She could not talk to him after he had made his joke.

Pete really understood. In fact, when he heard pieces of the track, he told her that it was she who understood, that she really understood him.

Pete loved the track with an extraordinary pa.s.sion. She supposed it appealed to him, the notion of the whole world possessed by the Wind.

The little flat in Willesden had become the setting for Crowley's dreams. He was no longer fooled by its nondescript architecture. This flat was a dynamo. It had been turned into a generator of horrors.

He was on his haunches, looking down at another ruined face.

The little flat was becoming steeped in violence. It contained some vast attractive force luring people in to violent and b.l.o.o.d.y mayhem. Crowley felt trapped in some ghastly time-slip. Here we are again, he thought, gazing at the destroyed and b.l.o.o.d.y mask beneath him.

There had been the first time, when he had seen Saul's father shattered on the lawn. Not systematically 274.

pulped like this, it was true. Maybe he had been running from the flat. Maybe that was why his injuries were less severe; he had tasted it in the air, he had known that had he stayed he would not just die but be crushed. He had not wanted to die like an insect, so he had hurled himself instead from the window, eager for a human death.

Crowley shook his head. His edge was blunting, he could not help it. Here we are again.

Then Barker, another one whose face was destroyed, and Page, looking over his own shoulder, impossible.

And now another had been broken on this sacri hcial altar. The girl lay on her back, the floor around her was vile with blood. Her face was bent inwards as if on a hinge. Crowley glanced up at the door-frame. That patch of wood there, with radial explosions of blood and saliva and mucus bursting out from it on all sides, that section of the frame there, that was where her face had been thrust.

Crowley vaguely remembered the sense of duty which pushed him into the dark corridors at night, as he lay sleeping. He would stand in the sitting-room, where he was now, looking behind him, again, again, like a dog chasing its tail, unable to stand still because he knew that if he did something would come and smash his face ...

He never saw Saul, in his dreams.

275.

Bailey entered, pushing through the perplexed knot of uniforms.

'No sign of anything anywhere else, sir. Just this, just here.'

'Has Herrin got anything?' he said.

'He's still talking to the uniform who got called to the bus station this morning. A load of the buses are smashed up; and the guard, they reckon it wasn't the gla.s.s in his eye that killed him. He was. .h.i.t over the head with a long, thin stick.'

'Our unusual club, again,' mused Crowley. 'Too thin for most people's taste; they like something that packs a wallop. Of course, if you're as strong as our murderer seems to be, the thinner the better. Less surface area, more pressure.'

'Our murderer, sir?'

Crowley looked at him. Bailey seemed confused, and even accusatory. Crowley could tell that he thought his superior was losing it. The extraordinary nature of the crimes had affected Bailey in the opposite way from Crowley. He had been thrust towards an aggressive, dogmatic common sense, determined to bring Saul to heel, refusing to be overawed or surprised by the carnage he saw.

'What?' demanded Crowley.

'You sound unsure, sir. Have you got some reason for thinking it's not Garamond?'

Crowley shook his head as if at a mosquito, irritated, brushing the air. Bailey withdrew.

276.

Yes, I have ample reason, thought Crowley, because I interviewed him and saw him. I mean Jesus look at him, he did not do this. And if he did, then something happened to change him in that night after I interviewed him, and he changed so much h,e is no longer what I saw, in which case I am still right, Saul Garamond did not do this, and I don't give a s.h.i.t what you and Herrin think, you lumbering great p.r.i.c.ks.

Nothing added up. The dead guard at Westbourne Grove was clearly the victim of the same man as had killed the two policemen, and this girl here lying ruined in blood and bone. But the police had been called to the bus station minutes after the inhabitants of Terragon Mansions had reported violent shouts and b.u.mps from upstairs. And Westbourne Park was simply too far from Willesden to be reached in that time. So whoever was shattering all that gla.s.s in those buses and pushing it in that poor man's eye could not be the same one who had destroyed this woman.

Of course, Herrin and Bailey saw no problem with this. Someone had been confused about the time. The people in Willesden must be half an hour or so out. Or the people in Westbourne Grove were, or both were fifteen minutes out, or something. And the fact that so many were out by the same amount, well, what did you think happened then, sir? If not that?

And of course Crowley had no answer.

He was intrigued by reports of music coming from the garage at the time Saul - or whoever - was 277.

destroying it. The reports were vague, but seemed to indicate a high-pitched sound like a recorder or a flute or pipes, or something. Saul was no musician, Crowley knew that, though he was apparently something of an aficionado of Dance music, the kind that his taciturn friend Natasha played. So what of the pipes?

