Alex hoisted his frame on to the ladder. 'You mark my words, they'll be comin' in 'ere to drink next.' His big round head disappeared from view.

'Heil Hitler,' Sheila commented drily and took another puff of her cigarette. With a resigned sigh she returned to polishing the glasses.

Below, Alex flashed the torch around the grimy, beer-smelling cellar. The beam soon found the naked light bulb hanging from the low ceiling. Better have a stock-take tomorrow, he told himself as he crossed the dusty stone floor. Running low on oh fuck! He stepped out of the puddle and shook droplets of stale beer from his shoe. He shone the torch down and dazzled himself with the reflection off the thinly spread liquid. The cellar floor sloped towards its middle so that all spillage would run into a centre channel then into a drain. He followed the direction of the channel with the torchlight and saw rags or sacking were blocking the flow.

'That silly bastard Paddy,' he said under his breath, referring to his daytime barman. It was the little Irishman's job to stock up the bar each morning, using the dumb waiter to carry the drinks to the floor above. He must have dropped the rags or whatever it was. 'Bloody Irish twit,' he muttered, kicking the damp bundle aside. He'd been dipping into the till again, too. Christ, it was difficult to get honest bar staff. Alex watched the strong-smelling mixture of combined beers gurgle into the square, grille-covered drain. At least it wasn't blocked. If there was one job Alex could not abide it was unblocking drains. All that shit and slime. The drains had to be kept clear otherwise the basement would be ankle deep and stinking like a brewery within a week with all the breakages that went on down there. The delivery men didn't give a sod. Slung the crates down any old how. He thought he saw something scuttle away from the circle of light cast by the torch. 'Don't say we've got rats down 'ere now,' he groaned aloud.

He swung the beam around but found nothing, only retreating blackness.

Alex plodded over to the dangling light bulb, not sure if he had only imagined the dark thing scuttling away. He hadn't heard any movement. The light itself hung over the drain and the publican stretched upwards to reach it, torch held precariously with the fingers of one hand and pointing up at the ceiling. His feet were spread out on either side of the drain.

'Ouch!' Alex cried out when his fingers touched the hot glass. The bulb must have blown just before he opened up the cellar. He jerked his hands away and the torch fell from his grasp. 'Oh fuck it!' he shouted when it crashed to the floor and its light was extinguished. The open trapdoor at the far end of the cellar threw down a little light, but its range was not enough to reach where he stood. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, his other pocket bulging with the new light bulb. Alex reached up for the dead one, this time using his handkerchief for protection against the heat.

The gloom did not bother him, for he had never been afraid of the dark, not even as a kid. But the prickling at the back of his neck warned him that something was not quite right in the cellar.

Sheila rested her elbows on the bar top and stared reflectively at the locked door. A fresh cigarette dangled from her lips and her large breasts lay comfortably on the bar's wooden surface like full sacks of graded flour. She didn't know how many more nights like this she could stand. Dolling herself up, slipping into the mental gear necessary to sustain herself through the evening's jollifications or commiserations, whatever the individual customer's mood required, being nice to everybody, firm to those who took liberties. It was like showbiz in a way, only these nights there was no biz. Surely they were going to get rid of this gas, or whatever it was soon. The whole town would go to pot otherwise. Still, she supposed she should have been grateful for the small amount of evening trade she had in the back room, as much as she disliked their views. It was only because they had booked the room a month in advance that she had let Alex persuade her to allow the meeting to be held. He was one of them, even though he wouldn't admit it. They'd have to pay for the use of the room all night, of course; there was no chance of any of them leaving before tomorrow morning. They'd be nicked if they were caught out on the streets at night. Where was Alex? He was taking his time. Who was it who came on telly the other night? A cardinal or bishop, wasn't it? Told them all to pray. Hah, that was a laugh! She could just see old Alex going down on his knees to pray. Probably would if someone held a gun at his head. What were they supposed to pray for? What good were prayers against a nerve gas, as Alex said it was? It was the scientists who had to do the praying. It was down to them, all this mess. Let them come up with something. And not prayers.

