hadn't lied when telling his story. Not actually outright lied, but he had glossed over a few points. Glossed over with several coats, in fact.
"Most people that have seen him, well, they're not around anymore."
"There's a curse?" she asked.
"It's more, he's a curse. He has an unbelievable appetite, and sometimes, he ...." There was no way around it. He would have to tell her. "Sometimes he eats people."
"Oh sweet Mother!" exclaimed Ess, her hand flying to her mouth in horror. "Wait, I thought you said he was bound to your will. Can't you just tell him not to eat people?"
"It's not as simple as that," said Paul. "I mean, yes, he has to obey me, but I have to use a certain form of words. Even then, he disobeys. Not deliberately, I think. Though sometimes, I wonder. It's more," Paul glanced at Scarth. Scarth's head was bobbing in time to the music on the radio. "He's a little stupid. Well, a big stupid, really. He forgets, or doesn't understand. He's not exactly reliable, is what I'm trying to say. Which is why I have to get rid of him. I can't control him, not every moment of the day. He wrecks everything around him, he eats more ice-cream than you could possibly imagine, and he kills people. I've tried, but they're not taking him back, down there, I mean, and no bloody wonder. I'm desperate."
Ess stared at Paul thoughtfully. "I became a Wiccan because I wanted to heal the Earth. Sounds stupid now, and I'm not some naive schoolgirl, but we were put here in this world to help each other. I believe that, and I always will. You need help more than anyone I've ever met, Paul. The principalities of good pushed us together, I know that. Show him to me."
"I really think that's a bad idea," said Paul. "I mean, it's number one in the history of bad ideas. Scarth is dangerous. I just want information on how to get rid of him. I'm not asking anyone else to risk their lives."
"That's a good thought, Paul, but just stop trying to be a macho, pig-headed man for a moment and admit you need help. I can help, and if I can't, I know people who might be able to. Where else are you going to go? Show me. Let me know what sort of monster I'm fighting. Don't ask me to fight blind."
Paul looked down at his knees and frowned. Eventually, he looked back up. "Okay, if that's what you want. But I just want you to know, pig-headed or not, I still think it's a bad idea."
Ess nodded and flowed to her feet. "Do we need a gathering of Wiccans? Special ingredients or equipment?"
Paul shrugged. "We can do it here, if you want. Probably better, in fact. He's only ever eaten people in private. Well, relative privacy, anyway."
"What about everyone else?" asked Ess, indicating the crowds of people around them.
"He can do it person by person. I see him all the time, even though no-one else does. Hang on, let me sort him out first."
Ess saw Paul reach out and make a complicated movement with his hand. Ess noticed the transistor radio in his hand, which definitely hadn't been there a moment ago, though she didn't see it suddenly appear. It just seemed to have always been there, unnoticed.
Paul gave an apologetic smile. "He's a music lover, apparently. At least, since this morning he's been one. Wait, let me sort him out.
"Scarth, no, listen ... no, I said listen ... No, you can have the music back later, but you need to listen to me now ... Yeah, lying on the ground and punching the grass is really demonic, isn't it... Hey, I'm your master, listen to me, dammit."
Ess felt as though she were eavesdropping on one side of a telephone conversation. It was faintly embarrassing.
"Okay, this is Ess, alright? See her? Okay, now I'm going to use the invocation on you, so you need to listen to me. What's her name?... Jesus, I've just told you, you moron. Why do you never listen? It's Ess. What is it? That's right. Now, by the seven scrolls of the beast of torment, I adjure thee not to hurt her in any way, and not to eat her at all, not even a little bit, okay?"
Paul turned to Ess and raised his eyebrows, much as embarrassed parents of misbehaving toddlers do in supermarkets the world over.
"You ready?" he asked.
Ess gripped the strap of her shoulder bag and nodded firmly.
"By the seven scrolls of the beast of torment, I adjure thee to show yourself to Ess."
Ess looked at the patch of grass that had previously been devoid of life. It remained undemonic. She shrugged and shook her head. "Can't see him," she said.
Paul turned to Scarth. "What? What is it now? Just do it, I know you can."
"Rules?" quavered Scarth, looking confused.
"We've been through this before. I'm your master, and I've used the invocation. Just reveal yourself to her, but on no account eat her. Ever! Okay?"
Scarth turned a worried face to and fro between Paul and Ess, then looked at his clawed toes. He frowned in concentration for a moment, then looked up hopefully at Paul.
"Oh... dear... Mother!" breathed Ess in wonder, putting her hands on her knees to bring her nearer Scarth's eye level.
"Look, you don't have to ...," started Paul, but Ess wasn't listening.
"Isn't he just adorable?" she continued.
"It's just that he ... excuse me?" said Paul.
"You're adorable, aren't you? Yes you are, you're adorable," continued Ess, in the manner of childless women everywhere, when confronted by a baby that wasn't just at this moment evacuating body fluids from either end. "Oh, just look at his eyes. They're so big and sad. Yes, they are, aren't they? Are you sad? Yes? Oh, bless your little cotton socks." She glanced at Paul. "What's his name again?" Without waiting for a reply, she turned back to the demon, who was now looking more confused than ever. "What's your name, little fella?"
"Scarth?" said Scarth, as though he was now unsure of even this fact.
"Oh, he speaks!" squealed Ess in delight. "Who's a clever little boy, then?"
"Scarth?" asked Scarth, even more unsure.
"Yes, you are, you're a clever little boy, Scarth. Can I stroke him?" she asked Paul.
"Why on earth would you want to?" asked Paul, horrified and fascinated in equal measure. "He's not a puppy, he's a demon from the pits of hell. He eats people, for Christ's sake. Well, not for Christ's sake, obviously, but he's dangerous, Ess. I've seen him kill. I've seen him eat people whole. He, he's a demon," he added weakly.
"There's no-one beyond help, Paul. Okay, I know he's killed people, but has he ever had any choice? What sort of upbringing must he have had? Look at him. He's so sad. Aren't you, Scarth? Is my little Scarth sad?"
On cue, Scarth put on his best puppy-dog expression and turned wet eyes up to Ess. "Scarth sad," he said. Paul shook his head in disbelief.
"Why are you sad?" asked Ess, kneeling on the grass.
"Master take sing away," said Scarth, pointing at the radio in Paul's hand. "No sing, no ice-cream."
"You like ice-cream?"
Scarth nodded slowly.
"Well, what say we give you your music back, then go and get you a nice big ice-cream? Then we'll go and see my friend Oz, who know all about this sort of thing. Okay?" Scarth nodded hopefully. "Okay?" she repeated to Paul. Paul shrugged helplessly. Scarth would not rest now until he had an ice-cream.
Ess held out her hand. Scarth leant forward nervously and sniffed it. Then he reached out and took it gingerly. Ess rose and lead him towards the park gates. Scarth looked back as Paul followed them. Paul fancied that Scarth had the good grace to look at least a little guilty at his shameless sucking up to Ess.
By snodlander
Oz lived in an apartment block in Balham. Scarth was still reluctant to take the tube, but didn't have the terror of before. Paul wondered whether this was because of experience, or the novelty of being treated like a wounded puppy by Ess.
The door looked no different from any of the others on the elevated walkway that ran the length of the block. Ess produced a key.
"Oz grumbles about having to get up to let me in, but really he gave me the key so he can boast he shares a flat with a fit young bird," she explained.
"You live here?" asked Paul, strangely disappointed.
"Lord, no," laughed Ess. "Live in the same flat with such an old lech? You have got to be kidding! But that doesn't stop Oz boasting about it. Come on in and meet him." She pushed open the door and stepped in. Paul followed, feeling awkward at entering a home without the express permission of the owner.
"Oz!" called Ess. "Where are you, you old goat?"
"Come into my parlour, my little fly," answered a bass voice.
"Are you dressed?"
"Yes, sorry. Wait one minute and I'll strip off for you."
Ess shook her head in exasperation and pushed open a door off of the narrow passageway.
"Behave, you old pervert. I've brought a guest."
"The more, the merrier, my Aphrodite."
Paul followed Ess into the living room. Two walls were completely occupied by cramped bookshelves. Books covered every flat surface, stacked untidily in corners, leaning drunkenly on the windowsill, tumbling over the coffee table and sprawling over the furniture. In one corner stood a television, running an old episode of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer'.
On a settee sat a large man with a bushy beard and wild hair. He dwarfed everything else in the room, partially with his size, but mainly by his expansive gestures. He wore a T-shirt that bore a crest with the legend 'Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus', and large baggy shorts.
At the opposite end of the couch sat a young man, hardly out of school by the look of him. He clutched a notebook and pen. There didn't seem to be any room for an average-sized person to fit between them on the three-seater settee.
"Vanessa, light of my life," bellowed Oz. "I've missed you. I dream of you every night. Do you want to know the details?"
"Do you want an eye removed?" answered Ess.
"I would sacrifice an eye for a night of passion with you, my succubus, and consider it a bargain."
"I would sacrifice my life rather than let you touch me, you disgusting old perv," countered Ess.
Oz roared with laughter and clapped his hands. He winked at Paul. "She plays hard to get, but she lusts for me really. Do you have my ointment, my angel of mercy?"
"Of course. Do you think I'd come here if I didn't need to?"
Ess reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a jam jar filled with a faintly green ointment. She tossed it to Oz.
"The money is in my wallet on the mantelpiece, my Venus," he said, catching it. "Now, if you were committed to customer service, you'd rub it on for me."
"The day I agree to that, I'll need to be committed," said Ess, pulling a couple of notes from the wallet.
"The money you demand from me, it's the least you could do."
"Well, if you're not happy, go get a prescription from your doctor."
"Oh, she's a hard woman," Oz confided in Paul. "She knows her witch's brew is the only thing that actually works for this poor old, sick man."
"And you are sick in so many ways, Oz. Now behave. I've brought a guest that needs your help."
"Really?" Oz silenced the TV with a remote and leant back, inspecting Paul as though he were some dubious merchandise he had been asked to purchase. "I just assumed he was some young stud that you had lured into your bed with your heathen wiles." He laughed. "Oh, bless him, he's blushing. Well, that proves he's not. No man that had been with you could ever blush again. Who are you, my blushing young innocent?"
"Paul," said Paul, embarrassed by the casual familiarity Ess and Oz obviously enjoyed. He felt like a voyeur on some private relationship.
"Greetings, Paul, and welcome to my humble home. I am Professor Dawkins, doctor of divinity, professor of applied psychiatry, lecturer on comparative religions, despoiler of a hundred virgins, lapsed Druid, and grand wizard of the order of Roke. My friends call me Oz. In which capacity can I be of service?"
"All of them, I guess. Um ... except the bit about, you know, um ... the virgins." Paul stuttered into silence, aware he was blushing again.
Oz raised his eyebrows. "Really? I would have thought ... never mind. What do you want of me, then, young man who has no need of despoiled virgins?"
"Well, it's sort of personal," said Paul, glancing at the young lad on the sofa.
"Oh, never mind young Michael here. I am helping him with his paper on popular modern paganism. Have you any idea the influence Buffy has over the religious beliefs of pubescent boys in the West?"
"Run out of na?ve young girls on your course, Oz?" asked Ess.
Oz drew himself up in indignation. "How dare you! I am well known for helping all my students in their studies, regardless of gender. Besides, this year's crop are all dried-up lesbians."
"A lesbian, you understand," explained Ess, "being any woman who turns Oz down. Which, considering the number who do, makes you wonder how the human race survives."
"I do my bit to ensure the survival of the species," said Oz. "Now, young man, piss or get off the pot, as the good book says."
Paul looked uncertainly at Ess. She nodded encouragingly. "Well, I need to get rid of a demon," he said.
"A demon, eh? Recite the Lord's Prayer."
"What?"
"The Lord's Prayer. Don't you know it? Our Father, and all that?"
Feeling foolish, Paul started in a quiet voice, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed ...."
"Nope, you're not possessed. Wouldn't be able to say it otherwise. Job done. That'll be ten guineas, three Hail Mary's and a pint of decent beer. Next."
"Oz, behave!" commanded Ess. Her tone had an edge that had not been there in the banter she and Oz had exchanged moments before. "This is serious."
"I didn't say I was possessed," said Paul. "More the other way round. I possess a demon, I guess. I summoned one, and now I can't get rid of it."
Oz clasped his hands over his belly, pursed his lips and studied Paul carefully. "You had better sit down, then. Make space where you can."
Paul lifted a pile of books from a chair, then looked around for a place to put them. Finally he gave up and placed them in the small patch of carpet at his feet. Ess walked in front of the dormant television and performed her graceful descent into the lotus position on the floor.
"What makes you think you summoned a demon?" Oz asked.
"I can see it."
"And can you see it now?"
Paul glanced at Ess. Scarth squatted by her side. Paul suspected it was more in hope of ice-cream than anything else. "Yes, unfortunately."
"Do you currently take, or have you ever taken, mind-altering drugs?"
Paul sighed. "No. I'm not a nutter, and I'm not a druggy. I wish it were that simple. I own an honest-to-goodness demon from the pit of pain, and I can't get rid of the bugger."
"Show him, Paul," said Ess, gently.
Paul shook his head. "Look, he's useless, but he's not harmless. He kills people, okay? The people who he killed, well, those I saw him kill, anyway, could see him. I can tell him not to kill people, but I don't think he really understands. Telling him not to kill anyone at all just doesn't work. He still does it. I don't want it happening again. I know how crazy this sounds, okay? I don't blame you. I would think the same in your position. But I don't need a psychiatrist, I need someone to tell me how to send him back to hell."
"It's true, Oz," said Ess. "I can see him too. He's sitting right here, with me. He's summoned a supernatural entity."
Oz raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really? Well, Paul, I have to admit, normally my professional opinion would be that you're as crazy as a loon, to coin the technical term. But if Ess says so, well, that's different. She has the world's worst taste in men, but she's so level-headed you could put up shelves with her. So, you've summoned a demon, eh? That's ... unusual. How did you do that, when so many have failed?"
"I found this book," said Paul, lifting up the carrier bag. "It had the spell in it."
"May I see?" asked Oz. Paul leant over and passed the bag over. Oz pulled the book out and slowly leafed through the pages.
"This the invocation?" he asked at last, holding the page for Paul to see. Paul nodded. "Interesting. A lot of these books from that time were fakes, or made ludicrous claims. These symbols, though, date back to ancient times. Early Semitic, if I'm not mistaken. And the invocations, though in English, are a fairly accurate translation of much earlier examples. What you have here, at first glance, appears to be the genuine article. And you carry it around in a plastic bag? Do you realise how valuable this is?"
Paul shrugged. "I don't care," he said. "All I want from it is a way to get rid of Scarth."
"Scarth being your demon?"
Paul nodded. "I've tried the banishment spell, but they won't take him back, and I've tried an exorcism, but Scarth ... um ... well, it didn't work." Paul didn't feel he knew the people in the room well enough to recount the demise of the late Father Michael.
"Technically speaking, it's not a spell," muttered Oz, engrossed in the pages. "What's a spell, Michael?"
The student looked panic-stricken. "A magical formula that influences people?" he asked.
"People or the corporeal world in which they live," said Oz. "Close enough. This is an invocation, binding a supernatural spirit to your will. Which should mean, young man, that this Scarth should not be able to do anything unless you consent to it."
"Yeah, well, Scarth is a law unto himself. He either doesn't understand, or he forgets, or something. Either way, he does stuff I don't tell him to, and stuff I tell him not to as well. I spoke to some book guy back home, an expert on occult books. He said Scarth wasn't even a proper demon, but some sort of hybrid."
"A chimera? Yes, yes, that could explain it. The invocation would only be partially effective if he wasn't all demon. And what happened then?"
So Paul recounted his story for a second time that day.
By snodlander
All the time Paul spoke, Oz leafed through the book, occasionally asking questions to clarify Paul's story. When Paul finished he nodded and gazed into space for some time.
"I'll be frank with you, young demon keeper," he said at length. "This is a little out of my experience. It's probably out of anybody's experience, but Ess was right to bring you to me. Though I hesitate to bang my own drum, you won't find a more knowledgeable authority on comparative beliefs, ancient and modern. It'll take some research, mind. There's some precedence in Middle Eastern mythology, the whole genie in a bottle thing. Though you'd probably have preferred the one out of 'I Dream of Jeannie', eh? Do you mind if I borrow the book?"
"If it helps," said Paul.
Oz gave a sudden broad smile. "And if the worst comes to the worst, I can always act as your shrink. Now, it'll take me a couple of days. Where are you staying?"
"The Kings Arms, down Whitechapel way."
"Don't know it, but never mind. When I solve your problem, you can introduce me to their beer cellar. Give me two days and then call round. If you could bring your nubile companion, so much the better. She makes any excuse to come round to see me.
"Now," he continued, rubbing his hands together, "after all that deep angst, I expect Ess wants to get me drunk. Fancy a shot of single malt?"
"I'm sorry, professor, I have to go," said Michael. "I have to be somewhere. Thanks for your help."
"You're welcome, young lad," said Oz. "I expect to see a five thousand word essay on my desk by Thursday, and I want to be impressed by it, okay?"
Michael nodded a farewell to Ess and Paul and left the room.
"Odd lad. Very intense. Still, it pays my wages, I suppose. Wench! Glasses and the bottle of the good stuff from the kitchen, chop-chop!"
Ess gave Oz a withering look, but nevertheless rose and exited.
Oz winked at Paul. "She's a great lass," he whispered, though at such a volume Paul wondered if Ess might hear. "Heart of gold. You hurt her, I'll break your legs, and you won't be the first person I've hospitalised, understand?" He gave a jovial grin, but there was a hardness underlying his tone.
"Oh, right, sure. I have no intention of hurting anyone, Oz, honest."
Oz nodded. "No, I can see that. So long as we understand each other. Oh, you bringer of succour," he said, as Ess returned bearing the glasses and a bottle of whisky. "I always thought Bacchus should have been female, you know? Wouldn't you worship a buxom female that keeps your glass full?"
"You'd worship anything in a skirt," said Ess.
"Oh, that's not true. I don't limit myself that much. Here, a toast," he said, raising the glass Ess had filled. "To the banishment of all our demons, may they all be sent back whence they came."
An hour later Ess and Paul left the flat. They paused when they arrived at the road.
"Well," said Paul, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking up and down the street. He rocked back and forth on his heels.
"Well," said Ess, smiling.
"I guess this is goodbye, for the moment, anyway." But it doesn't have to be. We could maybe go for a drink, grab a bite to eat, go walk in the park, fall in love and live happily ever after.
"I guess so." Ess stood patiently, making no effort to go.
"That Oz, he's a bit sexist, isn't he?" said Paul, in an effort to fill the vacuum between them.
"Oh, he's perfectly harmless. I bet if I said yes to him, he'd run a mile. He treats everything as a big joke. You just have to tune into his sense of humour, that's all. He said most of the things he did just to make you blush. But he's a good friend. He would never deny anything to someone he likes; it's not in his nature. Besides, he really is all those things he said. Well, I'm not sure about the hundred virgins. I doubt they actually were virgins, though I expect they wished they still were afterwards, but the rest is true. If anyone can help, it's him."
"You mean he really is a wizard?"
"Of course, and a good one too. Why do you think he's called Oz?"
"I thought he might have been Australian."
Ess laughed. "No, it's because of the Wizard of Oz. He jokes about wizardry all the time, even though he practices it. Did you see his shirt? It was a Harry Potter one. But don't be fooled, he knows his stuff, and if he says he's going to help you, he will."
Paul nodded and looked up and down the street.
"Good, well, that's great then," he said.
"And of course, I'll help too."
"Oh, yeah, I mean, that's great. I really appreciate your help, you know? I was just so lost this morning. I didn't know where to go after the magic shop." And to show you how grateful I am, can I treat you to a burger or something?
She reached out and squeezed Paul's arm. "It'll be okay, Paul," she said, reassuringly. "You've heard of the Gaia principle? All things tend toward harmony, especially if you believe in Her, Mother Gaia I mean. She led you to us, me and Oz. We'll find a way."
Paul thought his heart would break a rib. "Listen," he gabbled, rushing his words before he could have second thoughts, "I was wondering, you know, seeing as how you have been so good to me and everything, well, I really appreciate it, you don't know how much, so I was wondering...."
"Paul!" The shout was brick wall across his headlong dash to the end of the sentence. He turned to find the source. Michael stood twenty yards down the footpath, by an old Transit van. He beckoned to Paul.
"What does he want?" asked Paul, quietly.
"Well, there's one way to find out. I'll look after Scarth while you talk to him, if you want."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Paul looked at Scarth. The demon gave an innocent look back. "No hurting Ess, okay?" he commanded.
"Scarth good," said Scarth, and gave a pathetic smile at Ess. "Ice-cream?"
Paul shook his head and walked towards Michael.
Michael was fidgeting on the footpath, his arms folded across his chest and his feet performing a nervous soft-shoe shuffle. He nodded a greeting as Paul approached.
"I think I can help you," he said, as Paul arrived.
"Yes?" said Paul, doubtfully. "How's that?"
Michael hopped from foot to foot, shuffling in an arc across the path. Paul turned slowly to keep facing him. Michael seemed edgy. Maybe he had taken something after leaving the flat. He certainly appeared more agitated.
"I've been doing some research, and I think I have the answer."
"Already?" asked Paul. It had been barely an hour since Michael had learnt of Paul's story.
"Yes, I can help you with your demon." Michael's voice was unnaturally loud.
"Okay, okay, keep it down," said Paul. "I don't want the whole world to know."
The side door in the van behind Paul slid open. As Paul turned to see who was there, Michael leapt, shoving Paul hard. Paul staggered forward, his shins banging the doorsill of the van. Powerful arms reached out from the dark interior and pulled Paul into the van. Michael leapt in after him and slammed the door closed.
"Drive!" Michael screamed, and the van lurched forward.
By snodlander
Ess watched Paul approach Michael and talk to him. She was puzzled when the van door opened and Michael bundled Paul inside, but it was a few seconds before the significance of what happened dawned on her. By then the van had reached the next corner and disappeared in a squeal of tyres.
"Paul!" she cried, and took a couple of involuntary steps forward. Scarth skipped beside her.
"Master?" he asked. He looked up at Ess, puzzlement showing on his face. He looked down the road, and then back to Ess. "Master?" he repeated. There was the edge of panic in his voice.
"It's okay, Scarth," soothed Ess. "He's just ..."
"Master!" screamed Scarth, and barrelled down the road towards the corner. Ess ran after him, calling his name, but Scarth took as much notice as an escaped mongrel on the scent of a bitch on heat. He cannoned into the lamppost on the corner and ricocheted out of sight.
Ess sprinted, but even if she wasn't wearing a long skirt and sandals she would not have been able to catch him. She reached the corner and stopped, wondering what a masterless Scarth might do in a city full of potential meals. Two hundred yards further on she saw the figure of Scarth standing in the middle of the road. The van was nowhere to be seen. She pushed off again, running as fast as she could to the stationary demon.
"Scarth, wait," she cried, but Scarth was going nowhere. His shoulders slumped, his hands reaching almost down to the ground, and his chin sunk to his chest. As Ess neared him he suddenly threw back his head and emitted a hideous screech.
Ess stumbled and clapped her hands over her ears. The sound was sickening. It was the pent up scream of hopelessness uttered from countless souls condemned to an eternity of torture. Ess sank to her knees in the empty street from the sheer weight of despair that flowed from Scarth's throat.
"Scarth," she sobbed. "Scarth, stop."
Scarth's scream gradually petered out, and he turned a face full of misery towards Ess. "Master," he cried.
A horn sounded behind Ess. She looked over her shoulder to see a car in the road, the driver impatiently gesturing at her. She stood, and shooed Scarth to the side of the road. The driver shouted a half-heard insult as he accelerated away, but Ess was too concerned about Scarth to notice.
"Come on, little fella. It's okay," said Ess.
"Master gone," said Scarth, and somehow that explained everything.
"Oh, my poor lamb," said Ess, squatting down and putting her arm around his shoulders. "Don't worry. We'll find him again."
Scarth pushed her away and clutched his head. "Rules! Master gone. Scarth be with Master. Master not go."
"He didn't mean to. He couldn't help it. He'll be back in a while, I know it."
Scarth dropped to the ground, gripped his stomach and curled into a fetal position.
"Scarth?" said Ess, concern filling her voice. "Are you alright, pet?"
Scarth whimpered and closed his eyes.
"Scarth?"
"Hurt," he said quietly, then he gagged and coughed weakly. His skin took on a grey sheen, his ears drooped and he shivered.
"Oh, sweet Mother," whispered Ess. "Don't do this, Scarth. Don't die on me."
As the van pulled sharply away, Paul was thrown against the back doors in a tangle of bodies and limbs. There were at least two other people with him in the darkness. As his eyes became accustomed he made out Michael's pale face above him.
"What the hell?" he asked, as he attempted to push Michael away. "You bastard! What the fuck's going on?"
"Be quiet," said Michael, and swung an ineffectual punch at the side of Paul's head.
"You little bugger!" shouted Paul, pushing and squirming to get from under his attacker. The van veered to the side, and Paul and the others tumbled around the interior again. He found himself on top of Michael as they came to rest.
"In the name of Jesus, I command you to be still," screamed Michael, panic in his voice.
"I'll be still after I've punched your bastard head in," shouted Paul, and slammed his fist into Michael's face.
Suddenly his back erupted in pain. His breath exploded out of him with such force he felt he would never be able to breathe in again. He was thrown onto his face and his arms forced behind his back. He heard the ratchet as handcuffs were tightened onto his wrists.
