'And where's ' That spectre in the back of her mind stepped out into the spotlight, riverdancing like a clown. 'The Doctor!'

Chloe pointed over Anji's shoulder. She whirled round and saw three huge round windows that gave on to a seething vista of smoke and shadow.

She was inside the building the Doctor had pointed out to her. While he was still out there, defenceless against these creatures.

'Chloe, you must help the Doctor like you helped me.'

'I tried,' Chloe a.s.sured her. 'He thinks his brain's big enough to listen to them. To hear what they have to say, and maybe even talk back.'

'Communicate,' Anji said dully, remembering those last pained moments before the mist smothered them.

'I do hope he can communicate with them,' she said. 'I asked him to tell them to stop hurting Jamais's tummy.'

Anji nodded, transfixed by the frenzy of shape and shadow behind the circles of gla.s.s. She felt her every hair was standing on end, as if she'd had the most terrible nightmare and now was reliving it, watching it happen to someone else.

A dark speck resolved itself out of the h.e.l.lstorm, tumbling and rolling in midair, out of control. It was the Doctor, falling from the sky, flying like an ungainly bird.

'Jamais,' whispered Chloe urgently, trying to rouse the slab of dark furry flesh at her feet. 'Jamais!'

He was heading straight for the window, too fast, too 'Jamais!'

The Doctor slammed up hard against the window and was squashed flat against its glistening, shining surface. He'd seen her. Anji stared helplessly as he scrabbled for a purchase, his eyes wide, terrified.

Jamais stirred, looked round groggily, growled and snapped his jaws. Chloe was rushing to the window, reaching out her tiny hands to the Doctor.

The air tingled about Anji as he fell soundlessly through the window, which darkened to night's rich, velvety black behind him.

'Doctor!' Anji threw herself to the ground where he lay, feeling for a pulse. There was nothing. His skin was cold, steaming like food taken out of the freezer, and it had a dead-turkey pallor to it.

She rested her head against his chest, listening for a heartbeat.

Then out of the silence came a single mournful beat. Then another. She held her breath, waiting for another. At last it came, and then its echo.

'Fallen G.o.ds,' the Doctor murmured softly. 'Some creatures stay backstage in s.p.a.ce-time for very good reason.' His blue eyes snapped open, but they were unfocused. 'Anji? Is that you?' His voice was sharp. 'Are you all right?'

'What about you?'

'I'm blind,' he said, wonderingly. 'I can't see anything but those mists...'

Anji clutched hold of his shoulders. 'Will it pa.s.s?'

'It's all right,' he told her, apparently unbothered. 'You could say I see everything, perfectly now.' He giggled. 'Everything.'

'Doctor?'

'Contact. Focus.' He gave a sudden, drunken laugh. 'It's going to take some time to go back to these silly senses we rely on so frivolously.'

Anji felt uneasy, watching him twitch and shudder on the floor before her. What if something had come back from the wraith world with him?

Chloe stole nearer to his p.r.o.ne form. 'Did you ask about Jamais like I wanted you to?'

'I asked all about Jamais, and all about you and your guardian. And they told me, too. Everything.' The Doctor sniffed disapprovingly. 'Now you must kill me.' His eyes closed, he groped out blindly for Anji's arm, took it and squeezed it hard. 'I know too much, you see...'

Anji looked helplessly at Chloe. Jamais wagged his tail slowly and sullenly. When Chloe noticed she gave him a fuss.

'No one's going to kill you, Doctor.' Anji stroked his icy forehead. 'You're OK. You're safe.'

'Can never be safe,' whispered the Doctor. 'None of us. Not now everything... everything...'

'Let it go,' Chloe whispered to him, staring at him wiht those creepy eyes. They seemed just the same colour as the Doctor's eyes now. 'You must let it go.'

The Doctor nodded and slipped off into sleep. Anji gripped his cold hand, and glanced out of the window. There was only darkness beyond, s.p.a.ce with no stars. Blackness with no hope.

Guy was woken in the spare room by the tinkling of the extension. It was eight-thirty, and someone was on the phone.

Trix. What was she up to?

'Good morning, I hope it's not too early to call, but I have some important questions for the manager, is he in yet?' Trix was speaking in a light Scottish accent. She sounded cute and s.e.xy. Who wouldn't want to tell her everything? 'Yes, I'll hold.'

There was a pause, and Guy sat up, scragging his fingers through his hair. A sheaf of papers slithered off the bedclothes to the floor. The names of the victims versus the names on Mike's licences. He'd intended having one last scan through them last night once they'd got back from the office, but had fallen into a deep sleep, dead to the world.

'Mr Angel? My name's Beatrice Montgomery, I'm calling from the Sea Fisheries Inspectorate. I understand you received a large order for funeral caskets suitable for a burial at sea, is that correct?' Guy listened in on her as he began to get dressed. He'd shower later. Maybe.

'Well, the reason I ask, Mr Angel,' Babe Beatrice went lilting on, 'is that the inspection we carried out on your product was undertaken by a man we've since let go for incompetence... You'll understand how importantly we treat such inspections. We have to be confident that the dear deceased aren't going to come popping up to the surface like farts in the bathwater, eh?'

Guy frowned as he pulled up his socks. Nice image, Trix. He sniffed tentatively at a roll-on deodorant he'd found in Anji's bathroom. Not too girly, he thought, and applied it.

He heard her give a bubbly giggle, which soon died. 'No bulk orders? You're sure of that? Only we've... Yes, but... Oh. OK... Bye.'

Guy heard her moving closer. He was starkers save for his socks! Desperately he grabbed last night's pants and struggled into them. They were at half-mast when suddenly the door was flung open.

Ugh! So much for cute and s.e.xy. She was still wearing the latex remains of her tea lady face, and looked about a hundred years old wrapped up in Anji's dressing gown.

