"Nah, shh. Shut up." That nervy, upset attempt at joking again, tight and tense and on the border of sniffly despite a herculean effort to grin: "How were you meant to know? Trust me, most exorcists ain't much like me. And I'd have denied it if you asked. Nah, this one's on me."

He deposits her on the bed but she's still holding on. Guilt spikes through him. "So I'll sort it out. Promise. I'll make this right. I ain't going anywhere. And neither are you."

She's not going to hell, he means; he also means she's not leaving this room. He glances to the door and tries to extract himself from her hold so that he can shut and bolt it.