"I commend your call to the authority of Christ, Brother Michael," said a voice from behind him, "but sometimes it does no harm to reinforce it with a kick to the kidneys. In His service, we must employ tough love when dealing with sinners."
Ess looked around. It was a quiet residential street. There was no-one around she could ask for help. Even if there were, what could she say? 'Excuse me, can you help me with this invisible demon. He's sick.'
She knelt beside Scarth. "Scarth, we have to get you inside, okay?" She touched his shoulder. It was death-cold. Was that normal? "Scarth, darling, up you get, there's a good boy." Scarth moaned quietly but didn't stir.
Paul said Scarth was dangerous. He had ordered him not to hurt her, but would he remember? She had been kind to him; how much would that count? How much would the distress he was in affect his behaviour?
Scarth coughed weakly and whimpered. Ess pushed the doubts away. Scarth was a creature in distress, and if she didn't help him, who would? She slid an arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders and struggled to her feet. He turned into her body and curled up in her arms. Her doubts evaporated.
"You poor lamb," she crooned. "Come on, we'll get you some help." Cradling her invisible charge in her arms, she retraced her steps. Scarth screwed up his eyes and gently moaned.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Paul felt frighteningly vulnerable lying on the floor of the van, his hands cuffed behind his back and an unseen assailant kneeling on his back. Michael sat on the wheel arch on the other side of the van, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose.
"We are here to help you, Paul," said the man on his back. His voice was deep and sonorous, as though he was used to public speaking, or possibly performing voice-overs for commercials.
Paul felt sick. "Well, you can start be getting the hell off my back."
"Just relax, Paul. We are going to rid you of your demon."
Paul's stomach cramped. "No, seriously, get off my back. I think I'm going to be sick."
"It will be all over soon." The man on his back made no effort to move.
Paul felt the bile rise in his stomach and the rush of saliva in his mouth. "No, really, I think ...." He vomited as the wave of nausea hit him, spitting it out onto the dirty metal floor under his cheek.
"Brother Simon, he really has been sick," said Michael.
"Do not concern yourself, Brother Michael. It's a trick of the demon. He fears our holy power, and is trying to trick us into releasing him."
The sticky vomit ran under Paul's cheek. The smell made him heave again, but there was nothing left to bring up. His head pounded with a growing migraine.
"Just let me move over a bit," he said. "Get me out of the sick. Please."
Paul felt the weight on his back shift. He was lifted by the collar and dragged a couple of inches to the side, then his captor knelt on him again. He pressed his head against the cold metal floor to ease the headache, but it just intensified. His limbs started to cramp and his stomach heaved. The gloom of the van seemed to fill from the edges with a grey fog, until all he could see was the floor immediately by his eyes. Slipping into a semi-conscious daze, Paul screwed up his eyes and gently moaned.
By snodlander
"Alright, alright, I'm coming," boomed Oz, as he made his way along the hall. "No need to kick my door in."
He opened the door. "Ess, my fallen angel! Have you finally succumbed to ...." Oz noticed the look on her face. "What's wrong? Come on in, Love, and tell me about it."
He held the door wide, and Ess stumbled in. Oz saw the awkward way she held herself and the laboured gait, and his heart sank. He followed her into the living room and watched her lean over the sofa.
"What's wrong, Ess?" he asked. "Are you hurt? Did someone attack you? You take a seat and I'll phone an ambulance."
Ess shook her head. "No, I'm fine, Oz. It's not me, it's Scarth."
"Well, take a seat and tell me about it."
Ess sat in one of the armchairs. Though the sofa was relatively free, for some reason Oz felt compelled to clear a space on the other armchair and sit there.
Ess bit her lip and her whole body trembled. For a moment, Oz thought she was going to break into tears, but she closed her eyes, breathed in deeply, then slowly exhaled. When she opened her eyes she was once more in control of herself.
"It's Paul," she said. "They've kidnapped him."
Oz listened to her story, grunting at salient points but otherwise staying silent as Ess recounted the events she has just witnessed. Afterwards, he steepled his hands and stared into space as his fingers danced a complicated rhythm against each other.
"And where is Scarth now?" he asked.
Ess nodded towards the sofa.
"What's he doing?"
Ess shrugged. "He's just lying there, like he's almost asleep. He keeps moaning, though. I think he's in pain. Is he going to die?"
"Technically, demons can't die, not being alive in the strict sense of the word. At worst, he can decorporealise. That is to say, he will leave this plane of existence and return back whence he came. Which would be a result, as that is what we wanted in the first place."
"But?" prompted Ess. She knew there was one coming.
"But, unfortunately for us, his existence is tied into your young man's. Should he descend into the depths of hell, he would sadly take your beau with him. I'm assuming that's not what you want?"
"Now's not the time for jokes, Oz," said Ess grimly.
"No, indeed not. So, in the short term, we need to reunite your boyfriend with his demon. Did you get the registration number of the vehicle?"
"No, it all happened so quickly."
"Make? Model?"
"It was white, with lots of rust spots. Sorry, that's all I got."
"Not to worry," said Oz, rising. "Now, I have a book here somewhere that might help us." He walked over to one of the bookcases and ran a finger along the rows. "Hmm... I really need to catalogue these, you know. Get some order into them. Ah, here it is!" He pulled a dog-eared paperback from the shelf.
"A spell?" asked Ess, uncertainly.
"Oh, much better than that. An A to Z." Oz thumbed through the pages, then sat on the arm of Ess's chair and showed her the map. "Now, we're here. Which way did the van go?"
"Um ... it turned right at the corner," said Ess, pointing to her right in the manner of direction-givers everywhere.
"That would be north then. So they probably crossed the river into Chelsea. The gods only know where they went after that. Has Scarth got any worse since you carried him here?"
"I don't think so. I mean, he's just lying there, moaning, like he was before. I don't know how much worse he could get."
"Hmm ... How long after that traitor Michael left did you leave, do you think? An hour? So his cohorts must have been within an hour's drive of here, which would put them at most ten miles away, given London traffic. Now, let's assume that they have taken Paul back to the location they came from, and let's assume that's north of the Thames. The enforced separation of Paul and Scarth seems to have made Scarth ill, so it's reasonable to assume, if he's getting no worse, that they are no longer travelling away from us."
He looked at Ess and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Ess shook her head in bewilderment.
So?" she asked.
"So, apple of my eye, I have a plan!"
Paul opened his eyes as he they dragged him from the van interior. He was in a garage of some sort, plain breezeblock walls and a cement floor. Michael supported him on one arm, a man in his early thirties on the other. The driver was a woman no older than Michael. She opened a door and the other two dragged Michael forward. The movement made him giddy and nauseous. He was vaguely aware of a dark corridor before they manhandled him down a narrow stair into a basement. He was unceremoniously dumped face-first onto a bare bed and his wrists uncuffed.
"Welcome to your new home," said the stranger. Paul slowly turned over. The effort drained him. He was sick and shaky, his muscles suddenly converted into water.
"Fuck you," Paul muttered and leapt forward. At least, he tried to. His knees seemed to be on the wrong way round, and the room rocked. Even so, he managed a few unsteady steps, fist raised. He was brought to a sudden halt by a sharp tug on his wrist. He looked back. He still wore one half of the handcuffs on his right wrist. The other cuff was looped through the link of a chain, firmly fixed to the wall.
Paul focused again on the handcuffs. Pink fur covered the metal.
"Love cuffs?" he asked.
"We want you to be comfortable. We're not animals, and we don't wish to be cruel. Besides, they were the only sort Sister Mary was able to find on the high street." The older man looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment. "Now please sit down, Paul. I have some questions I need to ask you."
"Yeah? I've a few for you, too." Nevertheless, Paul sat on the edge of the bed. He felt sicker than he could remember, and the effort of standing was taking its toll. The other man took a chair and placed it just further than a chain-length from Paul. He was dressed in a suit that looked so casual and yet fitted so well it must have been hand-tailored. Under the black jacket he wore a charcoal crewneck which showed off the gold cross he wore on a chain. The whole ensemble was set off by a pair of white trainers. What was it about religious professionals these days, that they felt they had to wear trainers, wondered Paul. His hair was thick and unnaturally black. His skin had an even tan, and his teeth, as he smiled at Paul, were dazzling.
"Who are you?" Paul asked. "What do you want?"
His captor sat on the chair and leant forward. "I am Brother Jude, and I want to help you, Paul. I will help you, despite yourself. You may not see it now, but you will thank us for this. Consider this a form of purgatory. You are in the fire at present, but you will emerge on the other side refined and pure, the dross of sin burnt away."
"Amen," chorused Michael and Mary, their eyes fixed on Jude.
"You think I'll thank you before or after I call the police?" said Paul. His legs had stopped shaking now, but his stomach had decided it wanted attention.
"Brother Michael tells me you have a demon. Is this correct?"
"Fuck you, and Brother Michael," said Paul. The nausea was rising. All he wanted to do was find somewhere to crawl away to and die peacefully.
Jude took the chain from around his neck and held it out at arm's length. "Lord, please forgive him his words. He knows not what he says."
Paul couldn't hold it back any longer. He leant forward and vomited onto the floor.
"See the power of prayer?" he heard Jude say, as his stomached spasmed in a vain attempt to eject fluids no longer there. "The demon in him is strong, but out faith is stronger. We are at the front line here, brothers and sisters. We are face to face with the principalities of evil, and we must gird our loins in the Lord to combat it. The Devil is cunning and wily. You will be challenged in the coming days. You will be tempted, you will be threatened, you will see and hear things that will shake a lesser person to the depth of their soul. But we will have faith, and we will succeed in saving this poor lost soul from the clutches of the demon that holds him."
Paul dropped over onto his side and brought his knees up into the foetal position. He was dying. At least, he hoped he was. Every muscle in his body cramped. His head spun. His stomach was turning itself inside out. And he was chained to a bed and being forced to listen to a sermon on how evil he was.
"Oh God, make it stop," he groaned.
"Yes, Brother!" boomed Jude in an unnecessarily loud voice. "Yes! Pray to the Lord with us. Banish this demon once and for all."
Paul closed his eyes and prayed silently for a swift death.
By snodlander
Ess waited at the kerb with Scarth held in her arms. Oz had tried to carry him, but there was something about Scarth that made it impossible for Oz to even touch him. His hands just glided an inch or two from Scarth's body, as though there was an invisible force field that Oz was completely unaware of it. In the end, Ess carried him down from the flat.
An ancient mini pulled into the side of the road and Oz extracted himself from the driver's side like a pack-a-mac; you knew that the raincoat had been contained within the small pocket, but you were at a loss to explain how it all fitted. Oz opened the passenger door and pushed the seat forward.
"Put him on the back seat, my angel. Though I can think of far better uses for the back seat. Still, that will have to wait until after our mission, eh?"
Ess was too worried to respond, but duly lay Scarth across the back seat of the car. She pushed the seat back and sat in. Oz folded himself into the driver's seat via a complicated set of movements and an imaginative litany of curses.
"One day, when my genius is recognised, I shall buy a vehicle more suited to my standing and frame," he said, starting the engine. "A Scorpion tank, perhaps. Now, my little cherub, I am going to regret this, but I have a task for you. You are going to be chief navigator and map-reader. Believe me, if there was a way for me not to rely on a woman's map-reading skills, I would take it."
"Shut up, Oz," said Ess, quietly. "I'm not in the mood. Just tell me what you want to do."
"It strikes me, gentle flower, that we have a signal detector that you are uniquely gifted to use. Do you know how the Germans tracked down Resistance transmitters during the war? The radio operators would have small mobile transmitters that they would move around, so the Germans had directional antennas they'd drive around and triangulate the signals. We're going to do something like that. If distance makes Scarth ill, proximity should make him better. With a bit of luck, we should be able to triangulate Paul's location.
"So your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to keep track of Scarth's condition and our position on the map. I can't guarantee anything, but it's the closest thing to a plan I can think of."
Ess gave a wan smile and patted Oz on his knee. "It's a plan, Oz, which is more than I had. I appreciate this, really I do. You think this will work?"
Oz eased out of the side road into a main street, cursing the other drivers as he turned right. "We shall see, my precious. Now, keep track of where we're going on the A to Z. We're heading north towards Chelsea Bridge. That's up the map, if you're holding it the right way round. And your children!" he screamed at a bus driver as he accelerated hard into its path.
It was dark, but somehow Paul knew he was in a vast space. There were things out there, just beyond his vision. Nasty things that wanted to hurt him in inventive ways.
"You are safe." Paul couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. It was a voice in the dark; of the dark. It was a voice that had never been heard in the daylight.
"What do you want?" asked Paul. His voice seemed weak and inconsequential.
"I want what you want, but before I can deliver that you must call me by name."
"Who are you?"
"I cannot tell you."
"Well, that's a bloody stupid arrangement, then."
"Look for your enemy's enemy, and I will be there."
"Look, enough of the Zen crap! Who are you? Show yourself," shouted Paul.
Something shot out of the darkness and covered his face. Paul struggled to breathe. He tried to pull it off but he was paralysed. With one huge effort he finally managed to fling his arm up, and the action woke him.
Paul opened his eyes to see the frightened face of - what was her name again? - Sister Mary? She sat back sharply with rabbit-wide eyes. Paul assumed the titles of 'sister' and 'brother' were honoury. He didn't think his abductors were actual monks and nuns, though there was a certain off-duty nun look to Sister Mary. She wore no make-up or jewellery, her blouse was buttoned to the neck and her skirt covered her knees even when sitting. It must have mortified her to buy those love-cuffs.
Paul looked at his wrist. The handcuffs and chain still secured his right hand to the wall.
"Shit! Damn, damn, damn! What the fuck do you people want from me?" he asked. He felt even worse than he had that morning, faced with a hangover and a greasy cooked breakfast.
"Come away, Sister," said Brother Jude. Mary dropped a face flannel into a small bowl in her other hand and retreated backwards to the far wall, eyes fixed on Paul. "This is a classic symptom of demon possession. I'm afraid you will have to hear many more blasphemies and expletives from the demon before we can expel it. It is a sign of its fear and weakness."
"Or, quite possibly, it's a sign of someone who's been kidnapped and chained to wall. You ever think of that, Einstein?" Paul was in no mood to negotiate his release. His head pounded and his stomach churned. "Who the hell are you, anyway? What the fuck is going on?"
"Curse away, Paul. It won't change a thing. Some words have power. The holy name of God, the truths revealed in His holy book, the prayers of the penitent. These all have power. Blaspheming and cursing are powerless before them. We're not your enemy, Paul."
Are you my enemy's enemy? "You've got a bloody strange way of showing it, then," said Paul aloud, brandishing his cuffed wrist.
Jude shrugged, as though the chain was a trivial detail. "It's true, nonetheless. Brother Michael here spent months infiltrating that devil cult. To save you, he threw it all away. Sister Mary washed the puke off your face, even though you could have woken and attacked her at any moment. I am going to spend every waking moment of my time with you, to defeat this demon and bring you into the arms of the Lord, regardless of my other pastoral duties. We love you, Paul, in Jesus' name, and we will evict this demon in order to save you."
"Best of luck with that." Paul was feeling, if not exactly better, then not quite as bad. He gently raised himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He gripped the mattress until his head stopped spinning and he could trust himself to open his mouth without anything other than words spilling out. Sister Mary, he couldn't help noticing, shrank back till she was up against the grubby cellar wall.
"So, who are you, now that we're family and I can feel the love. Jehovah Witnesses?" Paul searched his memory for other extremist sects. "Methodists? What?"
"We don't align ourselves with the established churches. They have lost their way, and are more concerned with tax avoidance and political correctness. Jesus was a simple teacher concerned with practical works. When was the last time a bishop healed the sick or fed the poor? I know about the corruption that has eaten away at the church. I was once a member of the Anglican church, wasting my God-given time and talents on endless committee meetings about how to raise money for the organ renovation. All the while, people were homeless and hungry on the streets outside. We have returned to the practical church described in the second chapter of Acts, channelling the Spirit into action."
The words tumbled so easily from his mouth, with no hesitation or pause, that Paul suspected Jude performed this same speech several times a day to anyone that would listen. And Paul was a captive audience.
"Oh, great. The Provisional arm of the C of E. I've been kidnapped by the Paramilitary soldiers of Christ."
"You think I've not been mocked before, Paul?" Jude smiled, the sort of smile that was designed to let you know just how noble the smiler was being. "I know ours is an unpopular message. The true message always is. Look at the reaction Jesus had. But you at least were looking for an answer, according to Brother Michael. You want to be rid of your demon. Trust me, Paul, we will do that for you. No demon can resist a true believer's faith."
"I've tried it." A vision of Father Mike's trainer disappearing down Scarth's throat rose into his memory. "It didn't take. I don't think this will either. No offence. Listen, do you think I can have a drink of water? Just to take the taste away. You can make it holy water if you want."
Brother Jude shook his head. "I'm sorry Paul. Your body is a temple to God, and you have allowed it to be desecrated by Satan. We will cast it out by the authority of His name, but the more comfortable your demon feels in it, the harder it will be on you when he does leave. It will be uncomfortable at first, of course it will, but in the long term it will make it easier. No food or drink till you're safe, Paul. It will pain me as much as you, believe me."
Paul groaned and clutched his stomach as it once more cramped. "Want a bet?"
By snodlander
"Master?" whimpered Scarth from the back seat of the mini.
Ess twisted around and looked at the demon. He was still lying across the seats, but his eyes were open.
"Yes, my pet, we're looking for him now. Try not to worry."
"How is he?" asked Oz.
"A little better, I think. Still not very happy, but not as bad as at first."
"On a scale of ten, where one is where we started and ten is normal, if you can use 'normal' in relation to an invisible demon, where is he now?"
"Erm, I don't know. A three, maybe?"
"Okay, put that down on the map. Write 'three' at the point where we are."
"Where's that?"
"Bugger me backwards, I don't know, girl, you've got the map. Here, there's a street sign." Oz pulled sharply across the oncoming traffic with a casual two-finger salute out the window at the other drivers who braked sharply. "Okay, Sloane Street junction with Pimlico Road. Got that on the map? Good girl. So now we're travelling, erm, east? Right? We'll travel along here for a while and see how that affects our wounded soldier."
"I want to talk to the demon," said Jude.
"No, really, you don't," answered Paul. He was beginning to feel bad again. This was no hangover. He wondered what death would be like, and how it could possibly be worse than this.
"Demon, I command you, what is your name?"
"He's not here," said Paul. "He was with me, just before you and your gang of junior kidnappers grabbed me, but you left him behind, Einstein." Paul gave a little satisfied grunt. "Such a perfect plan, too, but they always trip over that one little detail, don't they?"
"By the power and authority of Christ, tell me your name, demon!"
"I told you, he's not here, but I can tell you it if you want. By the power of Grayskull, his name is Scarth. Happy?"
Jude turned to his disciples. "Jesus cast out demons in his own name. A demon cannot refuse the power of His name. It will tell you its name, if you command it on Jesus' behalf. When you have its name, you have its power. This is why God told Moses His name was 'I am'. This is why Legion could not remain in the body of the Gadarene, once the Lord knew its name. I demanded its name in the power of the Lord, and the demon told me."
"No," said Paul. "He didn't tell you, I did. And I would have told you in Winny the Pooh's name, if you'd asked."
"Scarth! In the most holy of names, I command you, leave this body now!"
Paul was feeling much worse now. He laid back on the bed and closed his eyes.
"Wonderful. Hallelujah. It worked, I'm cured. Now let me go, arsehole." Later, he thought maybe it would have had a better chance of working if he had left off the 'arsehole'.
"He's getting worse, Oz."
"Okay, mark the score on the map, then." Oz executed a three-point turn and headed back where they had come.
"Oz! This is a one-way street!"
"I'm only going one way," answered Oz. "Yes, yes, alright, your car horn works. How are you going to use it when I shove it up your arse?" he screamed out the window.
"You know?" he said, suddenly switching to his indoor voice. "This might have a chance of working."
"If we survive the journey," muttered Ess.
"Scarth is not your enemy," said the voice in the darkness.
"Really?" asked Paul. "He's not exactly my best friend, though."
"Scarth is an abomination. He is no-one's friend, but he is a liability in the pit. He cannot even follow simple instructions, let alone understand the Great Plan. We do not want him, and neither do you. Yet you have been tricked into being his master. That gives you certain advantages over your fellow man, but certain obligations too. You wish to be rid of both."
It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.
"And you can help me do that?" asked Paul, sceptically.
"I am the only one that can help you do that."
"What's in it for you?"
"Your enemy is my enemy. We can serve each other to our mutual advantage. But you need to summon me first."
"Yeah, because I have had such a raging success with summoning demons so far."
"How many more people will you allow him to kill? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? Will you watch as he eats your family and friends? You have no choice. Summon me!"
"Who are you?"
"Ask who your enemy is, Paul, and you will see me in his shadow."
Paul felt a stinging slap on his cheek. He opened his eyes. Jude was standing over him, hand raised.
""What the ...?"
"Stay with me, Paul. The demon will stop your ears, because it cannot bear to hear my words. You must fight it, Paul. Stay awake."
"Why won't you listen? He's not here. I'm sick, that's all. Live me alone, for Christ's sake, let me die in peace."
Jude slapped his face again. "In the name of Christ, I demand you leave this soul, Scarth," he thundered.
Paul brought his arms up over his face. "Leave me alone, you nutter!" he shouted through his hands.
"Brother Jude?" Paul recognised Mary's voice, timid and scared.
"Be strong, Sister. We must save this poor soul, whether he wants it or not. Look to the prize. Some discomfort now is nothing compared to the eternity of damnation he will suffer otherwise."
"It's just ... he really does seem sick."
"It's the demon, Sister. It's doing this to his body, trying to use our compassion against us, but we must be strong. We must keep our eyes fixed on the glorious celebration in heaven when this poor soul is rescued. Pray, Sister. Pray for his soul!"
"Oh, at least an eight," said Ess, looking back. Scarth was hanging his head out the window, large nostrils flared like the air intakes of a jet. "Scarth! How are you feeling, hun?"
Scarth pulled his head back inside and gave her a doleful look. "Want Master," he said.
"Yes, I know, darling, but we'll find him soon, I promise. How do you feel in yourself? Do you feel sick?"
"Sick," agreed Scarth, though he didn't seem too sure. "Ice-cream?"
"We'll get you some ice-cream just as soon as we find Paul, okay?"
"Find master," he agreed, and stuck his head back out the window.
"Let's look at that map," said Oz, holding his hand out.
"Let's park the car up first, Oz," said Ess, moving the A to Z out of reach.
Oz mounted the kerb and juddered to a halt, casually waving on the car that had screeched to a halt behind him.
"I don't know why you're so nervous. I've never had an accident yet."
"Really?" said Ess, incredulously.
"Really. Mind you, I've seen hundreds around me. Now, gimme, gimme, gimme."
Ess handed him the A to Z, with its scrawl of numbers over the pages. Oz took the pen off her and started to join up the numbers.
"It's not exactly scientific," he muttered, drawing rough shapes on the map. "Your scores are pretty subjective, but still, I think we've got a fairly good fix on him. Look." He held up the map book, looking like a child bringing his first painting home from school. The lines made up concentric, well, not circles, exactly, but wobbly shapes that had all had roughly the same centre. "You know, when I thought up this plan, I really didn't think it would work. I surprise myself, sometimes."
"So, now what?" said Ess.
"So now, we go here," said Oz, stabbing a huge finger into the page. "Parsons Green. Maybe our abductors are Chelsea fans. Stamford Bridge is near there." He looked at Ess' puzzled expression. "It's Chelsea's football stadium. Come on, you blues!" he yelled, forcing a passing cyclist off his bike as he pulled into the traffic.
Paul swung a fist at Jude. The headache was still there, but he seemed to be recovering some of the strength back into his muscles. The blow was a wide round-house punch, delivered with his free left hand that Jude batted away. Nevertheless the self-appointed exorcist stepped back, out of Paul's range. Paul stood and squared up to Jude, bunching his fists.
"Ok, arsehole. Try it now, when I'm not lying on a bed semi-conscious."
"See?" cried Jude triumphantly. "I told you he wasn't really sick. Paul, if you can still hear me, fight the demon. Cast him out, Paul."
"Come closer, and I'll show you a fight."
"Michael, come here, we must restrain our poor brother until the demon is cast out."
"You try it, Sonny, and this time I won't just bloody your nose, I'll force it up into your brain. You want that, Michael? You want to leave here with your teeth in a paper bag?"
In truth, Paul hadn't been in a fight since he was twelve, and even then he hadn't won many, but Michael didn't know that. In fact, Michael looked very unhappy, but he started to edge away from the far wall towards Paul.
Paul threw himself as far forward as the chain would allow. "Yeah, that's it, come closer, Brother. Let's share some brotherly love while I pound your fucking head in, you bastard," he screamed, hoping against hope that his bravado would be enough to keep the men at bay. Michael's face was pale, and his timorous advance showed his fear. But still he advanced, Jude's command overriding his reluctance.
Paul stepped back and looped the chain a couple of times around his hand. They would have to come close in order to restrain him. Was he still immune from injury with Scarth gone? He would find out. With a bit of luck he wouldn't be able to break his knuckles against the impromptu knuckleduster, but in any case, he was going to do his best to injure them if they came within striking range.
"Sister Mary, pray for us all, will you?" said Jude as he started to circle Paul. As Sister Mary's voice droned as a backdrop, the two men spread their arms and began to close in on Paul.
By snodlander
Oz stopped the car, blocking the driveway of a house that sat in a street of terraced houses.
"Now what?" asked Ess.
Oz looked around the quiet street. He drummed a little solo on the steering wheel, then turned to Ess and shrugged.
