Simon dropped him off at a smart but uninspiring concrete block of a building close to the town centre. A slightly ragged man in a suit met him there.

George followed him round the side of the offices. Then they went down an alley bordering a vast slab of tarmac where a garage once was. They crossed a wide street of charity shops, crawling (quite literally) with morning drunkards. On the other side, they squeezed between a boarded up tower of flats and a bakery, and trotted down a set of steps to the next street. They turned right by a nameless church with a strange red glow emanating from its single window. They turned left by a cafe where a one-eared old man craned his neck to watch them, mouth forever trembling as he whispered at a small leather pouch strapped to his left shoulder.

Then, the guide lifted up an iron grille at the mouth of another alley, and disappeared into a yawning chasm of darkness.

George took in the spires and belching factories and glassy-eyed druggies leering out from empty doorways and decided he’d be best in the chasm too.

Down below, there was a bit more darkness. Also a flickering pool of semi-illumination by way of lighter, containing three young men. The men were in identical grey trackies. They were looking at George. Their mouths were hanging open.

“What a knob,” the middle one said.

George smiled pleasantly and held out a firm hand. In his line of work, he’d grown used to smiling and introducing himself professionally even through the swirling, bitter storm of self-loathing that billowed out with every insult towards the last sane bastions of his soul. It was easier that way.

“George Stillwater, Clearway-”

His last words were scraped from the air by the shrieking of the grille as it was hauled back into place by his silent contact.

“Granny Stillwater really told you about this place?” a lad said after a pause.

George almost choked on the thick atmosphere of must and damp. There was also a film of smoke about the ceiling in the pool of light, as if a bonfire had just been extinguished as he descended. A large bonfire.

“Well, you see... not quite,” he coughed out eventually. “I mean, she did, I suppose. Just through her secret batskin diary at the back of the forbidden cupboard when we were clearing everything out after the funeral.”

One of the lads nodded. It was over in half a second. It was barely perceptible. It was also the greatest mark of respect the gentlechav had ever bestowed upon another human being. “A grafter, eh? Well, I like you. We can do what you wanted.”

George stepped closer to the light. He was sure he’d heard something in the far reaches of the darkness. Trickling. Oozing. Perhaps even slithering. He wasn’t in the mood to make a more precise interpretation. “I hope you received my latest email. You see, you didn’t reply. There was a rather critical PDF attachment outlining-”

“We said we’d sort it, alright?” the middle one snapped. One of the other two rolled his eyes as they turned and stepped out beyond view.

George shimmied closer. “And what about payment, chaps?” He started to fumble in his jacket pocket. “Do you take card?”

A harsh bark of laughter whipped out of the void. George was sure he heard a couple too many voices out there.

“Oh, you’ll pay. But later.”

“Oh, good,” George called, returning the plastic nice and safe to his wallet. It was a company card, and he wasn’t sure what he’d tell his boss.

And if he kept all his allowance, he might get a martini later or maybe even an escort if he found one with enough teeth.

Actually, he thought as the summoning began, he might need them both.