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.