'Oh, I didn't mean . . .'

'Five of 3-star, please.' George had wound down his window and was calling out to the approaching figure.

The man came to a halt, smiled at the occupants of the car, and looked over towards the petrol pumps. He made towards them.

'He's slow enough, isn't he?' remarked Olwen's mother. 'And what's he got that silly grin on his face for?'

'Look at the state of him,' said Olwen. 'You'd think he'd been down the mines. I wonder if the manager knows his staff walk around like that?'

'Perhaps he is the manager,' said her father, chuckling in the back, not knowing that the manager lay dead on the floor of the toilets, his skull cracked open like an egg from the repeated blows of a brick.

They watched the man as he lifted the dispensing nozzle from the rack set in the pumping unit. He came towards the car holding the hosecock alongside his head like a duelling pistol. His eyes were half-closed as though they had not yet adjusted to the contrast between the harsh overhead lighting and the darkness from which he had just emerged. He grinned at the four people watching him from the car.

'Silly bugger,' Olwen remarked.

George poked his head out of the window. 'Er, no, old chap. I did say 3-star. You've still got it switched to 4-star.' He drew back quickly when he found himself staring into the black hole of the dispensing nozzle.

In the back of the Escort, Olwen's father had a puzzled frown on his face. He had seen movement in the fringes of darkness around the service area. There were shapes moving closer. They were stepping into the lighted area, then stopping. They were waiting. Watching. Others stood behind them, still in the shadows. What the hell was going on? Why were they staring at the car? He turned to say something but stopped himself when he saw the metal nozzle from the petrol pump stretching into the car window and George, a startled expression on his face, leaning away from it. Olwen's father could only watch in dumbstruck amazement as the index finger on the hand holding the nozzle began to tighten.

The petrol gushed out, covering George's head and shoulders in a filmy fluid. Olwen began to scream when the nozzle was aimed down into her husband's lap. Her father tried to push forward and grab the long barrel of the hose-cock, but it was turned in his direction and he fell back, choking on the petrol that had poured into his open mouth. Olwen's mother was screaming now, knowing she and her husband were trapped and helpless in the back of the two-door vehicle.

Olwen's screams became even louder as her dress was suddenly splashed by the foul-smelling liquid. She tried to reach for the door-handle on her side, but her fingers slid from the petrol-soaked metal.

Her father, still choking on the fuel he had swallowed, could only watch in horror as the nozzle waved around, the petrol pouring out in a solid stream and filling the car with its noxious fumes and deadly liquid. George was striking out blindly, his eyes stinging and useless. Olwen's hands were covering her face as she cried out and beat her feet against the car's floor. Her mother was trying to burrow her way down into the gap between the back of the driver's seat and her own. The flow of petrol abruptly stopped and the nozzle was withdrawn.

Olwen's father could only observe the middle portion of the man through the windows; it was enough to see him drop the nozzle and reach into his jacket pocket for something. Huw began to moan when he saw the box of matches, the sudden bright flare as one was lit, the small arc of smoke as the match was tossed into the car.

The man stood back as the Escort's interior burst into a blinding cauldron of flame, his face peeling instantly as the fire licked out at him. He did not seem to feel the pain as he reached down for the hose at his feet and drew the dispensing nozzle towards himself. His fingers curled around the trigger and squeezed.

He walked around the forecourt as far as the hose could allow, splashing petrol everywhere, becoming saturated himself, but seeming not to care. Then he turned back towards the little yellow car that had by now become a raging inferno, the sounds of its occupants no longer heard, and he aimed the jet of fuel at it. The flames rushed towards him and he stood there and screamed as he became a black charred shape. His companions turned away from the heat and light, sinking into the darkness that was itself forced back when the filling station exploded into a huge ball of fire that rose hundreds of feet into the air and lit the night sky.

The Dark drifted on, an evil, creeping blackness that had no substance, yet was full of invisible energy, an expanding shadow that existed only in other shadows, an incorporeal thing that sucked at human minds, invading and searching for the hidden repressed impulses that were of itself. There were solid, dark shapes within it and these were the forms of men and women whose will it did not just govern, but who embodied the material part of it, those who physically enacted the evil that it was, its earthly force. It had a smell, a faint acridity that tainted the air it filled, a bitter aroma that men were aware of when lightning struck the ground, or when electric cables discharged sparks into the air. It was a dark stain on the night.