Crowley could see the scenario being created for Saul. Saul had become a serial killer. And Saul therefore needed rituals, such as the return to this, the site of his first murder, that had unhinged him. And the playing of music at the site of a murder, such as the one at the bus station, what was this but ritualized? Perhaps he had played music also at the death of the as yet unidentified man in the underground, a crime Crowley was still sure was part of the same rampage. The public-transport connection only strengthened his conviction.

So, why was Saul no longer into Dance music? Why had he started playing what most of those who had heard it described as Folk music? None of this was airtight, of course, of course ...

But Crowley could not help thinking it might be another who had played the music in the bus station. Why not? Why must it be Saul? What if it was another who mocked him with this music so utterly different to Saul's own taste?

Crowley straightened up suddenly. A long, thin, light club. Made of metal: the impact was clear about 278.

that. Something the murderer hung on to, used more than once. Took from crime to crime. Where he played music, it seemed.

'Bailey!' Crowley yelled.

The big man appeared, still impatient, still exasperated with his boss.

He all but rolled his eyes at Crowley's new question.

'Bailey, do any of Saul's mates play the flute?'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Deep underneath London, King Rat skulked and ferreted in the darkness.

He clutched a stash of food, carried it slung over^j one shoulder like a swag bag. His strides were long A and left no sign. He stalked silently through the water of the sewers.

The rats ran as he approached. The braver souls n stayed a little to spit at him and provoke him. His

smell was deeply ingrained in their nervous system,

and they had been taught to despise it. King Ratl ignored them. Walked on. His eyes were dark.

He pa.s.sed like a thief in the night. Unclear. Min-l imal. Dirty. Subaltern. His motives were opaque.

He reached under the dirty stream to dislodge the! plug to his throne-room, slid through the murk intoi the great teardrop chamber. He shook the water fror him, and stamped into the room.

Saul came from behind him. He clutched a broken! chair leg which he swung at an incredible speed and cracked against the back of King Rat's skull.

280.

King Rat flew forward and flung his arms out with a sudden shrill bark of pain. He sprawled, rolled, clutching his head, regained his footing. Food spread across the sodden floor.

Saul was upon him, quivering, his jaw set hard and tight. He swung the chair leg again and again.

King Rat was as pliable as quicksilver. He slid impossibly out of Saul's flurry of blows and scampered away, hissing, clutching his bleeding head.

He spun to face Saul.

Saul's face was a mosaic of bruises and blood and puffy flesh. King Rat was quite still. He eyed Saul with his hidden eyes. His teeth were bared and glinted v,'ith dirty yellow light. His breath came hard. His hands were crooked into eager claws.

But Saul hit him again, before those claws could move. Saul's hands and club came at him hard, but King Rat ripped up with his clawed hands and drew lines on Saul's stomach, below his ruined shirt.

Saul spoke, muttering in time to the blows he attempted to land.

'So what the f.u.c.k was Loplop doing there, unh?' Slam.

King Rat slipped outside the club's arc. It hit the floor loudly.

'Tell him to follow me, unh?' Slam. 'What was he going to do - report back?' Slam. This time the wood connected and King Rat yelled in rage.

King Rat growled and slashed at Saul with those 281.

claws, and Saul bellowed and swung the club wit renewed venom. The two of them skittered around! the dark room, slipping on mould and food, moving now on two limbs, now on four. Saul and King Rat moved like liminal figures, hovering between evolutionary strata, b.e.s.t.i.a.l and knowing.

'So was Loplop going to send a message, unh? bird? Little bird going to let slip where I was, then?'

Again the attacks came, again King Rat moved,! refusing to engage in battle, content to draw blood* and slip away, his teeth still visible and wicked.

'What if Loplop had accidentally told someone else! where I was, unh? Was I f.u.c.king bait?' King Rat! caught the club with his right hand and bit at it suddenly and savagely, and it dissolved in a burst of

splinters. Saul did not pause, but grasped King Rat's? filthy lapels and carried him down into the muck,

straddling him.

'Well you needn't have bothered, you f.u.c.king s.h.i.t^ because the Piper was there and look what he did to me, you s.h.i.t. You just weren't ready, you and 'Nansi* so poor old Loplop had to take him on his own.' Sat pinioned King Rat's arms to the brick floor and bega systematically to punch his face. But even trapped lit that King Rat writhed and slipped under him, many of the heavy blows did not land.

Saul thrust his face right up to King Rat, and stare through the shadows on his eyes.

'I know you wouldn't give a f.u.c.k if I'd died, as lon^

282.

as I took Piper-man with me,' he hissed. 'And I know you killed my dad, you f.u.c.king s.h.i.thead rapist, you piece of crud - not the f.u.c.king Piper ..."

