Time to make the brews. The meeting started in a couple of minutes, another strategy meeting. Tom Finch hurried into the office kitchen at the Bright Star Marketing agency. He set out the six mugs and got the two kettles boiling. 

He rubbed his brow. Bloody headache starting, wasn’t it? 

He recalled the team’s brew preferences. Prided himself on his ability to do it. Miriam, standard tea, two sugars. Luke, Espresso. Karla, coffee, black as night. Ian, a cappuccino, and Edward, the boss, builders’ tea. Tom put his mug next to Karla’s. He liked his coffee the same as she did. 

—Oi! Tom? Where’s the brews mate? I’m gagging. 

Luke, stuck his head around the door. 

—Yeah, coming mate. 

The bugger didn’t stay to see if he needed help carrying them through to the meeting room. He sighed. Found a tray and put the mugs on it. Then, he carried it through. The team sat waiting. He walked around the room handing the brews out. 

Fucking waiter am I?

The thought rattled through his mind. It made him twitch, or the headache did. He came close to spilling his own coffee. He took his seat at the end of the table. 

—We need to discuss the exhibition at the weekend, team, said Edward. 

Ah yeah, the New Beginnings exhibition. One where local businesses attend to network and sell their services. They were all looking at each other. Then, they all looked at him. 

—I can’t, I promised my new boyfriend we could go away, said Miriam. 

—Me neither, there’s footie then a king-sized hangover on Sunday. Luke grinned. 

—I’m taking the kids out, Ian said. 

—I will not do it. Working in the week is enough. Karla frowned. 

Edward looked at Tom. Here it comes. It made his head throb harder. 

—Tom? 

—I did it last time. And the time before. 

—True, but one more won’t hurt, will it? 

_Yes, it fucking will. I’m not a lackey for this bunch of lazy arseholes. _

The thought stormed from nowhere. He twitched. His head throbbed. Edward read it as surprise. 

—I promise, Tom. One more. 

—Yeah, take one for the team, Tom, Miriam smiled. 

_She’s first. That bitch is going to be first. _

Another thought. He pushed it away. Although he felt himself agreeing. That scared him. A little, not as much as he thought it might. 

—S’pose I’ll have to. 

—Ah, good man, Tom! That lad Chris? He’ll bring the van with the display stand. Help you up the stand.

—Right. I’m going home, then. Since I’ve got to work all weekend. 

—Sure, enjoy your evening, Edward nodded and smiled. 

Tom stood up and left the meeting room. He thought he heard snickering behind him as he left. 

Fuck them, get home.

Another thought. He let that one settle. Didn’t seem too bad. He walked. His little house was only a couple of streets away. A weak sunshine penetrated the mist over Wycham. A London borough Where gentrification projects were a thing. Not where his house was on Marsh Road. 

He rubbed his brow again. Bloody headache. The fresh air eased it.

He got home and let himself in. Then he headed for the kitchen. There were Paracetamols in the drawer. He’d have a couple of those and get an early night. 

—Good evening. 

Tom froze. Loads of things crowded into his mind. His headache started to bang louder.

—Who the fuck? How did—

The man sitting at his kitchen table waved a dismissive hand. 

—All in good time, Tom. Have a seat. We need to talk. 

—What are you doing in my house? How did you get in? 

—First, I’m here because you asked me here. And I got in because you let me in. 

Tom tried to compute that. His brain wasn’t having it. 

—What
 What do you want? 

—My name, since it would not be rude for me not to state it, is Silas Drake. I can help you resolve the issues you are facing. 

—Well, this bloody headache would be a good start.

—It is good you have maintained your sense of humour. The headache? It will subside. 

Tom slid a chair out opposite the man who had black hair slicked back. He wore an immaculate suit. Complete with white handkerchief in the breast pocket. And a pocket watch in his waistcoat. 

—I summoned you did I? 

—Yes. 

—How? 

—Do you know what I am?

—Not a single fucking clue, mate. 

—Okay good. No need to worry about such matters. Suffice it to say, I can only visit when you summon me. 

—So, I can make you go by telling you to do one?

Silas smiled. it didn’t reach his dark black eyes. 

—No. 

Tom sighed. There seemed to be something off about this stranger sitting in his kitchen. Aside from the obvious. it struck him he did need to know who, or what this Silas bloke was. 

—Right, What are you? 

—Well, they’d call me a demon. Such a tiresome description. 

—Oh, I’d better call a priest then. 

—Are you a religious man, Tom? 

—Er, no. Not at all. 

—Good. Since no priest or any other bible-thumper will banish me.

—So, what—

—To business. Who would you like to start with? Miriam? Luke? 

—Eh?

—They need to pay, Tom. Treating you like a skivvy. 

—What do you have in mind? 

He watched as Silas unbuttoned his jacket. He wore a chest harness with a scabbard. he drew a blade from the scabbard. It gleamed. 

—This is a Baselard, forged in iron from the London Docks.  I will teach you how to plunge it into them both. 

—Right, rock up and murder them? That’s your plan? 

—Yes. What else would you suggest aside from the ultimate revenge? 

—I don’t want to murder—

—Are you sure, Tom? You did summon me after all. 

Tom looked at Silas. Then at the sword. And nodded.