Free Only Human by Tom Holt Page A

length of time. He’d often wondered how mortals managed without them; particularly office workers. How else did they pierce paper for filing in box files, or remove staples, or open Cellophane-wrapped packets of biscuits?
    Above all; how had he got here, and how the Flipside was he going to get back?
    He was just about to try another glug to see if that would produce any answers, when he heard a frantic banging at the door. Quickly slipping the bottle into his pocket (just the right size for a half-bottle of Scotch, the pockets in these dressing-gowns; wonder why?), he slipped out of the vestry and drew back the bolts.
    There were two middle-aged women on the doorstep, both breathing heavily as if they’d been running. He recognised them; they’d been sitting in the front row of the congregation. He gave them a big smile and asked them how he could help.
    â€˜It’s old Mr Higgins,’ panted the shorter of the two. ‘Vicar, you’ve got to come now. He’s frothing at the mouth and throwing things.’
    Artofel frowned. ‘But what can I do?’ he asked. ‘Surely you need a doctor, not a . . .’
    â€˜He’s possessed!’ interrupted the other woman shrilly. ‘Just like the last time, and the time before that. You remember, Vicar. He’s doing that demonic laughing again, too. He only does that when he’s possessed or when he’s been watching the Cosby show, and it’s not a Wednesday, so it must be the devils.’
    â€˜I see.’ Topside, muttered Artofel under his breath, are they really serious? In this day and age? Do they really think we’ve got nothing better to do than take over human beings’ bodies and . . .
    Eeek!
    Demonic possession! It’d explain a lot, certainly. He’d heard of it, of course, in the same way that a computer programmer in the Navy’s heard of yard-arms and marlinspikes. He hadn’t the faintest notion how it worked, but he’d always been under the impression that it was the demonic spirit that usurped the human body, not the other way round.
    Maybe he was wrong; in which case, what his notional colleague inside this Mr Higgins probably meant to convey by the demonic laughter was Let me out! Let me out!
    He has my sympathy.
    â€˜I’ll be right with you,’ he said to the two women. ‘Now, let me see. What did I use the last time?’
    â€˜The bell,’ said the shorter woman, ‘and the book and the candle. Worked a treat, if you remember. He was back at work down the slaughterhouse first thing Wednesday.’
    Bell. Book. Candle. Feeling incredibly foolish, as a veteran astronaut might feel while sticking feathers to his arms with beeswax he trotted back into the vestry and poked about until he found a candle, a copy of the 1972 edition of Wisden and—
    Bell. No bell. Curses. Where did this bothersome priest keep his bell? He was just about to give up when his eye fell on an ancient bicycle propped up against the wall. Fortunately there was a toolkit with the right size of spanner in it; a few turns with that and it came away as easy as anything. Right. Bell. Here we go.
    On his way to Mr Higgins’ house he discovered that he was the vicar of St Anthony’s, a rural parish made up mostly of retired city-folk who lived in converted barns. Mr Higgins wasn’t one of these. He was the local slaughterman; seventy-seven if he was a day and U-shaped with rheumatism but still gamely plugging away at the job he loved, scragging livestock from dawn to dusk seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, with only the very occasional break for a spot of demonic possession and speaking in tongues. That made the whole possession business seem even more unlikely. Devils aren’t snobs, as a rule, but neither do they go in for slumming. Besides, the whole point about recruiting for Flipside is that once you’ve got a recruit, you’re stuck with him. Old Mr Higgins