Kulek shrugged, then said, 'Power. More power than he had when he was alive. A larger following, one that will grow.'

'You mean he can still go on recruiting?'

Kulek was puzzled to find no trace of sarcasm in Peck's question. In fact, he was surprised the policeman had listened so patiently. 'Yes, others will join him. Many others.'

Peck and Roper exchanged sharp glances which were not lost on Jessica.

'Is there something you haven't told us, Inspector?' she asked.

Peck looked uncomfortable again. 'The crowd that ran amok last night those that got away, that is dispersed into the surrounding area. We've been picking them up throughout the day. Many have been dead when we've found them, mostly killed by their own hand. Others have been . . . mindless, wandering around lost.'

His face was grim, as though he did not like what he had to say next. 'Quite a few made straight for Willow Road. They smashed the barrier surrounding the Beechwood property. We found them standing there in the debris, just waiting like bloody vultures.'

19.

Bishop stared at the still body lying in the bath. The white, contorted features stared back.

He had spoken to Crouchley many times over the past few years, their conversations confined to Lynn's mental progress or regress, as it turned out and always on a professional basis. He couldn't say he ever got to like the man, his approach was a little too impersonal for Bishop; but he had respected him as a doctor and he had soon realized the man's dedication to his patients' welfare went beyond professional bounds. In the end they had turned on him.

The two women who had let Bishop in: had they been patients? He thought not; there seemed to be no insanity in them. Were they tools of Pryszlak as Braverman and his wife had been? Probably. They had taken over the home, the patients becoming their allies, and murdered those of the staff who had not succumbed to this new, deadly madness. Then they had forced Crouchley to ring him. After that, they had dragged him up here and drowned him.

Crouchley's mouth was open, the last bubbles of life-giving air having long exploded from his lungs to fight their way to the surface. His fair hair had turned dark beneath the water and now floated softly around his head like pondweed. Even though he was dead, fear still showed on his face.

They were banging on the door now, laughing and screaming Bishop's name, taunting him with the terror to come. The small wire-toughened window was on a level with his face and he saw, as he had expected, the frame was fixed into its surround. He looked around desperately for something to smash it with, but the bathroom was bare of implements. The chair may have helped, but that was the only thing keeping his pursuers out. The blows on the door had become harder, their rhythm more definite, as though the crowd had stood back to allow someone to use his boot against it. The angled chair shuddered.

A faint hope fluttered inside him when he saw the towel rail hooked over the bathroom's radiator. It was made of chrome and felt heavy enough to have some effect when he lifted it clear. The large towel that had been draped over it slid to the floor when he raised the rail to shoulder level. With one hand behind the triangular shaped hook and the other around the long metal rail itself, Bishop ran at the window and thrust it at the frosted glass, his feet almost slipping in the puddles beneath him.

The glass fractured, a jagged hole appeared; the wire reinforcing the glass held it together. Bishop drew the rail back and thrust again. Still the wire held.

The chair shook.

He thrust again.

The chair legs moved a fraction.

Again.

Another fraction.

This time the hook at the other end of the towel rail became entangled with the wire mesh and Bishop pulled inwards, twisting the hook to entangle it more, drawing the wire with its clinging fragments into the room, stretching it until it snapped, dropping the rail and pushing his fingers through the tiny holes, ignoring the sharp pain as the wire bit into his flesh, tugging frantically, hearing the sound of the chair scraping on the damp bathroom floor, feeling the cool night air breathing on his face through the opening that was growing wider, the wire and glass coming loose from its frame, feeling the draught grow stronger, sucked through as the door behind him burst open, tearing and twisting the wire and glass free, seeing there was enough room for him to squeeze through . . .

. . . feeling the hands on his shoulders . . .