"Buggered if I know," he said. "Personally, I'm gobsmacked it's worked this far. I was hoping it would lead us to a big neon sign that said, 'kidnappers here', or there would be a building that was obviously their secret lair."
"You mean, Paul isn't here?"
"I don't know. Is your charge still at death's door?
Ess looked at Scarth. The demon had found a bag of ancient hard-boiled sweets stuffed under a seat. Having emptied the sweets into his mouth, he was in the process of eating the bag itself. He stopped chewing as Ess' gaze fell on him. "Master?" he said.
"I reckon he's as close to ten as I can judge."
"Then Paul's here somewhere. I just don't know where, exactly. He could be a few streets away, he could be there." Oz nodded at the house they were parked outside. He looked speculatively at the windows, then shook his head. "We've got no way of knowing. I was sort of hoping Scarth could give us a clue. He has a psychic link with the young man, after all. Can't he sense his presence? Sniff his scent? Home in on his aura?"
"Scarth?" said Ess. "Scarth. Do you know where your master is?"
"Master," said Scarth.
"Yes, master. Where is he?"
"Where master?" he asked eagerly.
"I don't know, Scarth. I'm asking you. Where's master?"
Scarth's face fell. "Master gone," he said.
"I don't think we can rely on Scarth for the answer, I'm afraid," she told Oz, then thumped the dashboard in front of her. "Oh, this is so frustrating! We're so close. We have to do something."
"Well, I for one am going to get out of this sardine can. Come on, we've been cooped up in here for hours. Let's reconnoitre the area, at least. You never know, something may present itself."
Oz opened the door and unfolded his huge frame onto the footpath. Ess opened her door, got out and held the seat forward for Scarth to leave.
"You don't want to leave him in the car and crack a window open for him?" asked Oz, watching her mime.
Ess gave him a cold look. "He's just misunderstood, Oz. He's a poor creature in pain and distress, not a cocker spaniel we're taking out for a trip. Besides, you said it yourself. He has a link with Paul. He might help us."
"Find master?" said Scarth hopefully.
"Oh, we're trying to, Darling. Yes we are, but we just don't know where he is at the moment."
"Find master!" There was just the suggestion of anger in Scarth's voice now. Ess tried to guess at the frustration Scarth must be feeling, his enforced loss of something that seemed so core to his being.
"Yes, I said, we're trying, but ..."
Scarth took a deep breath. Ess watched in fascination. The breath seemed to go on for far too long, as though Scarth was filling lungs that were too large to fit in his scrawny chest. Then he threw back his head and screamed.
Oz caught Ess as she staggered. "You alright, Love?" he asked.
Ess clapped her hands over her ears and gasped. The pain was unbearable. It wasn't a physical pain, though her hands couldn't block out the awful noise. Instead it was a knife through her soul. The scream contained every inhumanity that one person had ever visited on another, every vicious, petty hurt and insult, every action and word that had chipped away at a person's self-worth. In it Ess heard the gas chambers in Auschwitz, the casual taunts in the playground, the racist names that allowed neighbours to kill neighbours, the office bully. It was every scream of every soul that had ever lived.
Ess felt her knees buckling. She leant heavily against Oz. He said something, but the scream deafened her ears and blinded her eyes. Her whole world became the torment rushing from Scarth's mouth.
"Stop, please stop," she whimpered, knowing Scarth would ignore her. Was this what it was like, where Scarth came from? This unadulterated misery forever and ever?
An eternity later, the scream faded away, and Ess' senses slowly returned. Oz had his arms wrapped around her, holding her awkwardly, on his face the panic felt by all men when faced with a woman in need of help.
"Ess, baby, what's wrong?" he asked.
Ess realised she was taking virtually no weight on her feet; Oz was all but carrying her. She straightened her knees and gently pushed Oz away, though she kept hold of his arm to steady herself. Her joints had been replaced by water and she trembled despite herself.
"Sorry, sorry. I'm fine. Well, sort of, I guess. It's Scarth."
"What about him?"
Ess looked at the demon. His large ears were standing erect as he moved his head from side to side. Ess thought of a radar aerial on a ship.
"I think he just called out to Paul, and is waiting for a reply," she whispered.
"You think?"
"Oh, Oz, it was awful. I can't begin to describe what his scream was like. Didn't you hear it?"
"Not a sausage, sorry."
Scarth took another deep breath. Ess stepped forward quickly and, bending down, grabbed his shoulder.
"No, Scarth, please. Not again. I couldn't bear it."
Scarth whirled, flinging her hand aside, and shoved her back. Ess tumbled over. Scarth leapt on her and stared, his face inches from hers. Suddenly, he didn't seem to be the helpless child he had earlier. His face was a snarling mask, his jaw full of pointed teeth.
He jabbed a talon into the frightened woman's chest.
"Not master!" he said.
He leapt off her chest and backed away, snarling. Oz helped back to her feet.
"What is it? What's happening? For pity's sake, woman, tell me what's going on."
Scarth began his deep breath.
"He's going to scream again, Oz. He's going ...."
Knowing what it had been like before was no help when the wail hit her a second time. If anything, it made it worse. She knew that the soul-destroying keening would seem like an eternity, from the first second, and that she would have to endure many more seconds of it. The world disappeared. Her whole being was swamped by Scarth's horrific scream. She felt the lick of fire against her skin, the shattering of bones, the insidious creep of cancer through rotting organs and the dreadful, mind-numbing helplessness that she had to endure it with.
After an infinity of agony the torment stopped. She opened her eyes. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the Mini. It rocked as Oz squeezed in the driver's seat.
"What's happening?" she asked.
"What's happening is I'm taking you to hospital, young lady. Collapsing in my arms is one thing, collapsing in the street is another." Oz started the engine.
"No," shouted Ess. "Scarth, he's on the move. Look!" She pointed down the road.
"Well, I can't, can I? He's invisible, remember?"
"I think he's found him, Oz. Drive! Drive, or we'll miss him."
Oz pulled away from the kerb. "I'm not happy about this, Ess. I still think you should get checked out in hosptial."
"No, it's just his scream, Oz. Here, this should help."
She reached over into the back and picked up the radio Scarth had left there. She wiped the earphones on her skirt and gingerly placed them in her ears. She would get the cotton buds out tonight for sure. She racked up the volume.
"He's by that junction," she cried, over Abba's rendition of 'Waterloo'.
"Okay, I'm not deaf," said Oz.
"What?" she shouted back. Oz shook his head.
Scarth screamed. It was still the most unpleasant noise Ess had ever heard, but it was muted now. She joined in the lyrics to drown out the noise.
"Waterloo, dumpty-de-dum you won the war. Turn right, turn right! Waterloo, no, slow down, da-da evermore." Scarth was standing in the middle of the road, head turning this way and that.
Oz wondered how horrible the scream could be, that a half-remembered karaoke version of Euro-pop would be preferable in comparison.
Oz slammed on the brakes, then threw the car in reverse and backed up ten feet. "He's in there!" he said, scrabbling for the door.
"What? How do you know?" said Ess. She looked out of the window. They were outside a small hall, the type they built during World War two. It was a Nissen-hut design, a large semicircle of corrugated material forming the side walls and roof. At some point, a garage had been tacked onto one side.
"See the notice board? Sunday services of the New Evangelical Healing Mission? Heard about them. They put the 'mental' into 'fundamentalist'. I bet you they're behind this stunt."
By the time Ess managed to get out the car, Oz was already striding up to the hall.
"Scarth," she cried. "Paul, I mean, Master. He's here, we think."
Oz rattled the front door to no affect. Scarth turned, then backtracked to the car. "Master?" he asked.
Oz moved on to the garage. He heaved on the door, which gave a sharp report of something irreparably breaking and swung open.
"Ha!" he cried in triumph. "Recognise this?"
He stood aside to reveal a rusty white van.
By snodlander
Jude pinned Paul face-down on the bed, his left arm forced high behind him, Jude's knee in the small of his back. Paul twisted and squirmed on the mattress, bucking and thrashing to no effect . Michael sat on the floor. Paul felt a small satisfaction as the blood poured from Michael's nose again. He had only managed a couple of punches before the two fell on him, but the chain around his right fist would leave evidence of its passage across Michael's face tomorrow.
"Brother Michael," said Jude panting with effort. "I really need you to restrain his other arm. As soon as we have him settled we can see to your injuries, but for now you must gird your loins."
"What are you going to do when this doesn't work, Michael?" said Paul. "What about you, Mary? How long are you going to keep me chained up here? What are you going to say to the police when they arrive?"
Michael grabbed the chain and started to work his way along it hand over hand. Paul wriggled and thrashed his arm around, but he only had one arm free to Michael's two, and there was only so much he could do with his face forced into the mattress.
"Just think it through, for Christ's sake. Kidnap, assault, where's it going to end? You really want to be a party to this?"
"It's for Christ's sake, and yours, that we are doing this, Brother," said Jude.
Michael reached the end of the chain and leant on Paul's wrist with all his weight, trapping it on the bed.
"It's for your own good," said Michael, but he didn't sound totally convinced. Unfortunately, he appeared sufficiently convinced to keep Paul's hand pinned down. "We're saving your soul."
"Bring the handcuff key here, Sister," said Jude. "Bring his wrist here, Brother."
Paul pushed and pulled, but it was hopeless. His wrist joined its partner behind his back. He lay still. He could do nothing to stop them.
"You're going to jail, you know that, don't you?" he said, as Jude cuffed his wrists together.
"By your own admission, you have a demon. The fact you are resisting us so much is proof enough that we are in the right. When we have freed you from it, you will thank us."
It seemed to Paul there was an 'or else' hanging in the air after the last sentence. But perhaps he would. The nausea and pain had left him. Maybe Scarth had left him as well. Perhaps all that was needed to rid himself of the demon was separation.
Convincing Jude and co Scarth was gone might be another matter though.
The weight lifted off his back and the two men stepped back. Paul twisted onto his back. Jude sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on Paul's shoulder in a paternal gesture, though coincidentally holding Paul still.
"I know it's hard, Paul, but hang in there. We will cast this demon out."
A siren call sounded in the distance. It sounded familiar. Paul's heart sank.
"Listen to me. This is important. He's coming." Paul looked from face to face. "Scarth. I can hear him. He's tracked me down. Let me go. I've seen him do this before. He'll kill you."
Paul kept his voice low as the distant shriek continued.
"We have our faith to protect us," said Jude. "Let him come, Paul. Let him rise to the surface."
"No, you don't understand. It doesn't matter about your faith. I saw him eat a priest." Privately Paul had to admit that Father Mike's faith had seemed somewhat informal. Would a strong faith be proof against Scarth? Paul doubted it. The demon was too stupid to understand faith. He was too stupid to understand you couldn't eat toasters.
"He will not be able to prevail against a true believer," said Jude, and the tone of his voice suggested the circle of true believers did not extend beyond this cellar. "Let him come."
"But he's not in me. Can't you understand?" The howl had stopped. Did that mean he was approaching? "Handcuffing me isn't going to do anything. He's coming now. Get out. Leave me here if you must, but get out now, before it's too late."
Jude turned to the others. "Satan is the father of all lies. See how the demon is trying to lie his way out of trouble? That's a measure of how frightened it is of us."
In the distance, the howl started again.
"For the love of God, at least let them go!" Paul shouted, his desperation lending urgency to his voice. "If you want to commit suicide, fine, but don't drag them down with you." He turned to the two acolytes standing up against the wall. "Run! Now, while you have the chance."
"Nobody is leaving, Paul. Or should I say Scarth? It's the demon talking though him now."
"No it's not. Scarth can't string three words together." Tears formed in Paul's eyes, partly from frustration and anger, but mainly for the scene he dreaded was coming. Why should he care? These people had kidnapped and beaten him. But he did.
A third howl from outside, and this time it was closer.
"Oh, God, he's here," sobbed Paul. "Jesus, you stupid bastards. I tried. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Brother Jude?" Sister Mary's voice was quavering with uncertainty.
"Have faith, Sister. It is a ploy of the demon, that's all." Jude grabbed Paul by both shoulders and shook him hard. "We will not fall for your lies, Scarth. Now, in the name of Jesus, leave this body."
Paul looked into Jude's eyes and saw the bind conviction in them. It was hopeless.
"He's here," said Paul, quietly. He was resigned to their fate, now. "You might want to let go of me, Brother. He killed the last person that he found attacking me."
There was a crash from upstairs. That sounded typical of Scarth's progress through the world. Mary gave a frightened squeak.
"Is that the demon?" asked Michael.
"In my experience, demons do not use doors, Brother Michael. Go see who it is, and get rid of them."
That was true enough. Scarth probably wouldn't use a door, he was more likely to crash through one.
Jude clamped his hand over Paul's mouth. Paul thrashed his head about, but Jude held it still with his other hand. "Shh!" he crooned, as though to a fretful child. Paul tried to tell him with meaningful looks and eyebrow movements that, with his mouth covered, he would not be able to command Scarth to cease and desist, and without such a command the likelihood of any of them avoiding Scarth's ravenous appetite was slim. It was a brave attempt, but he suspected that all Jude saw was a Groucho Marx impression.
"What if it's the police?" said Mary in a stage whisper.
"It isn't," whispered Jude back. "It will be a seeker, or kids. Have faith, Sister. Michael will deal with it."
The three of them waited. Would Scarth be able to find him down here? How had he found him in the first place?
Paul tried to free his mouth, but Jude had his head firmly clamped front and back. He tried to bite Jude's hand, but couldn't get anything to grip in his jaws. Finally, he thrust his tongue hard between two of Jude's fingers.
"Eew," cried Jude, jerking his hand away in disgust.
"Scarth," shouted Paul. He heard the noise of someone descending the stairs. Jude, stood and turned to face the door. It burst open, and Michael staggered in, held by the collar by Oz. Oz casually tossed the lad aside and walked up to Brother Jude.
"You!" shouted Jude. "How dare you come into the house of God, you heathen!"
Without breaking his stride Oz launched his fist at Jude's midriff, throwing all his considerable weight behind it. Jude's feet lifted off the ground as he folded over Oz's extended arm and he fell to the floor, curled up and gasping.
"Technically, I'm a pagan, not a heathen," said Oz. "You all right?" he asked. Paul nodded. He whirled on his heel and advanced on Michael.
"And you, there aren't sufficient words to describe you, you viper in the nest." Oz grabbed Michael by the neck and pinned him to the wall. Michael tried in vain to swing a punch at Oz's face.
"Master!" Scarth appeared in the open doorway and bounded over to the bed like a puppy. "Master!" he repeated, wrapping his arms around Paul's legs.
"Scarth, by the seven scrolls of the beast of pain, I adjure thee not to hurt anyone," shouted Paul. "You hear me? No hurting anyone, and no eating anyone."
"Master!" said Scarth, apparently happy just to hold onto Paul's legs for the moment.
"Aw, that's so sweet," said Ess from the doorway. "He missed you."
"Yeah, wonderful," said Paul, without enthusiasm. "Just sit on the bed, Scarth, and don't touch anything. Be good."
"Scarth good," said Scarth and sat on his hands.
Meanwhile, Oz continued his rant at Michael.
"I brought you into my house, my own home, I gave you extra tuition, I let you make me cups of tea, and how did you repay me? By betraying me, you turncoat, you traitor, you ... you ... little shit!"
Michael had given up on trying to punch Oz and was instead ineffectually swinging away at the arm that pinned him to the wall.
"I should let that demon eat you, you toerag. Piece by little piece. Oh, hello." For the first time
Oz noticed Mary standing by the wall. "Who are you?"
Mary worked her jaw, but no sound came out.
"That's fine, Sugar. In your own time. No need to rush."
Mary took a deep breath.
"Sister Mary," she stammered.
"Ooh. Sister? I've always had a soft spot for nuns. Were you named after the Virgin Mary?"
"Not ... not a nun," managed Mary.
"Ah. Really? Are you not a virgin either?"
Mary looked at Michael. "Are you going to kill us?" she asked.
Oz followed her gaze. Michael's face had turned from red to purple, and his attempts to beat Oz's arm away were more sporadic. Oz appeared to weigh the pros and cons for a few seconds, then reluctantly relaxed his grip. Michael slumped against the wall, coughing and gasping.
"Listen to me, you self-righteous little prick," said Oz. "You've failed my course. Not because of you joining this church. Your beliefs are no more ridiculous than mine. Not because you acted on those beliefs. Faith without works is dead. But as soon as you force your beliefs on others, you sanctify tyranny, and God knows enough people have been put off religion because of that. Now piss off, before I really do call down Satan and all his demons on you."
Oz grabbed Michael's shoulder and propelled him towards the door. Then he turned and smiled at Mary, smoothing his hair back in place. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I expect you'll be wanting to trot away now, too, hmm?"
Mary nodded, wide-eyed. Oz stepped aside and swung his arm aside in a sweeping invitation to the door. Mary edged along the wall, keeping her face to Oz.
"Wait!" Oz suddenly cried. He reached into his pocket and gave a small card to the frozen girl. He extended his little finger and thumb and held it to his ear. "Call me," he said, and winked. Mary bolted for the stairs.
"And what are you lying about for, young man?" he boomed at Paul. "Don't you want to leave?"
"I'm handcuffed," said Paul, struggling to a seated position on the edge of the bed.
Oz walked over to the prone preacher. "Keys," he said.
"Fuck off!" gasped the preacher.
"That's probably the most honest thing you've said for years. Well, let's see what we can do. Stand up." Oz grasped Paul under the arm and helped him to his feet.
"Oh, they're just toys," he said, turning Paul around and looking at the furry cuffs. "Do you have a hairpin, my Venus?" He turned to Ess and looked at her mass of frizzed hair. "Um, never mind. That brooch will do."
Ess removed a genuine replica of a Celtic cross from her blouse and handed it to Oz. Oz worked at the cuffs with the pin.
"You can pick locks?" asked Ess, amused.
"No, put these aren't real handcuffs. They're easy to jimmy open. I once knew a woman who was open to experimentation." Oz sighed wistfully, and one of the cuffs sprang free. He attacked the other. "Wonderful girl, but very absentminded. Had a touch of attention deficit disorder, I suspect. Anyway, one afternoon she left me on the bed and went shopping." The other cuff clicked open. "If you think this is impressive, you should have seen me pick the lock with a rose stem held in my teeth." He handed the red furry handcuffs over to Ess. "I know you're thinking about me chained to the bed naked, so here's a little souvenir."
Ess took the cuffs carefully between a finger and thumb. "I'm going to need therapy to erase that image from my mind. And a bucket of bleach too, probably." She dropped them into her cotton shoulder-bag, then looked defensively at the raised eyebrows of the other two. "What? I'm not going to leave them here for him to use again, am I?"
Brother Jude sat up.
"You are up shit creek, you bastards," he said. "I am going to have the law on you. Trespass, assault, blasphemy and anything else I can think to charge you with."
Oz bent over, resting his hands on his knees. "Such language!" he said, in mock horror. "And from a holy man too. You're not going to the police, Brother, and this is why. You abducted our young friend here. Kidnapped him against his will, beat him, chained him to a bed with what I can only describe as sordid bondage sex restraints and goodness knows what else. We effected an heroic rescue, just in the nick of time, by the looks of it. I dread to think of the practices you were about to visit on his poor, helpless body. At least, that's the story I shall give to the papers while you preach to the big guy with the olive oil you share your cell with.
"You are not going to call the police, you are not going to attempt to kidnap my friend again, in fact, you are not going to make any attempt to contact us ever. Because, my friend, whether you realise it or not, we have done you a big favour. We have, in fact, saved your life from a vicious demon with a voracious appetite for human flesh. So chew on that before you do anything rash, while we bid you adieu."
Oz turned and walked to the door. He paused and said over his shoulder. "Come on you two. That's our dramatic exit speech. Don't spoil it. Let's get out of here."
By snodlander
| Author Note: | an oche is the line behind wich a darts player stands |
Oz pulled up outside the Kings Arms, ignoring the horn of the taxi behind him. "'Ere you go, Guv'nor," he said, in mockney. "Safe and sound in the frog and toad outside the rub-a-dub-dub. I've always fancied being a cabbie, you know. It would be a novelty, a taxi driver actually qualified to talk about philosophy."
Ess released her white-knuckle grip on the dashboard. "That would certainly increase the use of public transport," she said, opening the door. She pulled the passenger seat forward and held the door open as Paul and Scarth climbed out.
Once on the pavement, Paul bent over and spoke to Oz.
"Oz, I can't thank you enough. I really appreciate it. I can't tell you how much."
Oz batted the words away. "Rubbish. I should thank you. I can't remember when I had so much fun. Oh, wait, that would have been last month with a little redhead. What was her name, now? Anyway, this has been the most fun I've had outside the bedroom." He paused, reminiscing again. "Well, the most platonic fun I've had, anyway. Thank you, young man, for affirming I haven't just wasted my life on a meaningless fantasy. Now, tomorrow afternoon, about two-ish, come round my place and we'll brainstorm your problem, once I've done a little research, okay?"
"Okay."
Paul straightened up and faced Ess.
"Thank you, too. I mean, you've been pretty wonderful, considering we've just met. And for looking after Scarth, and, well, you know ..."
"Saving your life?"
"Yeah, all that sort of thing," said Paul.
"So, what are you up to now?"
Paul shrugged. "Nothing much. Have a bite to eat and an early night, I guess."
"Okay," said Ess, nodding. There was an awkward pause.
"Oh for crying out loud," boomed Oz, leaning across the passenger seat. "He's too shy to ask you out, Ess. Just tell him you'll meet him here about eight and get back in the car. Life is too short to spend it watching the two of you pussy-footing around each other. You can tell he's gagging for it."
Ess slammed the passenger door shut.
"If he doesn't kill himself on the road, I shall quite happily do it for him," said Ess, blushing.
"Look, you don't have to. I mean, yes, I'd love to, but don't, you know, put yourself out, not if you don't want to, unless you do. Want to, that is." In the great romantic speeches of all time, Paul realised that would never make the shortlist.
"No," said Ess, far too quickly. "I mean, yes, I want to. That would be great. Besides," she said, bending down and patting Scarth on the head, "I promised this little fellow an ice-cream for being such a clever little demon and finding his master. Yes I did, didn't I?"
"Ice-cream?" said Scarth hopefully.
"Yes, later. When I get back," said Ess, straightening.
"So, later then," said Paul.
"Yes, later."
They stood there for a moment or two, then Ess leant forward awkwardly. There was the clumsy dance of the noses that couples always do just prior to a first kiss, where each is panicking about which side to go, and whether to kiss just one or both cheeks. And then Ess was stepping into the car, pulling her skirt across and reaching for her seatbelt.
"Told you he was gagging for it," said Oz.
"I'm not," retorted Paul.
Ess paused, her hand resting on the door handle. "You're not? That's not a very complimentary thing to say to a woman, Paul, is it?"
The mini lurched forward, and as the momentum slammed the door shut, Paul heard her peals of laughter.
He stood at the kerb, looking at the retreating car weaving between traffic. He suddenly felt drained. He could scarcely believe how much he had done in the space of one day, and it was only - Paul looked at his watch - six o'clock. Six o'clock! When did she say she would be here? Eight?
"Come on," Paul said to Scarth. "Let's move. I've got a date to get ready for."
Even at this time of day the pub was still quite busy. Paul started across the bar, heading for the stairs.
"Streak!"
Dumpster sat at the counter.
"Streak, come over here," he called, waving Paul over. "Nosher, this is the kid I told you about." Nosher, a squat man with a shaven head and a nose that zigzagged down his face, gave Paul a dismissive look.
"Him?" he said.
"Yeah, would you credit it? A long streak of piss you'd think you could knock down with sneeze, and he beat me at arm wrestling, then decked me with one punch. Bleedin' embarrassin', ain't it. How'd you do it, Streak? Jim says it was some kung fu shit. That right?"
Paul gave a short nod. "Something like that, Dumpster."
"Bloody hell. What you like when you're drunk, then?"
"Ill, Dumpster. Sick as a dog."
Dumpster laughed. "Ha! That's 'cos you're just a kid. Stick around, son, and we'll teach you to drink like a man."
Jim leaned over from the other side of the counter. "Here, Dumpster. Streak was telling me he's a bit tasty with the arrows, too."
"You are?"
"I am?" said Paul.
"Yeah," said Jim. "You know, darts."
"Oh, right, I am, yes. Well, not that good, but I can chuck a dart okay."
"You should give him a game, Dumpster. See if you can win your money back." Jim looked meaningfully at Paul.
"Oh, right, yeah, that would be great," said Paul. "Only, I've had a pig of a day. I need to change and stuff. And I'm going out at eight, so it can only be a short game. But I'll be back down in spell, all right?"
"No worries, Streak. I expect I can fit you into my social calendar." The others laughed at Dumpsters sparkling repartee. "You sort yourself out, Son. I'll be here."
Paul and Scarth went upstairs. Paul left Scarth in his room on his best behaviour. Scarth objected, worried, perhaps, by his enforced absence earlier, but Paul was not prepared to bathe in front of the demon. Eventually, Radio Two turned up full volume on his earphones, Paul persuaded Scarth to stay in the bedroom while Paul sought out the bathroom.
Bathed and feeling somewhat more human, Paul returned and dug through his few, still wrapped, clothes. He settled on a plain T-shirt. He didn't have a change of trousers, but he sniffed his jeans experimentally, and decided they would pass muster. They appeared clear of vomit, ectoplasm and other contaminants.
He looked at his watch. Nearly seven. Time enough, he guessed. How long did a game of darts take? Did they have peculiar rules down here in London? He checked his cash. Just over a hundred pounds. Minus the fifty he would have to lose to Dumpster at the darts. Would that give him enough for dinner for two? Definitely if they went to Burger King. Definitely not if they ate at the Ritz. The trick was going to be finding a happy medium.