The blaze was left far behind with the wailing sirens and distant shouts, and the Dark relished the blackness it crept into, its edges probing like tentacles at the shadows before it, sensing a fresh force that was somewhere near, a huge source of energy that was as yet untapped, a chained gathering of dark minds that was the very substance it needed.

It seeped across the grassland on to an open road, shying away from the orange-glowing street-lights, surging around them like a stream around rocks projecting from its bed. The shadowy figures drifted with it, several collapsing, their bodies drained, lack of food or water finally bringing them down like machines not fuelled or oiled. Some died the others would follow later and as they did, a part of them was released: the darkness within them was welcomed by the mass.

The long wall loomed up high and the darkness flowed over it, leaving the men and women who walked with it below, helpless and suddenly afraid. It rushed towards the sleeping inmates of Wandsworth Prison, creeping into the openings, pouncing and absorbing, the recumbent minds receptive and eager. Not all though. But these did not last long.

22.

The ringing phone woke Bishop from a deep sleep. It was strange, but since Lynn's death two weeks before, his recurrent drowning nightmare had left him. Perhaps it had been purged from him by the experience in the mental home that night, living out the dream, almost taking it to death's conclusion. He pushed back the covers and switched on the bedside lamp. The small alarm clock told him it was just after two o'clock. Alertness spread through him as he heaved himself from the bed and padded down the carpeted stairs to the hall. He grabbed the phone.

'Bishop? Detective Chief Inspector Peck here.'

'What's wrong?' All drowsiness had completely left Bishop now.

Peck's voice was urgent. 'I haven't got long, so just listen and do as I tell you.'

Something knotted inside Bishop's stomach.

'I want you to lock your doors, front and back,' Peck went on. 'Check all your windows, make sure they're locked, too.'

'What's going on, Peck?'

'Have you got a room you can lock yourself into?'

'Yes, but . . .'

'Then do it. Barricade yourself in.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Look, I haven't got time to explain. All I can tell you is that something is going on near your part of London. Our Information Room is being flooded with emergency calls. Our biggest problem is a riot in Wandsworth Prison.'

'Jesus. Can they break out?'

'It looks like they already have.' There was a short pause at the other end of the line. 'It seems some of the prison warders themselves may have been involved. To make matters more confused, a garage on the other side of the Common has been blown up.'

'Peck, has all this got something to do with the Pryszlak business?'

'God only knows. If it has, some of these maniacs may come after you. That's why I want you to lock yourself in. I'm afraid I haven't got enough men available to send you any protection. I could be wrong anyway.'

'Thanks for the warning. Have you told Kulek and Jessica?'

'I still have a man watching their house. I've sent a radio message telling him to inform Kulek of what's happening. I've let the guard stay there, even though we can't really spare him. Unfortunately, the officer keeping an eye on you had to be called in that's why I'm ringing you. You'll be okay if you do as I say.'

'All right. Just tell me one thing. Do you now believe Jacob Kulek's theory?'

'Do you?'

'I'm beginning to more and more.'

'Well, maybe I am too. I don't understand it, but there's nothing else to explain what's going on. The thing is to convince my governors. I've got to get back now. You just sit tight, understand?'

The receiver was replaced before Bishop could answer. He quickly checked the front door to make sure it was bolted as well as locked, then went out to the back. The kitchen door leading to his tiny rear garden was also locked. Next, check the windows, he thought, but instead he decided to first ring Jessica; even with police protection she was probably scared to death. He had seen her only twice since Lynn's death: once when she had come to his house after learning about the tragedy in the mental home, and then a couple of days later, at a meeting held by Peck and several of his superiors, including the Deputy Commissioner. Since then she had left him alone and he was grateful that she realized he needed time to get over the shock of losing Lynn, this time permanently. It disturbed him that rather than feel remorse, he felt anger at his wife's death. To him, she had begun to die years before, a long, lingering illness of the mind from which he somehow knew she would never recover; it was the manner of her death that angered him. She had been used, controlled by an unknown power along with the others at the home. Her death had been horrible, although mercifully quick, and he wanted it avenged. If Pryszlak was in some bizarre way involved, then he, Bishop, would find a way to strike back. There had to be a way.

He dialled Jessica's number, hoping she would still be awake after the policeman's message. It was several long moments before the receiver was lifted and Jessica's voice came through.

