Still, after Matthew MacBain’s skeleton, I was glad not to fall across the bones of the last lord who’d come seeking the harp. I tried not to think about what might have happened to him and picked up the instrument. Unlike the bottle of whisky, there wasn’t a speck of dust on it. It was a pale wood, with taut strings which looked virtually new. I almost plucked one of them before hastily drawing back my hand. If Dagda’s harp had the sort of powers which Bob had alluded to, playing it here in the Lowlands wasn’t a wise idea, even if there wasn’t a demon to be seen or heard.

I tied the instrument to my back using a small length of knotted rope which I’d brought with me. When I was sure it was secure, I shrugged. ‘Well, this harp certainly isn’t in any treble.’ I looked round the cellar one last time. ‘Time to go.’

I was halfway between the house and the bridge and humming tunelessly with a lightness of spirit that I should have known better than to feel, when the clanging of a loud bell nearly gave me a heart attack. I froze in my tracks. What the hell was that? It didn’t stop, clanking and shrieking in a way that would have had Taylor eating his words about my musical abilities. Dread poured through me and I checked my watch: it was exactly midday. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

From all around me harsh, guttural sounds started to fill the air, drowning out the clanging bell. I couldn’t work out where they were coming from until I looked upwards. On top of every building along the street, dark shapes were rising up and moving. I saw a vast set of wings stretch out on one corner and a spitting, snarling fight start up on another. I glanced fearfully back at the house but it was too far away to offer a refuge. I couldn’t stay out here in the open, though. As the bell stopped and the shrieks and caws from the demons took over, I did the only thing I could to hide myself: I pitched to my right and dived into the evil-looking Clyde.

The shock of the cold, almost viscous water came close to being my undoing. It coated every part of me until I was like a bird caught in an oil slick. I kicked as hard as I could, reached the side of the river and pressed myself against it, praying that it would hide me. The last thing I wanted was to duck my head underneath the water.

It was a struggle to stay afloat, not just because my clothes were saturated and pulling me under but because it felt like the river itself was beckoning me down into its depths. I flattened myself against the bank, my fingers clawing into the wet dirt, and held my breath. The demon shrieks were giving way to keening cries as hundreds of warped, twisted things rose up into the dark sky. Not all of the creatures were winged; some pounded down the street above my head like an unsynchronised army on a march to the depths of hell. At least a dozen of them turned onto the narrow bridge ahead. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t help myself. Hieronymus Bosch eat your heart out.