They clawed at his body, dragging him to the floor, their screams shrilling in his head as they bounced from the tiled walls. He kicked out, his own cries joining theirs. They bore down on him, smothering his thrashing limbs with their own. A hand reached into his open mouth in an effort to pull his tongue from its roots and he bit hard, tasting blood before the scrabbling fingers jerked themselves free. He screamed when excruciating pain stabbed up from his groin area, manic hands squeezing him in a merciless grip. His shirt was ripped open and sharp fingernails dug into his chest, sinking into his skin and drawing short jagged lines of blood.

His wrists were being held and even through the confusion he could feel someone bending the fingers of one hand back trying to snap them. Before they could succeed, he was lifted, his squirming body held in eager grips. Wild deranged faces were around him and, as he twisted his head to and fro, he caught a glimpse of the two women, the tall one and the short one, standing in the doorway. Their smiles were not sinister, merely pleasant.

He arched his body upwards, the circular light set in the ceiling a huge sun filling his vision, almost blinding him. Shock hit him as he was plunged downwards and water engulfed his body. He choked as it rushed into the canals of his nose and throat, forcing out air in huge explosive bubbles. The light above was broken into frantic patterns as the water's surface scattered into stormy motion and he could see the blurred silhouettes of those who leaned over the bath and held him down. The body of the dead man stirred beneath him.

The illogical thought that Crouchley was suddenly waking from the dead threw yet more panic into him even though whatever reason was left inside told him it was only the water's disturbance that made the body move. He pushed himself upwards, resisting the hands that held him back, forcing his head above the surface. He coughed water from his lungs, retching and gasping in air at the same time. His head was gripped and he was forced down again, hands tugging at his legs to jerk him back. The water splashed at his face, covering his chin, nose, eyes. Then he was below the surface again, the world suddenly going quiet, the screaming an imaginary sound in his head. His hands reached upwards for the side of the bath and fierce pain told him they were being battered, prised away from the slippery, enamel surface. A shadow loomed over him and he felt a crushing weight on his chest. Another sudden weight on his hips pinned him helplessly to the body beneath him. They were standing on him.

His breath was beginning to go, the weight on his chest forcing it out. He closed his eyes and the darkness was tinged red. His lips were closed tight but the air bubbles steadily forced their way from them. Like his body, his mind began to drown and he felt it plummet downwards. There was no redness any more, only the deep sucking blackness and now he was living his constant nightmare, his body sinking down into the depths, small white blobs that he knew were faces waiting for him below. Pryszlak wanted him. But Pryszlak was dead. Yet Pryszlak wanted him.

He was fathoms beneath the ocean now and his body was still, struggling no more, resigned to its death. The last silvery pearl of air fled his lips and began its hasty mile-long journey to the ocean's surface above. There were many, many faces waiting below for him and they grinned and called his name. Pryszlak was among them, silent, watching. Dominic Kirkhope, gloating. The man who had tried to shoot him, Braverman, and his wife, were laughing. Others, some of whom he recognized from his vision in Beechwood, were reaching up with shrivelled, water-crinkled hands.

Then there was anger in Pryszlak's face and the others were no longer grinning. Now they were howling.

Bishop felt himself rising, rushing to the surface. He was suddenly worried about the rapid change of pressure, that nitrogen bubbles would be trapped in the tissues of his body and he would suffer what every deep-sea diver dreads: decompression sickness 'the bends'.

Then he was above the surface, spilling bath water from his mouth, wheezing in air when he could, choking as uncleared water rushed back down his throat. Strong hands held the lapels of his jacket collar and above the roaring in his ears he heard a distant voice shout, 'There's another one underneath him!'

He was dragged from the bath and allowed to fall on to the wet, tiled floor. He sucked in air, his senses spinning. Crouchley's staring face appeared before him, his limp body hanging over the side of the bath, water flowing from his mouth as though it were the end of a drainpipe.

'This one's dead,' the distant voice said.

Bishop was pounded on the back and he retched up the rest of the water inside him. He was pulled to his feet.

'Lean against me, but try and stand, mate. We'll get you out!'

Bishop tried to see who was helping him, but the room spun dizzily. He wanted to be sick.

