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."