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.