'Get back!' A cannon roared and he saw splinters of wood fly from the wooden frame around the open doorway. White shapes scurried back into the shadows.

'Come on, Bishop, you'll have to help me. I can't carry you on my own.'

The voice was coming nearer, the words becoming more clear. The man had slid a shoulder beneath Bishop's arm and was holding him up. Bishop tried to push himself away, thinking the man was one of the maniacs, but the grip tightened.

'Hold up, pal, we're on your side. Try to walk will you? Move your legs.'

They staggered forward and Bishop felt the strength willingly flow back into his body.

'Good man,' the voice said. 'Okay, Mike, I think he's going to be all right. Keep that bloody mob back.'

They lurched into the dark hallway and began a slow, stumbling march towards the stairs. Something moved in the shadows ahead and the man in front of Bishop and his helper fired a shot into the air. The hallway was lit up for a split-second by the gunflash and he saw the mad creatures crouching there, afraid but ready to pounce.

Bishop and his two men had reached the bend in the stairs when the mob decided to attack.

They came tumbling out of the darkness like screaming banshees, pouring down the stairs in an unbroken, human stream.

Bishop fell back into the corner as his support was taken away and he saw both his helper and the other man raise their guns and fire into the crowd.

Cries of pain and fear rang through the corridors of the large house and he heard bodies falling, those behind toppling over the injured in front. Something slumped across his outstretched leg and began to writhe there. Bishop kicked the body away.

A hand tugged at his arm and he pushed himself upright, ready to fight.

'Come on, Bishop, let's keep moving.' With relief he realized the hand belonged to his helper.

'Who the hell are you?' he managed to say as they descended the next flight of stairs. It was lighter down there, but the man leading them improved matters by flicking on a switch. The hall and stairs were flooded with light.

'Never mind that now,' the man helping him said. 'Let's just get away from here first.'

A sudden thump on the stairs behind made them whirl. The male nurse who had tried earlier to attack Bishop with an iron bar stood above them. He still held the iron bar.

A blast from the gun and his white uniform became a shredded mass of red just above the knee. His leg buckled and he fell back on to the stairs, the bar clattering down noisily. He clutched his leg and burbled his pain. Others were creeping round the bend in the stairs behind him, their eyes wide and fearful.

Bishop and the two men backed away to the next flight of stairs which would lead them to the ground floor. His clothes felt heavy with water, but noradrenaline was coursing through him once more, giving him the strength he needed.

The two women were waiting below. The short one was splashing liquid from a can on to the wide stairway. She stood back, placing the can at her feet, and smiled up at her companion. The taller woman struck a match and flicked it at the stairway.

The petrol ignited in a brilliant whoosh and the three men at the top of the stairs raised their arms against the fierce heat. The flames hungrily climbed the wooden staircase towards them and beyond they could see the two women backing away, grinning delightedly.

'We can't get down,' one of the men shouted. 'There must be another way out. They've got to have a fire escape.'

Bishop's head was still reeling, but through the confusion he heard the other man say, 'Can you make it, Bishop? We're going to try the back way.'

He nodded and all three men turned as one, ready to run towards the back of the building. A ring of white-robed people blocked their way.

The patients shuffled forward, their nightclothes tinged red from the rising flames, and Bishop saw Lynn was among them.

'Lynn! It's me, Chris!' he cried, moving ahead of the two men to plead with her. 'Come with us, Lynn, before the whole building goes up.'

For a brief moment, Bishop thought he saw a tiny flicker of recognition in Lynn's eyes, but if she had realized who he was, the memory only renewed her hatred. She tore herself away from the crowd and ran at him, arms flailing, hands outstretched, claw-like. In his weakened state he could not hold her; he fell and she toppled over him. Her hands clutched at the stairs as she slithered down towards the flames and Bishop desperately tried to grab her ankle. He touched her heel but the limb was gone before he could gain a hold. Her screams pierced all other sounds as she slid into the fire and her nightdress and hair became a blaze. Her tumbling body was lost in the inferno and her screams stopped abruptly. Something fell half out of the flames into the hallway below, a blackened, charred shape that bore no resemblance to a human body. It was quickly covered as the flames spread.

