‘You bastard,’ it said. Its accent had an Australian lilt.
‘You will not speak unless spoken to,’ said Polo, with quiet, but absolute, authority. ‘Understood?’
The lidless eye clouded with humility.
‘Yes,’ the Yattering said.
‘Yes, Mister Polo.’
‘Yes, Mister Polo.’
Its tail slipped between its legs like that of a whipped dog.
‘You may stand.’
‘Thank you, Mr Polo.’
It stood. Not a pleasant sight, but one Jack rejoiced in nevertheless.
‘They’ll have you yet,’ said the Yattering.
‘Who will?’
‘You know,’ it said, hesitantly.
‘Name them.’
‘Beelzebub,’ it answered, proud to name its old master. ‘The powers. Hell itself.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Polo mused. ‘Not with you bound to me as proof of my skills. Aren’t I the better of them?’
The eye looked sullen.
‘Aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ it conceded bitterly. ‘Yes. You are the better of them.’
It had begun to shiver.
‘Are you cold?’ asked Polo.
It nodded, affecting the look of a lost child.
‘Then you need some exercise,’ he said. ‘You’d better go back into the house and start tidying up.’
The fury looked bewildered, even disappointed, by this instruction.
‘Nothing more?’ it asked incredulously. ‘No miracles? No Helen of Troy? No flying?’
The thought of flying on a snow-spattered afternoon like this left Polo cold. He was essentially a man of simple tastes: all he asked for in life was the love of his children, a pleasant home, and a good trading price for gherkins.
‘No flying,’ he said.
As the Yattering slouched down the path towards the door it seemed to alight upon a new piece of mischief. It turned back to Polo, obsequious, but unmistakably smug.
‘Could I just say something?’ it said.
‘Speak.’
‘It’s only fair that I inform you that it’s considered ungodly to have any contact with the likes of me. Heretical even.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the Yattering, warming to its prophecy. ‘People have been burned for less.’
‘Not in this day and age,’ Polo replied.
‘But the Seraphim will see,’ it said. ‘And that means you’ll never go to that place.’
‘What place?’
The Yattering fumbled for the special word it had heard Beelzebub use.
‘Heaven,’ it said, triumphant. An ugly grin had come on to its face; this was the cleverest manoeuvre it had ever attempted; it was juggling theology here.
Jack nodded slowly, nibbling at his bottom lip.
The creature was probably telling the truth: association with it or its like would not be looked upon benignly by the Host of Saints and Angels. He probably was forbidden access to the plains of paradise.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know what I have to say about that, don’t you?’
The Yattering stared at him, frowning. No, it didn’t know. Then the grin of satisfaction it had been wearing died, as it saw just what Polo was driving at.
‘What do I say?’ Polo asked it.
Defeated, the Yattering murmured the phrase.
‘Che sera, sera.’
Polo smiled. ‘There’s a chance for you yet,’ he said, and led the way over the threshold, closing the door with something very like serenity on his face.