He took Scarth by the shoulders and looked solemnly at him. Scarth returned his look with a vacant stare.
"Scarth, we're going downstairs, and then later we're going out with Ess, okay?"
"Ess downstairs," said Scarth. "Ice-cream?"
"No. Well, yes, later, if you're good. Now do you remember the rules about Ess?"
"Let Ess see Scarth. Not hurt Ess."
"Good. In fact, I don't want you hurting anyone, okay? No eating anyone, no hurting anyone. I just want you to be good."
"Scarth good. Ice-cream?"
"No, I told you, later." Suddenly, Paul could only see disaster in the evening ahead. How could any sort of date be successful with Scarth sitting between them like the little brother from hell? He wished now he had her phone number, so he could cancel the date, but it was too late for that.
"Oh, let's just get this over with," he said, and opened the bedroom door.
In the bar, Dumpster was already standing at the oche, throwing what looked like custom darts at the board. Paul gave a little nod of encouragement and sought out Jim at the counter.
"Jim, can I ask your advice?"
Jim shrugged.
"Is there anywhere around here that's nice to eat, but not too, erm, fancy?"
"Cheap and cheerful, eh?" Jim looked at Paul's T-shirt, still creased from the packaging. "Brick Lane would be favourite. You can get a ruby for ten, fifteen quid a head. Don't drink the wine, though. They rip you off on the booze."
"Ruby?"
"Ruby Murray, curry. Jeez, you're going to have to learn to talk proper, if you want to stay around here much longer. What you drinking? Lager?"
"What? Oh, yes, I guess. Just a half, though."
Jim froze for a second, giving Paul a cold stare. Then he took a pint glass from the shelf.
"Half pints are for girls. I don't serve half pints to men in this pub, 'less they're queer. You gay, Streak? 'Cos you look like you're meeting a bird, is all."
"Fine, a pint then," said Paul. After all, he could nurse that for an hour until Ess arrived.
"Are you getting Dumpster one." The way Jim framed it, it wasn't a question.
Paul took the glasses over to a table by the darts oche.
"You want a practice?" asked Dumpster.
"No, I'm good." Let's just get this farce over with.
"Where's your arrows?"
"Oh, I don't have any. Erm, not on me, anyhow."
"Guess you'll have to play with the pub ones then," said Dumpster, grinning. Paul looked at the thick brass darts with the bent plastic flights. It looked as though a dog had chewed one of them at some point. At least, he hoped it was a dog. He compared them to Dumpster's tungsten darts with immaculate flights. He wouldn't have to try too hard to lose.
"Want to make a game of it, Dumpster? Fifty quid?"
Dumpster winced. "Bit steep, mate. Make it a score and five."
"Twenty-five? Okay then." That would mean he would have to offer double or quits after the first game. That would be okay. He still had plenty of time.
Fifteen minutes later he watched Dumpster's dart thud into the double ten.
"Well, that'll teach me to boast," said Paul, with what he hoped sounded like sincerity. "Another game?"
"Hold your horses, Sunshine," said Dumpster. "It's best of three. Always is, darts. You ain't lost yet."
Best of three, then a rematch. That would be at least four games. Paul checked his watch again. No, he could do this. Anyway, women were always late for dates. It was a natural law, or something.
Ess arrived midway through the fourth game. Paul picked up a blunt dart that had bounced out of the board onto the mat, and there she was, standing in the middle of the bar grinning at him, Scarth by her side. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few errant strands still sprung at impossible angles around her face. She had changed into a simple cotton frock and her sandals had been replaced by high heels. She stood straight as a lamppost, holding her ever-present cotton bag in both hands before her. Paul thought he had never seen anyone look as radiant, even given the surrounding.
The surroundings seemed to think so too. The volume of conversation had dropped, and quite a few of the clientele were staring. Paul looked around. It suddenly occurred to him that Ess was the only female on the public side of the counter. He cursed himself. He should have met her outside.
"Sorry, Dumpster, but I have to go now. I guess I'll have to concede."
Dumpster looked to and fro between Paul and Ess, then shook his head.
"No, you don't do that. This is a money game. You start it, you got to finish it."
"No, you carry on, Paul," said Ess. "Finish your game, I'm fine. I'll just watch."
Dumpster nodded, the matter settled. "Anyway, won't take long. Your boyfriend is crap at arrows."
It was true. Not that Dumpster was spectacularly good, but Paul had hardly ever played before, and the pub darts were blunt and bulky.
When Paul came back from the board after his next throw Ess was standing by oche with a pint glass in each hand. "Jim says you're drinking lager, and Mr Dumpster is on mild. Is that right?"
"You are a little angel," said Dumpster, taking his pint.
"Oh, right, you should have said," said Paul, blushing. "I mean, I didn't think. I mean, I thought we were going to move on. Sorry. Here, let me pay for them."
Ess laughed. "Oh, that's all right. Besides, I've already paid. You carry on."
Dumpster took a long draught and raised his eyebrows appreciatively at Paul. "A bird that buys the first round?" he said, as Ess made her way back to her seat at the bar. "She's a keeper, mate." He probably meant it as a confidential aside, but men like Dumpster didn't do quiet and subtle, and Ess was grinning again as she sat and watched Paul colour yet again.
The match over and honour satisfied, the two men returned to the bar.
"Winner buys the beer," said Dumpster. "And whatever the little lady is drinking, too, Jim."
"No, that's fine, I've still got most of my other pint to drink yet, and we're going out for a meal," said Paul.
"Then you'll have to learn to drink faster then, won't you. You don't turn down a mate's offer of a pint. Ain't you got no manners?"
"Shame on you, 'Streak'," said Ess, enjoying the show. "Besides, I'm having such an interesting chat with Jim here. He's certainly telling me about a side of 'Streak' I never knew."
She pronounced the nickname in such a way Paul could hear the inverted commas around it.
Jim, too, was enjoying the show. "I just want you to know, Streak, we run a respectable place here. No women in the rooms. Strict rule of the house."
"Oh well," said Ess, sighing with disappointment. "I guess we'll just have to do it here in the bar, then."
Paul choked on his beer.
"You bloody can't!" said Jim. "We ain't got an entertainment licence."
Dumpster and his cronies guffawed, Ess bit her lip, trying to suppress her giggles, and Paul turned from crimson to beetroot.
"Here, I hope you don't take offence," said Jim, leaning across the bar and talking to Ess in a low voice. "Only, women, they tend to drink in the saloon bar, rather than out here in the public bar. It's got a carpet," he added, as though that was an experience not to be missed.
"No offence taken at all, Jim," said Ess. "I don't mind a joke at all."
"No, what I mean to say is, women don't drink out here, not in the public bar. They drink in the saloon bar."
"Are you telling me, Jim, in this day and age, women are not allowed in the public bar?" There was an edge to her voice that Jim could not avoid noticing.
"No, no, no. Not at all. It's just the language, well, it gets a bit salty, sort of thing."
"Oh, that's okay. I've heard salty language. I even use a bit of salt myself, sometimes."
Jim squirmed. "No, you're still not getting my drift. People, the guys anyway, well, they come here so they can have a bit of fun away from the missus and the kids. They want to let their hair down and have a bit of a dirty joke and swear, without the missus having a go and the kids picking it up. Having a woman in here, well, it sort of puts them on their guard, sort of thing."
Ess stared at Jim for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.
"So what you're saying, if I understand you, is that out of consideration for your regular clientele, it would be preferable for everyone if I drank in the saloon bar?"
"That's exactly what I was trying to say," agreed Jim.
"But you are not in any way or form barring me from the public bar."
"Absolutely not," said Jim, as though the very idea was an affront.
"In that case, on the clear understanding that it is my own free choice, which I may rescind at any moment without prior notice, I think that Paul and I will retire to the saloon bar. Do you mind, Mr Dumpster?"
"No, you get stuck in. You two lovebirds don't want to court in front of an audience, do you?"
"Oh, absolutely not. Public courting is so embarrassing. Don't you agree, Streak?" With that she picked up her glass and looped her other arm through Paul's.
As they moved towards the door marked 'saloon' Dumpster said in a voice that easily carried to the departing couple, "'Ere. I thought you said he was tasty with the arrows. He was total crap. It was almost embarrassing to take his money."
| Author Notes | Traditional pubs would have a public bar, and a saloon bar (or snug). The saloon bar tends to have better decor, though the drinks cost a few more pence for the privilege. It tends to be the haunt of women and couples, the public bar generally being considered to rough for the gentle sex. |
By snodlander
The small saloon bar was everything Jim had promised. It indeed had a carpet. That was to say, there were no bare floorboards to be seen, and Paul could only hope that the sticky green covering was an ancient fitted carpet and hadn't, say, grown there.
In one corner sat an old woman nursing a small port and lemon, looking for all the world as though she had grown from the furniture. A middle-aged foursome played cribbage at a table by the window.
Paul and Ess sat opposite each other at a Formica-topped table, while Scarth, lost in a musical world of his own, sat underneath.
"Watchya, Streak," called Joan cheerfully from the bar. "You realise you've ruined my day?"
"I have?" asked Paul, perplexed. Jim's threats of violence should he hurt his sister sprang to the forefront of his mind.
"Yeah. You broke my heart. I thought you and me were going to get married, and now I find you with another woman. What sort of way is that to treat a delicate flower like me? Please tell me that's your sister." She cackled at her joke, then collapsed into coughing. "It's all right, Love," she said when the hacking subsided, "I'm just pulling your leg." With that, she returned to the newspaper spread out on the counter before her.
"Streak?" asked Ess, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "What's all that about?"
Paul shook his head. "I don't know. Seems nobody here has a proper name. Everyone's Dumpster or Nosher or Jack the Hat or something. Dumpster christened me 'Streak' last night and no-one will call me anything else now."
"Aw, that's nice."
"It is?"
"Yes. It means they like you. You fit in. That's why they all joke with you. And they seem such wonderful characters, too."
Paul thought of all the 'wonderful' characters in the public bar, many of whom would need to pair up to have a full set of ears and teeth.
"Yes?"
"Yes. And Jim is nice."
"You think?"
"Yes, don't you?"
Paul recalled the muscles and the tattoos, the half-jokey threats should he upset his sister, the casual way he accepted Paul's criminality.
"I guess, but I wouldn't want to cross him."
"Trust me, Paul. You wouldn't want to cross me, either. Especially now I know where you live." She laughed to show she was joking, and Paul laughed too, just because her laugh made him so happy.
"So, how long have you been a witch? I mean, a Wiccan?" said Paul, to fill the silence that followed.
"Since forever. I think I always was, but I just didn't know about it. I used to feel things, or see things, but couldn't articulate them. Like people's feelings. I would know if something was wrong by their aura, only I didn't know what an aura was, or anything. So then I started to read up on that sort of stuff, found a couple of books on Wicca completely by accident, and the rest, as they say, is history. Joined a Wicca group at college, realised I had the Gift, and that's pretty much it."
"And are you full-time?"
Ess burst out laughing. "Full-time? It's not a career, you idiot. You'd be surprised how little money there is in it, outside the tourist-traps. Not like the organised religions. No, I do the occasional reading for people but I'm not Wiccan for money. God, I'd starve if I was."
"So what do you do?"
Ess pointed at his near-full glass. "It'll take you a while to get through that. You want to eat something here?"
"I don't know if they do food. I was thinking, maybe an Indian or something. Brick Lane is just up the road."
Ess shrugged. "You sure? Only, that's the third pint I've seen you with. Not suggesting you're an alcoholic or anything. I'd see that. But I just thought you might want something in your stomach before you down another."
"Oh, no," said Paul hastily. "I don't drink normally. I mean, I'm a normal drinker, but not to excess or anything. It's just that Jim won't serve men halves. It goes against the code, or something. Got to be a real man and drink out of a dirty glass too."
"Come on, let's see what they have."
Ess stood and made her way to the bar. Paul followed in her wake.
"Hi," said Ess, when Joan looked up from the paper. "Do you do food?"
"I can do," said Joan, as though it was the first time such a concept had been broached. "Seeing as how it's Streak, who, if you don't mind a piece of constructive criticism, could do with a bit of meat on him. A woman needs something to grab onto, don't we?" She grinned evilly at Paul.
"Can we see your menu?"
"We ain't got one, Love. You tell me what you want, and so long as we got it, I'll rustle it up. How about sausage, egg and chips?"
"Can you do any vegetarian dishes?" asked Ess.
Joan stared into the mid-distance for a moment.
"I could do you a ham salad."
"Would that have ham in it?"
"I could cut it really thin, if you want."
"Not really."
"Well, I don't know. What about an omelette? I could do you cheese omelette with chips."
"That would be wonderful," said Ess, as though she meant it.
"And sausage, egg and chips for you, Streak?"
"Well, I guess," said Paul uncertainly, looking as Ess for confirmation.
"Sure, go ahead," said Ess. "I don't force my meat-free convictions on other people, you animal murderer, you." She smiled to show she was joking.
"Oh, and I know this is going to sound really strange," continued Ess, as though asking for a vegetarian option at the Kings Arms wasn't strange enough, "but could I have a dish of ice-cream served at the same time as the omelette?"
"Okay," said Joan, uncertainly. "Here, you're not pregnant, are you?"
Ess erupted in laughter. "Oh my, not at all. No, I just like ice-cream with hot food, that's all. I guess I'm a bit weird like that."
Joan shrugged. "Takes all sorts. Knew a bloke once cooked me a chicken with mango and prunes stuffed in it. Said it was Mexican, or something. Bloody funny taste, wherever it came from." She turned towards the doorway on the staff side of the counter. "Jim!" she yelled. "Keep your eye on the saloon. I'm going into the kitchen."
There was a muffled response from the other bar. Joan shook her head in despair. "Just give Jim a yell if anyone wants serving, will you?" she said, and disappeared out the back.
The pair turned back to their table. Scarth stared back at them, chewing slowly, a thin strand of chewing gum reaching from the corner of his mouth to the underneath of the table.
"Oh dear God," said Paul. "That is disgusting."
"Oh, leave him. He's just hungry, poor thing. He'll be fine when his ice-cream arrives."
They sat down.
"His previous owner said he didn't need to eat," said Paul. "I think he does it just because he likes to."
"We all have things we do just because we like it," said Ess. "If you didn't need to eat, don't you think you'd still do it, just for the taste of it?"
"Sure, but I wouldn't eat everything that's not nailed down. He even eats gravel. But I have to admit, his main preference seems to be ice-cream." And people. "So, you never said what you did."
"No, I didn't." said Ess. She took a sip of her Cinzano. Paul waited. "Oh, okay. But you're not to laugh. You laugh, and I will never speak to you again, understand?"
"I promise I won't laugh," said Paul.
"I'm an animal massage therapist. See, I knew you'd laugh."
"I'm not laughing," said Paul, through clenched teeth.
"You are inside. You should be grateful. I had to postpone two appointments this afternoon, chasing all over West London to rescue you, you ingrate."
"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry."
"No need. I just moved them to later this week. Once I get a client, they really hate switching to someone else. Animals get used to one person. A bit like people. You wouldn't want a stranger to cut your hair, would you?"
"I think that's more of a girl thing, to be honest."
"I see. An animal murderer, ingrate and sexist. My, you just get more and more attractive."
"So, do many pets, erm, want massaging?"
"I mean it, Paul. If you start laughing at my job, I shall drop-kick you back where you came from. It's a serious business. Animals suffer from joint problems just as much as people. Some more so. You take dogs, for instance. Some of the pedigree breeds, like German Shepherds, have a tendency towards rheumatoid arthritis bred into them. I keep them more mobile and less painful. Some pets, I grant you, are just psychotic and need to be de-stressed. Massage calms them down, but I blame their owners more than anything, especially in London. And a couple of vet surgeries call me for help with animals recovering from breaks and things. It's not some new-age indulgence, you know. It's no different than physiotherapy. If it works on humans, why not animals? What?"
Paul stared at her, his chin resting on his hand. "Oh, nothing," he said with a smile.
"What? Are you laughing at me?"
"No, no. Far from it. I was just watching you as you talked about it. You're really into it, your job, aren't you?"
Ess nodded. "Yes. People laugh, but it's really rewarding when you see a dog jump up, or a horse canter around a field, when a few weeks ago they could hardly walk. And people appreciate it too. Not just soft old ladies, but farmers and breeders too. The sort of people you'd expect to be hardened to their business."
"That's fantastic," said Paul. "To have a job you really like, and people are prepared to pay for, that must be fantastic."
"What do you do?"
"Before I went on the run? I was a second-line support technician for an IT call centre, which is every bit as exciting as it sounds." Paul made a show of yawning.
"Well, that's worthwhile too. I mean, you're helping people, aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose. But most of the time I'm wishing I had their throat between my hands. They break stuff, then scream down the phone because, somehow, it's my fault they're too stupid to use a PC. And it's not exactly cool. You'd be surprised at the number of women who aren't turned on by my encyclopaedic technical knowledge."
"Why bother? I'm sure you can turn on any number of women regardless of what job you do. I mean ...." Ess giggled, embarrassed, and looked away. Paul looked down at his hands, equally embarrassed.
"Actually, no, not that you'd notice," he said. Then he coughed and took a swallow of his beer. "Anyway, that's all by-the-by now. I'm not a technician anymore. Not much of anything, now, not after Scarth ... not after what's happened. Even if we can send him back, there's still, you know, what he's done."
Ess reached out and grasped his hand. Her grip was cool and firm, and her touch filled his senses and mind.
"Hey, there, don't give up. We'll find an answer, I know we will. And if you don't get your old life back, you can forge a new one. It wasn't your fault, those people, was it? You didn't mean for him to do that."
"No, of course not. Oh, God, no. If I could undo it, somehow. But still, it was me that brought him here in the first place. Ultimately, I'm responsible for it all. Aren't I?"
"Of course you're going to feel like that, but there's a concept in law. Mens rea, it's called. It means criminal intent. You can't commit a crime if you didn't have any criminal intent. And I know you, Paul. I can see your aura, which, quite frankly, is totally screwed up, but it hasn't got a trace of malice in it." She gave a gentle shake of his hand. "We'll sort this out, you see. You've got me and Oz on your side now. What can Hell do against us three, eh?"
"Hey, you two," said Joan, bustling up with a plate in each hand. "No spooning. You know what spooning leads to? Forking!"
She laughed, coughed and placed the plates on the table in front of them. Paul reluctantly gave up possession of Ess's hand.
"I'm just coming with the ice-cream, Love. Two ticks." With that, she disappeared again.
Paul had a sudden sensation of deja vu. Back when puberty was just sending its first rush of hormones to play havoc with his body and mind, he had been to the wedding of a cousin. Some elderly Aunt he could not remember meeting before made lewd jokes at his expense for the entire afternoon. He was now ten years older, and the intervening years had supplied him with no more defence now as then. He unrolled his knife and fork from his serviette to cover his embarrassment.
"Well, not exactly what I was planning for this evening, but it'll fill a gap." He was suddenly very hungry, the result of no lunch and losing most of his breakfast. He attacked his dinner with gusto. Joan made up for the lack of culinary sophistication with quantity, the mountain of chips that would normally challenge Paul were merely adequate for his ravenous appetite this evening. It hardly put him off at all when Ess slipped the ice-cream bowl under the table and Scarth slurped at the dessert with noisy appreciation.
Afterwards they talked forever. Paul couldn't recall the conversation, perhaps because of the beer, or maybe the intoxication of the moment, but it seemed that there was no moment of awkward pauses or pregnant silences. It went on for an eternity, and ended in minutes.
"Time, ladies and gentlemen. Let's be having you, please," called Joan, ringing the ship's bell behind the bar.
Paul looked at his watch. "Wow, it's gone eleven. Sorry. I didn't mean to keep you out this late."
Ess laughed. "Relax. I'm not fifteen. I don't have to be in bed by ten, you know. Besides, it's been fun. I could have left anytime if it wasn't."
"How are you getting back home?"
"I'll get a cab. There'll be one on the main road. Don't worry."
"Are you sure? I mean, it's late. This isn't the West End, you know. There's some rough characters about."
"Aw, you're sweet," said Ess, touching his cheek. "But Jack the Ripper isn't so active these days. Besides, I'm a witch, remember? I have powers."
"Really?"
"Well, no, not really, but a woman has the right to walk the streets without fear, and I have mace and a rape alarm. Seriously, any potential molester has more to fear from me than the other way round."
"Stuff that for a game of soldiers," said Joan, clearing the empty glasses from the table. "I'll call you a cab from here. Shtum! It's settled. Want another drink while you wait?"
"No, that's fine," said Paul, who was feeling a little light-headed, in the same way that a drowning sailor feels a little damp. "Unless you want one?"
"No, I'm good," said Ess.
You're better than good, you're bloody fantastic. said Paul's inner voice.
"Actually," she continued, "I quite fancy a bit of fresh air. Do you mind if we step outside to wait for the cab?"
"No, not at all," said Paul, eagerly. Outside there would be no embarrassing Joan leering over them, and they could 'say goodbye' in a manner he hoped appropriate for the end of a successful first date.
"Scarth," he whispered, as Joan made the rounds of the other tables. He pulled the demon's headphones clear of his ears. "Scarth. Me and Ess are just stepping outside the door, okay? You stay here. Don't move. Be good. Sit on your hands and be good. Understand?"
"Scarth good," said Scarth.
The couple stepped out into the night air.
"Thanks," said Ess.
"What? No, no, thank you," replied Paul. "I mean, thanks for everything. For today, for listening, for rescuing me, for, well, for everything. And for tonight, of course. Tonight had been really great. I mean to say, it wasn't anything like I planned, but really, it's been great, just to talk, and be with you." Paul was sure, even in the dim streetlights, she could see him colouring again. "You, well, you're pretty damned cool."
"Why, sir, you flatter me," laughed Ess, pleased at the compliment. "You're not so bad yourself, you know, when you forget and just let yourself relax."
There was a protracted pause, the first of the evening.
"So, what happens now?" asked Paul, to break the silence.
"Now you kiss me, you idiot," said Ess.
"No, I meant, tomorrow and stuff. Are you going to meet me at Oz's?"
"Paul! Now you kiss me," said Ess, as though English wasn't Paul's first language.
"Oh, right."
Paul leant forward, awkwardly reaching for Ess's waist and tilting his head. Ess leant into him, sliding her hands up his arms as they kissed.
In ten percent of his brain, Paul ran a gamut of urgent questions. Should he leave his hands on her waist, or slide a hand higher, running it through her long hair? Should he run a hand lower, tracing the contours of her pert bottom? Should he part his lips? That at least seemed to be answered as her mouth slowly opened against his. Tongue? No, far too early in the relationship.
The other ninety percent elated in the sheer sensual experience. The tickle of her lips pressed against his. The gentle current of air on his cheek as her breath escaped from her cute nose. The feel of her slim waist under his hands. The gentle probing of her fingertips against his spine. Paul never wanted this moment to end, but the ten percent of his brain that was one hundred percent idiot kept asking questions.
How long was it acceptable to keep this up? Would staying like this forever seem too needy? What if he needed to swallow? What if cramp set in?
These huge philosophical questions that have beset man from the beginning of time were answered in a flash.
"Night, Streak," said Dumpster, slapping Paul on the shoulder with a force that rocked him. "Night, Gorgeous."
The two parted lips, though they held on to each other still.
"Night, Dumpster," said Paul.
"Good night, Mr Dumpster," said Ess.
The pair of them could see Dumpster's shoulders shake as he walked away, laughing to himself. They looked at each other for a moment, then both looked at the ground.
"Today's been really special," Paul told Ess's feet.
"Yeah, me too," Ess mentioned to Paul's knees.
"I wouldn't change it, even the kidnap and the illness or any of it, not for tonight."
"Yeah. I meant what I said earlier, too. I can see a lot in people that others miss. I can see a lot in you, Paul." She looked up into his face. "You're a good person. The principalities of this world brought us together for a reason. Maybe not just for one reason, you know? Tonight's been fun."
"So, what next?"
"Next, we meet Oz tomorrow, and we sort out this whole mess."
The taxi pulled up by the kerb. Ess gave Paul a last hug, then released him, her hand running down his arm until it rested, just for a couple of seconds, on Paul's hand.
"See you tomorrow," she said, and disappeared into the taxi.
Paul stared at the end of the street long minutes after the cab vanished into the night.
| Author Notes | Apologies for any typos or less-than-erudite phrasing. I am stuck in a hotel on my own, with a near-empty bottle of Shiraz Cabernet and a laptop with an eccentric keyboard. Which is more responsible for any errors I leave to you to guess. |
By snodlander
Paul slept fitfully, the exhaustion and the alcohol competing with his over-excited brain. Mingled throughout was the nameless presence in the dark, there in the half-awake world, telling him meaningless riddles he couldn't remember in the morning.
He couldn't face Joan's grease-rich breakfast, nor the smirks from Jim and Joan, so he and Scarth left early, walking the back streets and parks of London, gradually making their way west towards Balham, Gateway to the South. He bought a ham baguette with the last of his money and sat in Bermondsey Park, watching the normal people walk by. He would need to get some more money, though he didn't know how. He couldn't scam anyone at the Kings Head, not now it was his own doorstep. Still, that would wait. This afternoon he was going to see Ess again. Oh, and get rid of Scarth. Maybe.
He tossed the wrapper and empty drink can into a waste bin and checked his watch. One o'clock. A gentle stroll would get him there by two.
It was barely half past one when Paul rang Oz's doorbell. Oz opened the door, beamed at Paul and ushered him into the living room. If Paul had thought it untidy yesterday, today it looked as though the place had been ransacked. Books lay open scattered all over the room. Every level surface was covered with text books or notepads.
