"We know we can't trust you." She picked her words carefully. "We also know that you offered a deal this morning that you have since welched on. I didn't agree with the deal at the time but "

"I haven't welched on any deal. What the f.u.c.k are you talking about?"

"Francis told me about your phone call, Mr Rigby. We know how much you want. We're simply not prepared to pay it." She made a throwaway gesture with her hand that could have meant anything and nothing at all. "The fact remains that you cannot be trusted. So, this time, we do things my way."

"It must have been Galway made that call. He's f.u.c.king with you."

She wasn't listening. She dropped her cigarette, stubbed it out with a delicate size three.

"Where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"The camera, Mr Rigby. The camera."

"I don't have it."

"Who has it?"

"No one has it."

"You won't give us the camera?"

"I don't have it."

She stood up, moved across to Katie, untied her hands. Katie rubbed at her wrists, trying to get the circulation back into her fingers. The Ice Queen helped her, taking Katie's left wrist, rubbing the back of the hand.

"Nice hands," she said, thoughtful. "I used to have hands like that. Soft and smooth." She picked out a finger, the second smallest on Katie's left hand. "There should be a ring on that finger," she said. Then she snapped it.

The piercing scream went through me for a shortcut. I started forward but a blow from behind brought me to my senses, eventually, face down in the dust. The pro dragged me to my feet again, quicker this time, getting better with practice. He touched the gun against the back of my thigh.

"Next time, I'll blow your f.u.c.king knee out."

The bone in Katie's finger was sticking out at a ninety-degree angle to the second joint. She was sobbing hard, moaning some word I couldn't understand, pawing at Helen Conway's arm. The Ice Queen stroked the back of Katie's hand, making it impossible for her to pull it away without causing herself unimaginable pain.

"I'm not accustomed to torture, Mr Rigby," she said. I could hardly hear her over the drone of Katie's sobbing. "But I do know this is not torture. Every time I break a bone, the agony subsides to a level that can be tolerated. Even now, Katie's body has forgotten the intensity of the pain, because our bodies have no physical recollection process. All that is left is the fear that it will happen again, and fear can be conquered."

"I've told you "

"Ideally, torture should involve the gradual increase of pain, to the point that the victim will do anything to be released. This isn't ideal, but..."

She checked her watch.

"We've been here five minutes already. For each minute we are here from now, I will break another finger. Every time I hear a wrong answer, I will break another finger. Now where is it?"

"I don't "

Crack.

"Jesus Christ!"

Crack. Tony Sheridan studied the floor.

"I don't f.u.c.king have "

Crack.

Katie's howls were coming in waves, from somewhere deep inside, somewhere where her survival instincts still held sway.

"You stupid b.i.t.c.h!" I was raving, waving my arms like a loon. The pro's gun bored into the back of my thigh. "I don't f.u.c.king have it here!"

She finally got the message. By then Katie's hand was a swollen, shapeless lump. The fingers stuck out at odd angles. Her sobs were the dry heaves of an agony I couldn't begin to imagine. Helen Conway said: "Where is it?"

"It's in the car! Jesus Christ..."

She stared, cool.

"I do believe," she said, "that we have over-estimated Mr Rigby." Tony Sheridan looked up for the first time, his glum expression giving way to grim satisfaction, a look that made me sick to my stomach. Machiavelli wasn't a patch on Tony Sheridan. "And where is the car?"

"Outside. It's outside."

"It's outside," she repeated. "The camera is in the car, which is outside, and you didn't bring it with you? My G.o.d, we have been guilty of over-estimating you. You're not very bright at all, Mr Rigby, are you? Are you sure Eddie is your brother?"

She nodded at the pro. He marched me out the door, down the stairs across the foyer. When we got to the front door he said: "Where's the car?"

"Across the street."

He grunted.

"You got that much right, anyway."

Then he turned me around to face him. He held up the gun, in case I'd forgotten about it, then he slipped his hand into his pocket. The barrel bulged against the fabric. He looked like Bogie spoofing on Edward G. Robinson. I didn't laugh.

"Don't try anything stupid."

"No worries. I'm all out of stupid."

"Says you."

We crossed the deserted street to the car, crunching snow. I slid in behind the steering wheel, leaned across the handbrake, pulling down the door of the glove compartment. Cursing myself as I pawed through the envelopes, sweet wrappers and empty water bottles. Plan A couldn't have fallen apart quicker if I'd poured battery acid on it, and I was under no illusions that Helen Conway was letting us walk away from the projection room. We weren't walking away, we weren't crawling away and we weren't going be carried out on stretchers. The only way we were leaving the projection room was in body bags.

