“Does that mean I can come in?”

Jane sighed. “I suppose so. It’d make shouting at you easier.”

Weak-kneed, Vince crept into the living-room.

AAAAGH!

There, sitting on the sofa, apparently putting a plug on an electric hair-dryer, was the Monster. For a fraction of a second it raised its eyes and looked straight at him; during which time he did his level best to swallow his own Adam’s apple.

“Vince,” Jane said in a bored voice, “this is Kiss. Kiss, this is Vince. I didn’t ask him to come here,” she added.

The Monster was on his feet. “That’s all right,” he said, “I was just going. I expect,” he added, “you two have a lot to talk about.”

“No, we don’t,” Jane said. “It doesn’t take long to call somebody a bastard.”

“See you later,” said Kiss, and walked out through the wall.

Vince sat down heavily in an armchair. “Your friend—” he said.

“Fiancé,” Jane interrupted.

“Ah.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, yes?”

Vince tried to think what he did mean, but his brain wasn’t working too well. “Urn,” he said.

What you mean is, yes, I admit I behaved like a bastard, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. Got that?

It isn’t actually possible to jump out of one’s skin, but Vince did his best. The voice seemed to be coming from two inches inside his left ear.

“Do you mind not squirming about?” Jane asked wearily. “You’ll damage the furniture.”

“Sorry.”

I’ll say it one more time. I admit I behaved like a bastard. Go on, say it.

“I admit,” Vince said, staring straight ahead, “I behaved like a bastard…”

“Good.”

But I promise that I’ll make it up to you. Come on, say it. And try and put some feeling into it, for God’s sake.

“But I promise,” Vince gasped, “that I’ll make it up to you. Somehow,” he added.

Don’t ad lib.

“Sorry.”

“What?”

Sorry for all the pain my heartless and misguided behaviour must have caused you. Now, however…

“Hang on,” Vince said. “Sorry for all the pain my heartless and misguided behaviour…”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Jane exploded. “Look, buster, whoever writes your scripts for you, tell him not to pack in the day job.”

The part of Vince’s subconscious currently under enemy occupation smirked.

Stupid cow. No! Don’t say that. Listen, Jane, I can explain everything. Go on, you fool, cat got your tongue?

“Listen, Jane, I can explain everything.”

“So can I. You’re a bastard. Explanation complete.”

Any suggestions?

Shut up. Jane, when two people feel the way about each other that we do, it’s never too late to start again.

“Jane,” Vince enunciated, “when two people feel the way about each other that we do, it’s never too late to start again.”

“Would you like,” Jane asked, “a cup of tea?”

A whoop of triumph rocked Vince’s inner brain, playing havoc with his centre of balance. Yo, buddy, we’re in! Go for it!

“Yes, please,” Vince said.

“Won’t be a tick.”

Jane retreated into the kitchen. As soon as the door had closed, Vince felt a tremendous rushing in his ears, and-

WHOOSH!

“Hi,” he mumbled. “How’m I doing?”

The genie gave him a cold, hard look. “If I couldn’t read your mind,” he growled, “I’d swear you were deliberately trying to bugger this up. Fortunately for you, I can see you’re shit-scared and you wouldn’t dare. So just do exactly what I say and everything’ll be just fine.”

“Sure,” Vince muttered. “Er, excuse me saying this, but what exactly do you want me to do to her?”

The genie raised an eyebrow. “Marry her, of course. What do you think?”

“Ah.” Vince cowered slightly. “In that case,” he said, “I’d rather have the violent and painful death, if it’s all the same to you.”

For a moment, there was sympathy in the genie’s eyes. “Look, chum,” he said, “it’s you or me, right? And I’m bigger than you, which means it’s you. Sorry, but that’s the way it goes. At the moment,” he went on, deleting the sympathy and replacing it with a glare of heart-stopping ferocity, “we’re doing this the easy way.”

“But she’s so damn sloppy.”

Kiss winced. “Do you mean sloppy as in over-sentimental, or sloppy as in extremely untidy?”

“Both.”

“Agreed. Believe me,” he added, “I’m really grateful to you for doing this. It’s not just the fact that I can’t stand the woman, I assure you. It’s just that unless I can get her to let me off the hook, I’m going to have to become a mortal in fourteen days’ time. Hence,” he added meaningfully, “the sense of urgency. I’ll make it up to you one day, genie’s honour. Unlimited wealth, all that sort of thing. In the meantime, however…”

The door started to open. With a stifled Oh shit! the genie vanished, and Vince once again became aware of a dull presence against his inner ear, as if he’d just been under water.

“Tea,” said Jane.

“Thanks.”

“Drink it while it’s hot.”

You heard the lady.

Vince smiled broadly and drank. A fraction of a second later most of the tea had turned into a fine mist, sprayed all over the room.

“Oh dear,” said Jane. “Something go down the wrong way?”

By way of response Vince choked, gasped and made a peculiar gurgling noise in the back of his throat. He was still smiling, but only because some paranormal force had grabbed control of his jaw muscles and frozen them.

“Perhaps,” Jane continued sweetly, “it’s because I put five teaspoonfuls of salt in it instead of sugar. When you’ve finished retching, you can leave.”

Strewth, whispered the voice in the back of Vince’s brain with horrified admiration, she really is a tough cookie, your girlfriend.

Vince stood up slowly, wiped tea off his face, closed his mouth tightly and pinched his nose hard between thumb and forefinger. Then he blew.

PLOP!

Kiss hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, rolled and came to rest against the opposite wall. He was dripping wet and shaking.

“Well,” Vince said, scrambling for the door, “been nice seeing you again, Jane. All the best to you and your… All the best. Bye.”

The door closed behind him.

Philly Nine sighed. He was having a hard time.

The brimstone had been a complete washout. Literally — it had started raining just as he was lugging the crates of the stuff off the lorry, and industrial spec brimstone is water-soluble.

The frogs had been an absolute nightmare. They’d just sat there. No sooner had he shooed one consignment of, say, five thousand out of the delivery pond than the previous batch had hopped back in and sat down, resolutely croaking and wobbling their chins at him. Magically generated flash floods dispersed them for a while, but their homing instinct was such that at least ninety-five per cent of them were back home within the hour. They way they got through pondweed was nobody’s business.

“Sign here,” the Frenchman said. “And here. And here. Thanks, monsieur. It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Philly nodded sombrely, and waved as the convoy of trucks raffled away into the distance. If you stretched the definition to breaking point, a worldwide chain of Provençal Fried Frogs’ Legs bars might be taken to constitute a plague, but it probably wasn’t going to bring the world to its knees; not, at least, in the short term.

What, he asked himself wretchedly, next? His own fault, he reflected, for letting himself be carried away by the gothic splendour of the language. If he’d been content to settle for a nice straightforward plague of, say, plague, the entire human race would by now be coming out in suppurating boils, and he’d be home and dry. As it was… He took out the crumpled envelope on which he’d jotted down his notes.