"You're early," said Oz. "Keen, eh? Good man. Me too. I took a sickie today. I started researching your problem last night, and I couldn't put it down. I think we're making progress, but we shall see. Fancy a drink? Scotch? Beer?"
"No, a coffee will be fine, thanks."
"Coffee? Okay. I think I've got a mug on the go could do with freshening up, too, somewhere." Oz looked around vaguely at the mess . "Or maybe I'll just make myself a new cup. Take a seat, I'll be back in a mo."
As Oz left, Paul looked around for a seat. Finally he moved a few books by the telly and sat Scarth on the patch of carpet revealed underneath. He gave up when he saw the three-piece suite, carefully dislodged a few books from the arm of the sofa and perched there. He watched Scarth sit, cross-legged, eyes closed, bobbing his head slightly to the silent tune in his earphones.
Oz reappeared with two steaming mugs. He gave Paul the one which proudly proclaimed him 'World's Best Lover'.
"Here, I found something really interesting. Nearly missed it. Good job I'm so brilliant." Oz looked around at the books. He picked one from the floor, and then produced Paul's book from the top of another pile. He opened them and held them for Paul. In Paul's book was the spell that had summoned Scarth. In the other was an identical spell.
Paul shrugged his shoulders as Oz looked on expectantly. "Yes?"
"They look the same, yes?" said Oz, with the enthusiasm of someone who has a secret he is desperate to share. "But look! Here, and here. Slightly different sigils. And this one here, totally different. This one is a copy from a thirteenth century manuscript. Your one is a much later copy, and if you look really carefully at the page, you can see, it's been altered."
Paul looked closely. Now that it was pointed out to him, it did look slightly different.
"So this means ...?"
"It means, my old son, you were set up. I reckon this was set out deliberately to trap you into summoning, not a demon, but specifically Scarth. You said this Lord Roath character wouldn't take Scarth back?"
Paul nodded. "That's right. Not for at least five hundred years, he said."
"There you go then." Oz leant back triumphantly. "He used you to get rid of the thing. You're the fall guy, the patsy, the mark."
"Thanks Oz. You know how to boost a fellow's self-esteem. So, now you know that, you've got a way to send him back?"
Oz's broad smile vanished. "Ah, not exactly. Not at this point, no, but I'm working on it. And with you here, I'm sure it's only a matter of time." Oz looked into his mug of coffee, avoiding Paul's eye. The doorbell chimed.
"Ah, that'll be the fair Vanessa. Wipe that doleful expression off your face. Chicks dig happy faces."
Oz left the room and returned with Ess. The young couple smiled a greeting at each other.
"Ah, young love," said Oz, beaming over the two like a proud parent. "Seeing you two makes me feel warm inside. Oh, wait, it's not a warm feeling." He gave a thunderous belch. "Oh, that's better." He rubbed his hands together vigorously. "Now, let's see if we can come up with a solution, shall we?"
"Well, now you know the original spell was altered, can you alter the banishing spell, or whatever it's called?" asked Paul.
"I'm afraid not, my young Lothario. It's not as simple as that. The banishment invocation is specifically for demons. It won't work for chimera's, or at least, not the way we want. It'll bind him, probably, but beyond that it's pretty much useless. How did he react when you tried?"
Paul thought back to the night in the supermarket car park. "It was like a force field, I guess. He pushed up against it, but couldn't get past it. Lord Roath had to smudge the circle out with his foot to release him."
"Did you enter the circle?"
"No. I mean, I almost did, by accident, but this Roath character pulled me back just in time."
Oz nodded. "Interesting. Well, if the worst comes to the worst, I have at least one solution."
Paul looked hopeful. "You do?"
"Yes. We repeat the ceremony, but this time you enter the circle at the end of the invocation. Scarth will be decorporealised back to the Pit. Unfortunately, you'll go with him, but at least we'll be safe."
"No!" gasped Ess. "Bloody hell, Oz, don't even joke about that. It's not funny."
Oz shrugged. "This isn't a game of patty-cake, Ess. People have died. You seem to think this creature is a sick puppy, but it eats people. I think Paul is a fine young man, and I would happily accept a beer off him, but if we can find no other solution and people's lives are at risk, we may have to call on Paul here to make the ultimate sacrifice. Sorry, old chum, but you have to understand the stakes. Much as I want to find some other solution, if we can't, then the results will be on your conscience. But, hey, cheer up, you two. If there is another solution, we'll find it, won't we?"
"Who would have altered the book, do you think?" asked Paul.
Oz shrugged again. He had huge shoulders, which made him a particularly effective shrugger. "Beats me, pal, why?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe if we knew who we were fighting, we could have a better chance of winning."
"My money's on this Lord Roath," said Ess. "He seems to be the one with the most to gain. Wasn't he Scarth's master, or something?"
"It's possible," said Oz. "I certainly don't have any better suspects. Or any other suspects at all, come to that."
"The bookseller I spoke to said Lord Roath was ambitious, only came to light relatively lately, in demonic terms," said Paul. "Do you know anything else about him?"
"Not much," answered Oz. "He was first mentioned, erm, where did I put those notes?"
"In France, a couple of hundred years ago," said Paul. The other two raised their eyebrows. "So the bookseller said."
"Yes, that sounds about right," said Oz. "And now he's the lord of the Pit of Pain, you say? I guess that would make him ambitious."
"Who is his enemy?" said Paul. "I mean, does he have any?"
"Of course he does. He's a demon. Demons always have enemies; it's the nature of the beast. You can't be demonic and make friends left, right and centre."
"No, I mean, does he have a specific enemy? Like, another demon, or someone."
Oz gave Paul a long stare. "I can't help but think you are asking for a specific reason, Paul. What are you driving at?"
"I don't know. It sounds pretty lame, when I come to say it out loud." He looked up into the expectant faces of the others. "Oh, alright, but don't laugh."
He told them of the nameless, faceless voice in the dark, and what he could remember of the dreams and the riddles. Oz grunted occasionally, but neither of them interrupted until Paul had finished.
"I was pretty ill when he first came," said Paul, after he had told every detail he could think of. "And pretty restless last night, so it's all probably just nightmares and hallucinations."
"No, I don't think so," said Oz. "Every religion, every mythology and cult, they all have communication through dreams. Half the Old Testament prophets, Saint Paul's revelations, Hindu gods and demons, Australian Aboriginal dream times. If you're a follower of Vishnu, we're all just part of his dream. Just about every communication across the planes comes through dreams. You should have told us."
"Well, I just have," said Paul. "So, who is my enemy's enemy?"
"Haven't the foggiest, I'm afraid," said Oz, cheerfully. "Like I said, there's not much about Roath, no ancient history, apart from this one short-lived cult, then bang! He's Lord of the Pit of Pain. Now, if hell is anything like academia, and I have every reason to believe it is exactly the same, Lord Roath will have made an enemy of every demon that was hoping to be the next department head, so there's not a lot of help there. We could just open up a lexicon of demons and list the lot."
"I can think of one demon that would be ticked off more than most," said Ess.
"Really?" asked Oz in surprise. "I didn't think demonology was your bag, dear. Far too macho and testosterone-filled. I thought Mother Gaia and wood-nymphs were more your thing. Enlighten us. What is his name."
"I don't know his name," said Ess, screwing up her nose at Oz's patronizing tone, "but if I know anything about macho, testosterone-filled men, I would be asking myself, who did Roath replace as Lord of the Pit?"
"Ooh, good question," said Oz. "A very good question, which demands a good answer. Okay, wait, I have it here." Oz looked around the room at the mess of books. "It'll be in the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, which should be ... no, that's not it ... wait ... ah, here." He picked up a book from underneath a pile, heedless of the small avalanche he created. "Interesting chap, Johann Weyer," he said, leafing through the pages. "Did a lot to document and catalogue demonology. A passionate believer himself. Didn't agree with the witch-hunts of the time, you know."
Really?" said Ess.
"Really. Said witches weren't evil, just mentally ill. In fact, it was him that first coined that phrase 'mental illness'." Oz grinned to himself. "So, anytime you want to lie on my couch, purely for professional counselling, you understand, feel free. Ah, here it is. 'Furcas is a knight and cometh forth in the similitude of a cruel man, with a long beard and a hoary head.' He controlled twenty legions in his time, by this account. So, if our prime suspect is Lord Roath, our main ally may well be Sir Furcas. I must say, Ess's logic does seem to be impeccable."
"Why wouldn't he just tell me that?" asked Paul. "Why all the 'You must guess my name' nonsense?"
"Ah, now that I can explain. With the name comes the power. This is a belief that's prevalent throughout the world. There's a people in the Philippines that even now won't tell a stranger their name, they have to get a friend to say it. Furcas is being cautious. It sounds as if he doesn't want you to get too big for your boots. If he upped and told you his name, you could really work a number on him. This way, he can help on his own terms. 'Help' in this context meaning achieve his own ends. We need to be careful, my friends. It's not for nothing the devil is known as the father of all lies. Meddling with office politics is rarely successful and always ugly."
"Office politics?" asked Paul.
"Well, yes, when you boil it down, that's exactly what it's about. Empire building, back-stabbing, getting one over on the other guy. Whether it's who gets the desk by the window or who rules the world, the principles are the same, just the stakes differ."
"So, how does that help us, then, if we can't trust him?" asked Paul.
"Oh, it would be a sad future for us all if we went around trusting everyone. Let's talk to the guy, see what he has to offer. Maybe he has a plan, a solution to our little problem. Maybe this is all a big scam. Who knows? We can at least listen to what he proposes and make a decision on it."
"Okay, cool," said Paul, patting his pockets. "Wait, I have his phone number here somewhere."
"Oh, sarcasm. How droll," said Oz. "No, we can't phone him, but there are ways and means to summon him."
"No!" said Paul, firmly.
"No?"
"Definitely not. Look what happened the last time. What happens if we summon this Furcas, and he's a hundred times worse than Scarth? Haven't I done enough damage with one demon, I have to summon another?"
Oz pondered this for a moment.
"I understand your reluctance, Paul, and it does you credit. But I can't think of another way. Scarth isn't a run-of-the-mill demon. There isn't any mention of him in any texts I know. If a standard invocation can't rid us of him, I don't know what can. Can you take responsibility for Scarth for the next five hundred years or so? Can you think of a way to get rid of him, other than condemning yourself to an eternity of torture in the Pit?"
"You're right. This is a bloody awful situation, but I don't want to make it even worse."
"Done right, you won't. I can summon Furcas in such a way that you and the free world are safe. Besides, he knows the score. He's been summoned before, according to a dozen accounts through history, and the world hasn't ended as a result. Trust me, Paul. I will summon him so that we can talk, but no more."
"Paul," said Ess. "I know Oz, and he'll lie though his teeth to get a girl in bed, but he wouldn't lie about this. If he says he can do it, then I trust him."
"Just talk?" asked Paul.
Oz held two fingers up. "Scouts' honour," he said.
"You were a scout?" asked Ess.
"Briefly, until I was thrown out after the weekend camp with the Girl Guides. I honestly thought it was my own tent. But enough of that. We've got work to do, my young demon tamers. The witching hour approaches."
By snodlander
Oz swung the Mini into the bay and stamped on the brakes. The front bumper rocked barely an inch from the brick wall.
"Have you been promoted, Oz?" asked Ess.
"What?"
Ess nodded at the plaque in front of them, which sternly announced that the bay was for the exclusive use of the college chancellor.
Oz dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You think the old fool will be around at this time of day? He'll have packed his bags and swanned off to his club ages ago. Besides, the man is terrified of me. I can't think why. It's not like I ever actually cursed him. Okay, I've threatened to a few times, but the man is supposed to be a physicist. He's not meant to believe in that sort of thing. Besides, this is close to the hall. Right, everyone out, and bring the baggage, young man."
They decamped from the car, Paul carrying a large cardboard box. Oz opened the boot, pulled out a holdall and draped the shoulder strap over Paul's head. Finally he took a book from the car and slammed the boot shut. Turning, he regarded Paul for a moment.
"No, fine, don't you worry about an old man like me. I'm sure I can manage to carry this book by myself, even though it's heavy." He slapped Paul on the shoulder and laughed as Paul staggered to keep his feet. "This way, men. For England and Lord Harry!"
Oz strode across the small courtyard towards the college entrance, sucking the others along in his wake. He took the steps two at a time and held the door open. Inside he rapped on a door marked 'Porter.'
The top half of the door swung inwards, revealing the angry face of a thin man with a fat moustache and a peaked cap.
"Who the bloody hell is ... oh, Professor, it's you. How are you, this evening? Heard you was sick."
The frown disappeared in an instant, replaced by concerned interest.
"Watchya, Alf. I am as fit as an Olympian god now, thank you very much. How are you? Ruby all right?"
"Champion, thanks. We went for a walk in the park last weekend. Only a little one, mind you, but it's a start. I reckon she'll be able to go to the shops on her own, soon."
"Well, don't rush it. Agoraphobia takes time to conquer."
"Don't I bloody know it. She'd still be trapped indoors, if I had to wait for the bleeding NHS. Grateful to you. Here, the kettle's on. Have a cuppa."
"Maybe later," said Oz. "Just at the moment I'm a bit busy. Is the Carlisle theatre free?"
"Well, nobody's booked it out, not official. Might be a couple of students in it though." Alf said it in a way that suggested students were of no more importance than if the room were occupied by a couple of spiders.
"Excellent. My colleagues and I are going to be working in there this evening. We'd like to be alone."
"No problem, Professor, you know that. Here," he reached out of sight and produced a key, "lock yourself in." He looked suspiciously at Paul and Ess. "There ain't going to be no mess, is there? Blood's a bugger to get out of parquet flooring."
Oz took the key and beamed. "I am happy to inform you we will not be sacrificing any virgins or goats this evening, Alf. The worst might be some chalk marks on the floor, but I promise you that this young man here will ensure the hall is left in pristine condition. If you've gone by the time we leave, give Ruby my felicitations, and I'll drop the key in your pigeonhole."
"Right you are, Professor." Alf touched the peak of his cap and closed the door.
"Have you noticed," said Oz, as he bestrode the corridor, "that the less nominal power someone has in an organisation, the more actual power he wields? Alf could paralyse this noble establishment in thirty minutes. The chancellor, on the other hand, could go missing for a month and no-one would notice. Receptionists, security guards and porters: they're the ones that rule the world. Cross them at your peril. Alf has the power to make a lecturer's life a joy or pure misery, and it's a power he has no compunction in exercising. I've worked hard at ensuring he thinks the sun shines out of my arse, and in return he greases my drawers in the sideboard that is this establishment."
"He greases your drawers?" asked Ess, barely containing her laughter.
"Okay, on reflection that sounded better in my head, but you get my drift. Ah, here we are."
Oz pushed open a set of double doors.
"Out, damn spots!" he roared, pointing to the corridor in a theatrical sweep of his arm. A small group of students looked startled, perched on and around the tiers of seats. They grabbed books and sheaves of notes and scurried towards the exit. Oz stopped a frightened-looking Chinese girl and turned the cover of the book.
"Ah, As You Like It. Well, my apologies for interrupting your read-through, my children, but all the world's a stage. I'm sure you can find an equally quiet spot. I believe MacMillan's free. Exeunt stage right." He smiled as he stepped aside to allow her anxious exit. "Break a leg," he called as they left.
"Really, Oz. You needn't put the fear of God into those poor kids," said Ess.
"They are not poor kids, they are university students. English Lit. students at that. I am a professor. It is one of the few perks of my job to put the fear of Oz in them. Besides, my own students love me. It all balances out in the end. Yin and yang, and all that.
"Now, unpack the bags, dear boy, while I retire to my office for a moment."
Oz left, humming 'If I Ruled The World' to himself.
"He's ..." Paul wasn't sure how to end the sentence politely.
"Larger than life? Absolutely. He's a force of nature. I think if he were shipwrecked on some Pacific island, the natives would worship him as the incarnation of their volcano god. Most of it is pure theatre, of course. When he forgets to play the great Oz, he's really rather sweet, though he'd never admit it. I can understand why girls fall for him. Oh, not me, dear Mother, no. He's not my type at all. Come on, I'll give you a hand with the gear. That's not for eating, you little scamp."
Ess held out her hand, and Scarth reluctantly gave her the candle he had fished out of the carton.
"Ice-cream?" he asked, without much hope.
"I'll tell you what, how about a mint?" she said, fishing in her bag. "There you go, suck on that."
Scarth sniffed the mint suspiciously, took it out of her hand and placed it carefully in his mouth.
"Suck it," said Ess, miming the action. "Oh, okay, crunching it up is just as good, I expect. Whatever."
Paul and Ess knelt by the box and started to arrange its contents on the floor. Paul thrilled to the occasional touch as their hands brushed each other's, pulling out the paraphernalia. He suspected it wasn't entirely by accident on Ess's part, but he didn't complain.
"What's all this stuff?" he asked.
Ess shrugged. "Different people perform magic in different ways. It's like dressing. Do you put your top on before your socks, or after? It doesn't matter, so long as your knickers don't end up on top of your trousers. The basic rituals are the same, but some of the peripherals are optional. Oz does it his way, I do it mine. I, for instance, would not use these."
She held up a three-pack of condoms, holding the corner between finger and thumbnail. She suddenly looked at Paul horrified. "I mean, I wouldn't use them in a ritual, not, erm, I mean, oh, bloody Oz and his infantile humour."
"Ah, you found them," said Oz, from the doorway. "I was going to slip them to you quietly, so as not to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend. No, no, don't thank me, I get a bulk discount."
"You honestly didn't walk down the corridor like that, did you?" asked Ess, flinging the packet back into the box.
"What, you mean this old thing?" said Oz, holding out his arms and treating the pair to a slow spin. He wore a huge white robe that might have once been a marquee. The wide sleeves, hem and neck were embroidered in purple and gold, and cabalistic symbols covered the front and back. A thick guy rope served as a belt. On his head sat a square hat in matching design, with a gold tassel hanging rakishly to one side. He carried a staff fashioned from a long branch of white wood in his right hand.
"These, my cohorts, are the robes of office for a grand wizard of Roke. It is symbolic of my power and authority, and lends me gravitas and dignity." He winked at Ess. "Want to know what I'm wearing underneath?"
"A world of no, Oz. I don't even want to think about it."
"In that case, izzy wizzy, let's get busy. We've only got half an hour."
Paul glanced at his watch. "Half an hour? But I though you said we were doing this at midnight."
"I said the witching hour. You watch Bride of Dracula and think you know it all. The witching hour was never midnight. Seven, that's when the power is at its strongest, and the barriers between the planes are at their weakest. Or eighteen minutes past five, if you prefer. The point is, it doesn't matter. What matters is what you believe, and I believe that we are going to do this at seven, so get your arse in gear and help me set this up."
Twenty minutes later Oz stepped back and admired his handiwork.
"Not bad, not bad," he said. In the centre of the lecture hall he had drawn a circle six feet in diameter, enclosed in a pentagram. At each point burnt a candle. Odd symbols were chalked round about. He fished out an apple and a small bottle of whiskey and placed it carefully inside the circle, stepped back and regarded them critically.
"Just manners," he explained. "Demons expect a libation. It's like offering a cup of tea to the Jehovah Witnesses when they come round. Did you know they've blacklisted my place? Can't think why. It's only a cheap brand, of course. I'm not going to waste a single malt on him. Hmm. I wonder if it's too cheap? Better test it."
He stepped back into the circle, picked up the bottle and took a long swig from it. He shuddered and pulled a face, then replaced the bottle. "Not exactly a Bushmills, but it'll do, I guess."
He turned back to the others, clapping his hands together and rubbing them enthusiastically. "Now then, my occult duo, we need to understand the basic rules, okay? The first rule, absolute and inviolate, is that, whatever happens, you are under no circumstances to enter this circle, understand?"
He looked down at his feet, squarely in the middle of the circle. "Oops." He strode over to Ess and Paul. "No, seriously, I mean it. If you enter the circle while the demon is there, you are in deep doo-doo. Second, under no circumstances allow the circle to be broken. If you smudge out the circle, even a little, we will lose any control over our guest, and he will be free to wreak havoc. Thirdly, do not forget he is a demon, whatever form he presents himself in. Which means he is a lying homicidal maniac. Treat him with caution. Finally, do what I tell you without hesitation. If things go pear-shaped, listening to me may be the only thing that saves your life, understand? We are not playing parlour games here, children, we are risking life and soul. Now, Ess, I need you to take your clothes off."
"What?" said Ess.
Oz shrugged. "Oh, well, it was worth a try. But I'm disappointed you hesitated. We need to make sure Scarth doesn't enter the circle as well. Where is he?"
Paul and Ess look round.
"Scarth?" called Ess.
"He was around here a moment ago," said Paul, looking around frantically.
"You've lost the little bugger?" asked Oz, disbelievingly.
There was a loud and protracted fart from within the seats. Paul bounded up the aisle.
"Found him," he said.
Scarth was sitting hunched on the floor behind a row of seats. His ears drooped, his shoulders sagged and he shook as though caught in a snowstorm.
"Scarth, get out here," said Paul.
Scarth turned eyes as big as dinner plates towards Paul. His cheeks were wet with tears.
"Scarth good," he wailed.
"Yeah, yeah. Good boy. Now get your arse out here."
"Scarth good. Scarth not eat. Scarth sit on hands."
"Fine, just get out here, you moron."
Ess came up beside Paul. "Oh, poor thing. Look at him. He's terrified, poor lamb. Come here, my sweet. What's the matter?"
"Scarth good," wailed Scarth, on the point of sobbing. "Scarth good. Stay with master."
"He's seen the circle," said Paul. "He thinks I'm getting Lord Roath back."
At the mention of the name Scarth covered his head with his hands and wailed.
Ess walked down the row and knelt by the frightened creature.
"It's okay, Scarth. Everything is fine. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, understand?"
"Don't make Scarth go in circle. Scarth good."
"Yes, you're a very good little demon," soothed Ess. "We won't make you go in the circle. I promise. Here, take my hand. That's it. Now, I'm going to hold your hand, and I promise you, you're not going in the circle, okay?"
"Not circle?"
"No. Have I ever lied to you, Scarth? I've always given you ice-cream when I promised, haven't I?"
"Ice-cream?"
"Yes. I tell you what. After this is over, I'll get you an ice-cream, okay, even if we have to go to the West End to get it. Just trust me. Come on, there's a brave soldier. Come with me."
"Well, I take it we won't have a problem with it jumping into the circle of its own volition?" said Oz.
"We'll have trouble with him getting anywhere near it," said Paul.
"Okay, if that little pantomime is over, let's get onto the main feature, shall we, people? Paul. You stand there, please, at the base of the pentagram. Ess, you over there. Wonderful. Remember the rules. One final touch."
Oz took a small brass saucer and placed it in the circle. He pulled a Tupperware box from a holdall and carefully poured the thick red liquid into the saucer.
"Is that blood?" asked Ess, wrinkling her nose.
"Relax. I had liver in my fridge," said Oz. "I was going to fry it up with onion gravy tonight. It's one of the reasons I've never asked you to marry me, precious. I could never be a vegetarian. It should be a sacrificial goat, but the principle is sound."
Oz put the tub away, opened the textbook and took his station opposite Ess. "Here we go then. Does anyone want to back out?" He looked hard at each of the others in turn. "Sure? Because after this moment, there's no backing out, and summoning a demon is not exactly risk-free. Okay."
He started to intone from the book, running his finger over the lines. Paul didn't recognise the language. It seemed full of harsh gutturals. He looked over at Ess, who smiled back. It was probably meant to be one of encouragement, but it betrayed her nerves. He was suddenly struck by the huge effort and risk these people had put themselves through, on the basis of less than forty-eight hours acquaintance. If it had been him in their place, would he have put himself out as much? He smiled back, and hoped it showed less anxiety than hers.
Paul didn't know what to expect. A flash, maybe, or a puff of smoke. A gaping hole appearing in the floor, spewing flames, or a rent in the space-time continuum achieved by hugely expensive CGI effects. Instead, an old man suddenly appeared in the centre of the circle, as though he was waiting for the bus.
He stared at Paul for long seconds, then slowly turned his head to take in Oz and Ess. His thin lips stretched into what might have been a smile.
"Good evening," he said.
| Author Notes | 'izzy wizzy, let's get busy' was a catchphrase of Sooty, a magical bear handpuppet for generations of UK kids. |
By snodlander
Furcas didn't look like a demon. Well, not what Paul thought of as a demon. In fact, he looked like someone's granddad. Perhaps not a twinkle-in-his-eye, here's-sixpence sort of granddad, maybe the kind of granddad families didn't talk about, and didn't leave alone with the kids, but not a creature from another dimension. His hair was white and tidy. A white beard was platted into a point. He rested his hands lightly on a silver-topped cane. Almost everything about him, from his dark suit to his wrinkled skin said he was just an old man. Only his eyes betrayed him. They were quick and intelligent, with a yellow hue to them that reminded Paul of a crocodile.
"Furcas, demon of the Pit, I have summoned you forth according to the rites and rituals laid down from ancient times," said Oz in a commanding voice. Furcas turned to face the wizard.
"I have confined you within borders inviolate, chained you with spells that cannot be broken and bound you by decree. I charge you to remain within the circle, and to visit no harm on any here present."
Furcas nodded to himself. "You realise, of course, that almost all of that is pure superstition and poppycock? But it is tradition, and I thank you for it." He looked down at the offerings. "Is that apple for me?" he asked, puzzled. "Oh, I see. A sacrifice. Well, that's certainly different. I think that's the first time someone has offered me fruit." He prodded it with his cane. "The still-beating heart of an enemy was traditional at one point."
