'What were you in hospital for?' The girl sat up perkily and crosslegged, her face full of innocent enquiry. Lecha.s.seur couldn't resist.

'I got caught in a blast, got my legs mangled, couldn't walk for a year or two. It wasn't a problem.' He was speaking softly and she leant forward to pick up on the words. 'Everyone else in my platoon was killed, except the sentries we left outside. We shouldn't even have been there.'

'Where were you?'

'Belgium. We should have been in France, we strayed too far north into unsecured territory. We took shelter in a farmhouse that the Germans had just cleared out of in a hurry. SS, we thought. They'd looted the place but left a lot of wine and a grand piano and a whole ton of dynamite in the piano. We got drunk and we blew ourselves up.'

He paused wistfully, his senses suddenly filled with the rich and vivid memory of the night. There was the scented mix of spilled wine and cigar ash in the air, spoils of war. Something sparked, jolting him back to the tasteless present, where the pyjama girl hadn't breathed since he'd fallen silent.

'I remember,' he continued, 'the senior officer was white. That's the way of the US army. He and I were the only two there who could have played a note on that piano, you know? Most of the others were from Harlem... Chicago different worlds. They made the lieutenant an honorary Negro. He was honorary Negro. He was half Jewish, they reckoned he was a quarter way there already. They baptised him with wine and he sat down to play the piano to celebrate. And the next thing I know I'm in a convent back in France that's been turned into a field hospital and I can't feel my legs and all these sweet, ugly nuns are talking to me in French because they've heard my name and think I can understand them. half Jewish, they reckoned he was a quarter way there already. They baptised him with wine and he sat down to play the piano to celebrate. And the next thing I know I'm in a convent back in France that's been turned into a field hospital and I can't feel my legs and all these sweet, ugly nuns are talking to me in French because they've heard my name and think I can understand them.

'I wasn't burned, not even singed. You know, when they found me they found the lieutenant's hands? Perfectly intact, just shorn off at the wrist. I never understood that.'

The girl breathed deeply, shaking as he talked. A tear slid down her face: 'You know so much about yourself, there's so much inside you. Don't stop.'

It was his life and it was stinging her. She listened to him carefully but he was sure she was hurting with inner emptiness. Her eyes, big and round, were painfully hungry for experience. Then suddenly it all came out, his story, the high and lowlights of his life. He talked her through the rest of the war and the time he'd spent in hospital. He described the sullen campaign he'd waged against the authorities, the odd rules he broke, the curious offences that had made him popular with the other patients and the civilian staff. He told her about the canny head-shrinker they'd put onto him, who'd persuaded him to go into exile in London, on the run from his own people. He told her about the black market and as he talked he realised that he liked being a racketeer as much as he liked being a soldier, but he couldn't tell her that.

He backtracked and told her about the Crescent City he'd left behind to go to France. He told her about the Cajuns and the bayou, the jazz men and the Big Easy. He described relative wealth and desperate poverty, the Depression and le bontemps. bontemps. He told her about Rosewood and strange fruit, he told her about fear. He told her about Cecile and the day of eating ice cream. It all came out in a tumble of words, each one spontaneous and perfect. Then he began to tell her about the last few days, describing what had happened in his search for the Doctor. He told her about Rosewood and strange fruit, he told her about fear. He told her about Cecile and the day of eating ice cream. It all came out in a tumble of words, each one spontaneous and perfect. Then he began to tell her about the last few days, describing what had happened in his search for the Doctor.

It electrified her, a violent spirit filling the gap of her eyes. She s.n.a.t.c.hed at him, too quick for him to react.

'What did you just say?' She clawed at his jacket, holding him tight and desperate. did you just say?' She clawed at his jacket, holding him tight and desperate.

'I said I've been hired to find the Doctor by his wife.'

'And?'

'Her name is Emily Blandish. I met her in a cafe and '

She cut him off. 'All this time,' she said, 'I've known that I would remember one thing.' Her mouth was a fierce line, blood between her teeth. She was all anger, it burned undirected in her voice, the mute gone from her throat. 'I would remember it, something would jog my mind, then I would k remember one thing.' Her mouth was a fierce line, blood between her teeth. She was all anger, it burned undirected in her voice, the mute gone from her throat. 'I would remember it, something would jog my mind, then I would know. And you've just jogged me. You've given me one thing back.'

