1 Audit I

The trembling crucifix dug into Patrick's hand as he squeezed it tight, a bulwark against the insanity raging on the bed.

Mrs Jones -- the current possessed -- baked the best pasties in all of Saint Ives. At least, she'd used to before the demon had come upon her. The air of her house still echoed with sweetness of dough, but it was almost perverse under the prevailing stench of urine and vomit. Of despair.

Now she writhed on the double bed, thick rope knots binding her to each corner-post. They strained and bulged like the veins on her purlpleing face.

Patrick chanted in Latin. Mrs Jones whipped her own curses back at him in Aramaic, Phoenician, Hebrew. Her voice was deep, dark as December rain clouds, as hard as a Medusa's eyes.

Mister Jones sat against the door, sobbing, head in his hands. Claw marks guttered his face and his muscles ached from helping the priest restrain his wife. If... if the priest could help at all, could bring his wife back -- Jesus, if he could just end her suffering -- he'd give him what little he'd tucked away over the years.

The metal bedposts screeched, curved inwards, as the possessed baker struggled with inhuman strength.

Even Patrick, who had performed this ritual a hundred times before, had a heart full of fear. When his daughter -- the demon inside Mrs Jones -- became as agitated as this, there was no telling how far she might go were she to break free.

He switched to English. Thrust the little crucifix at her head. She screamed; her skin singed red, flaked, as if she were roasting in an oven. "The power of Christ compels you!"

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When all was done Mrs Jones was returned to her body, her body to the hospital, and Patrick to his own home.

His hand still shook as he tried to place the key into the lock. Maybe tense still from holding the crucifix so long and so desperately tight. Or maybe from nerves that would last until tomorrow.

But he didn't need to unlock the door; it swung back in on itself.

A girl, no more than fourteen, but with black eyes as ancient as any mountain, stood before him.

"Hello Father," she said. Lips curled. "Wasn't that fun."

"I don't know if I'd call it fun, exactly," he replied, walking past her and into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and fished out a beer. "Want one?"

"You know I don't drink."

He smirked as he opened it; a burst of fizz clouded the rim. "Suit yourself."

"Well?" she said, impatiently. "How'd we do?"

"Decent enough," he said. "But we really should choose better marks."

He took out his wallet and laid out a handful of notes on the kitchen table. "Plus free Cornish pasties for life. As long as his wife can still make them, that is. You didn't exactly go easy."

She titled her head as she stared at the money. "I'm a method actor."

"Either way, we need to pick people with more money."

"People with more money don't call people like you," she said.

And that was the truth of it, Patrick thought, as he took a long swig of beer. Superstitious folk tend to call him; other folk tended to call a psychiatrist.

"Whatever," he said. "We've got enough money for a break. And God knows I need it."