"We have a vegetarian present," said Oz.
Furcas turned. "The witch. A curious mix; all Earth Mother in her heart but nails in her head. You do not belong here, little girl. Shouldn't you be off healing little animals and listening to the voices in the wind? Run along and find a husband to care for."
Ess set her mouth in a thin line and narrowed her eyes.
"You don't want me here? Good! Get used to it, I'm staying."
Furcas looked down at her feet. Scarth had prostrated himself, hands over his head and shaking with fear.
"Ah, and the abomination."
Furcas snarled, an animal sound that issued from deep within his throat. After a few seconds Paul realised it was a language. Scarth whimpered and answered in short, whining snarls of his own. Ess stepped forward.
"Leave him alone, you bastard," she ordered. "He's done nothing to you."
Furcas laugh incredulously. "Or what, little girl? You think you have power? You think you can stand up to me? Why do you even care? It has murdered your kind, sent innocent souls screaming in pain and terror down to the Pit of Pain."
"Are you any better?" asked Paul.
Furcas turned to face Paul. "Oh, let's not forget the main player in all of this; the instigator of all this pain and heartbreak, the bringer of destruction. How is it working out for you, boy? Are you rolling in riches undreamt of? Have you power over all the kingdoms of the earth? Have you even lost your virginity yet? Oh, what a force; the wizard, the witch and the wimp. I can hear the quaking of demonic horde from here. Oh, wait, no, that's laughter."
"Yet, here we all are," said Oz. "We can trade insults all evening, if you want. I'm a professor. I insult students all day. Or we can discuss our mutual interests. What do you say?"
"Mutual interests? Mutual interests? What could I possibly have in common with you?"
Oz shrugged. "It seems to me that you engineered this meeting, practically begged Paul to summon you. We want to solve the Scarth problem, you, I guess, want your old job back. I take it you have a plan to bring both about."
Furcas shook his head. "You think that is it? You think this is all about petty ambition on my part? You think that the abomination is your real problem? I had forgotten the monumental arrogance you insects have. But, no matter. Think what you want, it is all the same to me. I was foolish to believe you could be of any service to me. Dismiss me, wizard, and I will find more suitable material."
Oz smiled. "You ever been to Morocco? I have. Agadir, back in the seventies when it was cool and trendy and full of hippy women looking for enlightenment. If you've never haggled for an hour to get an extra Dirham knocked off a pair of sandals, you've never negotiated. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? The pubs are open, and I can't be bothered with all this posing and farting around. We both need something from each other. Let's hear your proposal."
Furcas stared at Oz, then gave his cold smile again. He turned and stepped towards Paul. Paul gave an involuntary step backwards, then stepped forward again, to show he wasn't afraid. It fooled nobody.
"You think that is your problem?" Furcas demanded, stabbing a finger towards Scarth. "You think a little mongrel runt yipping at your heels is the source of all your woes? He is nothing. He is less than nothing, a retarded half-breed that should never have been conceived. He is not your problem, Roath is." Paul heard the loathing in the name. "Roath is its master, a little joke at his expense that he has had hanging round his neck for a time longer than you can imagine. Now he is Lord of the Pit, he has decided that his responsibilities do not include his little bastard anymore. Congratulations, he is now your responsibility. You tried to send him back, did you not? Tell me, how successful was that? Do you know why?"
Paul shook his head, mute under the force of the venom pouring from the demon.
"Because stupidity begets stupidity. That thing is stupid, in every way. Even the most lowly demon has a natural inclination, a certain instinct that drives it to serve the Great Plan. That," he flung his arm out at Scarth again, "is too stupid to poke a stick at a fallen priest. Even if you showed it how to torment a soul in the simplest way, ten minutes later it would have forgotten. And how do you get an abomination like this? You get an idiot to screw a mindless beast, that's how, and then allow the mother to live until she drops her litter."
"Wait," said Ess. "Are you saying, Scarth's father is ... Lord Roath?"
"He would rip out your tongue for saying it, but yes. He amused himself with a sprite, and that was the result. It has enough demon blood in it to make it immortal, but not enough to make it worth a damn to anybody. Now Roath is Lord of the Pit, he found a way to rid himself of the reminder of his stupidity. All the time he remains in a position of power, you will not be able to rid yourself of your curse. Roath is your target, not that thing."
"And with Roath out of the way, someone would need to take his place, eh? Very altruistic of you," said Paul. He felt the need to twist the knife in the old man, even if only a little. He wasn't sure whether Ess had noticed the virginity comment, or believed it if she had, but he wanted revenge for it.
"You think I could be Lord of the Pit again? Millennia I was in control, and under me things worked the way they always had, the way they should. Then Roath came along and suddenly nothing was sacred. Oh, that's right, sneer at a demon using a word like 'sacred' but it is true nonetheless. He stripped away my support, and with it the ritual and tradition that had been in place since before your sort crawled from the sea. The whole Underworld saw my humiliation, and we have memories that never end. I can never be Lord of the Pit, after what he did. I doubt I could even command a legion now."
"So, it's revenge you're after?"
"I am a demon. Of course I want revenge, boy. I want to hold his head in the burning coals and laugh as his eyes boil away, but there is something I want more."
"What?"
"I want the Pit to be governed properly. I want to serve under a demon lord who knows the old ways, and why they have survived so long. I want idiots like Roath and his followers condemned to shovelling shit in the stables of the four riders."
"You want Snickers to be called Marathon again," said Oz.
Furcas frowned. "What?"
Oz shook his head. "Never mind. It's something that happens to all of us after a while. We get set in our ways, and don't want things to change."
"No," said Furcas. "Things change, I accept that. Today, one man can kill thousands in an instant. A politician can say one word and condemn a race to starvation on the other side of the world. This is change, and I embrace it. But Roath destroys our power without even realising the consequences. He thinks because something is tradition or ritualised that it serves no purpose."
Furcas whirled and pointed a finger at Paul. "You! How did you discover his name?"
"I ... erm ... he told me, I think, when he told me he wasn't taking Scarth back."
"He told you his name, even though he didn't have to. See? Idiocy! How did you summon him? Did you bind him in a magic circle, as you've bound me?"
"No. I mean, I would have, only I wasn't expecting him. I was sending Scarth back, not summoning him."
"Exactly. He appeared, and you didn't even summon him. You had him right in the palm of your hand, and neither of you were intelligent enough to realise it. In his arrogance, he believes that he can do as he pleases, without consequence. That is his weakness. That is how you can trap him."
"And then?" asked Oz. "How does that help us, exactly, when he's trapped? I can see your angle, but how is that going to help Paul with his problem?"
Furcas nodded slowly. "A fair question. When Roath is trapped, his contracts will be redistributed amongst the lieutenants and his successor. I will ensure that the contract between the boy and the abomination becomes ... misplaced. He will be free of it."
"How can we be sure of that?"
"You have my word," said Furcas.
Oz laughed.
"Yeah, right, that's going to go a long way, isn't it."
"You doubt my word?"
"Too bloody right I do," said Oz with feeling. "You're a demon. Who would trust your word? Your sort doesn't exactly have a good track record in that department. No, if we are going to do this, we'll have a contract, drawn up in the old way and binding."
"No!" said Furcas, far too quickly.
"No?" said Oz. "A demon not wanting a contract? Now, why would that be? Oh, wait, because then it would be on the record, would that be it? I don't suppose it would do you or your cause too much good if word got out that you helped humans against a fellow demon, would it? Am I close?"
"It would not be in your best interests either, if word got out, at least take my word on that. I think we can trust each other on this one occasion. Neither of us would want to face the consequences of tonight's agreement."
"Plausible deniability. Okay, I can see that," said Oz. "You'll forgive me if I don't shake on it, though?"
Furcas gave a cold smile. "Then we have a deal."
"No," said Ess.
"Excuse me? What has this to do with you?" said Furcas.
"What happens to Scarth?" asked Ess.
"Scarth goes away and is no longer your problem."
"Not good enough," said Ess, folding her arms.
"Not good enough? But that is everything you want."
"Not everything. What happens to him?"
Furcas gave a shrug. "I don't know. He gets returned to the Pit. He gets a new master on Earth. He ascends to the heavens in a pink balloon, surrounded by fluffy bunnies. Who cares? I have not planned that far ahead. The point is, he is no longer your problem."
"No, I want assurances about his future."
"His future?" cried Furcas. "What sort of future has that thing got? Stones lying deep in some forgotten forest have more of a future than that. Quit while you are ahead, little girl, and leave the negotiation to the big boys."
Behind his back, Oz winced and covered his eyes.
"You complete and utter bastard," said Ess. Her voice was low and quiet, and all the more frightening for it. "This poor creature had been abused and tortured from his birth, rejected by his parents, witnessed who knows what atrocities. Did you ever think to help him? Did you ever encourage him? No, because all you know is pain and degradation and brute force. You're a bully, and that's the only way you know how to think. God, I hate bullies. But now, you need us. Now, you can't get what you want without our help. So, you're going to think that far ahead, and you're going to make sure that Scarth is okay after the end of this, and you are not going to abuse him any further. Understand?"
"And if I don't?"
"If you don't, no power on this Earth or the next will stop me from hunting you down. You think you can make a soul suffer? I will teach you suffering like you have never imagined. I will find you, and if I die trying my spirit will find you, and when I do, you will regret ever having crossed me. I will break your fucking legs!"
Furcas laughed, a cold and humourless sound. "You? What could you possibly do, little girl? You think I'm scared of you? Come here, and show me how frightening you can be."
Ess took a step forward.
"No!" cried Paul and Oz in unison.
She took another step.
By snodlander
Paul leapt forward, knowing even as he did so he was too late, but Scarth wasn't. The demon jumped up, grabbed Ess by her waist and whirled her round, throwing her to the ground. Ess scrabbled to rise, but Scarth sat on her chest, arms wrapped over his face as she flailed at him.
"Ess, Ess, calm down. It's what he wants," said Paul, kneeling beside her.
She stopped and glared at Paul. Then she nodded and swept the hair out of her eyes.
"Okay, okay, I'm calm," she said, her voice trembling with anger.
"What's going on?" said Oz. "Ess? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Oz. Just dandy." Ess gently pushed Scarth off and rose to her feet.
"Not hurt Ess," said Scarth, quietly. "Scarth good."
"Yeah, good boy, Scarth. You did the right thing. Ice-cream for you later. Maybe two," said Paul.
Furcas shook his head disbelievingly. "You knew that to enter the circle was certain death, and that your soul would be mine, and yet you still stepped forward. And you meant it too, didn't you. Stupid. Incomprehensibly stupid. Even the abomination has more sense than you." He shrugged. "Fine, if it means that much to you, then I will ensure it does not suffer unduly."
"You're not going to put him in lakes of boiling lava?"
"Believe me, girl, I don't even want it in the Pit. It will be kept safe."
"Okay, cabaret over," said Oz, clapping his hands. "Paul, Ess, assume your positions, and this time, bloody stay there. Right, Furcas, now we've sorted out the fine print, what can you contribute to enterprise?"
"You understand, of course, that I can take no active part in Roath's fall. I am only here, after all, because you compelled me by invocation."
"Yes, yes, we're the bad guys in all this. So what good are you?"
Furcas gave Oz a cold stare. "Be careful, wizard. Roath is an idiot, but I am not. Do not bate me."
"I meant no offence, I'm sure. I'm just keen to get this whole sorry mess over and done with."
"Two hundred years I have had to endure this, and you want it over in a minute? As you wish. Roath is arrogant and powerful. That is his weakness. In his arrogance he thinks himself invincible. I could have told the wimp my name, I could have appeared without a summons. Instead, I allowed myself to be called here like a dog. Why do you think that is?"
"Because you're stuck in the past?" ventured Paul, smarting under the 'wimp' comment.
"Because I understand the reasons behind the traditions, boy. By not giving you my name, by forcing you to invoke me, I have become manifest in all my power." Furcas seemed to grow and shine with an inner light. Paul willed his feet to stay still, determined not to back away a second time.
"Inside this circle I am almighty. Inside this circle, which, by the way, could have been larger, I am in full control of all my powers. But for this circle you would be writhing in pain you cannot imagine for all eternity. Made manifest by the proper rites, I am a god."
"It's all the same with you, isn't it," said Ess. "Everything is a contest to see who can piss up the wall the highest."
"If you mean, it is all about power, then, yes, you are correct. But Roath oversteps the mark. He believes himself to above tradition, too powerful to be concerned with it all. That is his mistake."
"So, how does that benefit us?" asked Oz.
"There are precedents," replied Furcas. "There have been demons before that ignored the rules at their peril, and then became trapped. That is what we must do. Bring him here, let him believe he is free and in control, then close the door on the trap. You cannot defeat him, but you can neutralise him. That is all I require. When his absence is noted, a new Lord will step forward, and I will ensure the correct one is chosen. If, after a thousand years or so, he frees himself, it will be for nothing. He will have lost his position, his respect and his power base. All I need is a breathing space where he cannot do anything."
"A thousand years or so?" said Paul.
Furcas shrugged. "Or thereabouts."
"Oh, well a piece of piss, then," said Oz. "Yeah, we'll do that all before dinner, I expect."
"I did not say it would be easy, nor without risk. Fail, and you will be eternally damned to the pit, and Roath will take a very personal interest in your torment, I am sure. Succeed, and your current problem, and mine, will be no more."
"You said there were precedents?" said Paul. "You mean, people have trapped demons before?"
"Of course," said Furcas. "That is why Roath is so dangerous. If we all took his approach the sea would be full of us by now."
"We're going to trap him in the sea?"
Furcas sighed, like a tired father being asked for the twentieth time why the sky is blue. "No, you are not going to trap him in the sea. How could you do that? Make sense. The sea is merely where we are going to throw him once he is trapped. Sitting on the sea bed fifty fathoms from any interfering human is as safe a place to store him as any, and it will take millennia of erosion to break down the glass."
Oz smiled. "Ah, of course. Precedents."
"You've heard about this?" asked Paul.
"Sure, and so have you, Paul. The stories of Schehezerade."
"Sorry, I don't know his books."
"Her, and yes you do. Aladdin, Sinbad, Ali Baba. The Arabian Nights. Oh, come on, surely you must have seen I Dream of Jeannie at least? We're going to trap Roath in a bottle."
Paul frowned. "Okay, I've seen this guy, and it's going to have to be a pretty big bottle."
"You think I'm actually this shape and size?" asked Furcas. "How many demons can dance on the head of a pin? If we wanted, a legion of demons could fly in the space between the atoms. Size is immaterial."
"Ha!" said Ess, then looked self-conscious. "Sorry. Carry on."
"But how can we trap him in a bottle if he can fly through the atoms?"
Furcas shook his head. "Are you all this stupid? It's not the glass that traps him, fool. That is merely the container for the spell. It is magic. It is power. It is the laws of the universe. Not the tiny universe you know, but ours. This is what I bring to this enterprise. The knowledge and power to trap Roath."
"And what do we do?" asked Oz.
"I shall tell you," said Furcas, smiling.
By snodlander
Thirty minutes later, the meeting ended. Furcas stepped back and spread his hands.
"There you have it; The Plan." His intonation gave it a capital letter. "You recorded all of the ingredients?"
Ess nodded, running the pencil down the notes on her notepad.
"And the invocations?"
She nodded again, irritated.
"Then we are set."
"That's it?" said Oz. "That's the great plan?"
"That is it," said Furcas. "Play your parts well, and you will be free."
"Whoa! Just a minute, Sunshine. There are one or two tiny little points need clearing up."
Furcas waved his hand dismissively. "Details."
"Well, pardon me, but they seem to be bloody great details to me."
"You doubt your own competence?"
"Well, just humour me. Let me run over the plan, and see if I've got it right. We can't summon Roath, like we summoned you, because that will give him too much power. Instead, we have to get him to corporealise himself. Then, while he is unfettered by a magic circle, we anoint him with your eau de demon, hoping he doesn't notice, and read out this invocation, while he waits patiently for us to finish, and finally we get him to jump in a bottle."
"Essentially, yes, except for the last. Uttered by such a powerful wizard as you, the last invocation should compel him to enter the bottle." The sarcasm dripped from his voice like algae from a sewer pipe. "Did I say it would be easy? But there are precedents. Other mortals have managed it. Are you not up to the task? Does the wimp have to look for another champion, one with more courage?"
"It's not courage you need, it's a bloody suicide compulsion. As soon as he smells the potion, what do you think he's going to do?"
Furcas shrugged. "Kill you, and your little witch too. The wimp should be relatively safe. After all. Roath will not want the abomination back in the Pit."
"What?" cried Paul. "No! What sort of plan is that? Forget it."
"Consider it forgotten," said Furcas. "I can wait another fifty years, when these two are long dead and you cannot live with the guilt anymore. But when you beg me for help, I will exact a heavy price from you."
"There's got to be another way. One that doesn't involve everyone dying."
"It really all depends on how good your companions are. Roath will not be all-powerful if he corporealises himself. You will not be able to harm him, but his capabilities will be severely restricted. He will not be able to summon his legions. He will not be able to rain fire upon you. He will not even be able to change his form."
"I can hear a 'but' coming," said Oz.
"He will possess super-human strength, and he will be able to invoke spells, if you allow him."
"What sort of spells?" asked Ess.
"Death, disease, madness, paralysis, that sort of thing," said Furcas airily. "But he will have to cast the spells the old way, with word and gesture. Prevent him from doing that, and you will be safe. Relatively safe."
"Fantastic," said Oz. "In the history of plans, this has to rank right up there with General Custer's, 'We'll form a circle and squeeze off a few shots.'"
"I have given you my expertise in the matter. The invocations and potion will work, if you say them correctly and brew the correct formula. The physical sides of things are not in my core skills. I have told you how to rid yourselves of Roath. How you implement that is your area of expertise."
"Spoken like a true consultant," said Paul.
Furcas smiled, and for the first time there appeared to be genuine amusement behind it. "Have you read the sort of contracts consultants negotiate? Where do you think they got the wording from? We own most of them. How else would we grant them their wish of riches? A pot of gold?"
He turned to Oz.
"Now, wizard, you may dismiss me. You will not need to contact me again. I will monitor your progress."
"Piss off, then," said Oz. "Abracadabra, and all that."
Furcas gave Oz a pained look, shrugged and disappeared without warning.
"Do we have a plan B?" asked Paul, to fill the sudden silence.
Oz shook his head. "I'm not sure we have a plan A, to be honest, but Furcas is the only game in town at the moment."
"You're surely not considering going along with that arsehole?" asked Ess. "He is the most obnoxious, offensive person I've ever met. I wouldn't trust him an inch."
"I thought I was the most offensive person you knew," said Oz, affecting a pout. "I shall have to try harder."
Ess dismissed the comment with a wave. "You don't mean it. He did. Seriously, Oz, we need to find another way."
"I'm sorry, my Venus, but I don't have another way. What he said made sense. This Roath does seem to be the root of the problem, and you can't kill a demon. All the time Roath is the boss, Paul is going to be the patsy, or at least, someone like Paul. Short of sending Paul down to the Pit, I can't see a solution beyond Furcas's plan, for want of a better word."
"But you said it yourself. It's suicide," said Paul. He squared his shoulders. "I guess ... I guess I'll just have to do the circle thing with Scarth again, and step inside."
"Don't you dare!" cried Ess. "Don't you even think about it! None of us are going to die, and that's final."
Oz laid a hand on Paul's shoulder. "I'd do what she says, if I were you, chum. There are some fates worse than eternal damnation, and being the luckless victim when Ess throws a wobbler is one of them."
"But this plan of Furcas's is terrible," said Paul.
"Yep. So we will have to see what we can do to tip the scales in our favour. But in the meantime, see that cupboard over there? There's a broom in it. I promised Alf you'd clean the chalk off the floor."
He bent down to retrieve the equipment in the circle.
"Bastard! He finished off the whisky. Okay, chop-chop, my minions. Get this stuff cleared up while I go and change, then I shall introduce you to one of the wonders of the modern world; the Student Union bar, where we shall formulate a plan of attack."
By snodlander
Paul stepped out into the warm night air. Ess slipped her arm through his and hugged it close. He thrilled to the immediacy of her presence. From the edge of the courtyard he heard a muffled giggle. As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight, he saw several couples in the shadows, in various stages of what his aunt always referred to as 'canoodling'. He looked away hastily.
"We could stay, if you want," said Ess. "Oz is in rare form, lording it over his cabal of students, and I get the impression the bar's not going to close on time."
"No, you stay if you want. I mean, don't leave because of me. It's just that I'm going to turn in."
"Are you all right?"
"Of course," he assured her. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit," she said, turning him around and slipping her hands around his waist. Paul's arms automatically wrapped around her in a Pavlovian response. "Don't try and lie to me, Streak." She giggled as he winced at his nickname. "Come on, tell me."
Paul sighed.
"I don't know. I have a lot to think about, I guess. I need to work it all though in my mind."
"Want to talk about it?"
Paul shrugged. Ess gave him a playful thump to his chest.
"You don't understand women much, do you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, when a woman says, 'do you want to talk about it?', what she means is, 'you'd better talk about it now, mister.'"
Paul smiled. "Do you always get your own way?"
"Every single time. Talk, before I use my occult powers on you."
Paul looked down at Scarth. He was listening to his radio, the earphones lost in his ears. In each hand he held a Cornetto, which he took turns biting.
Ess followed his glance.
"Are you worried about Scarth?"
"No. Well, yes, a bit, I guess, but not really. No, it's more you and Oz. And me too, if I'm going to be honest. I mean, we have to deal with Scarth. It's not fair on anyone, least of all on Scarth. Oz was right when he said he's not some sick puppy. Scarth is dangerous, Ess. He kills and has no idea why that's wrong. To him, it's just so much ice-cream. I don't think it's deliberate, it's just the way he is. We can't keep him here, but if we're going to get rid of him ..."
"What?" She looked up into Paul's face, and Paul felt his insides melting.
"Jesus, Ess. We're talking about taking on a demon lord, with just some herbal tea and a Coke bottle. This isn't some sort of parlour game. This is serious shit, and if something were to happen to you ... I mean, if you ... Oh God, Ess, I just can't ask you and Oz to risk your lives, not for this."
Ess grabbed Paul's head and pulled his face suddenly towards her. She kissed him hard on the lips. When she shoved him back, there were tears in her eyes.
"You stupid bugger," she whispered. "You don't know Oz. I've never seen him this alive. There is nothing you could do to stop him now. All his life he's taught and believed this sort of thing, and here you dump actual proof in his lap. He is loving every minute of it. Just look at the way he behaved this evening.
"And me, I want to do this too. You are in deep shit, Paul, and I will pull you out of it if it means reaching into Hell to do it. Furcas's plan is half-baked, I know that, but with what we just worked out in the bar, it's got a half-decent chance of working. Or not. It's your choice. We can ditch this plan and just look after Scarth ourselves. Look at how he's changed in the last couple of days. I bet we're the only people in all the centuries he's been alive that have ever shown him any kindness. Okay, it might be a bit expensive in ice-cream." She grinned. "Come on, that was a joke, you're meant to smile."
Paul smiled to show willing.
"I'm sorry, Ess. It's just this whole thing, it's just a tad overwhelming, you know?"
"Sure, Love. It is for all of us." She stroked his arm. "Listen, do you want to take me home? Escort me in a taxi, I mean."
Paul's breath caught in his chest. Her earnest expression, the light touch on his arm, surely she didn't just mean escort her home. And even if she did Surely she meant more than that it meant the opportunity for more kissing goodnight. Then he remembered his empty pockets. How would he get back to the Kings Arms? Besides, he couldn't think straight when Ess was merely standing next to him, let alone if she were lying next to him. Paul guiltily pushed away the image that jumped in his head.
"Ess, I ... bloody hell, girl, I've never met someone like you." She smiled and glanced down at her feet, then looked back into his blushing face. "You are fantastic, I mean in every way, and I have no idea at all why you're interested in me." He took a deep breath. He had a sudden realisation that this was one of those moments, when whatever you said next would affect the rest of your life. He had to choose the right decision, or the one he most wanted. "Look, I'm really sorry, I need to do a lot of thinking. I need to sort this all out, and frankly, you do my head in. I can't think straight with you around. I can hardly think about anything else even when you're not around, but I really, really need to think things through tonight."
He gave her a worried frown.
"Can we take a rain check on that? Just for tonight."
Oh God, if there is any kindness in the universe, don't let her be angry. Don't let her storm off and out of my life. And please, please, let her make the same offer tomorrow.
Ess took his head in her hands again, but this time it was as gentle as a spider's web. She bent his head down and kissed him on the end of his nose.
"I think that is the most beautiful rejection I've ever had," she said.
"Oh, no, it's not a ..."
She placed her finger over his lips to silence him.
"It's okay, Paul. Really it is. In fact, it's quite sweet. Some guys would take advantage. I understand. You trot off home, I'll stick around here with Oz for a little. Make sure none of those pretty female students take liberties with his body. Make sure he doesn't try to drive home. His driving when he's sober is scary enough. And whatever you decide, me and Oz are going to be there for you, okay?"
"Damn, Ess, you're great, you know that? I mean, you're really ... great," he said, wincing inside at the weakness of the compliment.
"I know," she said, laughing. "You're not too shabby yourself. Now, I'm going to mess with your head for a minute while you kiss me goodnight, then I'll leave you alone with your thoughts."