'Sheila.'

She looked around. What was that?

'Sheila.'

She sighed and lumbered towards the open trapdoor. 'What're you up to, Alex? How long does it take you to send up a crate of light and Babycham?'

She peered down into the blackness.

'Haven't you put the bulb in yet?' she said, irritated.

'Sheila, come down.'

'Where are you, Alex? I can't see you.'

'Come down.'

'Do what? Me, come down there? Do me a favour, Alex.'

'Please, Sheila.'

'Are you sodding about, Alex? I'm not in the mood.'

'Come on, Sheila, come down. I've got something to show you.'

The publican's wife chortled. 'You can show me that later, in bed.'

'No, come on, Sheila, now. Come down.'

Alex's voice sounded strangely urgent.

'It's dangerous, Alex. I might fall.'

'You won't, Sheila. I'll help you. Come down.'

Oh my Gawd, Sheila said to herself. The things I do for love. 'All right, Alex,' she called down, a giggle escaping her. 'It had better be worth it!'

She gingerly lowered herself on to the metal-runged ladder, her hands firmly grasping the wooden sides. Sometimes she wondered if Alex was all there, the strokes he pulled. But he was good for a laugh, she had to give him that.

'Alex? Alex! Where are you?' She was halfway down the ladder and looking around, trying to pierce the gloom. 'I'm going up again if you don't stop hiding right this minute.'

'I'm right here, Sheila, waitin' for you.'

'Well what do you want?' Sheila had decided she didn't really like this game. The cellar stank beer dregs and something else. What? Funny smell. It was cold and dark there too. 'I'm going up, Alex. You're acting stupid, true to form.'

She waited for a reply, but there was only silence.

Sheila came down two more rungs then stopped. 'Right, that's it. This is as far as I come unless you come over here into the light.'

Alex didn't make a sound. But she heard his breathing. She suddenly felt uneasy.

'Bye, Alex.' She began to climb back up the ladder.

Alex came out of the dark, a lumbering shape that held something high above his head. Sheila just turned her head in time to see the mallet used for opening kegs of beer descending. There was no time for her to scream and no time to wonder what had come over Alex.

She fell to the floor and lay still, but the heavy wooden mallet continued to batter her head and soon it was blood that flowed down the basement's centre into the dark, noxious drain.

Alex climbed through the trapdoor minutes later, a smile of pleasure on his face. He heaved his heavy body through the opening, the bloodied mallet still held in one hand. Reaching up to the bartop with his free hand, he pulled himself to his feet. He walked to the set of switches that controlled all the downstairs lights in the public house and ran his hand over every one until both bars and back rooms were plunged into darkness. He walked back the length of the bar, careful not to fall into the even blacker hole that was the open trapdoor. Confused voices coming from one of the back rooms guided him, although guidance wasn't really necessary, for he knew his pub like the back of his hand. He hurried to rejoin the meeting. They would be pleased to see him. They would be pleased to see what he had brought along with him.

He looked to the right, studying the wide road for several long seconds before directing his gaze to the left. All clear. No police, no patrolling army vehicles. It was now or never. He ran, heading for the road leading to the big park. To where it was empty. And dark.

His gait was awkward, more of a waddle than a run, his short legs treading the hard, smooth road's surface as though it were cobblestones. The thought of the jogging which several of his colleagues in the House had taken up when it had become fashionable a couple of years back made him wonder at their sanity. Moving at any speed faster than a brisk stroll had to be damaging to one's health. No wonder some of them had collapsed with heart attacks. He remembered the leaflets all the Members had received encouraging them to use the Parliament gym, telling them that by keeping a healthy body, they would have the stamina to serve their constituents better. Well, his stamina was in the mind, not in the body. As far as he was concerned, each leaflet should have been issued with a GOVERNMENT HEALTH WARNING. You couldn't serve your constituents very well from a wooden box six feet under the earth. And if his heart was going to collapse, he would rather it was due to the demands of a good whore than running through the park in plimsolls. He paused at the entrance, his rotund body heaving and sucking in huge, rasping lungfuls of air. He studied the broad expanse of darkness before him, afraid now, then forced himself on, the night swallowing him up as though he had never existed.

