THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Well, boyo, this is a turn up for the book,’ observed my friend David Llewellyn without a trace of irony. ‘I never expected to wind up in a hospital bed next to you. And we’re both suffering from the same complaint: a wound to the shoulder.’
‘Life is funny that way,’ I mused.
It was the morning following the night before. The horrendous night before when I had tackled Ralph Northcote and Sheila Llewellyn had shot the demon in the back of the neck, killing him. In the end, apart from being terribly shaken and no doubt the inheritor of ghastly nightmares for some months to come, Sheila was the least physically damaged of the three of us. Luckily, Northcote had only just begun his butchering work and the scalpel had only broken the skin. She had just a nasty little cut on her
