Thicker Than Water

’

Did you ever play cards for money? And if you did, can you remember a time at the end of a desperate night when you bet everything you had on a lousy hand, knowing the only way you could win was if everyone else bought the bluff?

That was me right then. Except that I knew Juliet wouldn’t buy it for a moment, because she could smell my fear the way dogs are supposed to be able to. So actually I was betting on something else, and the odds were pretty easy to calculate: two years on Earth, against fifteen millennia in Hell.

My number came up.

After maybe five or six seconds - long enough for most of the late 1980s to flash before my eyes - Juliet relaxed and shrugged. She shot Gwillam one last glance, where he lay at the foot of the stairs, and he gave a ragged moan as her gaze swept over him, as though he’d just been lashed raw and her stare was a splash of vinegar on his open wounds. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ she said, and walked away, stepping over Baldy’s sprawled unconscious body.

I got Gwillam into a sitting position.

His breathing was still uneven and his eyes wouldn’t focus at first. I half-led and half-carried him through into the study, dumped him into a chair that looked like an eighteenth-century antique, and while I was doing that I noticed a decanter of brandy standing on a dresser. I poured a shot, which I managed to get down Gwillam’s throat after three tries: I took one myself, too, purely for medicinal purposes.

Slowly the good father came back to himself, anger and hatred filling the void left by his recently discovered passion.

‘You consort with demons, Castor,’ he sobbed, his voice breaking. ‘This one, this succubus, and even worse. You think we don’t know that you took Asmodeus from his cell? You profane this place and imperil your“nd ce soul.’

‘My soul?’ I touched the dressing on my cheek, made a half-shrug with just the one hand. ‘Well, I’m gambling on a deathbed conversion, so I’m hoping I’ve got a bit of leeway yet.’

Gwillam had been staring at the empty brandy glass.

Now he looked up at me, his pale face streaked with sweat. ‘Without sincere repentance,’ he said, ‘I can promise you, God won’t listen to your apologies. Some sins are mortal.’

I leaned down to bring my face in close to his.

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘They are. And being as stupid as a hatful of arseholes is one of them. You screwed up, you sanctimonious fuckwit. I thought I’d stop by and tell you that before things at the Salisbury get even worse than they are.