'Given you what?' He tried to calm her, pushing her gently back onto the bed, but she fought.

'My name! You think I wouldn't know my name. It's not her!' It came from her mouth as a brutal noise, her ident.i.ty screaming out of her. 'It's not her! It's me! I'm Emily Blandish! N Emily Blandish! Not her! Not her!'

He drew his hands back. 'Okay okay okay, I believe you.'That seemed to calm her down, she squatted on her haunches but her face was swollen and red, bleeding tears. He pushed his head close to hers so she could hear.

'Emily, do you remember anything else?'

'Do you know who this woman is who claims to be you?'

'Are you married to someone called the Doctor?'

She snorted, held up her naked fingers. 'If I am I don't remember.'

Behind Lecha.s.seur the door opened and he turned just enough for the newcomer to punch him across the face. He slumped against the wall but then rough hands lifted him and dragged him off the bed. He tried to grab at his attacker but he'd been caught off guard. The newcomer was a strong man, not army trained but powerful enough not to need it. Emily was shrieking, not for herself, for him. She was Emily, he knew it as clearly as she knew herself.

Walken, he thought, as his a.s.sailant pushed him out through the door, but he was wrong. He landed sprawled on his back, gazing up at the solid trunk and scowling face of Mrs Beardsley. She spat onto him, missing his face. 'She's mine, stay away from her,' she told him. he thought, as his a.s.sailant pushed him out through the door, but he was wrong. He landed sprawled on his back, gazing up at the solid trunk and scowling face of Mrs Beardsley. She spat onto him, missing his face. 'She's mine, stay away from her,' she told him.

He got quickly to his feet. Through the door he saw the man who'd punched him bald and scarred but with an unmistakable family resemblance to the landlady. Emily stopped screaming once he drove his fist into her stomach. Her pyjama bottom had already come off. Yellowpurple bruises spotted her flank. The man grabbed a bunch of her hair and held her wordlessly, like a prize catch. Then his sister pulled the door closed so Lecha.s.seur saw no more.

'Get out of my house,' Mrs Beardsley said, 'or I'll call the police and say you were hurting her. Did you see those bruises? And who's ever seen a guiltier face than yours?'

He had a moment's vision before his eyes, a dream or the future. He slammed the landlady's worm-body hard against her wall, her brother hunched double, blood seeping from his mouth, how long has she been gone?! He how long has she been gone?! He was back in the dank gloomy present, Mrs Beardsley squinting at him from the door. was back in the dank gloomy present, Mrs Beardsley squinting at him from the door.

Trying not to listen to the whimpers of fear from the room of the pink pyjama girl, Lecha.s.seur turned and made his way down the stairs. The landlady's cold hateful eyes followed him but they weren't as cold and hateful as his.

The window was blacked-out again as he left the house. Outside, he grabbed his bike then spotted Walken's spy watching him from the far side of the road. He'd come in black, blending into the shadows but Lecha.s.seur gave him a glare and the man realised he'd been spotted.

'Hey!' Lecha.s.seur bellowed. 'Hey! Come and get her. She'd be better off with you!'

Without waiting for a reply, he climbed onto his bike and cycled away.

4: KUBERNETES RISING.

LECHa.s.sEUR HADN'T YET REACHED THE POINT WHEN HIS SPIRIT FOLDED INWARDS, THE point of giving up. He still had hope and it lasted almost to the end of the afternoon. He felt bruised from the fight at the boarding house, he needed somewhere to rest and heal. The rain washed over his face, making him numb. He went to a cafe for lunch and sat facing the door, cautiously weighing the features of each new customer. He hoped the girl in pink pyjamas might have followed him from the flat but she hadn't. He blinked heavily. point of giving up. He still had hope and it lasted almost to the end of the afternoon. He felt bruised from the fight at the boarding house, he needed somewhere to rest and heal. The rain washed over his face, making him numb. He went to a cafe for lunch and sat facing the door, cautiously weighing the features of each new customer. He hoped the girl in pink pyjamas might have followed him from the flat but she hadn't. He blinked heavily.