We.' King Rat shouted the word out and convulsed, throwing Saul from him and sliding in a single movement until he stood in characteristic pose by the throne, skulking and aggrandizing, but this time with his claws bared and his teeth dangerous, coated in slaver like a wild animal. Saul moved backwards in the dirt, fought to right himself.

King Rat spoke again. 'I never b.u.mped off your dad, stupid. I killed the Usurper.'

The word stayed in the air after he had spoken it.

King Rat spoke again.

'I'm your dad ...'

'No you f.u.c.king aren't, you weird old f.u.c.ked-up spiritual degenerate,' replied Saul instantly. 'I might have your blood in my veins, you f.u.c.king rapist b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but you aren't s.h.i.t to me.'

Saul smacked himself on the forehead, laughing bitterly.

'I mean, h.e.l.lo? "Your mother was a rat, and I'm your uncle." Jesus, nice one - playing me like a f.u.c.king idiot! And...' Saul paused and jerked his finger viciously at King Rat, 'and, that G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.king lunatic Piper who wants me dead only knows about me because of you.'

Saul sat down hard and held his head in his hands. King Rat watched him.

283.

'I mean, I keep saying I've sorted it out, right?' Saul murmured. 'And I just can't stop thinking about it. You killed my father, you rapist s.h.i.t, and when you did that you let some f.u.c.king spirit of darkness out after me, you gave him my f.u.c.king address, and, what,, I'm supposed to go "Daddy!"?' Saul shook his head in disgust. He felt his gut twist with contempt and hatred. 'You can f.u.c.k off. It doesn't work like that.'

'So what're you after, an apology?'

King Rat was scornful. He moved towards Saul.

'What do you want? We're blood. It was half an age since I left, since you were a little G.o.dfer in the fat man's arms. I could clock you getting flabby. It was time to join your old dad, the cutpurse king. We're blood.'

Saul stared up at him.

'No, f.u.c.ker, I don't want s.h.i.t from you.' Saul I stood. 'What I want is out.' He moved off behind the

throne, turned to face King Rat. 'You can deal with

the Piper on your own. He only wants me because of

you, you know? You've been bragging about me, you stupid s.h.i.t. You don't give a f.u.c.k about family. Yow raped my mum so you could have your weapon. Th< piper="" knows="" it;="" he="" called="" me="" the="" secret="" weapon.="" know="" what="" i="" mean="" to="" you.="" i="" know="" i'm="" a="" good="" way="" o="" getting="" at="" him,="" because="" he="" can't="" control="">

'But he only wants me dead because of you. So, tel you what.'

284.

Saul moved backwards as he spoke, towards the room's peculiar exit.

'Tell you what. You deal with the Piper as best you can, and /'// look after myself. Agreed?'

And Saul looked King Rat in the eye, those eyes he could still not see, and he left the room.

Up above the sewers: in the sky, over the slate. Out in the air. Saul fingered the skin over his bruises and felt it stretched out taut and split. He gazed at London, spread out before him, unfolding, the underworld threatening to burst through, to rupture its surface tension. It was dark; his life was always dark now. He was becoming a night creature.

His body hurt. His head ached, his arms were scratched and stretched, his muscles burned with deep bruises. But he could not stay still. He felt a desperate eagerness to work through it, to burn the pain out of his body. He swung meaninglessly around girders and antennae, loose-limbed and elegant like a gibbon. He was suddenly very hungry, but he remained on the roofs for a while, running and jumping over low walls and skylights. He straddled the intricacies of St Pancras station, and sped along the spine of roofs which jutted out behind it like a dinosaur's tail.

This was the realm of the arches. Weird little businesses waged a battle against empty s.p.a.ce, cramming 285.

into the unlikely hollows below the railway lines. They proclaimed themselves with crude signs.

OFFICE EQUIPMENT CHEAP. WE DELIVER.

Saul descended to street level. He was fighting to channel the force of elation which had flooded through him at his renunciation of King Rat. He was fragile, ready to burst into tears or hysterics. He was captivated by London.

Someone approached him from around a corner: a

woman in heels, he could hear, a brave soul walking this area alone at night. He did not want to scare her;

so he slumped against a wall and slid down to the floor, just a comatose drunk.

The a.s.sociations of homelessness struck him and, as the heels clicked by him unseen, he thought of

Deborah and he felt his throat catch. And then it was 1 easy to think of his father.

But Saul did not have time for this, he decided. He I leapt up and followed his nose to the dustbins of this! odd realm, a world where the streets were empty off houses, where the only things that surrounded himl were the peculiar businesses, Victorian throwbacks.