Once he was safely inside the black sanctuary, he slumped to the grass, heedless of its cold wetness, and endeavoured to recover a normal rate of breathing. The lights of the city blazed away in the distance, but they barely penetrated the fringes of the park. He was in the Kensington Gardens section, deeming it wise to keep well away from Hyde Park on the other side of the Serpentine where a police station operated. He would find it difficult to explain his presence. Even being a Labour MP for the past sixteen years would not prevent his immediate arrest. Any Member of Parliament on government business had to have an army escort after nightfall, otherwise they had to stay indoors like other citizens. The uproar over the restrictions still raged every day in the House, but the PM and the Home Secretary were adamant. Anyone who wished to leave the capital while the emergency was on was perfectly entitled to do so, but if they remained, then they came under the government edict. Until the solution was found to this madness, conditions for living in London were severe. Never mind the solutions, backbenchers on either side had cried out, what was the problem? Just what was happening each night? Why was there, as yet, no official statement? The public were entitled to know. The Members of Parliament themselves were entitled to know! They had been astonished, then disbelieving, when they were told of the ethereal mass of dark substance that had strange effects on the brain, a mass that had no defined shape nor, as far as anyone could tell, material form. It was neither a gas, nor a chemical. Autopsies on the brains of victims affected by it, and who had taken their own lives, revealed nothing unusual. Why those who could be found wandering the streets by day were docile and in almost trance-like states, no one knew. Paranormal connotations were still being denied, as could be expected.

He rose to his feet, brushing the dampness from his knees. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and he realized the patch he was in was considerably lighter than the heavy blackness ahead. He shuffled forward, eager to be completely enveloped by the darkness. The bloody fools didn't understand the significance of it all! This was a new entity no, not new: it was as old as the world itself. It was a power that had existed even before human life, a dark power that man had allied himself with from the beginning. Now it dwelt in man. It had always been there, the darkness where evil lurked, the darkness that bestial things crept in, the darkness waiting for man to give himself up completely to it. And now was the time.

He froze. Something was moving in the shadows ahead. No sounds. No more movement. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him.

The Dark had called to him, told him what he must do. The power of politics was nothing to the power he had been offered. It was a giant step to take, but the rewards were infinite. No hesitating now, no second thoughts. He had been chosen.

It was difficult to see anything in front of him, for the moon was behind heavy clouds. He could see lights through the trees coming from the hotels that edged the opposite side of Park Lane, but they were far away and had nothing to do with the void of blackness he stood in. Was this the Dark around him? Was this the force he had come in search of? Let it happen, then. Absorb me, take me in . . . He stumbled over a figure sitting on the ground.

The politician fell heavily and rolled on to his back.

'Who's there?' he asked querulously when he had recovered from his surprise.

He heard a mumbling sound, but could make no sense of it. He squinted his eyes, hoping to see better. 'Who's there?' he repeated, then became a little bolder. 'Speak up!' His voice was still a whisper, though the words were spoken harshly.

He cautiously crawled forward, afraid yet curious. 'Come on, speak up. What are you doing there?'

'Waiting,' came the murmured reply. It was a man's voice.

The politician was taken aback, somehow not really expecting an answer. 'What do you mean "waiting"? Waiting for what?'

'Waiting like the others.'

'Others?' The politician looked around and suddenly became aware that what he had thought to be dark shapes of bushes and shrubs were, in fact, the figures of people, some squatting on the ground, others standing. All were silent. He grabbed the man by the shoulder.

'Do they do you know about the Dark?'

The man shrugged his shoulder away. 'Piss off,' he said quietly. 'Leave me alone.'