Kissing Ess was like nothing Paul had experienced before. He'd kissed plenty of girls before, of course. Well, some. Usually only once, just before they dumped him, but kissing Ess filled his senses. He could smell her, a mix of spices and musk that bypassed his nose and went straight to a primitive part of his brain. Her skin radiated a warmth he could feel on his face. His sense of touch was overloaded with her gentle breath, the tickle of her errant hair, her fingertips seeking out sensitive spots on his spine, and her lips .... Paul's heart lurched as they parted and she flicked her hot tongue speculatively over his lips. Before he could respond in kind she pulled back and laughed.
"Okay, I'm stopping there before I rip your clothes off. Goodnight, Paul. Mother Gaia watch over us. And don't worry."
"Yeah, you too. Hug a tree for me."
She laughed and gave him a playful thump on the arm. "Watch it, buster. You're not that cute. See you at the pub tomorrow."
Paul stood frozen as she backed away, turned and walked back to the entrance to the university. At the door she turned, as Paul hoped she would, smiled and gave a little wave, then she was gone.
"Come on, Scarth, we've got a long walk ahead of us."
"Ice-cream?" said Scarth. The Cornettos , along with their wrappers, had disappeared.
"No, not at this time of night. Now it's bed time."
Scarth reached up his hand and held Paul's. Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise. Scarth looked up at his master in innocent enquiry.
"Home?" he said. "Hungry."
Paul led Scarth out of the courtyard and into the quiet side street. The pub was probably an hour's walk east. Paul would find it easily enough once he hit The Strand. Scarth padded alongside him, like a child walking home from school.
Ess was right; Scarth was better behaved now. He was getting better at 'being good', for a given value of good. And she had said, 'we could look after Scarth.' 'We', as in Paul and Ess. 'We', as in a couple, with plans together. That could work, couldn't it? After all, they wouldn't be the first couple that had started life together with a third party that needed constant care and attention. And they ended happy ever after, sometimes, those sort of partnerships. Besides, Oz's plan, worked out over pints of beer in the corner of the noisy student bar, wasn't exactly foolproof. Far from it, especially when they started to involve other people too.
For the first time in forever, Paul started to feel optimistic. And Ess would prefer they solved the Scarth problem without dealing with Furcas. She had taken a maternal shine to Scarth. Was that why she liked Paul? Was he some wimp that she needed to take care of? He thought back to the thrilling tickle of her tongue tip on his lips. Hell, no. That wasn't maternal.
"'Scuse me, mate. Got any spare change?"
Paul had been vaguely aware of the thin young man hunched up by the wall, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to pay him any heed until now.
"Sorry, I'm flat broke," said Paul, genuinely sorry as he patted his pockets.
"Go on, only a couple of quid. Just so's I can have a cup of coffee or something."
"Seriously, I've got no money," said Paul, which was an issue he really would have to address tomorrow morning, somehow.
"You see, all you had to do was take your wallet out, and I'd have been off with it, no trouble," said the stranger. He took his hand out of his jacket pocket to show Paul the knife. "Now you're making it hard work. Give me your fucking wallet now, arsehole. What the fuck?"
His eyes grew wide with horror as he saw Scarth materialise and leap forward.
"Scarth, no, by the seven scrolls ..." Scarth's body cannoned into the mugger's stomach, folding him over. "... of the beast of torment ..." Scarth leapt, his right hand held high above his head, the talons glinting in the streetlight. "I adjure thee to stop." Scarth landed on his victim's chest, his claw sweeping down across the would-be robber's throat. Paul's stomach heaved as something flew across the road and landed with a wet slap in the gutter.
"I said stop," shouted Paul. Scarth continued raking at the man's head, even though Paul knew he had to be a corpse by now. "Scarth!"
Paul saw the tiny radio swinging on its strap over Scarth's shoulder. He ran forward and pulled the earphones clear.
"Stop!" he shouted.
Scarth stopped, looking up at Paul's face with a worried expression.
"Hurt master," he said. "Scarth save master. Scarth save Ess. Scarth good?" He looked up into Paul's face with a child-like eagerness to please.
"Oh, Jesus, Scarth. Bloody hell. What are you doing? What am I going to do? Jesus H Christ."
Paul staggered over to the wall and slumped onto the footpath, his knees hugged close to his chest. Scarth stared at Paul, concern and puzzlement on his face. Then a memory stirred, a previous time he had saved his master. What had happened next?
He turned back to the body and carefully went through the pockets. He took the small folds of paper back to his master, who was gently rocking to and fro on the pavement. He held them out. "Master?"
Paul looked up. Scarth was holding out a fistful of ten-pound notes. Paul swung his arm angrily, knocking the money to the ground. He looked at it, as the breeze started to tumble the notes over the ground. Mugging seemed to be a profitable occupation. Then, hating himself, hoping Ess would never see him this low, would never suspect he was capable of this, he gathered up the notes and stuffed them in his pocket. When he looked up, Scarth was standing in the gutter, a picture of innocence. The body had gone.
"Scarth good?" the demon asked.
"Come on, lets get the hell out of here. Back home, okay? And no more eating people. I mean it."
Scarth nodded and held out his hand. "Scarth good. Home, with master."
The pair started to walk down the dark street hand in hand. It was hopeless. He couldn't train Scarth, not overnight, anyway. How long would it take? Years? Centuries? How many dead bodies would he have to rub Scarth's nose in and say, 'bad boy'? It was foolishness to think that Scarth was anything more than a demonic killer. He could see that, even if Ess couldn't.
Scarth started to moan, quietly at first, but gradually growing louder.
"Be quiet, Scarth," he said.
Scarth ignored him, bouncing as he walked.
"Be quiet!"
There were suggestions of language in Scarth's voice now, shadows of words such as you hear when someone only remembers the lyrics of the song they are accompanying half a beat after it's gone.
"Scarth!"
Scarth turned at the shout, grinned and pointed to his earphones.
"Sing!" he shouted back and gave a little dance. His eyes looked wild, and there was a sheen of sweat on his leathery skin. Had that mugger been high on something? Was Scarth tripping on the drugs in his supper's bloodstream?
"Beelzebub - devil - for me! Me! Meeeeeee!"
Scarth screeched the high note, missing the pitch, and indeed the whole song, by a mile. Freddy Mercury would be turning in his grave so fast he was probably generating his own magnetic field.
Paul walked on, trying to block out the noise, Scarth and the whole world. Tomorrow couldn't come quickly enough.
By snodlander
Paul spent the morning pacing the South Bank, watching tourists and office workers live their normal day. Scarth chased pigeons and rummaged through the wastebins. After a couple of half-hearted attempts to get him to behave, Paul gave up. It was, after all, his last day. Time turned to treacle, and the morning dragged as though reluctant to give up the day to the afternoon.
At lunchtime, Paul bought a ticket and hid in the National Film Theatre. A remastered showing of Paint Your Wagon bounced across the screen, but it did nothing to alleviate his dark mood or make the evening arrive any quicker. Was he now doomed to follow a wandering star?
Scarth, on the other hand, was enraptured. As the first scenes unfolded he sat mesmerised, his jaw slack and tears running down his cheeks. During the livelier numbers he bounced from seat to seat, screaming along with what he thought was the tune.
"Hand me down that can of beans!" he screeched, spinning in a bizarre parody of the giant dancers on the screen. "Again!" he shouted at the screen, at the end of the song. "Sing!"
He turned to Paul. "Make sing?" he asked plaintively.
Paul shook his head. "Be quiet," he whispered.
"Make sing!" demanded Scarth, bringing his fist down on the seat next to Paul.
"Later. Be quiet. Sit down."
Scarth dumped himself onto the seat, but soon forgot his sulk as the story continued on-screen. During the big fight between Clint Eastwood and Lee Marvin, Scarth became agitated, whimpering with every blow that landed, and then openly wept when they became friends again.
He's just like a child, thought Paul. Ess was right about that much. And he knew no better. He didn't know how to behave or interact. There were no brakes, no regulators on his emotions or actions. He could weep at a piece of music one moment, then snap a child's neck the next. Ess didn't really grasp that side of Scarth's nature. All she saw was the frightened and confused child, but Scarth was a child armed to the teeth. Paul had read about the child soldiers in Africa, brutalised into fanatical killers who asked no questions and showed no mercy. Was there a program to humanise them again? Did it work? Could it work on someone who, when all was said and done, was a half-demon that had been brutalised for millennia?
They sat all through the closing credits. When the lights came up and the music stopped Scarth tugged at Paul's arm.
"Again," he said.
"No, we're making our way back home now."
"Again!" This time there was an angry edge to Scarth's voice.
"No, come on. We're meeting Ess later. You like Ess, don't you?"
Scarth threw himself on the floor. "Make sing! Make sing again!" he screamed.
Paul sighed. His maudlin mood left no room for anger now.
"Come on, we'll get an ice-cream in the foyer."
"Ice-cream?" said Scarth, suddenly getting to his feet. He took hold of Paul's hand. "Ice-cream, see Ess."
The Kings Head was almost empty when Paul arrived. Jim was sitting behind the bar, reading the paper and sipping from the biggest mug of tea Paul had ever seen.
"Evening, Streak. A pint?"
"No, thanks, not this afternoon. I'm ... erm ... working this evening. Need to be sober. A Coke will be fine."
"Fair enough."
"Do you know if Dumpster will be in this evening?"
"Unless he's dead or in prison. He normally comes in about half five."
Paul glanced at his watch. Half past four. "Okay. I'm meeting a couple of friends in the saloon bar in a minute. Could you tell Dumpster when he comes in to joins us? There'll be a pint or two in it for him."
Jim laughed. "Dumpster? In the saloon bar? Well, he might if there's a free beer, but I'll have to draw him a map of how to get there."
"Cheers."
Paul took his glass and walked through to the saloon bar. The same old woman sat by the window as she had the night before, nursing what looked like the same port and lemon. Otherwise the room was deserted. Paul sat at 'their' table and looked at his watch again. It was still half past four. Oz and Ess would be here at five, they said. Time enough to recruit Dumpster, finalise their plans and catch themselves a demon. His stomach shrank, making him feel queasy. His hands seemed to develop a wanderlust of their own, fiddling with the ancient cardboard beermats, adjusting the position of his glass by fractional amounts, drumming nervous little riffs on the tabletop. Scarth, by comparison, sat still under the table, occasionally humming a snatch of song he heard in his earpieces.
Oz and Ess arrived at four fifty-two, just after Paul glanced at his watch for the thirty-fourth time.
Paul stood to welcome his friends. Ess gave him a peck on his cheek. Oz stood back and held up his hands.
"Sorry, my young Aladdin, but if you're looking for a kiss from me you're bang out of luck. Besides, Ess would scratch my eyes out. She's been tarting herself up for you all afternoon."
Ess gave him a withering look.
"Oh, wouldn't it be great if everyone else thought you were as funny as you think you are?" she said.
"Still, you look stunning," said Paul.
"And you can pack it in, too," she told Paul, but she smiled and blushed all the same.
"What do you want to drink?"
"Mineral water for me," said Ess.
"A pint of bitter, young man. What?" he said, as Ess looked at him. "It's just one pint. Blood and sand, woman, you can't expect me to face the demon hordes stone-cold sober." He shook his head. "See what you're getting yourself into, Paul? They nag and disapprove, trying to change you, even when they're not sharing your bed."
Ess slapped his arm. "Behave, Oz, I mean it."
Oz gripped his arm where her slap had landed and gave Paul a look that said, 'See what I mean?'
Paul called Jim round from the Public bar and ordered the drinks, ferrying them back to the table.
"So," said Oz, taking a long draught from his glass, "Ess tells me you might be having second thoughts about this evening's enterprise."
"No," said Paul, firmly. "No, we have to go through with it. Sorry, Ess, I know you don't trust Furcas, but we can't ...." He checked under the table. Scarth had his radio headphones in his ears. "We can't keep Scarth here any longer than we have to. The longer we keep him here, the more likely it is he'll hurt someone. I can't take responsibility for that. As it is, he's already ... well, we can't let it happen, that's all. Not again. He has to be put away somewhere where he's harmless."
Ess stared at the tabletop, her mouth set in a thin line. She nodded.
"Okay," she said. "You're the only one that has a right to make that decision. He's your responsibility. But I still stand by my feelings about Furcas. He's an evil son of a bitch, and I don't trust him at all. How do we know he'll make good his promise not to let Scarth suffer?"
"We'll have Roath," said Oz. "Furcas wants him condemned to the bottom of the sea. Once we have him in the bottle, I think we can easily blackmail him into keeping his word. He wouldn't want the genie out of the bottle again, so to speak. I don't see that as a major problem. It's getting him in the blasted thing in the first place. We're going to have our work cut out keeping him distracted while we do our thing."
Paul nodded his agreement. "Yeah, that's where it's going to go all pear-shaped. Listen, guys, I can never thank you enough for what you've done so far. I don't want anything to happen to you. He'll kill us all for sure if things go wrong. You don't have to do this, you know."
Ess reached out and squeezed Paul's hand.
"Bugger that for a game of soldiers," said Oz. "You try and stop me now, and it won't be some jumped-up demon that'll kick your arse, it'll be me."
"Yeah, what he said," said Ess. "Now shut it. We've agreed."
"Well, okay. Thanks, I mean, I really appreciate it." Paul's gratitude sounded weak and inadequate to his ears, but then, wouldn't anything he said? "Is everything set?"
"Nearly," said Ess. "Which reminds me, I need one more ingredient. Scarth? Scarth darling, come here." She gently pulled him out from underneath the table. She rooted around in her bag and produced a beer bottle with the cap held in place with duct tape.
"Oz's idea," she said, apologetically.
"Hey, the only alternative was a washing-up liquid bottle. Roath may be a demon, but condemning him to an eternity imprisoned in a bottle emblazoned 'Fairy Liquid' is cruel and unusual punishment." He winked at Paul. "Besides, I was in the processing of emptying it anyway."
"So long you're still up to the job," retorted Ess, sliding the headphones off Scarth.
"I'm always up to the job, sweetheart, as you'd know if you'd ever let me show you."
"Scarth?" said Ess, ignoring Oz. "I want you to do me a favour, okay? I want you to spit in this bottle for me. Do you understand? Spit." She mimed spitting.
"Spit?"
"Yes, darling. Spit for Aunty Ess, there's a good boy."
Scarth spat, clumsily mimicking Ess's dainty example.
"No, precious, more than that. A big spit, and later I'll get you an ice-cream."
"Ice-cream?"
"That's right. Just get those saliva glands working for me. There's a good boy," she said, as Scarth spat a large gob, which mostly went into the narrow neck of the bottle. Ess took a pack of paper tissues and wiped her hands with a look of disgust on her face. Then she resealed the bottle and shook it. Scarth looked hopefully at her for a moment, then pulled the headphones back in place.
"That's the last ingredient. All set now."
"Talking of the little devil, how do you think Scarth is going to react?" said Oz.
"Not well, I shouldn't think," said Paul. "Last time I put him in the circle he was not happy at all. But he'll do it, if I use the invocation."
"I wish there was another way," said Ess. "He's going to be terrified, the poor mite."
Paul had a vision of the terror on the face of last night's mugger.
"It's for the best, Ess, and it'll be over quickly." One way or the other.
"Streak!"
They turned at Dumpster's entrance.
"Dumpster, hi. Have a seat, and I'll get you a drink."
Dumpster lifted his glass. "You already have, son. Jim put it on your tab. Cheers."
"This is Oz, a friend of mine. Oz, this is Dumpster."
Oz stood, and the two men straightened up in front of each other, as big men always do when confronted by another large rival.
"Dumpster, hello. Young Paul here has told me all about you."
"Yeah? What did he say?" asked Dumpster suspiciously.
"He said that you were the best ballet dancer ever to grace the stage."
"You taking the piss?"
Oz appeared to give the question some consideration.
"Yes, I am."
Dumpster grinned.
"Oh, that's all right then. You sure he didn't say 'belly dancer'? Only I got a belly what stops dancing ten minutes after the rest of me."
Oz laughed and grabbed his own stomach.
"Tell me about it."
The two men sat down.
"So, what's this all about then, Streak? Jim says you got a job on?"
"Indeed he has," said Oz. "One that could benefit from your obvious talents. We are going to have a meeting with an individual this evening that we suspect is going to be somewhat animated, if you get my drift. We need assistance to keep him occupied, as it were. I'm afraid it might involve fisticuffs, but there will be a cash reward of fifty pounds at the end of it, tax-free."
Dumpster looked at Paul and cocked his head at Oz.
"He a poofter, or what?"
"He's a university professor," said Paul.
"Oh, university," said Dumpster, as though that explained everything. "What's a streak of piss like you and a university professor doing mixed up with heavies?"
"Young Paul here inadvertently made a business deal," said Oz, "unaware that ..."
"Stop it, Oz," interrupted Paul. "He needs to hear the truth. I'm not going to ask someone to risk their neck for a lie."
"That's right," agreed Ess.
Oz shrugged.
"Well, okay, but he won't believe you."
"Believe what?" said Dumpster.
"It's like this," said Paul, sighing.
Dumpster laughed.
"A demon? What, like on Buffy?"
"See?" said Oz. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer is as influential on modern religion as the Bible was in the Middle Ages. I'm going to write a paper on it."
"Yeah, Dumpster, a demon like on Buffy, only we don't know if there's going to be a happy ending. It could all go wrong, and if it does, there's going to be bodies." Paul held his hands up. "If you don't want to get involved, that's fine."
"And this demon bloke is going to get all arsey, you reckon?"
"Succinctly put," said Oz. "We need to try and distract him, or at the very least restrain his arms, until the beautiful Ess here has finished the invocation. It is highly unlikely he will just stand there until his fate is sealed."
"So you want me to deck him?"
"If we can. I will of course assist you, while the two young lovers perform the necessary non-physical procedures."
"You're all fucking crazy," said Dumpster. "Completely barking. Ghosts and goblins and shite? What a load of codswallop." He emptied his glass and smacked his lips. "But count me in. I can beat any man in a fair fight, or an unfair one, come to that. Be fun to kick someone's arse, and if he's some monster, so much the better. Your shout again?" he asked, pushing his empty glass forward.
By snodlander
"Are you sure we won't be disturbed here?" Ess nervously paced the concrete loading bay behind the warehouse.
"Nothing is sure in this world, my Juliet, nor in the next either," said Oz. "But we should be reasonable safe here. Dumpster assured us this place is deserted in the evening. Now stop tap-dancing. It is ruining my concentration. Learn your lines, or something."
Ess fished in her cotton shoulder bag and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper. "How do you expect me to learn this stuff? I can hardly pronounce it, let alone memorise it."
"So long as you pronounce it when the time comes. Relax. Your lover will be along shortly, demon in tow, and you wouldn't want him to see you in a blind funk, would you?"
"I am not in a blind funk!"
"Ah, that's the Vanessa I know and love. Get angry, get excited, get horny if you want. Chanel that nervousness into something you can use. There! All my own work, and not a day in Art College."
Oz stood back and admired his work. The chalk circle on the floor surrounded a pentagram decorated by strange symbols.
"It's a bit wonky there," said Ess, pointing.
"Oh, a critic? That's easy for you to say. Anyway, it doesn't really matter. It's not like it's actually going to have to contain a demon lord. I just hope he turns up. He might be in the bath, or something." Oz placed the black candles around the circle. "That's always the way when I get a phone call, and it's always some blasted marketing company. I've found the best way to get rid of them is to ask what they're wearing whilst I go hands-free."
"Do you have to practice being so pervy, or is it just a natural talent?"
"What, there's no law against receiving an obscene phone call, is there? Oh, blood and damnation!" Oz started to pat his pockets furiously."
"What?"
"Do you have any matches?"
"What? You forgot the matches?"
Oz grinned and produced a box of matches from his shirt pocket.
"You bloody idiot, Oz. That's not funny." Ess slapped Oz on the arm, but despite her anger she couldn't quite suppress the smile.
"Oh, yes, Mistress. My pain is your pleasure," chuckled Oz.
"Hi guys, ready?" Paul strode alongside the warehouse, looking like a nervous person trying very hard to look confident.
"Just about, my young demon master. I'll leave lighting the candles until we're good to go."
"Hi, darling," said Ess, stepping up to meet him and kiss him on the cheek. "Hello Scarth. My goodness me, have I got a treat for you, yes I have." She reached into her bag and pulled out a two-litre tub of ice-cream. "Root ginger and acacia honey; my favourite."
"Ice-cream?" said Scarth, his eyes widening.
"Ye gods, woman, is there nothing that can't be found in that bottomless bag of yours?" asked Oz.
"Ice-cream, Scarth. A little soft now, I should think, but first you have to do something for me, understand?"
"Scarth good," said Scarth, reaching out for the tub. Ess held it away from him.
"No, first you must do me a favour, understand?"
Scarth nodded, eyes fixed on the treasure.
"I want you to stand in this circle for me."
Scarth nodded and started forward. Then the tiny part of his brain that wasn't engrossed in the prospect of ice-cream registered what was on the floor.
"No!" he screamed, backing off. "Scarth good, Scarth not eat, Scarth not go back."
"No, honey, you're not going back," said Ess, carefully placing the tub in the circle and squatting down in front of Scarth. "Remember last time? You didn't go back then, did you? We just need to summon Lord Roath, and this is the only way we can think to do it."
"Lord Roath?" Scarth's voice quivered with dismay. "Scarth good. Sit on hands. Not hurt Ess. Not eat. Please? Pleeeeeeease?" Tears ran down his face.
"It's okay, Scarth. Lord Roath will be out here, and you'll be all safe and secure inside the circle, see? Lord Roath won't be able to touch you."
Scarth grabbed Paul's hand and tugged so hard Paul nearly toppled over. "Home now. Home, sleep, be good."
"Sorry, Ess, it's not going to work," said Paul, straining against the little demon. "There's only one way we're going to get him in the circle and stay there."
"But he's so frightened."
"We all are, Ess, but there's no other way. Scarth, by the seven scrolls of the beast of torment, I adjure thee to stand inside the circle."
"Good master," sobbed Scarth. "Scarth be good. Scarth be good."
"In the circle, Scarth, do it. Now!" Paul used the voice his father had when he was small, in the hope that it would lend some more authority to the invocation.
Scarth dragged himself slowly towards the circle, looking plaintively at Paul in the forlorn hope he would change his mind.
"Oh, the poor mite," said Ess. "There's got to be another way, Paul."
Paul thought of the death toll so far. "There isn't. It has to be done, before anyone else dies."
"You can still have the ice-cream, Scarth," said Ess.
Scarth glanced at the tub, then ignored it. He sat on the ground and looked inconsolable.
"Is he there?" said Oz.
"All set," said Paul.
Oz opened a large holdall and pulled out his robe. He slipped it over his head and tied the rope around his waist. He shrugged his shoulders a few times and shook out his hands.
"Lock and load," he said. "Bring it on."
Ess shook her head. "You're enjoying this, aren't you!"
"A tad, my darling. Forgive an old man a chance at excitement and adventure." He lit the candles. "In your own time, Paul."
Paul picked up the book and read the incantation. Scarth whimpered and looked wildly around him. Paul had seen him take muggers apart and swallow people whole. What sort of demon was Roath, that Scarth was so scared of him?
The wind picked up, swirling around the circle. Paul read on. The candle flames became tinged with purple, flared, then gutted. Paul screwed his eyes up against the flying dust and read on. As he read the last word, the wind suddenly dropped. The silence beat down on them.
Paul turned, scanning the small loading bay.
"What did you fail to understand?" said a voice. From the shadows cast by a large garbage compactor Roath stepped forward.
He stopped and glanced at Oz and Ess, then turned back to Paul with an eyebrow raised.
"The summoning of the demon is irrevocable. You are its master, from the moment you summoned it to the end of days. You cannot send it back. That rescinding invocation in the book is worthless. Why is that so difficult to understand?"
"Lord Roath, I am Dawkins, grand wizard of the order of Roke, and I commanded you here!" Oz's voice resounded across the yard, as though he were giving a speech to a lecture-hall full of the hard of hearing.
Roath turned and regarded Oz for a second, then returned to Paul.
"I do not wish to be summoned again, or you will know what the wrath of a demon lord can bring."
"Oi, Roath, I'm talking to you," said Oz, sounding less sonorous and more peeved.
Roath turned to Oz in annoyance.
"What?"
"Your contract between Paul and Scarth is null and void. Scarth is not a demon, he's a chimera. That invalidates the invocation."
Roath laughed.
"Invalidates it? You stupid oaf. You think you can stand against me and quote the law? The contract is good and binding. It has been tested and found true. Where do you think all the best lawyers go? There isn't a judge here or below that could find a loophole. Who do you think you are? And what, in the name of the Beast, do you think you look like?"
"I am a grand wizard, holder of the ten secrets, diviner of hidden knowledge, defender of the right and just now I am well pissed-off with you, pal!" Oz pulled the voluminous sleeves of his robe up his arms.
"What?" Roath laughed incredulously. "You think a human, even a young fit human, could stand against me? I am Lord Roath of the Inner Circle of Pain, Destroyer of Peace, Crusher of Souls." Anger replaced the amusement in his voice. "Armies cannot stand against me. I rule thirty legions of the Armies of the Dark. I have brought down empires. And you think one fat old man can threaten me with his bare hands?"
"Oh dear," said Oz, very quietly. "Old? Did I hear you say old? Oh, dear me."
"Oz, no," said Ess. "You can't take him on your own. Don't be stupid."
"Relax," said Oz, eyes fixed on Roath. "A few seconds, a minute at most, that's all it will take."
"You think you could last seconds? The arrogance of Man!" sneered Roath.
"Oz, wait. We didn't plan for ..."
"Hey, Streak!" Dumpster appeared around the corner. He was swaying as he approached, waving a beer bottle in his hand for balance. "Streak, you wanker. You all right, boy? It's me, Dumpster. What's going on, son? You having a party and not inviting your old mucker Dumpster? Here, here, who's your friend, eh? Wanna drink?"
