“Oh, Harold.” Gillian held his face between her hands and lowered her forehead to his. “These dreams of yours are just a fantasy. There's no such thing as demons. You've been fighting these delusions for years, ever since you got that disease when you travelled to Basra. The drugs keep it under control but sometimes you have these wild flights of fancy about demons and robots and mechanical men.”
“Flights of fancy?” Harold shook his head. “You know what I'm talking about, Gillian. We wouldn't have met you if I hadn't had Jasfoup to help me smear blood on the television aerial.”
“Oh, God.” Gillian let go of him and sank back into the hard, plastic chair. “We're back to that one are we?”
“Back to what?” Harold frowned, trying to discern from her expression what she was referring to. What was she on about?
“Your idea that I'm a blood sucking vampire out to kill people and drink their blood.”
“But you are.” Harold swallowed. “Not that you go around killing people, mind. You have a herd of people who trade their blood for sexual favours.”
“Right, yes. The vampire prostitute theory. Dr Dee has explained all this to you a dozen times. You've concocted an elaborate fantasy involving demons and angels and vampires and whatnot, but to make it palatable to your psyche you've made them nice versions of classic monsters. Demons who hand out sweeties and vampires who never kill people. You'll be denying Lucy exists in a minute.”
“Of course not. I love Lucy.”
“Then who do you think is her mother? If I'm a vampire, I couldn't be, could I?”
“You are though. It was a spell cast by the demon Azazel to allow you to getate the foetus in a single night.”
“Will you listen to yourself, Harold? Doesn't it all sound ridiculously far-fetched?”
Harold looked at the poster of the skeleton. It did seem a bit absurd, like a dream that seemed vivid on waking but gradually faded.