there.'

'Yeah?' She didn't flicker. He had the impression he was about to surprise her.

'Her name's Emily Blandish,' he said.The false Emily had her head bowed at that moment, she was staring at the floor. Her hands opened. The gin spilled onto the carpet, the mug followed and broke into three pieces.

'Kind of a weird coincidence,' Lecha.s.seur observed.When she looked up at him her features were fixed in a rictus of guilt and fear, they weren't solid any more. They phased between Emily and not-Emily. She said: 'I didn't know it was her. It was the name he told me to use.'

'Who? Walken?''Don't be daft. I wouldn't do anything he told me for a million pounds.'

'So you admit you're not Emily Blandish.'She hovered in her inbetween state before admitting: 'My name is Miranda Sessions. Actually it's Enid Cross but Miranda Sessions sounds, well, sultrier, more mysterious, s.e.xier,' she p.r.o.nounced it with her teeth. 'Everything else I told you about myself is true. I wouldn't lie about stuff like that. Just the name.'

'And about being married?''Well, that was the other lie. I've been married twice but not to the Doctor. That was my idea, giving him a decent relationship to me. I thought you'd ask too many questions otherwise.' She giggled. 'I bet you're full of them now. Try one on me.'

'Is the Doctor real?'

'Have you read that book everyone was going on about? You know, the one with Big Brother, this character who no-one's ever seen? Does he exist in the same way you and I exist? I'll give you a clue. The Doctor lent me that book. He does exist.' give you a clue. The Doctor lent me that book. He does exist.'

'Okay, I believe you.' Time for the big one: 'Who put you up to this? And why?'

'I don't know why. All these questions. I like you, you know. When I told you this would be dangerous I meant that. I don't want you to get

hurt.'

Lecha.s.seur looked back at Miranda-Emily with as much sympathy as he could muster, which was more than he expected. 'Please, tell me who you're working for.'

'It'll only confuse you.'

'I'm already confused. If it's not Walken, is it Mestizer?'

'No.' she lied. 'Well, all right yes. It was Mestizer, but she didn't want me to talk to you. You know when I first saw you, you were so beautiful. They said you had an aura and I could see it and I fell in love with you there and then. I couldn't believe you were who they said you were. I wanted to warn you but... this idea just felt better. And now I've gone behind her back and that's what I'm afraid of because he ca he can't do anything to protect me from her and you can't either.'

He shook his head. 'That's too much, you'll have to start again.'She jumped off the bed, put her hands on his and pleaded with him through her eyes. 'Yes, let's start again. Please, just go on doing the job I gave you. That's real. When you find the Doctor you'll understand.'

Lecha.s.seur opened his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say.

And the balcony window exploded.

Lecha.s.seur pulled Emily-Miranda's head into his coat and threw his free arm over his face to protect them both from the sudden rain of cutting shards. When he looked again lie saw a glistening sheen of gla.s.s dust down the back of Emily's blouse, but she didn't seem hurt. He turned to the window, to the eight-foot shape kicking out the edges of the hole it had just made. Abraxas was nearly too tall and too wide for the frame but he squeezed through.

Emily-Miranda leapt up and tore herself out of Lecha.s.seur's grip. She pushed him aside and scrambled across the room in a dash for the back exit. Abraxas raised his hand and stabbed a huge leathery finger after her.

Miranda Sessions, I've come to take to you to Mestizer Lecha.s.seur stepped in his way. Abraxas was seething with sound, a mechanical growl and hiss that Lecha.s.seur had heard before but now it was much more p.r.o.nounced, with anger, with activity. He must have come across the roof. Behind him the balcony creaked and collapsed in a

shower of dust.

'For G.o.d's sake, wait!' yelled Lecha.s.seur.Abraxas swung an arm round and shoved Lecha.s.seur aside with a casual force, with the impact of a metal bar. The mask and snout turned to Lecha.s.seur, the gla.s.s eyes unreadable.