'No! No!' Bishop's cry descended into a low moan.

He was pulled away from the raging heat by the two men, his body totally limp now, his senses numbed with shock. The patients had cowered back, the full horror of their companion's death striking fear into their disordered minds. The men with Bishop saw that whatever extreme madness had driven them to this, it had been overcome by their own natural terror of the fire. The patients began to whimper as the heat grew in strength, and smoke filled the hallway.

'Let's get going while we can, Mike,' one of the men holding Bishop said just loud enough to be heard.

'Right,' his colleague agreed, his back beginning to feel singed by the heat.

With Bishop between them, their Webley .38s pointed at the figures in the crowded hallway, they cautiously moved forward.

'This way, Ted,' the man called Mike said, indicating to the right with the muzzle of his gun. 'There's a window down at the end of the corridor. Oh shit!'

The lights in the hallway had suddenly gone off. Had the fire burned through the wiring or had someone pulled the master switch? Both men thought of the two women who had started the fire.

'Let's move,' Mike said grimly.

The hallway was bathed in a red, weaving glow, dark shadows rising and dancing against the walls. The whimpering patients glared at the men who were retreating down the hall and carefully stepping over the sprawled bodies lying there. The white-gowned figures edged forward and doors on either side of the three men began to open.

The man called Ted glanced nervously from left to right. The only sound that could be heard now was the crackle and roar of the spreading fire. 'They're going to rush us again,' he said.

Figures were stepping into the hallway, hemming them in, watching silently, not yet raising their hands against them.

But the tension was rising, a huge bubble of hysteria that was swelling to breaking-point, and when it broke the retreating men knew they would be easily overwhelmed. As they backed further down into the blackness at the end of the hall, each of the three men felt something else nudging against the walls of their mind, something that seemed to be seeking access.

The fresh attack was started by one old woman who stood in the centre of the hall near the burning staircase. Her brittle legs were wide apart, her hands clenched and arms held rigidly to her sides; flames licked up at the ceiling above her. The cry started somewhere low in her abdomen and began to build, rising to her chest then up through her throat until it came out as a shrilling scream. The others had joined in with her mounting cry and when it broke, so they broke and came running towards the men.

The ceiling above the staircase and the next flight of stairs had become potent with heat; the flames below billowed upwards, old timbers eagerly giving themselves to the fire. A huge bag of flame spilled into the hallway, enveloping the white-robed figures who stood in its way, searing others who were too near.

Black smoke swirled towards the three men and they began to choke, their eyes already stung by the heat of the fireflash.

Bishop was dragged to the window, his body heaving as his lungs tried to eject swallowed smoke. He was pushed into a corner while the two men struggled to open their only means of escape. The fire spread rapidly and patients were running into open doors on either side of the hallway, many of them with nightclothes on fire.

'It's fucking locked!' Bishop heard one of the men shout.

'Shoot the bloody glass out!' his companion told him.

Both men stood back from the large single-framed window, raised one arm each to shield their eyes, and pumped bullets through the glass. The window shattered and a cold blast of air sucked in towards the flames.

Bishop was yanked away from the corner and steered towards the window. He drew in a deep breath of air and felt some reason returning as he leaned out into the night.

'There's there's no fire escape,' he managed to gasp.

'Jump! It's only one floor up!'

He climbed on to the sill and let himself go. It seemed a long time before he hit the soft earth below.

20.

