‘You can lay your Bible there, Preacher,’ Bowie Jack said. ‘Now, boys, I ain’t going to sell no liquor during a sermon. But it may run on some, so now’s your chance.’

There was a general rush. The preacher bought, too. Jonathan tried to get to his feet, failed and half passed out – but only half. By the time he manipulated the bar back into focus, Bowie Jack had covered it with a sheet from the upstairs bed of my grandfather’s two oblivious nights, and the sermon had begun.

‘Out here in Cheyenne’ – the preacher’s voice had the rhythmic lilt of any traveling evangelist – ‘a man’s hardly got time to piss behind the shed. You’re on the run, all of you, fast as you can go. Right? Then suddenly, right in the middle of the race – wham! –you’re dead.’ He paused, drank from the glass of whiskey beside him and went on. ‘Now let’s say you’ve been dead for a month. Funeral paid for. Buddies got new buddies – can’t no longer rightly remember your name. Down you go to hell. Who cares? Nobody. Right? You got vultures yanking the skin off your balls for eternity and who gives a damn?’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Jonathan said. He struggled again to get himself upright, but again stumbled and fell back into his chair.

‘This here young man got it in one,’ the preacher shouted. ‘It’s Christ what cares. Tell you something more: I care. Me and Jesus. That’s why we’re going to fight for you boys. Right here. Right now. The winner’s prize: all the souls in this room, you and me, brothers – all of us. Let’s say we’re in this book.’ He patted his Bible. ‘Now, gents, the contenders. In this corner, one backwoods preacher, kind of old and dry.’ He drew back his sleeve to expose a skinny arm. He took another swig of whiskey, shadow-boxed a little and hefted his whip. ‘You, young man who doubts the Word,’ he said to Jonathan, ‘watch me.’ In a single flick of his horsewhip, he snatched the nearly empty bottle off Jonathan’s table and smashed it against the wall.

‘Now for a costume change.’ He turned, drew the sheet off his altar and draped it over his shoulders. ‘And in this corner’ – the sheet made a gown; he stood hand on hip and hip thrust out; there were guffaws from the bar – ‘Lucifer himself, boys. Beelzebub. Asmodeus. Mephistopheles. The Father of Lies and the Bitch of the Pit.’

The stance was Fritzi and George all at once, male and female all at once. Nausea erupted at the back of Jonathan’s throat; he struggled to swallow it down. Men at the bar sang out raucously: ‘Take it off. Take it off.’

‘In good time, my dear sirs,’ the preacher said.

The dance began.

The devil swishes his tail beneath his gown, circles toward the Bible, flirts girlishly. Off with the sheet: the preacher, as himself, a pure-hearted man of God, picks up the Bible and begins to read. On with the sheet: the devil flirts more boldly. Off with the sheet: the preacher, uninterested, turns away. On with the sheet: the devil grows bolder still; hips sway, shoulders swing and – aha! at last! – the preacher takes notice. He puts down the book; he watches despite himself, prudish at first, then a little rakish, then lustful. The sex changes come faster and faster. My grandfather, nauseated, fascinated, clung to the edge of his chair. Man into woman: woman into man: borders meaningless: animal into vegetable. How can a snake swallow its tail? How can the jaws eat the jaws? the stomach digest itself? On with the sheet: the whore wraps her legs round the preacher. A hand snakes out to take hold of the Bible. The preacher draws back in alarm, struggles to disentangle himself. The whore tears off her drape and reveals the devil’s cloven hoof and tail.