Ithai, whose passport proclaimed him to be Jonathan Henry Milton, a naturalised Englishman, watched the two story house from the relative comfort of the bus stop on the green. A number 12 had already stopped for him once but he had waved the driver on and received a scowl and a blast of diesel fumes for his trouble. It mattered little. It was a measure of his peace with God that he remained undisturbed by the petty spitefulness of humanity.
Why was there a demon still in the flat? He'd waited for it to arrive all night. It should have collected the soul of the woman and gone. Why was it still here? What was it doing with a corpse in an empty flat? It was probably better not to ask.
He opened his jacket and rested a hand palm-to-skin just above his hip, feeling the movement beneath the surface. "Soon," he murmured. "When the demon has gone you shall have your prize."
He stood, buttoning his jacket once more and taking a packet of cigarettes from the pocket. He lit one and moved twenty yards, still keeping an eye on the flat.
There was another bus coming.