Do I look like the sort of man who cares what G.o.d thinks? Emily scrambled for the door. Abraxas slid back the front of his coat and expelled two darts from the cavity of his chest. Emily squealed and slipped on her face in the dust, dark wounds erupting on her shoulder and her calf. She twitched but the darts dug into her, taut harpoon lines connecting them to Abraxas' body. Lecha.s.seur caught a glimpse under Abraxas' leathery skin. There were faint lights around his chest, patches of metal gleaming. Armour? No, it was something writhing, breathing, something alive. Lecha.s.seur s.n.a.t.c.hed at the revolver on the bedside table.

Abraxas strode across the room, setting the walls and the dust shaking. He took the fallen Emily by the shoulders and in a simple effortless move he hoisted her off the ground, holding her tiny terrified face up to his. His proboscis twitched as he spoke, while she just gasped, gazing helplessly back at him.

We know you betrayed us. You offered your aid to our enemy know you betrayed us. You offered your aid to our enemy 'He made me do it.' The words gasped out of her but her face darkened and she added: 'No, it was my choice.' She tried to spit in his face but it came out as a thin splutter.

I don't know what Mestizer will do with you. She may want to make you like me. It's not so bad. Am I really so horrible you can't bear to be like me? I am the steersman of the future don't know what Mestizer will do with you. She may want to make you like me. It's not so bad. Am I really so horrible you can't bear to be like me? I am the steersman of the future

She quivered and shook her head. She'll lie you on a bench and make an incision in your stomach. She'll scoop out your guts and fill you with glistening toys and you'll see what you're really made of She'll lie you on a bench and make an incision in your stomach. She'll scoop out your guts and fill you with glistening toys and you'll see what you're really made of 'Abraxas!' Lecha.s.seur howled but the Big Man ignored him so he stepped forward and put a first bullet into the creature's back.

He could see where it struck, he saw the hole, but Abraxas didn't flinch.

Three more bullets. Each went into him and settled there. Irritated, Abraxas dropped Emily and she hit the floor with a helpless wheeze.

A high fifth shot went through Abraxas' head and that didn't stop him. A little orange fluid bled from the wound, nothing more. He was unstoppable, he took Lecha.s.seur by the shoulders, raised him off his feet and slammed him against the wall. The revolver and its last useless bullet was wrenched away. It hit the floor and slid across the dust to the far end of the room.

Abraxas' gla.s.s eyes pushed close to his. Lecha.s.seur saw the outline of a ruined face through steamed-gla.s.s eyes, skin and bone held together by fine metal st.i.tches and cl.u.s.ters of wire.

I used to flinch from bullets. I remember how they used to hurt. Not any more used to flinch from bullets. I remember how they used to hurt. Not any more Over the huge brown shoulder, Lecha.s.seur saw Emily stretch shakily for the gun.

'Abraxas. Let him go. That's all I ask. Let him go.'Then Emily Blandish-Miranda Sessions-Enid Cross jabbed the barrel of the gun into her open mouth and emptied the final chamber. She sat back easily, almost slumped, against the bloodied wall and didn't move again.

Lecha.s.seur's anguished scream followed the sound of the shot.

Abraxas glanced over his shoulder.

Who am I to refuse the request of a lady?

Abraxas leaned towards Lecha.s.seur, tapering leathery snout twitching at his face.

I believe that a truly weak man is one who can't protect his women believe that a truly weak man is one who can't protect his women Lecha.s.seur closed his eyes and saw nothing, no future, not even darkness. When he opened them, he was slumped on the floor, Abraxas was gone but the woman's body was still crouched in the corner with her brains spread across the wall at her back.

That was the moment when Honore Lecha.s.seur gave up.