The girl in pink pyjamas. Walken. Mestizer. Emily Blandish. The pieces of the mystery. They made no sense, not singly, not as a whole. The common absence was the Doctor. He held all the threads, finding him was Lecha.s.seur's only chance of making the connections he needed. The outline of the Doctor he'd formed was shadowy and hard to pin down. It grew more elusive the closer he got.

Where now? Syme? Still the best lead and he he didn't even believe the Doctor was real. Unless Syme was lying, which was possible. It was also possible that the whole of London was in on the scam, a conspiracy directed by the Doctor to deceive the fixer. No, going back to Syme was admitting defeat. Emily Blandish then, his starting point? He was due to update her on his progress, he could drop in unannounced. He could find out what her real name was, then what she really wanted with the Doctor and that might just give him a firm place to stand. He left the cafe in an optimistic mood. For once, his foresight was letting him down. didn't even believe the Doctor was real. Unless Syme was lying, which was possible. It was also possible that the whole of London was in on the scam, a conspiracy directed by the Doctor to deceive the fixer. No, going back to Syme was admitting defeat. Emily Blandish then, his starting point? He was due to update her on his progress, he could drop in unannounced. He could find out what her real name was, then what she really wanted with the Doctor and that might just give him a firm place to stand. He left the cafe in an optimistic mood. For once, his foresight was letting him down.

The address he'd been given by his client he supposed he couldn't call her Emily Blandish any more was fifteen minutes' ride from the cafe, his progress held up by a heavy bustle of crowds on the market streets. London everywhere was a city of noise and slow movement but he'd grown used to the rhythm of his Northside neighbourhood. The tempo of life here was different, faster, harder. People clogged the streets but slipped out of reach before he could pin down their faces. This was the ruthless clearing ground of the city.

The address might turn out to be as false as the name. Another premonition? No, he didn't believe that. Pilots had premonitions, not soldiers. Pilots travelled through a fragile, deadly medium, they had a right to them. Soldiers, rooted to the ground, merely had morbid thoughts. Fixers too. And Doctors? They were so close to death they could see it coming and dodge it when they could.

The address was real, the building was real. Did the un-Emily live here? Hard to tell, without venturing in. It was four storeys, split into flats. The door was locked, there was no bell and no one answered his knocks. He stepped back to study the windows but they were smudgedgrey, lifeless. They were huge rectangular bays with narrow sills. FalseEmily, judging by the number, was on the top floor.

At the side of the house, Lecha.s.seur found a makeshift fire escape. A tight window at the top was lockless. The ragged curtains disintegrated as he climbed through, adding another layer of dust to an already profoundly empty room. He glanced down, saw footsteps in the dust, a thin feminine heel. There was a telephone in the corner, raised on a protective layer of newspaper, notepapers spread on the floor beside it. He moved on. The next room was larger and fuller, spanning the length of the building. This floor had been gutted long ago stubs of wood and plaster were ripped along invisible lines on the floor but it wasn't abandoned. There was a bed, unmade, strewn with magazines; a dressing table with a mirror, decorated with personal ornaments and a cl.u.s.ter of ration books; a wardrobe. Cold air seeped in from the balcony. He pushed at one of the side doors a kitchen, empty but newly warm.

He tried the next door, calling out for Emily. His voice came back at him from a tinny tiled echo chamber, he breathed in the scent of soap and disinfectant. He knew it was a bathroom before the afternoon halflight let him see. The dark was trapped here, his eyes took a moment to adjust, which was why he didn't see her straight away. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, Mrs Emily Blandish, whoever she really was. Her arm was stretched out rigid, her eyes tight shut, her teeth bared and her revolver pointed right at his head.

It cracked.

Too late to take the gun, he hit the floor and rolled.

The gun spoke again but Emily wasn't looking and fired high.

What happened next would depend on whether she meant to kill him. He risked it: 'Don't shoot! It's me! Lecha.s.seur!'

Horror-shock flicked up her face, her eyes came open and she dropped the gun as though it were filthy. It clattered as it struck the floor but didn't fire on impact and so didn't take the top of his skull off. Emily's mouth gaped but she put a hand over it and reached out to help him up. Her hands, her arms, were soft. She hadn't been aiming for him.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, I'm sorry,' she breathed. 'I didn't know it was you. I was jumpy.'