The Ice Queen had overestimated me, and I'd returned the favour by underestimating her and Tony Sheridan. Even after the machine gun on the bridge, I still thought they'd have played by the rules. They were playing by one rule, though, and that rule was, there were no rules. I should have listened to Dutchie. Even knowing that Dutchie had sold me out especially knowing that Dutchie had sold me out I should have listened to him, heard what he was trying to say. 'What's Plan B?' Dutchie wanted to know.

"Come on, for f.u.c.ks sakes," the pro growled. He bent down to see what the delay was and my hand closed on the worn b.u.t.t of a stubby Plan B.

I didn't stop to think. The last thirty-six hours I'd tried to plan, working it out step by step. Getting Denise and Ben to safety, confronting Big Frank, leading Brady a merry dance while he chased me the length and breadth of the country. And all that planning had walked me into a death trap, because the only issue in doubt if I handed over the camera was who would put the bullet in the back of my head.

I started to back out of the car. The pro took a step back to let me out and he should have taken two, because by then I was in his face, inside his reach, the .38 grinding into his throat, my arm around his neck, pulling him onto the barrel.

"I'll kill you, you c.u.n.t. I'll f.u.c.king kill you!" I was snarling, grinding teeth, eyes wild. We were forehead-to-forehead, close enough to kiss, and I couldn't give him time to think. His first instinct had to be that I'd lost it, that I was willing to do whatever it took, and that he was first in line for whatevering. "Drop it or I will blow your f.u.c.king head off."

There was a dull clunk, his gun hitting snow. I didn't breathe. I ground my forehead into his, in case he tried to b.u.t.t me.

"Put your hands behind your head. Real f.u.c.king slow."

He did it, fear in his eyes. He'd been in this situation before, from the other side of the gun, knew the procedure.

"On your knees. Real slow."

He started to dip, bending his knees. When his forehead reached the level of my nose, I swung my knee full force into his groin. He went down squealing, sprawled out on the snow, face down. Buckled as he was, he still reached for his gun; I didn't make a game of it. I drew a boot on the side of his head, connected so well he ricocheted off the car door. He curled into a ball, groaning. I flicked his gun away with the side of my foot and booted him again, this time full in the face, crunching bone. He scrabbled to one side, a giant roach as he tried to crawl under the car. I moved away, picked up his gun, checked the safety catch. It was off. I put the .38 into my pocket. His gun was heavier, but not so heavy I couldn't carry the extra weight.

"Get up. On your knees."

He tried, blood pumping from his face, a pink stain seeping into the snow. I thought of Gonzo in the toilets of the kebab house.

"Get the f.u.c.k up! Now."

He pushed himself to his knees, leaning back against the car door, whimpering. I moved in, inching it, hooked an arm around his throat, dug the gun into the side of his neck. He lurched to his feet, staggered forward. I went with him, then jerked my arm tight around his throat.

"You know, I've never done this before. And that's not good news, because it means I could do anything, anything at all. The smallest twitch, a trip or a stumble, and the gun'll go off and your head'll come off with it." I tightened the chokehold again. "Hear me?"

He grunted.

"One step at a time. Go."

He went. I pushed him through the cinema doors, across the foyer, holding him close. We went up the rickety stairs side-by-side, which was awkward, but we managed. I pulled him up short on the tiny landing outside the projection room.

"Move and I'll do it. And I want to do it. You know I want to do it. Yeah?"

He nodded.

"If everyone plays ball we're out of here. Nothing stupid and everyone walks away. Hear me?"

Again he nodded.

"Okay. Let's go."

We pushed through the projection room door. The Ice Queen turned to greet us and her smile died so fast it went happy. Tony Sheridan started up off the tea chest. Katie looked up, still sobbing, a bewildered expression creasing her face. No one spoke. I realised they were waiting on me.

"Get up, Katie. Over here."

She stood, tottering, made to move towards the door. Without looking, Helen Conway put out a hand to bar her way.

"I'll kill him," I said, tightening my chokehold on the pro. "Don't doubt it."

Katie made to brush past Helen Conway's arm, cradling her warped hand, but the Ice Queen was made of sterner stuff. So was her voice. The husky chuckle was gone, replaced with a monotone you could have knocked sparks off.

"I wouldn't, honey," she warned Katie. "He's the one we want. Don't pick the wrong side now."

Katie hesitated, looked at me. I looked at Helen Conway. My plan, if that was the right word for it, had been to get Katie out and then back myself out of the room. Now that the bluff had failed, I had no idea of what happened next. The Ice Queen was first to speak.

