Something exploded in Shan’s head, and he looked around to see who had hit him and then poked him in the eyes. As his vision began to return, and he found there was nobody nearby, Shan realized that it was the stuff in the glass that had somehow managed to hit him. He was considering throwing it at the wall and laying waste to all around him when he began to feel very mellow. He took another sip, longer this time. Now Gath raised his glass and drank. He staggered a bit when the beer started knocking out brain cells, and almost fell over.

“Hurh, hurh,” said Shan. It was a sound that he had never made before, and it took him a while to recognize it as laughter.

“Hurh, hurh,” said Gath as he too began to recover.

They drank a little more. Someone began playing the piano. Meg and Billy dispensed free French fries, and Shan and Gath got their first taste of greasy, deep-fried potato. Gath put an arm round Shan. Shan was his best mate. He loved Shan. No, he really loved Shan.

They moved on to their second pints of Spigget’s Old Peculiar, and all thoughts of world domination faded away.

Meanwhile, back at Crowley Road, Mrs. Abernathy was unhappy. The destruction of the flying skulls she had sent after Samuel Johnson and his friends had not gone unnoticed, for each demon that passed through the portal was linked to Mrs. Abernathy’s consciousness, so she could see through their eyes and assess the progress of the invasion. She was also aware that two hellbulls had been beaten into nonexistence with household implements over what appeared to be some trampled rosebushes, but that was not a primary concern. Increasingly, she found herself infuriated by the Johnson boy. Why couldn’t he simply die? After all, he was just a child. His continued refusal to accept his fate was like a splinter under one of her fingernails.

She recalled something she had learned from her interrogation, and subsequent torture, of the demon that had so unsuccessfully occupied the space under Samuel Johnson’s bed, and her unhappiness began to ease.

Oh yes, she thought, I know what frightens you, little boy.

She closed her eyes, and her lips moved as she issued her summons.

THE CALL CAME THROUGH on the police car’s radio while Nurd, Constable Peel, and the Sarge, whose real name Nurd had now learned was Rowan, were still some way from the station.

“Base to Tango One, Base to Tango One. Over,” said a male voice. It sounded somewhat panicked.

“This is Tango One,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Everything all right back there, Constable Wayne? Over.”

“Er, not exactly, Sarge,” said Constable Wayne. “Over,” he added, with a tremor in his voice.

“Clarify the situation, Constable, there’s a good lad,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Over.”

“Well, Sarge, we’re under attack. Over.”

Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel exchanged a look. “What do you mean, attack? Over.”

“We’re being attacked by flying women, Sarge. With the bodies of lizards…”

Biddlecombe’s police station was a small building set in a field on the outskirts of the town. It had replaced an older building on the main street that had become infested with rats, and which was now a chip shop that nobody frequented unless they were very drunk, or very hungry, or rats visiting their relatives. The station consisted of a small waiting area and a large desk, behind which was an open-plan office and a single cell that was rarely used for prisoners; currently it was filled with Christmas decorations and an artificial tree.

The village had only six policemen, two of whom would generally be on duty at any one time. On this particular night four were on duty, as it was Halloween and people tended to get up to all sorts of mischief involving fireworks and, occasionally, fires.

PC Wayne and WPC Hay were currently holding the fort at the station. “Holding the fort” is usually a turn of phrase, a bit like “manning the barricades” or “fighting a losing battle.” In other words, people use it to describe perfectly mundane situations, like staying at home on a cold night, or keeping an eye on the local shop while the shopkeeper goes for a wee.

Unfortunately, PCs Wayne and Hay were now literally holding the fort, literally manning the barricades, and also literally fighting a losing battle. The first of the flying lizard women had appeared in the station car park while PC Wayne was having a crafty smoke outside, almost causing him to swallow his cigarette and choke. The woman had a green, saurian body, and long sharp nails. Her wings were like those of a bat, with curved talons in the middle and at the ends, and she had a long tail that terminated in a vicious-looking spike. Her hair was dark and flowing, and for a moment Constable Wayne thought that she wasn’t bad looking, the whole lizard body and wings thing excepted. Then she opened her mouth and a forked black tongue flicked at the air between the kind of jagged yellow teeth that crop up in dentists’ nightmares, and any thoughts of dating her vanished from Constable Wayne’s mind.

At that point Constable Wayne decided that the best course of action would be to head back inside and lock the door, which is precisely what he did. There was a large bolt, and he pulled that across as well, just to be sure.

“What are you doing that for?” asked Constable Hay. “The sarge will spit nails if he comes back and finds that you’ve locked the front door.”

Constable Hay was small and blond, and Constable Wayne was a little in love with her. He had always thought she was very pretty, but now, after being confronted with a woman who appeared to be made up of bits of other creatures that really didn’t belong together, he decided that Constable Hay was quite possibly the loveliest girl in the world.

“There’s a woman outside,” said Constable Wayne. “With wings. And a tail.”

“It’s Halloween,” said Constable Hay slowly, as though she were talking to an idiot. She liked Constable Wayne, but he really could be very thick sometimes. “On my way here, I saw a man dressed as a toadstool.”

“No, this isn’t a woman dressed up to look like she has wings and a tail. She does have wings and a tail.”

There was a massive thud on the door. Constable Wayne backed away from it.

“That’s her,” he said. “The lizard lady.”

“Lizard lady,” said Constable Hay dismissively. “You’ll be telling me she can fly next.”

A woman’s face appeared at the barred window to the right of the door. Constable Hay walked determinedly toward it, her finger wagging.

“Now listen here, miss, it may be Halloween but we’ll have no more nonsense or-”

She stopped talking when she noticed that the woman was hovering two feet from the ground, her huge wings flapping hard to keep her in place. Then, bracing her feet against the outside wall, the flying woman gripped two of the bars with her claws and tried to pull them from the wall.

“See?” said Constable Wayne. “I told you so.”

From above their heads came the sound of something landing on the roof. Seconds later, the first of the slates began to fall into the car park as whatever it was tried to force its way into the station.

“Call the sarge,” said Constable Hay.

Constable Wayne ran to the radio. “Where are you going?” he asked as Constable Hay ran past him.

“To lock the back door!”

Inside the police car there was a long pause following Constable Wayne’s description of the attackers. Constable Peel made a gesture of someone drinking from a bottle, followed by an imitation of that same someone being very drunk. Then over the radio they heard the sound of glass breaking.

“Constable, what’s that noise? Have you been drinking?” said Sergeant Rowan. “Over.”