The politician stared at the shadowy figure for a while, still unable to make out his features. Finally, he crawled away and found a space of his own. He sat there for a long time, confused, then ultimately, resigned. It made sense that he would not have been the only one; others would have been chosen. At one point, when the quarter moon was able to free itself of clinging black clouds for a few seconds, he was able to look around and see how many others there were waiting with him. At least a hundred, he thought. Perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty. Why didn't they communicate? Why were they not speaking? He realized that, like him, their minds were too full of what was going to happen, opening themselves to receive the probing darkness. Willing it, demanding it. The clouds covered the moon and he was alone once more, waiting for the Dark to come.

When the first haziness of dawn edged its way over the tall buildings on the horizon, he rose wearily and stiffly to his feet. His overcoat was covered in a layer of morning dew and his body ached. He saw the others were rising, their movements slow and awkward as though the night's long wait had rusted their joints. Their white, early morning faces were expressionless, but he knew they felt the same bitter disappointment as he. One by one they drifted away, the low-flying dawn mist swirling around their feet.

He felt like weeping with frustration and shaking a fist at the vanishing shadows. Instead, he went home.

25.

Bishop sipped his Scotch, then lit his third cigarette since he had been sitting in the hotel bar. He glanced at his watch. The conference had been running for over three hours already and when he had left just half an hour earlier, it seemed far away from any firm conclusions. With so many now involved he wondered if there would ever be any real agreement between them. The combination of scientists and parapsychologists, with government ministers trying to find a common ground between both factions, was hardly conducive to an ideal atmosphere. An American Research Society had expounded on Jung's collective unconscious theory -'Just as the human body shows a common anatomy over and above all racial differences, so too the psyche possesses a common substratum transcending all differences in culture and consciousness' and maintained that this collective unconsciousness consisted of latent dispositions towards iden-titical reaction, patterns of thought and behaviour that were a common heritage of psychological development. Different races and separate generations had common instincts why else the similarity between various myths and symbols? And perhaps one of man's most shared instincts was that for evil. It was argued that surely good was the more predominant instinct throughout history, despite the terrible atrocities that had taken place, and the speaker had agreed, but had gone on to add that perhaps after centuries of enforced suppression, the evil instinct had broken free of the mind's confines. It had finally evolved into a material form.

Bishop, seated in the back row of the modern auditorium, had almost smiled at the perplexed looks that passed between the Police Commissioner and the Army Chief of Staff. If they hadn't had official reports as well as personal eyewitness evidence of the massive unexplained destruction taking place in the nation's capital each night, they would have dismissed such jargonized theories out of hand. However, when a member of the delegation from the Institute of Human Potential insisted that this new madness was the final breakthrough to sanity, their looks turned to mutual anger. It was the Home Secretary, himself, who delivered a severe rebuke to the man who went on to explain that what society considered to be the norm was not necessarily so, and that the condition of alienation, of being asleep or unconscious, of being out of one's mind, was the natural condition of man. The men and women who had been affected had all been in a trance-like state, an altered state of consciousness, an enlightened state. They had a mission that so-called normal people which included everyone in the conference theatre did not yet understand, nor appreciate. The Home Secretary warned the man and others of his group that they would be removed from the auditorium if they persisted in putting forward these nonproductive and rather absurd arguments. The country was in a state of emergency and, while every opinion was valued at this juncture, frivolous speculation would not be tolerated.

