I’d negotiated with demons. Braved gatherings of old people. Battled / ran away from goblins. But this was too much. Too much. “No!” I groaned again. Looking into those beautiful, loving, cold, murderous eyes was fucking awful. I was too done in for something so doing-in.

“Sorry,” said Tim, sitting down. I blinked. He wasn’t even in a dress.

“What a twat,” I spat.

“Yes,” he agreed. “What a twat. Here’s your pint.” He slammed two glasses down on the sticky wood of the table and shoved one across to my side. Foam slopped and crackled over the rim.

I looked down into the dreamy, golden elixir. I’d have slavered if I had a drop of water left in my body. The head was mesmerising, the foam creamy and soft. It was mine, all mine, a cold, delicious reward for the toughest day’s work in my life, other than that time Mum made me do the dishes after the Sunday roast. I couldn’t wait to dive in, so I didn’t.

“Cheers,” I said, and I raised my glass. Tim, ever the dear in his woolly cardigan, did the same. It was perhaps time to say something profound, but I wasn’t the type. I took a good long glug. And frowned.

The beer was warm, watery and, overall, a bit shit.

“Pah! What is that?” I gasped.

Tim smiled. He hadn’t even took a sip. “Bitchwood Brewhouse Special. Over by the paint plant on the industrial estate.” He set down his glass and leaned forward. “They share a delivery gate. It’s rumoured that sometimes... the ingredients get mixed up.”

I said nothing, just sat there sulking like a little kid. Tim threw his arms wide, a hint of amusement playing on his sweet old mug. “What?! This is Raughnen we’re talking about here. What were you expecting, some award-winning real ale micro-brew made from double-filtered spring water in the heart of the Dales?” He laughed again at my expression. “My my, you’re even more stupid than I thought.”

I’d been studying the little black specks in my drink, trying to work out if they were just swilling or swimming, but I looked up sharply at that. “You what, bud?”

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Tears were actually running down his cheeks in mirth. I looked around nervously. Sit with a crying man somewhere like this and you’d end the night crying yourself. “Oh, you’re a good one... Reginald.”

“How could you?” I hissed. No-one but Mum and Auntie Sharon got away with that without a slap. Even Dad had settled on Fatty and that was much better. If I ever found out who’d chosen that monstrosity of a name I’d kill them. “I mean, you must’ve got me mixed up with someone else. Is that why you had me muscled into that jail?”

“Oh, I didn’t need you necessarily,” Tim replied. He was clearly enjoying himself more than the lad behind him was enjoying the special burger sauce.”I just summoned someone from that rear end of humanity up the road. Because I needed a type, you see. Someone who wouldn’t ask blatantly obvious questions like ‘Why am I here?’ or ‘What happens when the demon who’s been nursing unimaginable fury for so many years gets out?’. And, most important at all, you see, absolutely no-one with a modicum of common sense would ever go within a hundred yards of that altar, let alone burst in and start bashing. I mean, you didn’t even seek guidance from the Oracle of Annihilation first! A local would have overcomplicated, pored through prophecies, cooked up counter-curses, fed the hellbeasts. And do you know what?” Saliva was dribbling down his chin now. “They’d have all failed.”

He reached out with one claw-like hand, settled it gently upon mine. “You’re a very special idiot.”

I blinked. There was something in my eye. No, really.

It felt like the whole room was closing in on me. I felt weird, like I was angry but only more gentle. I’d have said I was sad if I was a girl. I looked down and realised that a crying Reginald holding hands with another man might not be the best person to be around here. As I slowly withdrew, I heard he was still going on under the noise of the jukebox.

“You’ve haven’t had the best of visits to our charming town, I must say. The most important day in your insignificant little life, and you’ve made it boring. As. Heaven. If this was a story I’d have stopped by chapter two.” His eyes were gleaming gold, but whether that was magic or a trace dose of titanium oxide I couldn’t be sure. “Why not stay a little longer? You’ve got my mark now. I could find a few odd jobs for a handyman or axe-murderer in training right now. And it wouldn’t all be work. We could hang out with our legend Raxius in the Gardens of Sorrow! Go for tea in the Real Last Goblin Hunting Station in Yorkshire! And there’s stuff for idiots too. Have you heard about the giant wheel of-”

“Wensleydale, yeah.” I shuffled back.

“I could even tell you who made the ruins on the green,” he said.

That stopped me. I needed to know. But not as much as I needed a boxset in bed.

“I’m gonna have to pass. It’s not you. It’s just...” I waved a trembling hand. “Just the place. Doesn’t sit right with me, you know? I’ll be seeing you.” I stood.

“Never mind. They only have Lesser Howlghouls anyway,” Tim muttered, as if he’d been expecting my answer. I had a curious, spine-tingling sense that he knew absolutely everything about me full stop.

“See you, Tim.”

His eyes flashed red. The lights flickered even more than damp Victorian circuits should allow. “What did you call me?” He stood too. “I am the Dreaded Dread!”

There was a lull in the chatter about us but no-one looked round. They made sure of it. I looked the demon up and down. Then looked at my glass. One last foe to defeat. Lad’s code. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said the Dreaded Dread. He didn’t touch his. I downed mine in one.

Then, because being a crying hand-holding Reginald was already enough, I hurried outside to do the throwing up.