Excited yapping. Carlos cranes his head from his latest piece of woodwork, and wipes a grimy, saw-dusty hand across a tanned forehead, before scratching a salt-and-pepper beard. “Jimothy! Jimothy? What is it, boy?”

With a sigh, Carlos lifts himself up, pressing both fists against the workshop floor and rising like a gorilla. He fishes a key out of his pocket, pressing a bloodshot eye to the spyhole in his door before fumbling with the lock and letting himself outside. Jimothy, a sickly-looking but preternaturally vivacious mongrel, is yapping and running round in circles happily, allowing himself to be fussed by a strange heavy-set figure.

Carlos sucks his teeth (still sweet from his lunchtime meal), leans casually back against the wall in easy reach of his gun. “Can I help you there, stranger?”

The bearded man in the tattered coat looks up, and Carlos recognises them. It seems a world away now, Havering Hill.

“No. But perhaps I can help you. Fundamentally, I approve of your lifestyle. You had a knack for thinking, I recall - and your communion with this animal here is very promising.” The demon strokes their beard, thoughtfully.

“Why thank you there, ah..” Carlos relaxes a little, allows himself the indulgence of musing on the past once more. “Barbatos, right?”

“Correct. I'm glad that you remember.”

“I have a long memory”, says Enoch, straightening up.

“Well. I was wondering if you might care for some company. I have some news from Paris that might interest you”, says Barbatos.

Enoch chews the side of their mouth, closes their eyes, and nods faintly. “Sure. You might as well come in. Jimothy, heel!” Enoch pats his side, and the dog bounds after him.

“Tea? I made all the cups myself.”