He left the scene before the police arrived. The balcony's collapse, the shots, caused a commotion and he found it easy to slip away. There was no evidence that he had ever been there, no one who could identify him, nothing linking him to the scene but memories and he hoped he could forget those. As he made his escape he imagined he felt the baleful gaze of Walken's spy on his back but when he turned there was no-one there, just the flap of a black coat into the shadows. It didn't matter. He doubted Walken would try to use this against him. This was over.He wished he'd never heard of the Doctor or set out to find him. What had Syme called him? A hobgoblin? That seemed right. Maybe he was only an unreal folk figure, a fleshless idea that could be blamed for all the chaos and all the death. The Doctor, The Doctor, now he thought of it, just seemed a polite and nervous name for the Devil. now he thought of it, just seemed a polite and nervous name for the Devil.

He went back to his flat and locked himself in. When Mrs Bag-ofBones came for the rent he raised his voice at her for the first time since they had met. She went away disappointed, giving him the s.p.a.ce he needed. She was a good woman but he didn't need company now.

At the weekend his next payment was delivered, by regular post. He put the unearned money on his table but couldn't bear to touch it, not even to burn it. There was a short note with the money, signed Emily Blandish. It rea Blandish. It read, simply: Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean. He put it on the fire. put it on the fire.

He read newspaper reports of Miranda's death she was Miranda now, she could only be Emily while she was alive. The police weren't certain if this was murder or suicide. Some credulous witnesses were reporting a moving gargoyle, a Spring-Heeled Jack, seen climbing across the walls then the roofs of the nearby buildings, but no-one paid them much attention. The dead woman was said smugly to be in show business, as if no more explanation were needed. now, she could only be Emily while she was alive. The police weren't certain if this was murder or suicide. Some credulous witnesses were reporting a moving gargoyle, a Spring-Heeled Jack, seen climbing across the walls then the roofs of the nearby buildings, but no-one paid them much attention. The dead woman was said smugly to be in show business, as if no more explanation were needed.

The gun was never found. Lecha.s.seur presumed Abraxas had taken it. Maybe Mestizer meant to blackmail him it was covered with his prints but if so he never heard from her. There were no more reports of the pink pyjama girl in the papers he saw, so he presumed she remained unkidnapped in the care of Mrs Beardsley.

He didn't want to think any more about the body he'd left in the flat.He spent too much time at home. He squatted on the bed with a bottle of vodka and a circle of postcards spread round his body, as if he could project himself through s.p.a.ce and time just by concentrating on them. He was letting himself go, as he had done after the explosion in Belgium. And he was back there, in the drawing room of the farmhouse with all the dead men and he could see their little lives bleeding out of them, the light pouring out of the joins of their bodies. He was the taciturn man of the platoon, the outsider. He stood at the windows watching the flashes of distant war in the night.

dot dot dot dash the blast blows him through the window, his body fracturing as he pa.s.ses through wood and gla.s.s, his bones fragmenting, his skin a suit of pain.

Back then he'd had time and aid to heal. He couldn't deal with this the same way, not so quickly and not on his own. Now he was alone with the certainty that he would have to change again. He'd been a soldier, then a black marketeer, why shouldn't he shuck off his skin once more, remake himself as a new man?

He liked the idea of being a fixer.

When he emerged at last it was to sell his h.o.a.rd. London's black economy wobbled with a sudden influx of cheap goods, undercutting the other spivs. Most of it went quickly. He destroyed everything he couldn't sell. He was left with too many bottles of cheap vodka so he climbed to the flat roof of a nearby warehouse and emptied them into the wind. For one day only it rained alcohol on London.

There were more A-bomb tests in the East. The vodka bottles were unlabelled, probably Russian. He smashed them one by one, not as a protest, but to make a garden of gla.s.s fragments on the roof. When the Soviets flew their bombers over London they'd see something abstract and beautiful in the few seconds before the city vanished into heat and light.

That night he fell asleep fully clothed and cross-legged on his bed. He didn't need to drink and he didn't dream. For once he slept soundly but was woken early in the morning by the crash from below. There were heavy feet tramping up the stairs. His eyes opened though not for long in time to see the masked gang break his door down and pile into the room around him.

