My bed in the apartment had been so exciting a few weeks ago. Now it was a rock that I was chained to, the crumpled sheets littered with tim-tam crumbs.

I’d been ill on the chopper ride back. Weirdly, it had made things better. None of the demons had tried to talk to me with my face buried in the spew-bag. I felt their eyes on me, but I curled up like a bug in my shuddering seat and tried to pretend I wasn’t there.

As soon as the chopper landed, I’d focussed on the yellow painted line that led to the stairwell. I didn’t have a glance to spare for the view from the rooftop of 1 Castle Place. I needed to get off. This. Building.

I could go to my sister’s flat. She’d be at work, but I knew where the spare key was. I could crawl onto the couch and wait for her to come home.

But she’d have questions. Ones I couldn't answer. Last month I would have simply told her I’d been fired, but now it felt wrong. I’d been wronged. Fooled.

It turns out my boss is a demon.

That sounded worse than ‘I’ve been fired’. Whenever I closed my eyes, the sight of Owen in that bathroom, holding Christian up by the throat – with one hand! – flashed across my eyelids. It was like a bad stop motion video, all weird black flashes and stark vignettes.

And there was something else. At first, it was a whisper in my mind, but it stuck around as I wallowed under the duvet. It went beyond the bowel shaking terror of watching Owen transform into a supernatural ball of rage. Beyond my fury at being deceived, frightened, made to look stupid.

It was Christian. He’d been fucking terrified. And it felt… good.

I hated him. Hated, hated, hated him like he’d burned down my house and killed my dog. When had I started to feel this way? Whatever the hell we’d shared when nobody was watching, my memories of it had soured from embarrassing to toxic.

Back in school I’d given him a precious thing – the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was gay, maybe not. He just hadn’t worked it out. It was okay. 

And teenagers had been making crap decisions since Mary got preggers out of wedlock. 

But we were adults now. He knew he was fucking around, and hoo-boy, did he find out. The prickle of delight I felt at the thought of him nearly dying made me a bad, bad person. Right?

I rolled over in bed and pressed my face into the pillow. My phone was full of notifications. Pippa, Beryllia, Colin. Gregory had called a couple of times. From Owen? Nothing.

I messaged the team with sick emojis and sad faces. Gregory, I ignored. Then I tapped on my socials and froze.

My dad had an online profile for a few years. I’d set it up myself. After my sister left for Sydney, he nagged me incessantly. It wasn’t my fault she never called home, but this way he could at least see what she was up to. His only other follower was me, and the one thing he’d ever posted was a fuzzy picture of a sauce bottle.

Until now. I clicked through the new album with my mouth hanging open. A dozen pictures of Dad. Here lounging in a deck chair, there kissing a turtle in some beachside sanctuary. He had a tan! It looked freaking fantastic.

I clicked back through our messages until I found the travel documents he’d sent me. I’d checked out the cruise company, but what about the competition he’s supposedly won? Buried in the ‘terms and conditions’ I found what I was looking for. Otherworld Adventures, LLC, with a phone number. I bit my lip and dialled.