'Jessica, it's me, Chris.'

Her tone became alert as had his only minutes before when Peck had called him.

'Chris, what is it? Are you all right?'

'Didn't you get Peck's message?'

'No, what message? It's the middle of the night, Chris. We've been asleep.'

'But there's a policeman on guard outside. Hasn't he told you?'

'Nobody's told us anything. What on earth's going on? Tell me what's happened.'

Bishop was puzzled. 'Peck rang me a few moments ago. He said he'd got a message to you. There are more incidents being reported, Jessica. All on this side of the river, it seems.'

'What kind of incidents?' Her voice was calm, but it had an edge to it.

'A riot in Wandsworth Prison. Something else about an explosion in a garage nearby. Others that he didn't have time to tell me about.'

'And he thinks there's a connection . . .?'

'With Pryszlak and his sect? He's not sure, but he felt he ought to warn us, anyway. Jessica, he said they might come after us again if there is a connection.'

'Oh, Chris.'

'Don't worry, you'll be all right. So far, all the trouble is over here. You've got a man outside who will contact his headquarters if anything begins to happen there.'

'But what will you do?'

'I'll barricade myself in, don't worry. We're all probably going to feel embarrassed later when we learn these are entirely separate incidents that have nothing to do with us.'

'I hope . . .' Jessica's voice broke off. 'There's someone at the door now. Our guardian policeman, no doubt. I'd better let him in before he wakes my father if he isn't already awake, that is.'

'I'm sorry, Jessica. I just wanted to make sure . . .'

'Don't be silly, Chris. I'm glad you rang. Just hold on for a minute while I open the door.'

Bishop heard the clunk of the receiver being placed on the small table he remembered the phone rested on in the long hallway. There was silence for a few moments save for the strangely hollow sounding atmospherics in his own earpiece, then he thought he heard the distant noise of the front door being unlocked. For some reason he began to feel uneasy. Why had the detective been so slow in delivering his message? Perhaps he had taken it into his own head not to disturb the sleeping household what they didn't know couldn't hurt them. After all, the policeman was keeping a watch on the place. The hall light being switched on by Jessica as she answered the phone could have prompted him to change his mind and inform them there and then. Yet Bishop could not imagine any of Peck's men not carrying out his instructions to the letter. He had said he'd told the officer to inform Kulek immediately.

Bishop's hand tightened around the receiver, his knuckles becoming white. 'Jessica, can you hear me?'

He listened and thought he heard approaching footsteps at the other end.

'Jessica?'

A click, then a burring noise as the receiver was dropped on to its cradle at the other end.

Bishop slowed the car as he turned from the main Highgate High Street into the village itself. The drive across London had been swift, for there was little traffic around at that hour, although there had been much activity in the Westminster area as police vehicles and minibus 'pixies' were deployed to deal with the emergencies across the river. Bishop had tried to ring Jessica back, but this time only got an engaged tone. He had also attempted to contact Peck again, but the detective had already left his office. Not sure if he wasn't exaggerating the situation, Bishop left a message and set off for Jacob Kulek's house himself, a little wary as he stepped outside his front door, almost expecting to be attacked. The street was deserted.

He found the narrow lane leading to Kulek's house and headed into it, the car's headlights casting their twin beams far ahead, pushing back the darkness. Small, elegant houses sped by and, because the lane was downhill, he could see the bright glow of the city in the distance. He applied the brakes gently and changed down to a lower gear, sure that Kulek's house lay just ahead in a turn-off to the right. He brought the car to a halt when he saw the vehicle parked opposite the entrance to the house. It was tucked well into the side of the lane, the passenger doors no more than six inches away from a high brick wall that gave privacy to a residence beyond. Bishop pulled in behind and saw that the car appeared to be empty; he wondered if the policeman might be slumped down in the driver's seat asleep or perhaps dead. He switched off his engine, but left the headlights on. Discarding his driving glasses, he stepped from the car.

The night was cold, but he wondered if the sudden chill he felt was due to something more. He cautiously approached the other vehicle and bent down to peer into a window. It was empty.

