We were greeted not by Doomlord Raxius III, or even the other two. That was stupid of me to expect him, because we hadn’t even summoned him yet.

It was an old dear, a shrivelled up little prune of a woman with glasses and slippers and curly hair and cardigan, the full adorable works, man. She came up just past my belly button. “Hello, darling!” she cried in a voice far too strong for her tiny frame. And she seemed genuinely happy to see me.

She’d make a pretty nice pet, I thought. Far less bother than that pesky cat and probably almost as well toilet trained. And I bet she’d make you a nice cuppa after work.

“We’re just in the front room,” she said. It took about thirty seconds to get out, and another minute to lead me through the spotless passage and past the grandfather clock into the parlour. I think my heart beat was going up even then.

There was not one but about twelve old dears in there. They all seemed much too thrilled at my presence. I looked round the cluttered trinkets wildly, searching for brooms and cauldrons, but I was starting to think I wasn’t some sort of sacrifice. Perhaps Mr. Johnson was a lawyer come to tell them he’d managed a protection order on the bingo hall until they’d all pegged it, if only they’d sign this sheet and pass the custard creams.

Whatever it was, I was warmly received. I was offered a comfy armchair pride of place where I could look out over the park at the naked old man catching squirrels by the fountain.

Then, another oldie came in and I was instantly forgotten.

“Eeeeee!” came the garbled cries from the table and rocking chairs. “Marge! We haven’t seen you since the bus stop out in Wattleby!”

The new lady adjusted her spectacles. “It’s Mildred.”

“Eeeeee!” said the one I’d heard was Harriet, if the others could be believed. “Sorry, I forgot my glasses. We haven’t seen you since the bus stop in Saltdale!”

Mildred bustled into the room, set her walking stick by the hearth, and tried to pour a drink.

“No, allow me!”

“No, I’ll do it, Betty, you need to watch your wrists.”

“No, I insist, Margaret, you’re a guest.”

“But you poured last Saturday in the cafe.”

“But then you paid for our sausage roll on the way out of the pictures.”

By the time they’d decided that Bertha, the independent adjudicator, should be the one to serve, it was discovered the tea had gone cold and Betty creaked out to put the kettle on.

I’d sat for as long as I thought I could bear, but when I tried to sit up I found the overstuffed backrest resisting, cushioning my efforts, caressing me into inaction. Furiously, I slurped from my cup.

“It’s no wonder you haven’t seen me on a bus since,” said Mildred indignantly. “Forty pence charge for the 95 now.”

“But don’t you have your bus pass, Mildred?”

“I lost it,” she snapped. “And I’m not paying the twenty pee to go up to town for another. The cheek of it!”

“The cheek! Shame! Dark times!” came the chorus of crones. They drank to that.

I struggled against the comfort of my prison. When I managed to turn my head, my attendant was nowhere to be seen.

“I remember when you used to get up to Malby for ten,” Harriet was recalling morosely. “It was nice out there. My Aunt Anne had chickens.”

“You don’t see chickens around the same any more,” Elizabeth intoned. “Youngsters these days would rather spend all their time having fun rather than raking through soiled bedding.”

“Shame! End times!” warbled the coven.

I craned my neck just enough to see the clock tocking away out in the passage. All of that had taken half an hour. I looked down at my cup. It was empty.

“Anyway, what did you see at the pictures?” someone wheezed.

“Do you know, I can’t quite remember,” Betty replied. “But it was an adequate way to while away the day. It had a strapping young lad in it, I know that much.”

There were a few throaty cackles but they were almost drowned out by the scoffing.

“I’m sure he wasn’t. Back in the day men were real men!”

“Real men! Aye! Happy days!”

“Marge, can you remember that time when my Bruce knocked out that young lad just because he looked my way?”

“It’s Mildred,” Mildred snapped. “And yes, I do.”

“As it turned out, he was only trying to see the soup of the day behind my head, but I practically swooned where I was when my Bruce came back for his knuckledusters.”

“But the weather really was awful last Friday, wasn’t it?”Agatha cut in.

“Absolutely, but we could play rummy next Thursday,” said Elizabeth.

“But what about Geraldine’s knitting class over at the abbey?” Dotty chimed in.

“Which abbey? And last time I saw her, she was having a bottle of red with turkey! Red, with turkey! And I said, ‘You can’t have a bottle of red with a turkey dinner’, and she said ‘But I like red with a good meal’, and I said, ‘Yes, but not with turkey!’”

There was actual applause. A vein throbbed in my head.

