‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Except that I’ve only got your word for it what your true name is, and I can’t read your symbols. You could write George W. Bush down there and I wouldn’t know any better, would I?’
‘The law of analogues–’ Trudie Pax began.
‘Trudie,’ I snapped, ‘I swear if you open your mouth again I’ll put you outside the door until we’re finished.’
She gave me a long, narrow-eyed stare, but she fell silent.
‘The lady is, however, entirely right,’ Asmodeus said. ‘A false name would make your circle convulse and the space within it rupture. We’d all suffer — and I, being inside it, would suffer most of all. You’d know whatever I wrote was truth because I wouldn’t be screaming.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not into all this black-magic gubbins,’ I said, ‘and I’m not taking your word for anything. Try again.’
We locked stares for a moment longer.
‘I’ll set it to music for you,’ Asmodeus snarled.
‘Done,’ I said at once. Because that was what I’d been hoping for all along.
‘Close your eyes,’ Asmodeus instructed me. ‘And cover your ears. They may bleed slightly, but that can’t be helped.’
I put my hands to my ears but kept my eyes open: you can say what you like about my table manners and my love of my fellow man, but Mrs Castor didn’t raise any stupid children.
Asmodeus gestured, and a complicated sequence of notes came into my mind from nowhere. I knew, without needing to be told, what it was: it was a portion of his essence — the part of him that could be broken down into sound, and made accessible to my death-sense. He was giving me the wherewithal to destroy him: the magic bullet. A dizzy sense of triumph filled me, and I found it hard to keep my poker face intact. When this was over, I would have most of what I needed to set Rafi free from the burden he’d been carrying for the past three years. I could finally nail Asmodeus to the wall and let my friend walk away clean.
I lowered my hands. My ears were filled with clamour and roaring as though someone had just used my brain as the clapper of a bell. ‘Okay,’ I said, unable to hear the sound of my own voice, ‘this is how it plays. Anything inside that boy that
The demon’s lips moved — or rather the man’s lips moved and the demon spoke through them. I couldn’t hear the word, but I could read it: and a nod is a nod in any language.
Asmodeus crawled spider-like to the southern tip of the pentagram, where he stared down at Bic with feral delight. Slowly he leaned forward as far as he could, lowering his upper body on jackknifed arms and craning his neck back until the point of his jaw touched the ground a scant inch from Bic’s face. The boy seemed asleep, his eyes closed, his body absolutely still and his face perfectly inexpressive.
Asmodeus spoke another syllable — again, I could only see his lips move, not hear the sound — and something rose up from Bic’s slumped form like steam from a kettle.
You must have seen a cat with a mouse. Well, if the cat and the mouse were both nine-tenths invisible, and if they didn’t move, then that was a little like what we saw: the thing that rose from Bic met another thing that was exhaled in a malevolent hiss from between Asmodeus’s clenched teeth, and the air roiled and rocked at their inter- penetration. But it wasn’t a battle, because there was no point at which Asmodeus was moved to more than token effort. The thing that was inside Bic, which was a limb of the greater thing that hung over the Salisbury, might be fighting for its life insofar as it had one: Asmodeus was playing, and drawing out the pleasure.
Then finally, after what might have been the better part of a minute, the demon drew in a breath both long and deep, his eyes almost closing, and he tilted his head, first to the left, then to the right, his teeth still bared in a terrible rictus.
He held the pose long enough for the ringing in my ears to die down, and the air in the room, which had seemed to chill precipitately, came slowly back to normal. The goose bumps that had prickled our flesh lay down again, and the cat out in the alley — or perhaps another cat — made a miauling sound that was almost like the cry of a human baby. Bic still hadn’t moved in all this time.
‘Are you done?’ Imelda demanded of Asmodeus, her voice thick with disgust.
‘Oh lady,’ the demon murmured, ‘I am done, and I am satisfied. You cannot know how long it’s been since I enjoyed so rich a meal. Small, undeniably, but choice. Very choice.’
‘Then give me the goods, you evil bastard, and let’s get this over with,’ I said.
Asmodeus straightened as slowly as he’d bowed, and then he massaged his right shoulder as though ironing out a cramp. ‘The goods,’ he repeated softly. ‘Oh yes, Castor. I have what you need. I’ve tasted the part, and so I know the whole. I can give you a nostrum so potent that this new-dropped little runt that dares to call itself a demon will melt away under your ministrations like water drops on a hot iron skillet.’
He held my gaze.
‘But you have to say please,’ he announced, in a tone that was openly mocking.
‘Don’t piss me off,’ I warned him grimly. ‘I’ve got your number.’
‘Because I gave it to you,’ Asmodeus agreed. ‘But I still feel entitled to a touch of respect, because without me what are you? A dumbstruck cunt-whisker trapped on stage without anything to play for an encore.’
‘I can still play
‘No,’ Asmodeus said. ‘You can’t. Not yet. Because if you do that now, you won’t have what you came for. Ask me for the ammunition, Castor. You have the tune that means me: ask me for the tune that means this other one.’
‘Give me the tune,’ I asked him.
‘Please.’
‘Give it to me, please.’
‘Inscribe it in my mind,’ Asmodeus coached.
‘Inscribe it in my mind.’
‘So deeply that it may not be forgotten.’
‘What?’
‘Say it!’
I swallowed. ‘So deeply that it may not be forgotten.’
‘It’s yours,’ Asmodeus whispered, smiling a smile so wide that it almost cracked Rafi’s face in half. And just like before, the notes were driven into my brain like tent spikes into frozen ground. Harder this time, and further in, so that the pain made me gasp and stiffen.
And I saw what Asmodeus was doing just a second too late for it to make the slightest bit of difference.
‘No!’ I screamed.
‘Too late,’ the demon chided me. ‘I have to take your first answer.’
I took a step forward, my arm shooting out by some stupid, gobshite reflex. Trudie Pax tackled me hard from the side and pulled me back before I could step across the circle and into the demon’s hands.
‘No!’ I said again, shaking my head violently as I choked the word out. I was trying to remember: but Asmodeus was writing the new tune — the exorcism that would destroy the Salisbury demon — in the exact same space within my mind where he’d written the one that was his own: overwriting one sequence of notes with another. He’d given me the means to rip him out of Rafi root and branch: and then he’d taken it away again as easily as he’d given it.
‘You bastard,’ I moaned. ‘You cheating, conniving bastard!’
Asmodeus actually laughed. ‘I played by your rules, Castor,’ he said, shaking his head as he settled back on his haunches again. ‘It’s not my fault if you don’t think things through. Hey, be grateful you get out of this still sane. I could have filled your whole head with that fucking music and left you drooling.’
He licked his lips, savouring the last vestiges of his unholy meal. His gaze clouded.
‘But then you wouldn’t have got the joke,’ he said reflectively. ‘And that would have taken away a lot of the