'It would've been okay to plug me if I was someone else?' he asked.She nodded grimly, not seeing the joke. 'b.l.o.o.d.y right! You're about the only one I don't want to shoot right now. I trust you.'

Seeing he was unhurt, she sank back on the edge of the tub, shaking. He found himself believing her; she didn't look malicious. Then he remembered she was an actress. She was a bigger woman than the real Emily. She looked more substantial, like she actually belonged in this world, and she was just as pretty but she didn't have the complicated wound on her face. Lecha.s.seur realised he was shaking too and he folded his arms round her to steady himself.

'I wasn't expecting you till the weekend.'

Lecha.s.seur persuaded Emily to part with the revolver, though at her insistence he reloaded it and left it on her dressing table. She wouldn't tell him who she was expecting and he didn't want to press her, not yet. 'I told you it was a dangerous job,' was the closest she came to an explanation. She fixed him a drink, all she had were mugs and cheap gin better than cold tea, it took the edge off both his shock and his bruised pain.

Emily Blandish. Now she was here in front of him he found it impossible to separate her from the name. She'd stolen it but she wore it well. Take that away and she would become as abstract in his mind as the Doctor and she deserved to be real, fleshy and warm-blooded. She fiddled with the top b.u.t.ton on her blouse. It was dark red, the same colour as her skirt, it suited her skin.

'There's not a problem with the money?' she asked.He shook his head. 'No problem.' Her first instalment had been generous, prompt and delivered invisibly.

'Whatever happens to me,' she told him, 'you'll be paid what you're owed. I've made arrangements.'

He sat on a stool. She stood, anxious and fidgety. She was the opposite of the real Emily. He hoped she might try to lie down on the bed, relax, but she wouldn't.

'You think you're in danger.'

'I've disappointed some people. Don't worry about me.'

'If you tell me about it, I could look after you.'

She snorted. 'I've heard that one before.'

'It's not the money,' he said. She nodded brusquely and went to the balcony window. Lecha.s.seur wondered if he shouldn't confront her about the other Emily straight out, but that didn't seem the right way. This Emily was on edge. Too much pressure now and he'd lose her along with every solid link he had back into the mystery of the Doctor.

Besides, he liked her. She was a liar and she'd shot at him but he liked her.

'I'm picking up speed,' he told her evenly. 'I wanted to let you know. The last three days have been hectic. A lot's come up.' That at least was true.

'Have you found him?' She didn't turn.

'Your husband?'

'The Doctor.''Not yet. Actually the best lead I got was from a man who said he doesn't exist.'

She laughed. She had her mug pressed up against her stomach and wasn't drinking. Her fingernails tapped the rim nervously. 'Oh, he's very real. Trust me'

'You'd know that better than anyone,' Lecha.s.seur replied, then realised he was baiting her and moved on. 'That led me to a man called Walken. Have you heard of him?'

She looked at him and he saw her face was piqued with genuine curiosity, real surprise. 'Eric Walken? The hypnotist?'

'That's the one. Do you know him?'Her head was shaking, painfully slowly. 'I've met him. I did cabaret work for him after the war. How's he mixed up in this?'

'I don't know but I understand he met your husband yesterday.'Finally she walked away from the window and perched herself on the edge of the bed. 'I had no idea he was involved. I haven't seen him for years.'

'Perhaps you could introduce me properly. We didn't get on''Oh, neither did I. He's what they call a little creep. He hypnotised me once and I still don't remember what I did. You know I've done some bad business since the war and mainly it's been so I can work with people he hates. On and off stage,' she spat.

'Does your husband know about your a.s.sociation with Walken?'

'He probably does. He does now. Walken is a stage name, you know?' a stage name, you know?'

'No. What's ?'

'I don't know,' she broke in. 'Higginbottom or something like that, something that doesn't sound right for a black magician. Not a name to conjure with.' She laughed suddenly and it washed out of her for a minute, the sound of relief.

He tried another angle. 'Did you hear about the girl in pink pyjamas?'

'Who hasn't?' He didn't register any special interest.

'There's a connection with her and the Doctor. Walken's found out about it. I went to see her this morning to see if she knew anything. She didn't but,' deep breath deep breath 'she remembered her name while I was 'she remembered her name while I was