"Oh dear God," groaned Paul. "He's drunk!"
By snodlander
Dumpster swayed up to Paul, a gormless grin across his face.
"Streak, me old mucker, me mate. You all right?" He spread out an arm and wrapped it around Paul's shoulders, hugging him with rib-cracking bonhomie. "Want to know why we call him 'Streak'?" he asked the assembled audience. "'Cos he's just a long streak of piss." Dumpster laughed, an action that involved his whole body, including every one of his chins. "But he's my mate, he is, and a bloody good Kung Fu whatsit, arm wrestling, thingy."
He slipped his arm up around Paul's neck and held him in a headlock that threatened to crush several vertebrae with friendship.
"And what do they call you, Sunshine?" he asked, releasing Paul and staggering towards Roath.
Roath looked at Dumpster in utter disgust.
"Go away," he said. It shouldn't be possible to put so much distain, menace and contempt into two words, but Roath managed it with ease, with room left over for a little cold anger around the edges.
Dumpster straightened, turned towards Paul and winked, suddenly sober. Then, without warning, he spun and slammed the beer bottle over Roath's head. The air instantly filled with an acrid smell.
"Consider yourself anointed," said Dumpster, with satisfaction.
"What?" said Roath, momentarily surprised.
Time, it is said, is that property of the universe that prevents everything happening at once. For a few brief seconds Time turned its back, and everything happened at once, while at the same time appearing to slow into eternity.
"No!" cried Ess. "We needed the bottle!"
"You never said," said Dumpster.
Roath took a long breath through his nostrils, then sneezed violently.
"You dare to try and enslave me?" he roared. "You will know pain no living creature has endured before!" He brought his hands up, his fingers starting to describe a complicated dance in the air.
Even before the first shards of glass hit the floor, Oz was already moving. It took a second or two for a man of Oz's stature to build up speed, but once in action he was like an ocean-going liner, a massive demonstration of Newton's first law of motion. He lowered his shoulder and hit Roath with the force of a rugby scrum on the five-yard line and thirty seconds on the clock.
Roath staggered back, his arms momentarily pinned to his sides. He twisted, leant back and allowed Oz's momentum to carry him past. Oz clung onto Roath's jacket, spinning over Roath's hip as his feet tripped over Roath's outstretched leg. Roath shoved, and Oz fell sprawling on his back onto the concrete beyond.
Roath turned towards Paul. "I will ..."
Paul never discovered what Roath would, as Dumpster hurled a fist the size of a ham into Roath's face. Roath staggered back.
Dumpster didn't float like a butterfly and sting like a bee; he floated like continental drift and stung like galaxies colliding. He swung another fist in a long, slow roundhouse that would take the head off a normal person. Roath stood his ground, taking the blow on his chin as though it were a caress from a small child. He smiled with cold cruelty. Dumpster swung his other fist. Just before it connected Roath raised an arm, stopping Dumpster's blow dead. Roath's other hand moved faster than the eye could follow, and Dumpster dropped to one knee, his arms wrapped around the personal universe of pain his stomach had become.
As soon as the two big men launched their attack on the demon lord, Paul turned and ran to Ess.
"We need another bottle!" he said.
Ess looked dismayed. "We don't have one."
Paul glanced at the magic circle. Inside lay the tub of ice-cream, with its snap-seal lid. Scarth was ignoring it, staring at the fight.
"Scarth, throw me the tub!"
Scarth didn't seem to hear.
"Scarth!" yelled Paul. "The ice-cream. Throw it."
Scarth suddenly launched himself towards his former tormentor, rebounding off the magic circle as though it were a solid wall. He leapt again, scrabbling at the invisible force field, yowling like a tomcat defending its territory.
"Scarth!" It was no good, Scarth was deaf to Paul's shouts, and stepping inside the magic circle was out of the question. Could solid objects even pass through it, or would the tub simply bounce back?
Paul snatched the ever-present cotton bag from Ess's shoulder and up-ended it onto the ground, shaking it by the corners to evict the last recalcitrant item. He dropped to his knees and scrabbled through the pile.
"Hey, that's personal stuff," said Ess, dropping to her knees to join Paul, snatching at various girly items the significance of which Paul could only guess.
Paul's eyes raked at the mess of items in front of him, his fingers scattering scraps of tissue and cosmetic unguents.
"What's this?" he asked, snatching at a white plastic container.
"It's what I keep my contact lenses in," said Ess.
"That'll have to do. What do ... you wear contacts?"
Ess gave him a look that wordlessly expressed the opinion that, in the middle of a battle with demonic powers, when they and their friends could be eternally damned to pain and misery, the discussion of each other's medical prescriptions could wait until later, if they had a 'later' in which to get to know each other better. Which, when all was said and done, was quite an expressive look.
"Right, bottle. Read the spell."
Ess shook her head.
"It needs to contain some of the potion."
Paul looked back at the fight. Dumpster still knelt in front of Roath, winded. Roath was muttering something, his hands carving complicated sigils in the air. Between Roath and Paul lay a wet patch, where Dumpster had smashed the bottle over Roath's head.
"Read it," he screamed, diving forward.
Roath had almost completed the spell when Oz charged into him from behind. Turning to face his new assailant, Roath stumbled over the still-kneeling body of Dumpster and fell onto his back. Oz tumbled on top of him. He wrapped his hands around the demon's throat and squeezed as hard as he could, cutting the invocation short. Roath pulled Oz's hands away as though he were merely pulling undone a bothersome bowtie, and tossed him to one side. Oz scrambled to his feet, but Roath was faster. While Oz was still bending Roath grabbed him by his rope belt and heaved. Oz flew through the air, twisting and flailing, then hit the concrete ground with stomach-turning thud. He wheezed wordlessly for a moment, then lay still.
Roath waved his hands again, then saw Dumpster rise to his feet.
"You stupid insects. Know when you are beaten."
"Ain't beaten yet," said Dumpster, hoarsely. Raising his fists in a boxer's stance, he moved on Roath. Roath shook his head in disbelief, then threw a backhanded punch at Dumpster's head. Dumpster managed to get an arm up to block it, but it had little effect. The blow landed with such force that Dumpster was knocked sideways. He hit the floor with a grunt, then lay there holding his arm.
"Now," said Roath, turning back towards Paul and Ess. Paul froze, lying prone on the ground, contact holder held to the small puddle on the floor. Ess paused her incantation, still kneeling before the contents of her shoulder bag, finger marking her place on the sheet. "I shall leave you alone," he pointed at Paul, "but you will spend eternity on Earth knowing the bitch is my toy in the Pit. Her fate will be used to terrify the bravest souls in my domain." He winced. Scarth's howling had reached a pitch that was impossible to ignore, like the screaming infant ten minutes into a transatlantic flight. Roath roared at Scarth in the guttural snarling that passed for their native language. Instead of cowering in fear, as he had done in the presence of Furcas, Scarth redoubled his efforts to break free.
"Command the abomination to be silent," Roath ordered Paul.
"How can you call your own child that?" shouted Ess.
"Child?" Roath sneered. "That is no child, it was a cancer cut out of some mare, a growth that should have shrivelled and died in the dark."
"Don't you dare talk about him like that!" Ess was shrieking in rage, the sheet of paper in her hand shaking .
Roath gave a short laugh that contained no mirth at all. "Or what?" he sneered.
Ess bent down and grabbed a packet from the mess in front of her. "Or I shall use this."
"What's that?" he asked, suspiciously.
"Wet wipes," said Ess, triumphantly. She leant sideways, and scrubbed at the chalk circle with the damp tissue.
Suddenly free, Scarth launched himself across the ground, sparks flying as his talons scrabbled for grip on the concrete. Six feet from Roath he leapt, hands raking at Roath's face as his clawed feet ripped his shirt to tatters. Roath grabbed at the bundle of fury, trying to pull Scarth off, but for every limb he grabbed, another three slashed and tore. Scarth's screaming became muffled as he sank his fangs into Roath's forearm and he shook his head like a terrier worrying at a towel on a washing line.
For a few seconds, Paul and Ess stared, amazed at the spectacle, then in unison suddenly woke up to the task. While Ess continued her chant, Paul scrabbled at the spilt potion, flicking it into the plastic container with his finger, smearing the potion around the inside of the cylinder and lid.
As the fight continued, Roath slowly leant away from Paul, until he was almost horizontal. His feet started to lose their grip, and he began sliding towards Paul. Each time he tried to invoke a magical gesture, Scarth was there, biting and clawing at any part of Roath that he could reach. Finally, Roath managed to grip Scarth by the scruff of the neck and throw him in a large arc across the loading bay. Only then did he seem to notice his situation.
A bright light emanated from the plastic container, holding Roath in its beam. Roath's body distorted like the image in a hall of mirrors, his feet becoming tiny as he neared the opening. Paul gripped the plastic in both hands, trying to hold it as firmly as possible without getting his fingertips near the beam of light. Roath screamed and twisted
In the background, Scarth landed in a ball on the floor, then launched himself into the fray again, scrabbling across the ground on all fours as he accelerated towards Roath.
With a sudden pop, Roath disappeared. Paul slammed the lid shut and heard the satisfying click as the seal snapped into place. Scarth continued his acceleration, cannoning into Paul's prone body and knocking Roath's new prison free.
Scarth skidded to a stop on all fours, his face inches away from the lens container. He screamed at the innocent-looking cylinder, he face contorted with rage, flecks of foam dripping from the corner of his mouth, beating the ground with his fists. Ess and Paul rose to their feet, then subconsciously backed away from the enraged beast.
"Scarth?" Ess's voice was quiet and shaky. Scarth turned towards her, took a pace forward and screamed. Ess staggered back. He turned his head from side to side, regarding Ess and Paul in turn, like a wild animal deciding which prey to attack. Then in a sudden motion he swept up the canister and scooped it into his mouth, swallowing hard. He stood up, looked at Paul defiantly, screwed up his face and farted a ten-second note. When he opened his eyes, the beast had gone and the old Scarth was back. He looked around the loading bay.
"Ice-cream?" he said, pointing at the tub and looking at Ess. Ess nodded. Scarth ambled into the almost-a-circle and picked up the box. He sniffed it experimentally and then bit off a corner.
"No, you take the lid off like ..."
Scarth glared at Ess, and she fell silent. After a moment Scarth returned to the tub, sliding a long purple tongue into the hole he had made.
Paul came up to Ess.
"I suppose that's as good as being at the bottom of the sea," he said. "Better, probably."
Ess nodded, staring at Scarth. "He was so ..."
Paul reached for her hand. "Yeah. It's why we had to do it, Ess. I mean, this world is no place for him, really it's not. Could you imagine it?"
She leant into his shoulder. "I don't want to. Oh, Oz! Dumpster!"
The two ran forward. Oz lay on his back, face screwed up in pain.
"I'm fine," he whispered. "Winded. Dumpster."
Paul stepped over to Dumpster. Dumpster's face had lost much of its ruddy glow.
"Bastard broke my arm," he said. "Where is he?"
"He's ... gone," said Paul.
"Ha! Run off, did he? Good job too. Was just about to kick his arse."
"Yeah, we won. Good job, Dumpster. I owe you, big time."
"Fifty quid you said, yeah? I'd have done it for twenty. God, but he was a hard bastard. Longest fight I've had in bloody years. Jesus, the trouble and strife is going to bend my ear when she finds out I've been fighting." He laughed weakly. "Rather face ten of your demons than her when I'm in the doghouse."
"Just you lie still," said Paul. "We'll get an ambulance."
"Oh shit! The hospital puts a cast on my arm and she'll go mental. She'll break my other arm. Still, you'll know all about that soon enough." He nodded towards Ess. "She's a keeper, mate, just like my missus when she was her age. She'll give you grief, no doubt about it, but they're worth every moment."
"Yeah, well, I'll get Ess to phone for an ambulance, okay?" said Paul, embarrassed.
Meanwhile Ess was kneeling over Oz.
"We did it, Oz. We trapped him."
"Of course. I had every confidence in you," he panted. "Give me your hand, girl, and get me off this cold floor, will you?"
Oz took hold of Ess's proffered hand and tried to pull himself up.
"Oh, oh, oh, no!" he wheezed, easing his grip and lying still again. "Sorry. Bit more than winded, I think. Can't breathe."
Ess looked at his barrel chest. He was breathing in short, shallow movements.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
Oz gave a pained smile. "Only when I breathe."
"Just wait. I'll dial 999."
Oz nodded. Ess returned to the pile of her possessions and fished out her mobile phone. She looked over to Paul. He held thumb and little finger to his head and nodded at Dumpster.
"Hello? Ambulance service, please."
| Author Notes | Just how many ways can you refer to a contact lens holder? |
By snodlander
"I thought he was going to die, waiting for the ambulance," said Ess, as she and Paul sat in the waiting room of the A and E.
Paul nodded. He absent-mindedly patted Scarth on his head.
"It was touch and go," he agreed. "For a moment I thought we were all going to die. I still can't get over how you all were prepared to go that far for me. I ...." To his surprise and embarrassment, Paul felt the tears well up behind his eyes. "I can't ever thank you enough. I mean, Dumpster, he was just in it for the buzz, but you and Oz knew the risks, and you still stuck in there."
Ess took his hand and patted it.
"Oz, he's, I don't know, family, I guess. He doesn't suffer fools gladly, and there's a million and one ways you can be a fool in his eyes, but if he likes you, he is the most generous-hearted human being I have ever met. He won't deny a friend anything. Of course, it goes both ways. He'll think nothing of waking you up at three o'clock in the morning, drinking you dry and ranting about some trivial annoyance until the pubs open. He'll do anything for a friend, but you have to be sure you're prepared to do anything for him. I saw him with Michael, when we rescued you. I really thought for a moment he would kill him. Seriously. He doesn't do things by half measures, and Michael betrayed his trust."
"You like him a lot," said Paul.
"He's my best friend, a mentor, too, I guess." She laughed. "But a terrible old lech, and absolutely not my type. You can relax, he's not your rival. I have entirely different feeling for you."
"Oh, I didn't mean that," said Paul, blushing, because he realised that was exactly what he had meant.
A middle-aged nurse came through from the treatment rooms and walked briskly over to Paul and Ess.
"Are you Professor Dawkins' friends?" she asked in an Irish brogue.
"Yes," said Ess.
The nurse sniffed, as though they had admitted to some heinous and disgusting crime. "You can see him for a minute, before they take him up to the wards."
"Is he going to be all right?"
"That depends on what you mean. He's going to be hurting for a few weeks, for sure, but he'll survive. His soul, though, is going to burn in hell, no doubt about that."
"Gosh, what did he do?" asked Paul, despite himself.
"He said ... he suggested ... he was inappropriate," said the nurse, colouring.
"He hit the ground pretty hard," said Ess, hoping she looked sincere. "Maybe he's a little concussed."
"He will be if he tries that on with me again," said the nurse. "Follow me."
Paul and Ess glanced at each other as the nurse turned, then desperately tried to surpress their giggles as they followed her down the corridor, Scarth in tow. Oz was lying on a trolley inside a curtained cubicle. A machine bleeped regularly beside him, wires connecting it to a clamp on his finger. A clear plastic tube ran from a swathe of sticking plaster just below his armpit into a large, plastic bottle full of water, coloured slightly pink, clipped to the leg of the trolley. Drops of blood could be seen sticking to the inside of the tubing. He smiled as they stood beside him.
"Oh my God, Oz, what have they done to you?" said Ess.
"Oh, calm yourself, my little dove. It's nothing serious. A couple of broken ribs and a collapsed lung. I'll be out of here inside a week. And in the meantime, I'm going to live the life of Riley. I'll spend the days reclining semi-naked, surrounded by beautiful, uniformed nurses. I shall be in my element. I couldn't buy a better holiday. Well, not on a lecturer's salary, anyway. Did you see that Irish nurse? I think I'm in love."
"She doesn't think much of you, though," said Paul.
"Ah, but she's Catholic. Southern Irish accent, see? When they finally overcome their guilt, it's like a dam collapsing. And I've already chipped away at her mortar. It only takes one brick."
"Oz, you have no shame!" said Ess, laughing. "Besides, do you think you're in any shape to follow through?"
"But I'll need nursing through my convalescence, won't I?" He chuckled, then winced. "I take it, by the fact we are all still here, that this evening's enterprise was successful? What did you imprison him in, after Dumpster smashed the bottle?"
"My contact lens case," said Ess.
"Oh dear gods, that's going to be cramped," he said, chuckling and wincing at the same time. "You shall have to take the ferry to Calais without me, when you commit him to the deep."
"That's going to be a bit awkward," said Paul. "Scarth swallowed it."
"Oh, oh, oh," said Oz, laughing and crying out in pain at the same time. "Don't make me laugh, dear boy, please don't make me laugh. Oh, oh. Does this mean you're going to have to sift though Scarth's motions for the next few days?" He collapsed into his disturbing mix of laughter and cries of pain.
"I don't think so. He's never had any, as far as I know. And he's eaten several times his own body weight. I think his gastric system is a portal to another dimension, or something. Maybe he swallowed a black hole at some time. Anyway, nothing ever comes out the other end."
"Oh, condemned to an eternity inside a cubic centimetre cell, and if he escapes, finding himself inside Scarth's colon. Oh, oh, I'm dying here. The best he can hope for is an infinity of shit. Oh dear God, I can't take any more. Please, please don't make me laugh anymore."
Ess reached out and stroked Oz's shoulder gently. "To think, I was so worried about you. You're going to be all right, I can see that."
"Ah, bless you, my angel of mercy. But I'm fine. A few days, and I'll be back home."
"Hello, guys." Dumpster stood at the entrance to the cubicle, his arm in a sling. "I'm off, just wanted to see if you were okay."
"Ah, Dumpster, pugilist extraordinaire. I'm in the rudest of health, considering. How are you?"
"He'll survive, no thanks to you." A slightly-built woman, no taller than five feet, peered round Dumpster's bulk, an angry expression on her face.
"This is my wife, Doris," said Dumpster, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolboy in front of the headmistress. "These are my friends, Streak, Oz ..."
"You should be ashamed of yourselves, all of you," interrupted Doris. "Getting Wilfred involved in a common street fight. I mean, at your age, too," she said, glaring at Oz. "I should sue, I should, leading him astray like that."
"You don't understand," said Ess.
"Oh, I think I understand all too well, thank you very much."
"No, your husband is a hero, Doris. We were attacked, and Dumpster, I mean, Wilfred, well, he just leapt into action like a trooper. Honestly, if he hadn't rescued us, I dread to think what might have happened. Professor Dawkins owes him his life, and me, I owe him, well, you understand. I am just so grateful to him. You are so lucky to have such a wonderfully brave husband."
"Mm, well, that may be so," admitted Doris, begrudgingly. "Still, he's far too old to be getting himself involved common brawls. And what the neighbours are going to say, him trussed up like a turkey, I really dread to think. Don't think I'm going to forget this, Wilfred Carmichael. You are not going to be able to soft-soap your way out of this, this time. Come on, our Sue has the car outside."
Mrs Dumpster disappeared in a cloud of righteous indignation. Dumpster looked at Ess in a mixture of gratitude and admiration.
"You're a diamond, darling, and no mistake," he said.
"Wilfred!" came Doris's imperious voice from the corridor beyond.
"Coming, my love," said Dumpster meekly, and disappeared from view.
"Wilfred Carmichael?" whispered Ess, her eyes wide.
"No wonder he prefers 'Dumpster'," said Paul, grinning.
"So, what now?" said Ess. "I mean, what happens with Scarth? He's still here."
"Give it time," said Oz. "The forms have to be observed, the balance of power to be redistributed. Furcas has too much to lose to renege on our agreement."
The curtains parted again, and the Irish nurse reappeared.
"I need to take your pulse," she said curtly, picking up the clipboard from the end of the trolley.
"My heart races whenever you are near, my angel of mercy," said Oz. "My pulse positively vibrates at your touch."
"Are you in pain?" she asked, holding his wrist and looking at her watch.
"A little, but I can bear it."
"You want to be in more pain? Because I can arrange that if you don't behave."
I love her, mouthed Oz at his friends. Aloud, he said, "Kids, I think you should leave now. This beautiful woman and I need some quality time together."
"I know ten ways to render a man helpless with pain," said the nurse. "I will show you every single one, and I'll leave no evidence afterwards."
"I find strong women so erotic," said Oz. "Go, go," he urged, shooing the couple.
"Okay," said Ess. "I'll come visit tomorrow. And behave. Being a nurse is a hard enough job without you making it worse."
"He'll be going up to the ward in a minute, and then he'll be someone else's problem," said the nurse. "Thank goodness."
"Then we have to make the most of the moments we have, dear heart," said Oz, as the others left. They were only a few yards down the corridor when they heard the clatter of a metal dish on vinyl flooring, followed by Oz's pained laughter.
Ess shook her head. "One day he's going to go too far, and someone will either kill him or marry him. I'm not sure which would be worse."
They stepped out into the night. The late summer warmth had been replaced by a damp chill, and low clouds scudded across the sky.
"Come on, let's get a cab," said Ess. "It looks like it might rain. There's a cab rank outside the station."
She started to walk along the street. Paul trotted up beside her and they strolled, one of his hands in hers, the other in Scarth's.
"Actually, the Kings Head isn't too far from here. I can easily walk."
"But it's late. The pub is probably closed and you're locked out. Besides, I've got a bottle of elderflower wine at home that needs drinking."
"I don't think Jim ever closes on time. He's probably still open for regulars."
Ess gave Paul a long stare.
"You don't go out with many girls, do you?" she said. "Don't make me spell it out."
"Oh," said Paul. He replayed the conversation in his head. "Oh," he said again, grinning.
By snodlander
Paul floated in the dark. He was aware through some primordial instinct that the darkness was full of malevolent forces just beyond his touch. Furcas spoke to him from the inky depths.
"It is done. Not quite conventionally, perhaps, but the end result is satisfactory. Roath is beyond reach, and the circle is turning once more. Our relationship is at an end."
"Scarth?" asked Paul.
"He is no longer bound to you."
"But what's going to happen to him?"
"Do you care?"
"Ess does."
"Ah, the witch. Very well, observe."
***
Scarth plummeted. For a moment he twisted and thrashed, but millennia in the Inner Circle had taught him what to expect. There was no hope, no choice. He would experience pain without end again. Struggle was pointless. He closed his eyes and tensed, braced for the inevitable.
He hit the soft resistance, which broke then washed over him. His skin burned. So, the lake of molten lava to start with. He kicked and flailed for the surface, knowing it was hopeless.
Something wasn't right. His skin burned, yes, but not with the blistering heat that peeled skin and charred flesh. His surroundings resisted, but the texture wasn't right. It wasn't lava.
He pushed his head clear and opened his eyes. This definitely wasn't right. It was dark, but not in the oppressive solid dark of the underworld. It was twilight, and overhead a magical display of purple and greens played from horizon to horizon. Scarth gaped in wonder. Paint Your Wagon had been beautiful, evoking emotions Scarth had never experienced before, but this was a quantum leap beyond. He lay on his back, staring at the wondrous sight for minutes, not speaking, not even daring to blink, in case it disappeared.
Suddenly he shuddered. This wasn't the Pit, he knew this now, because everything was different. This wasn't even lava. He wasn't choking in suffocating heat. In fact, he was cold. Deliciously, painfully, wonderfully cold. He struggled to his feet and looked around him. The horizon was miles away, and in every direction he looked he could see only a vast white expanse. He looked down at his feet, at the crater he had created when he landed. There was something familiar about this all.
Scarth reached out a trembling finger and scooped up some of the substance on his claw. He sniffed it tentatively, then tasted it on his tongue.
"Ice-cream?" he wondered aloud.
He scooped up a handful and stuffed it into his mouth, biting down on the harsh coldness and feeling it drizzle down his throat.
"Ice-cream!" he shouted to the wilderness.
He looked around him. For mile on mile in every direction, all he could see was whiteness, horizon to horizon.
"Ice-cream," he repeated, reverently, his voice hoarse with the immensity of the concept.
Then he leapt, throwing handfuls of snow into the air and dancing in erratic circles, shouting wordless shrieks of joy at the southern lights above him.
****
Paul awoke, the dream still vivid in his mind. Was it true?
He carefully slid Ess's arm off his chest and eased himself out of the cramped warmth of her bed. It was dark, and he couldn't remember where he had left his clothes. Naked, he felt his way across the unfamiliar room and fumbled open the door.
"Scarth?" he whispered. There was no response from the gloom of the living room. He found the bathroom, slipped in and turned on the light. Wincing, he screwed up his eyes until he could see without it hurting, and regarded himself in the cabinet mirror. Was it true?
He opened the cabinet and guiltily dug through the contents. Women's ablutions were a strange and wondrous foreign world to him, one that had been locked up and unexplored. He could only guess at what the various solutions and contraptions were for. He found a pack of safety pins. Unclipping one, he gingerly stabbed himself in the finger, and squeezed the spot of blood out.
It was true. He was normal again, with his old life back. He thought back to events after the cab ride home and smiled. Well, not quite his old life.
He found his way back to the bedroom again and slid under the covers. Ess stirred lazily.
"Ess," he whispered. "It's over."
"Hmm?" she murmured.
"It's over, pet. Scarth has gone."
"Mmm?" she muttered, sliding her hand over his chest.
"Mmm," she repeated, sliding her leg over his, running her insole up his calf and snuggling her nose into his neck. "What?" she asked, still half asleep.
Paul wrapped his arm over her waist and pulled her closer.
"Nothing, pet. It can wait till morning," he said, running his hand down her back.
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