5: SENSITIVE CRIMINALS.

DOCTOR? He's still out cold. He's still out cold.

He can hear us. I know he can.They'd chloroformed him and now there was a hard lump of blood on his tongue. He had little time to struggle, the gang had surrounded him and pinned his limbs while they pressed the pad over his mouth, but they hadn't hurt him. There was a hard streak of muscle at the base of his neck, from the awkward pose he'd slept in. He was sure he'd been moved, even with his eyes closed he didn't recognise his surroundings. The scent, the acoustics, were wrong. He had an impression of being underground. There was a warm dampness in the air but it tasted stuffy and enclosed, laced with a flowery perfume. He picked up two voices as he came round, one male and familiar, the other a shrill feminine tone. There was at least a third body present, he could hear rasped breathing that suited neither voice.He'd been unconscious upright in a chair, upholstered, not uncomfortable though his arms were bound behind his back, pinning him in place. He flexed his wrists, slowly so as not to attract attention but there was no slack in the cord and making some would take time.

The taste of acid in his mouth was too strong. Lecha.s.seur rolled his head to one side and spat at the floor.

Oh, yuck.

I think it's beautiful. (The man's voice.) Can we get some of that in a jar?

How can you say it's beautiful? (The woman it was her perfume he could smell, the scent of dry rotting flowers).

The aftertaste caught in his mouth, unshiftable. He inclined his head forward and opened his eyes. The light was red and pulsing behind his eyelids, he fluttered them open but the glare was still hard, the revealed world looked queasy and unsettled. He smelt something smouldering, but it was in his mind. Lecha.s.seur didn't get real headaches, not any more, and these disorientating moments of waking were the closest he came to reliving them.

His lips flickered like his eyes, his mouth almost too dry to make words.

'Hei-Heil Hitler,' he stammered.'You know, that's twice as amusing the second time around,' said Eric Walken.

'What does he mean?' squeaked the girl. 'You didn't say anything about Hitler.'

'I'm joking,' Lecha.s.seur mumbled. There was a movement at his feet. He glanced down through bleary eyes and saw another man on his knees, wrapping up discarded acid-spittle in a handkerchief. He was a big guy with cropped hair, a gorilla in evening dress. As Lecha.s.seur's eyes settled on him he rose self-consciously and, at a nod from Walken, left the room, clutching his precious find in indelicate fingers. On his way, he looked back at the captive, then at Walken, with slow concerned eyes.

'Don't worry, he's not going to hurt us,' Walken told him.'I don't know,' Lecha.s.seur warned, the strength returning to his voice, 'he might.' He shrugged the pins-and-needles out of his body and made himself comfortable in the chair. He drew in his surroundings, a drab store in what he guessed was the Inferno club. The light was naked and electric, dangling on a flex from the ceiling, wasted on a room full of dust and boxes.

Walken was tuxedoed again, playing the club boss rather than the conjuror. He hadn't grown any taller since their last meeting, still the same powerful little man, poised like a solemn ape ready to spring. He stood swaying about a yard from the chair but seemed about ready to start bounding off the walls in a fit of pure energy.

His mistress, who looked all of nineteen, sat on a crate of black market champagne, swinging long legs to her own rhythm. Walken had dressed her in nostalgic tics, white fur and pearls, elegant grey elbow-length gloves, she looked like a gangster's moll from the 1920s or a silent movie star. She was heart-faced and wide-eyed, a little too starved to be truly elegant. She had a bag of toffees on her lap that seemed to hold her attention more closely than anything in the room around her. She smiled at Lecha.s.seur from under blonde curls but their eyes didn't meet.

Walken said: 'I apologise for the method we had to use to bring you here. I had some trouble tracking you down after our last meeting, time is as you know of the essence, and you have a reputation as someone who isn't easily persuaded. I'm sorry.'