Flies buzz contentedly around the creamy yellow fat oozing out of the wound in Serge Gabriel's stomach. He is 48, but looks closer to 65. He is a thick, squat man with big hands, and they shake as he nervously re-lights his cigarette and raises it to his lips - lips that are cracked and outlined with white scum. He is unlikely to make it through the afternoon, let alone the night. Ray could have phoned for an ambulance three hours ago, but would prefer to allow the grisly scenario to play out in its own time.

*

Ray Coody is high, and the stink of burning crack clings to his tracksuit. He has the wheezing cough of a long-time crack-smoker and his eyes look like dark pools of rainwater. He laughs after every sentence, regardless of whether or not it is funny. We came to the Excelsior Hotel to find something capable of reviving his sick heart. We came in search of pretty girls with bloodshot eyes. On the bed two naked teenage girls kiss furiously. The pillows are stained with lipstick and sick. The spectacle is about as sexy as a split lip. The younger girl is called Saffron. She has pale gold hair and a whisky-hoarse voice. The other girl doesn't speak English, and no one knows her name.

*

In the corner a teenage cross-dresser itches in his pantyhose. When he arrived he was wearing a tangerine evening gown and a grotesque-looking beehive wig. Now he shivers and scratches at his naked flesh, trying to remove Ray's filthy imprint from his skin.  Earlier Ray fed him a handful of bottle-caps and made him dance to the radio at knife-point. Ray offers me some unidentified, greasy-looking meat from a Styrofoam tray. He looks translucent under the sickly hotel lighting. He points to the boy, and grins.

"This kid reminds me of my dead sister."

In the morning the authorities will probably have to scrape him off the bottom of the empty lung-shaped swimming pool…

*

I head to the bathroom and scoop another bottle of beer out of the bathtub, hoping to take away the taste of the meat. A bloody tooth floats in the toilet bowl. It might be one of mine. My blistered knuckles are crusted with dried blood, and I submerge them in the water, turning it slightly pink. I open the beer and drink thirstily, trying to ignore the screams emanating from the next room.

*

Back in the suite the ceiling fan has ground to a halt, and an aching, sweaty heat hangs over the room. I gaze out of the nailed-shut window. To the left the streets are a maze of bruised lock-ups and tatty-looking rooming-houses. To the right there is a scattering of demolished hotels that put me in mind of missing teeth in Paignton's infernal grin. The shoreline glistens with raw sewage, and the sea itself looks the colour of gutter-water. The view looks pathetic, like a junkie whose veins have collapsed.

*

When I turn around, Ray is looming over Serge Gabriel's prone form clutching his cigarette lighter. A tiny flame crackles next to the big man's puckered skin. I weigh the bottle in my hand and stare at Ray's bald patch, willing myself to crack his skull in half. He turns around, flashing me another one of his gummy smirks. I raise the bottle to my lips. There is only one way to kill the devil: a bullet in the brain-stem.