"It would seem," she said, moving to her right, behind Katie, "that we didn't underestimate you after all."

"You've seen too many Bond films. Move again and I'll blow his f.u.c.king head off."

She was gliding towards the far wall.

"I believe you, Mr Rigby. Really, I do." She reached the wall, holding Katie by the elbow. I watched her from the corner of my eye, keeping the other on Tony Sheridan. He hadn't moved. "In fact, I'm willing to offer you a deal. We'll pay your price for the camera."

I didn't believe a word. I'd seen it too often in the movies, where the bad guy talks you into a corner and then, just when you're least expecting it, he whips out a knife and takes an ear off. Or maybe it's a gun, and you're blown into the emergency ward, or the morgue. The Ice Queen was still moving, though, and there was nothing I could do about it. Either she reckoned I was bluffing about pulling the trigger on the pro, or she didn't care about him either way. She was wrong about the first I wasn't sure when, but I'd crossed some line I hadn't even known existed.

I was right about the second.

"How much?" I asked, buying time, still watching Tony Sheridan. Helen Conway I could deal with, even if she was now out of my field of vision, against the far wall. "That camera was worth a neat pile a couple of hours ago and inflation's a b.i.t.c.h. Right now I'd say it's worth "

I've never been kicked in the ribs by a rogue elephant but I won't have to go on safari to know how it feels. I took off like a burst balloon and hit the ground two seconds short of the land speed record, the pro sprawled across me.

I hadn't bargained on Helen Conway carrying a gun. If I'd thought about it, maybe, I'd have considered it a possibility, but I hadn't even thought about it, mainly because I need keyhole surgery to get ideas into my head. But she had a gun. Once she had a clear shot, a position where the danger to the pro was minimised, she'd let fly. Minimised, but not entirely neutralised. He'd taken the bullet. I'd taken everything it had left over, which was enough to save my life. The impact pitched us both across the room into the middle of the tea chests.

As soon as I hit the ground, the Ice Queen started snapping off shots. I scrabbled around, desperately trying to manoeuvre myself under the dead man. Splinters of wood, metal and celluloid flew as I tried to bury myself in the floor. The noise was deafening, so loud I couldn't even hear myself scream. I was a dead man, as dead as the pro on my chest. I knew it felt it it was only a matter of time before a bullet finally found me.

Time comes in split seconds, infinitesimal moments. Somewhere, sometime, in a parallel universe, that split second arrived; the bullet found me and the cosmos ceased to be. Back on planet Rigby, another split second arrived. One of the tea chests toppled over, giving me a clear view of the Ice Queen along the barrel of the pro's gun, her head suspended above the sight like a coconut at a shy. Never mind your Grand Canyons, your newborn babies or your tropical sunsets the sight of the Ice Queen's grim features resting on the barrel of the gun was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. I realised that I hadn't flipped the safety catch off. Then I heard a twenty-one-gun salute and the Ice Queen buckled sideways, disappeared from sight.

I rolled to one side, aiming to get as far under the tea chests as possible. I had no idea where Helen Conway was or what she was doing, but I had a fair idea she wasn't ringing out for wreaths. And then I heard, dimly, through the pealing bells, the voice of G.o.d.

"Son? You alright, son?"

I peered over the tea chest. Baluba Joe was standing in the doorway, taller than I remembered him. Shoulders back, still wearing the grimy greatcoat, the soiled pants, the black beret. His right arm was extended, the old Colt .45 at the end of it pointed at the Ice Queen's face. She didn't seem offended, too busy trying to push her guts back into the hole in her side.

Katie was hunched in a corner, face to the wall, holding her crippled hand by the wrist. I pushed the tea chest away, staggered to my feet, legs shaking, breathing hard. My eyes were streaming from the stench of cordite, which was good, because it meant I couldn't focus on the dead pro as I stepped over him. Tony Sheridan had jammed himself between the projector and far wall, hands over his ears. I prodded him with the gun.

"Get up, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He looked at me, fearful, not fully comprehending. Or maybe he didn't hear me properly, my ears were ringing so badly I hardly heard myself. I jerked the gun at him. Still he didn't move, so I cracked him one with the b.u.t.t of the gun. I hit maybe harder than I had hit anything before in my life, the adrenaline coursing. He slumped, didn't move. Blood ebbed from his temple. I cracked him another one, for luck.

Katie's face was blank and white, all colour drained. She looked to be in shock. I hunkered down beside her.

"Katie? You okay? Katie?"

She didn't answer, gaze riveted on the Ice Queen. I stood up, wiggled the pro's gun at her.

"Kick it over here."