Bishop tried the handle and, finding it unlocked, pulled the door open. The radio equipment inside told him he hadn't been mistaken it was a police car. Where was the policeman himself, though? He must have gone into the house. Bishop felt somewhat foolish for having panicked so easily. Yet, with all that had happened recently, he had reason to be a little jumpy. Peck may have told his man to stay inside Kulek's house it seemed to make sense if Peck's concern for Jessica and her father's safety had suddenly been heightened by that night's events. Why had the phone been put down on him, though? Then he cursed himself, feeling even more foolish. The line had been engaged when he had tried to ring Jessica back she must have realized she had cut him off, then tried to reach him again! He was behaving like a frightened old woman.

He went back to his own car, switched off the headlights, and strode across the lane towards the driveway leading to Kulek's house. From the entrance he could see a light shining ahead, a long rectangular glow that had to be the glass side-panel that ran the length of the front door. At least, if Jessica and her father were asleep, the policeman would be awake and could let him in. Yet, despite all the rationalization, his anxiety still persisted. Somewhere inside him he knew things were wrong. If he could have seen the corpse of the policeman, his throat slit from ear to ear, lying in the darkness of the undergrowth only two feet away, Bishop might have turned away from the house.

His feet crunched on the gravel drive as he approached the glass-structured building, its smooth exterior as black as the night around it. The light from the side panel guided him towards the door and he hesitated when he had stepped on to the wide porch area. He was afraid to ring the doorbell.

He did not need to the door was already opening. The light from behind threw her shape in silhouette, but her voice was strangely familiar to him.

'Welcome again, Mr Bishop. We've been waiting for you,' the tall woman said.

Jacob Kulek and Jessica were in the living-room. Both were seated and dressed in nightclothes. The short woman was holding a knife at the blind man's throat, a long butcher's knife that had dark, reddish stains on its blade. She smiled at Bishop.

'Are you all right, Jessica? Jacob?' asked Bishop, standing in the doorway.

Jessica could barely tear her eyes away from the blade at her father's throat.

'We are all right for the moment, Chris,' the blind man answered. 'Unfortunately, our guard, we are told, has been murdered.'

A gentle push from behind with the small Beretta the tall woman held urged Bishop further into the room.

'Yes, Mr Bishop,' she said. 'You passed the poor policeman on your way in. I must say he was very easy to kill. But then would you suspect Miss Turner there would cut your throat if you didn't know better?'

The smile on the small woman's face broadened. 'The silly man thought I was a helpless old bag who'd had too much to drink.'

'We knew he was there, you see. We, also, have been watching this house all week. Would you please sit down, Mr Bishop? We don't want any more deaths just at the moment, do we? Later, of course, but not just yet.' The tall woman pointed to a place on the settee next to Jessica.

Bishop sat and saw the terror in Jessica's eyes. He took her hand and held it.

'Yes, very touching, Christopher. May I call you Christopher?' It was hard to imagine the tall woman was anything more than a member of the Women's Guild, the type who sold paper flowers on Poppy Day. The small gun in her hand and her next words reminded Bishop just how evil she really was. 'Have you forgotten your wife already, Christopher? Did she mean so little to you?'

He began to push himself from the seat, his rage smothering any fear, but Jessica caught his arm.

'No, Chris!' she cried out.

The pleasantness had suddenly left the tall woman's manner. 'Take notice of her, Christopher. She has been told her father will die instantly if there is any trouble from you.'

He sank back, the anger making him tremble.

'That's right,' the tall woman said soothingly, her pleasantness returned. She sat down in a straight-backed chair which stood against the wall, keeping the gun pointed in Bishop's direction. 'You're an interesting man, Christopher. We have been finding out more about you over the past few weeks. I've even read one of your books. In a strange way, your theories are not too distant from Boris Pryszlak's. Nor Jacob Kulek's here, although I gather you care more for explainable science than the unexplainable.'

'May I ask what Pryszlak was to you?' Kulek asked. 'And may I also ask that this knife be taken away? It is rather uncomfortable. Surely the gun that you hold is enough.'

'Yes, Judith, I think you can relax a little now. Why don't you sit on the arm of the chair and keep the knife pressed against Kulek's heart?'

'I don't trust the old man,' the short woman replied. 'I don't trust any of them.'

'No, dear, nor I. But I don't imagine there is much they can do in the short time they have left. I'll keep my gun pointed straight at Mr Bishop's head.'

The short woman grudgingly changed her position and Kulek felt the tip of the knife pressed against his chest a little harder than was necessary to make him aware of its presence.