Relief on the faces of the Home Secretary and several of his ministerial and law enforcement colleagues showed visibly when the general discussion took on a more medically scientific aspect, but they were soon disappointed by the statement of a prominent neurosurgeon seated in the front row of the audience. He explained how he and a special team of surgeons had performed craniotomies on several of the London victims, dead as well as the living, in an attempt to find out if their brains had been affected physically in any way. The results had proved negative: no inflammation of the membranes or nerves, no deterioration of tissue, no blockage of cerebrospinal fluid, no bacterial infection, no blood clots or restriction of blood flow to the brain. The surgeon went on to list further defects such as chemical deficiencies that could have damaged the brain's normal functioning, and assured everyone present that none of these had been present. Other tests had been carried out, more in desperation than in hope, and these, too, had proved negative. There had been no lack of enzyme in the victims' systems without this there would have been an accumulation of amino-acids such as phenylalamine in the blood. Nor had there been any sudden imbalance of chromosomes in the body cells. A thorough examination had been made of the central region of the brain, particularly the regions grouped around the fluid-filled cavities called the ventricles. One of these regions, the hypothalamus, controlled hunger, thirst, temperature, sex drive and aggression, and a close study of the collection of structures around that area forming the limbic system the septum, fornix, amygdala and hippocampus which were believed to be particularly responsible for emotional responses such as fear and aggression had revealed nothing unusual. That is, as far as they could tell; no matter how far science had come, the brain was still very much a mystery.

The participating audience, many of whom had become lost with the eminent doctor's medical terminology, stirred uncomfortably. The Home Secretary, anxious to have as many opinions as possible aired in the time available, asked for the view of the psychiatrist seated next to the neurosurgeon, and the two main psychoses of the emotionally disturbed were quickly and clearly explained in a voice that was loud, yet somehow soothing. In manic depressive psychosis, the patient's mood changed from deep depression to mania, which might possibly explain the victims' trance-like quietness during the day and the uncontrollable urges to commit acts of destruction at night. Yet treatment with drugs such as lithium had had no effect on these people. The other chief psychosis was schizophrenia, which generally occurred in those with a hereditary disorder in their metabolism. The symptoms were irrational thinking, disturbed emotions and a breakdown in communications with others, all of which applied to the recent victims. Phenothiazines, also used as tranquillizers, and other drugs such as fluphenazine, had been used unsuccessfully on the victims. As yet, shock treatment had not been tried, but the psychiatrist had also expressed his doubts as to the effectiveness of this method. An alternative which would undoubtedly succeed would be a lobotomy on each individual, but he did, of course, understand that this would be impractical with so many victims. He looked steadily up at the Home Secretary and his hastily appointed 'emergency' council seated on one side of a long, highly polished table on the small stage, remaining silent until the minister realized the psychiatrist had nothing more to say. It was then that a member of an organization called the Spiritual Frontiers Fellowship Rescue Group rose to his feet and informed those present that the phenomenon being witnessed in London was no more than a large gathering of discarnate beings who did not know they were dead and were possessing others in their confusion. The destructive acts of violence that the possessed were committing were caused because the lost spirits were frightened. He asked that mediums be allowed to guide the tormented souls onwards, to leave their earthly ties behind. Bishop had decided he needed a drink at that point in the proceedings.

He had crept from the conference theatre as unobtrusively as possible, pushing his way through the throng of journalists cramming the back of the auditorium. The hotel bar was empty and the lone barman seemed relieved to have some company. Bishop, however, was in no mood for conversation. He swallowed the first Scotch fast, then nursed the second.

The meeting was being held in an hotel at the Birmingham Conference Centre, a huge complex of exhibition halls and conference rooms. The complex was, in fact, some miles from the town itself, in a position easily accessible from the M1 motorway. The authorities considered it too risky to use a more convenient London venue for, although the danger only presented itself at nightfall, the situation in the capital was unpredictable. It was feared that many of the various organizations invited to take part in the general debate might have declined the offer if it were held in the danger zone. And anyway, as the Army Chief of Staff had said: 'A general doesn't hold his war council on the field of battle!' When Bishop had arrived with Jacob Kulek, Jessica and Edith Metlock earlier that morning, the hotel lobby had been filled with clamorous groups of scientists, medical experts and parapsychologists. Outside had been an even larger gathering of media people, many of these too, from other parts of the world. Bishop was unsure if the conference was being held merely for cosmetic reasons to show that the government was taking some action, or out of sheer desperation because they had no solution to the problem. Probably for both reasons, he decided.