Peck gazed down at the slow-moving traffic and filled his lungs with cigarette smoke. He wondered if the people scuttling around below in their tiny Dinky-toy cars had any real idea of what was going on in their city. It was impossible to keep an absolute clampdown on the bizarre events of the past few weeks; the media had made the connection between the events at the stadium and Willow Road days ago, but had reluctantly agreed to contain the full story until the authorities had come up with some rational answer to quell the mounting anxiety of the general public. It was an uncomfortable collaboration between the authorities and the media and one that would undoubtedly fail when the next major incident occurred. The newsmen could only be suppressed for so long.

He took the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth using his index finger and thumb, the palm of his hand curved around the butt. Janice was always telling him he'd never make Commissioner if he continued to smoke cigarettes with such mannerisms. Sometimes he thought his wife was serious.

Peck turned away from the window and slumped into the chair at the desk, stubbing the cigarette out against the side of his waste-paper bin and dropping the butt inside. Mannerisms? It had taken her ten years to stop him rolling his own. The knot of his tie was hanging loose over his chest, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. He rubbed a hand across his face, conscious of the scratching sound his chin made, and studied the last page of the report he had just completed. Better grab a quick shave before I show this to the Deputy, he told himself. It wouldn't matter to that pompous bastard if you'd just arrested Jack the Ripper if you hadn't shaved beforehand.

As he reread the last lines in his report his hand unconsciously travelled towards the back of his head, cold fingers breaking through his concentration to tell him no new hair had miraculously grown overnight. In fact, he thought, his attention now fully with his probing fingers, a few more had said their last farewells. He quickly dropped his hand lest any of his new men saw him through the glass panelling of his office. He'd rather be caught playing with himself than caught checking to see how his baldness was coming along. Getting old and feeling it, he silently grumbled. Still, they said baldness meant virility. He couldn't say he'd noticed lately.

He closed the report and sat back in his chair, taking another cigarette from the pack on the desk as he did so. He flicked the Zippo and stared through the billow of smoke as it escaped his lips.

What the fuck is going on? he asked himself.

The football incident had been the biggest so far, but there had been others just as alarming. The burning down of the Fairfield Rest Home, for one. The riot in the boys' Remand Home, for another the little bastards had turned on their wardens and then on themselves. Sixteen dead, twenty-four terribly injured. The rest? Where were the rest? The inmates of another mental home, this one run by the National Health, therefore known more accurately as a hospital for the insane, had turned on the staff first and then, as with the boys' home, themselves. Fortunately, the alarm had been raised before too much damage was done, but five were dead two nurses, three patients before the police had arrived in force. The mystery was why several of the staff had joined in the riot.

There had been many smaller incidents and if anything some of these were even more disquieting than the major events. Perhaps it was because they had involved perfectly normal people at least considered to be normal before they had committed their individual acts of madness. A man had slaughtered every animal in the pet shop he owned, afterwards taking to his bed with the one fortunate creature he had spared, the show-piece of his collection: a ten-foot-long South American boa constrictor. He had been found dead with the snake wrapped around his throat like a muffler. Three nuns had gone berserk in their convent, creeping through the corridors one night and attempting to smother several sleeping sisters with pillows: they had succeeded twice before they were discovered. A doctor on night duty the inquiry discovered he had worked non-stop for two days and nights had toured the wards of his hospital injecting patients with a lethal dose of insulin. Only the intervention of a duty-nurse had prevented more than a dozen deaths she herself had been injected and killed when she had struggled with the doctor. A labourer, working late to finish an urgent job on a block of offices that was undergoing modernization, had knocked his foreman semi-conscious, then pinned him to the wall with a nail-gun. The gun individually shot six-inch nails with a force strong enough to pierce concrete and by the time the other workmen got to the unfortunate foreman, his arms and legs were firmly pinned. The crazed workman managed to fire a nail through his own head before they could get to him and another labourer had narrowly missed being punctured when the nail had emerged from the other side without losing any impetus. Perhaps the most bizarre of all was the butcher who had served his chopped-up wife to his customers Today's Special, regular customers only. A section of thigh was still missing and the police were desperately trying to trace the unlucky housewife who had made the 'bargain' purchase.