“Ah,” sighed Mildred. “It’s not like the good old-”

“Can anybody tell me why I’m here?” It was a deep, booming voice, a man’s bellow, and when I realised it was me, and that I was shaking with rage, I leapt from my chair in one dramatic movement. Those Russian gymnasts can just go and eat their hearts out.

Two-dozen eyes stared me up and down. “Eeee! Who are you? Who let you in?” they screeched.

“Betty,” squawked Tabitha, fumbling with her glasses. “Is it that strapping young lad from the moving picture show?”

I set down my cup with a mighty yet carefully controlled thwack then, because how dare anybody even question that I might not be a strapping young lad. And that bloody clock was showing an hour of my time was forever gone. Bollocks to the footy, but I was going to miss the Strictly special at this rate!

When I looked back to the crones, however, there was not annoyance or confusion but genuine terror in their eyes. I sat down, sudden stabbing shame at my brashness filling my head, but then I noticed that there were squiggly little lines all over the tablecloth and mantelpiece, all pulsing blue. Then the hallway door darkened, and everyone looked at the thing that was, well, darkening the door. It took about fifteen minutes for all the tapping sticks and squeaking wheels to recede into the kitchen. The echoes of those cries will ring forever in my ears.

Doomlord Raxius III had horns and smouldering nostrils and left sooty hoofprints all over the lovely polished tiles, but otherwise he seemed like a top laugh. He clapped me on the back with one branch-like claw, then he reached across and glugged noisily straight from the teapot.

“Thought they’d never shut up,” he growled, and it was only then that I noticed the polite little monocle clinging to the burning scales about his eye. “On and on and on, and nobody even had the decency to die when I showed myself.”

The mousy young man bobbed nervously in the background. “Where did you bugger off to?” I shouted.

“Only the deepest, unbridled frustration can summon the Doomlord,” he chattered, ignoring me. “And that is why Raughnen Pact Solutions Limited is the best independent summoning contractor in the business. Our combined three-pillared approach of-”

“Enough!” Raxius III roared. He reached out and left a blue, lightning-bolt scratch seared into the front of the man’s shirt. The man opened his mouth and bleated like a sheep, then stood fumbling with his clipboard, embarrassed.

The demon loomed over me. I stood my ground. “So, that’s what all this is!” he fumed, gazing at the glowing marks with new understanding. “Thought you were a good laugh, not involved in some corporate-”

I surprised him when I piped up, and I think that saved me from certain cranium-mashing. “I’m not a client! I’m just doing a favour for a mate...” And I told him all about my mission, and how the dodgy tea had brought me to this doorstep. Probably not the wisest thing to tell a creature beyond your wildest imagination (which in fairness wasn’t too wild, beyond the bedroom, ladies) your goals and dreams, but I figured someone might appreciate a bit of honesty here. Even a demon must get sick of the arse-lickers.

I was right. He pushed one claw to his iron forehead and groaned. “Right. Okay. So that little minnow wants out. Well, I’ve seen some things round here. And I’m sorry about judging you. We’ve all had a cup or two. So I’ll give you this as a peace offering. You’re looking for the Altar of Apocolys, Barlam Road, straight off the A7980. Turn left at the farmhouse with the wheelbarrow. Seal’s in the shape of a golden key. Guarded by a few hellbeasts and gallshrieks, nothing too major.” He shook his head. “Don’t mind the Dreaded Dread. It’ll be nice to have him back, if there’s a mortal around here foolish enough to enter their domain.”

And suddenly, I knew what my next step had to be. I had to find that stupid person. Because I sure as hell wasn’t going toe to toe with a gallshriek, no matter how minor the Doomlord made them out to be.

I held out my hand. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Doomlord Raxius III.”

He rubbed his temples. “No worries. And now, with my side of the bargain fulfilled, I’m back off to my slumber. Got a real sore head now.”

There was a sharp rap at the door. We all stopped to stare. A watery wail rang out from the kitchen in response.

The mousy man, Assistant Summoning Executive of Raughnen Pact Solutions Limited, opened the door. A smartly dressed gentleman looked in at us with obvious confusion. “Sorry I’m late,” he fussed. “Am I in the right place?”

“Baaaa!” said the mousy man.

“And who the hell are you?” growled Doomlord Raxius III.

The man extended a hand, smiling politely. “Paul. Paul Johnson.”

I headed for the kitchen, climbed over the cowering dears, and let myself out the back. But not before a doom-laden, volcanic rumble of a cry tore through the whole lodge and sent a tragically priceless 25th Anniversary of the Flower-Arranging Committee plate crashing to pieces in the parlour.

“Fuck off, cunt!” my mate Raxy screamed.