'That was a waste of time,' she announced casually in her own neutral accent, apparently oblivious to the fact he was crouched over double with his pants round his ankles. 'No bulk orders. I'll try the other company.'

Guy stared at her, red-faced and astounded. 'Trix, would you mind b.u.g.g.e.ring off while I get changed, please?'

'Mum's the word,' Trix smiled coyly, and held out her hand. Guy swallowed hard then realised she was talking about Anji's deodorant on the dresser. He pa.s.sed her the roll-on and she left without another word.

No sooner had Guy pulled up his pants and struggled into his trousers than there was a knock at the door.

'Guy,' Fitz called, 'got any deodorant I can borrow?'

'Sorry, mate.' Guy opened the door. 'You're too late. Trix has got it.'

Fitz was stretching his gangly body, dressed in a pair of tweed trousers and an unb.u.t.toned grubby shirt. 'I'll bet The Monkees never had this trouble,' he sighed.

'Any word from Anji?' asked Guy.

'No, nor the Doctor.' Fitz looked glum. 'Anji's phone's not responding.'

'Maybe the battery's dead,' suggested Guy. 'And Stacy?'

'Crawled in to my bedroom in the wee hours.'

'Oh yes?' Guy smirked at him.

'I don't think she much cared who was in there,' said Fitz ruefully. 'Just zonked out on the floor.'

'Even so...' He smiled conspiratorially. 'You would, wouldn't you?'

Fitz grinned. 'Maybe. I'm a sucker for American accents.'

Guy nodded. 'I'm sure Trix would put one on for you, seeing as you've been married and all...'

'Get out of it.' Fitz grimaced. 'Anyway, didn't I just see her coming out of your room?'

'Yeah, but...' Guy looked down at his undone trousers and socks. 'It's not what you think!' he gasped in a helpless maiden voice. And then, before he could stop himself: 'So, what about Anji?'

Fitz's smile faltered. 'Eh?'

'Well, you know... would you?'

'Anji's my mate.' Fitz looked uncomfortable. 'Not sure I think of her like that.'

'So you've never...'

'Give it a rest, eh?' Fitz's good humour had vanished. 'It's weird talking about her like that when we don't even know where she is.'

Guy nodded, sheepishly. He'd only wanted to find out a bit more about her, what she was like to be with. There was something about her... But the stern look on Fitz's long face spake clearly: Thus endeth the laddish conversation.

'What's that then?' Fitz walked pa.s.sed Guy to the dresser and picked up a little gla.s.s bottle. 'Aftershave? That'd do. My pits reek.'

'Thanks for sharing,' said Guy, 'but that's just some cream the Doctor gave me for the burns I got.' They'd more or less gone now. He only hoped Pete was healing as quickly.

Fitz unscrewed the cap and took a cautious sniff. 'Think I'll stick to reeking,' he muttered, and chucked it over to Guy.

As Guy smeared on a little more lotion to the last pink patches around his collarbone, Fitz glanced down and noticed the pieces of paper on the floor.

'Pity these didn't check out,' he said as he scooped them up.

Guy picked up yesterday's shirt and put it on while Fitz flicked through the names on the licences. He could hear Trix outside using her Scottish voice on some other hapless coffin manufacturer.

He pulled on his trousers. 'Guess Stacy's never going to have evidence of what really happened to those people in Basalt's snuff movies.'

'Maybe it's for the best,' Fitz agreed. 'Sometimes it's best not to go poking your nose into stuff like that...' He trailed off. 'Oh. My. G.o.d.'

Guy frowned. 'What is it?'

'I think we've got something here.'

'Let me see.'

'It's probably nothing,' Fitz said hastily, laying out certain pages on the crumpled duvet. 'But look. Third name on Stacy's list: Holly Fulbright. One of the names here on the licence list: Ivy Black.'

'Come on, that's got to be coincidence.' Guy felt a shiver brush down his spine. 'Although it is lame enough for Mike to think of.'

'Lateral thinking,' said Fitz. 'And here: Dean Brooks.'

Guy leafed through the printouts. 'Martin Rivers! You're kidding me!'

'Dean Martin... Brook to river...' Fitz nudged Guy in the ribs 'Stream of consciousness you might say.' of consciousness you might say.'

'Ouch. Jesus, Fitz. I think you're right.'

'Could just be coincidence...'

Guy clapped his hands together. 'No, look. Who was that fella you were supposed to knock off?'

'Pietro '

'Pietro Nencini, yeah? Look at this last one in the licence list, undated Peter Semprini.' He waited for recognition to dawn in Fitz's eyes. 'Semprini! Like in the Monty Python sketch. You know there's the chemist's shop and...'

Fitz looked at him blankly but Guy was undeterred.

'I'll bet it was all he could come up with for an Italian! It's just so him. He really thinks him and John Cleese were separated at birth.'

He and Fitz started laughing like schoolkids.

'Let's have another,' said Guy. 'Graeme Gallows? Tracy Marlowe?'

'Can't see any obvious matches,' said Fitz, drumming his fingers on the paper.

'A fair amount of these must be genuine burials, anyway.'

'And I guess not all the names on Stacy's list can be here.' Fitz paused. 'Can they?'

'Depends when Basalt roped in Mike to start covering his tracks. Stacy said he went to England about the time of...' Guy scanned Stacy's list, excitement building. '...June Goodman.'

The pages skittered across the bed as Fitz flurried through them. 'It's got to be April Badlady or something.'

'Badlady?' snorted Guy. 'No, it's her, look Julie Bonham.'

The air was fair crackling between them now. 'What, Julie like July you mean?'

'And Bonham from "bon homme",' cried Guy. 'French for "good man". Very clever.'