Jacob Kulek had become adviser to the special action committee formed to deal with the crisis, his Institute suddenly becoming almost another branch of the Civil Service. Just as Winston Churchill had introduced an occult bureau into the Secret Service during World War Two, so had the Home Secretary adopted what he considered was a similar, ready-made organization. The government was not convinced it was dealing with a paranormal phenomenon but, because it had not found any other answers, it was not ruling out the possibility. Hence the conference with its diverse groups of experts. At the moment, the 'trouble' in London was being contained, although the city was too vast to be effectively policed for long. New disturbances broke out every night, more victims were found cowering in the streets each morning. The sewer exits were being watched.

How long the police and troops could maintain control was anybody's guess; the night was already beginning to catch up with the mopping-up exercises of the day. And how many more victims affected or infected still nobody was sure of the correct term by the Dark could be kept under lock and key was another problem that was reaching crisis point. The exodus of London residents was relatively small so far, but the sudden influx of outsiders gave cause for alarm. Why would men and women flock to the city when such danger stalked the streets at night? And why were so many flouting the 'lights-on' regulations? It was almost as if some welcomed the phenomenon that had become known as the Dark. Bishop sat in the bar, pondering over the imponderable. Were they faced with a crisis that could be dealt with by scientific means, or a crisis whose cause lay in the paranormal and therefore, could only be answered by psychic means? He, himself, felt they were about to discover there was a definite link between the two.

He drained his glass and waved it at the barman for another.

'I think I need the same,' came a voice from behind him.

Bishop turned to see Jessica had entered the bar. She perched herself on the stool next to him and he ordered her a Scotch.

'I saw you leave the conference theatre,' she remarked. 'I wondered if you were okay.'

He nodded. 'Just weary. The discussion doesn't seem to be getting far. Too many fingers in the pie.'

'They feel it's necessary to get as many views as possible.'

'Some of those views are a little eccentric, wouldn't you say?' Bishop passed Jessica's drink over to her. 'Water?' he asked.

She shook her head and sipped the Scotch. 'Some are fanatical in their beliefs, I agree, but the others are well respected in their particular fields of psychic research.'

'Will any of it help, though? How the hell can you beat something that apparently has no material form?'

'The idea of germs being living organisms was unknown not too long ago. The Bubonic Plague itself was at first thought to be the work of the Devil.'

'I thought you believed this was.'

'In a way, I do. I think our terms are wrong, though. Many think of the Devil as a creature with horns and a long forked tail, or at least, a living creature who pops through the gates of Hell every now and again to create havoc. It's a belief the Church has done nothing to discourage!'

'And the Devil is behind all this?'

'As I said, our terms are wrong. The Devil is within us, Chris, just as God is.'

Bishop sighed wearily. 'We are God, we are the Devil?' There was disdain in his words.

'The power for good and the power for evil is in us. God and Devil are just symbolic names for an abstraction.'

'That's some abstraction if, as you're implying, it's the root cause of everything good and everything bad that's happened in the world.'

'It's an abstraction that's fast becoming a reality.'

'Because Pryszlak has found a way of using it?'

'He's not the first.'

Bishop stared at her. 'This has never happened before.'

'How do you know? Read your Bible, Chris; it gives us plenty of indications.'

'But then why this evil power? Why hasn't someone used the power for good?'

'Many have. Jesus Christ was one.'

Bishop smiled. 'You mean all those miracles were due to a force he knew how to tap?'

'Miracles are more common than you think. Christ may have been a man who knew the process of using that power.'

'Would that make Pryszlak the anti-Christ? I mean, he went for the other extreme.'

Jessica ignored the mockery in Bishop's question. There have also been many anti-Christs.'

The whisky on an empty stomach had begun to make Bishop feel slightly light-headed, but the earnestness in Jessica's eyes made him bite back his cynicism. 'Look, Jessica, if you say miracles are fairly common, why is it that no one else is using this other source in the way Pryszlak apparently is?'