"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.