The way in which the blind man was drifting in and out of consciousness was somehow more worrying to Bishop than if he had just remained unconscious. Kulek groaned aloud and clutched at his stomach as they lifted him. His body was stiff as he forced himself upright.

'I'll be all right,' he reassured Jessica as she held on to him. A trembling hand reached for Bishop's shoulder. 'If you will just bear my weight,' he said.

Bishop slipped the blind man's arm around his own neck and they turned the bend to the next flight of stairs. They began to climb and he felt Kulek wince at every step. 'Not far, Jacob,' Bishop said. 'We're nearly at the top.'

Kulek hadn't the strength to reply.

'LEAVE HIM, BISHOP. HE'S NO USE TO YOU NOW!'

They froze on the staircase as the words spiralled upwards. It was a woman's voice, and Bishop knew it was the tall woman, the one called Lillian.

'He's dying, can't you see that?' The words were no longer shouted, echoing up from the stairwell like a hissed whisper. 'Why be hindered by a dead man? Leave him, otherwise you'll never escape us. We don't want you, Bishop; just him.'

As Bishop stared down into the blackness, he knew the Dark was all around them, carried in the night air like some invisible parasite. He could feel its coldness caressing his skin, freezing the beads of perspiration into tiny globules of ice. He saw pale blurs that were faces in the black pit below.

'Leave him. Leave him,' other voices inside his head told him. 'He's no use to you. An encumbrance. A dead weight. You'll die if you keep him with you.'

His grip tightened on the rail. He could make it without Kulek. He could get on the roof. They wouldn't be able to reach him there. He could hold them off.

A rough hand snapped his head around. 'Don't listen, Chris.' The torchlight stung his eyes as Edith Metlock spoke sharply to him. 'I can hear the voices. They want me to help them, too. Don't you see? It's the Dark the voices are trying to confuse us. We must go on, Chris.'

'I hear them,' said Jessica. 'They want me to shoot you, Chris. They keep telling me you're leading my father into worse danger.'

'BISHOP, IT'S NOT TOO LATE YOU CAN JOIN US!' the tall woman screamed. 'YOU CAN BE PART OF US!'

'Take the light out of my eyes, Edith,' he said, turning away from the stairwell.

Both women sighed with relief and, once more, they resumed their arduous climb. The footsteps below grew louder, became more hurried. Through sheer willpower, Bishop increased his own speed, almost lifting the injured man clear of the steps and dragging him upwards. They reached the next floor, turned the bend, began the next flight upwards. But the footsteps were drawing closer, running, scrabbling up the staircase, other sounds accompanying them, noises that could have come from frenzied animals. They were now below the floor Bishop and the others had just left, scurrying up from the darkness like creatures climbing out from hell.

Jessica felt weak with fear. She pushed her back against the wall, her legs still climbing, but her movement slow. She held her arm out rigid, pointing the gun towards the terrible scuffling noises that were drawing closer and closer.

A light appeared at a point between her and those approaching, growing stronger, beginning to fill the darkness in the bend of the stairs. Cold air blew in from the landing as the swingdoors were pushed open, and suddenly there were voices, more lights adding to the brightness of the first.

'Who's down there?' a gruff voice demanded to know.

'Look, Harry, there's someone up there on the stairs,' another voice said.

Jessica was suddenly bathed in bright light.

'Christ, she's got a gun!' the same voice exclaimed.

Edith, who had been concealed around the bend halfway up to the next floor, quickly descended a few steps and shone her torch towards the voices.

A group of men and women stood in the entrance to that particular landing staring up at Jessica and now her. They were obviously neighbours who had banded together for safety when the power had been cut.

'Go back!' Edith called out to them. 'For your own safety, go back into your homes and lock yourselves in!'

Someone pushed past the first man in the doorway. 'You tell us what's goin' on first, lady.' His flashlight was powerful and threw out a wide, undefined beam. 'What's this girl got a gun for?'

'They must've had something to do with the crash downstairs,' another voice murmured.

Bishop was close to Edith, but still out of sight of the people below. 'Shine the torch down the stairs, Edith,' he whispered. 'Show them the mob coming up.'

The medium leaned over the rail and did as he said. The figures crouching below were suddenly lit up.

'There's more of 'em down there!' All the lights were pointed downwards and the people on the stairs covered their eyes, moaning in pain.

'Jesus, look at that lot. They're all the way down the stairs.'

One of the men cowering under the glare began to creep upwards, keeping his head tucked down. Another man followed, moving in similar fashion.

'They're coming up!' a woman's voice screamed out.

The man carrying the flashlight stepped forward, descending a few steps and bringing a heavy boot down hard on the creeping figure, sending it reeling backwards. 'I've had enough of this,' was his only comment.

All hell seemed to break loose at that point. Other men and women who had come to a halt on the stairs suddenly surged forward, shielding their eyes from the light, shrieking their demented cries, and swamping the man who had been foolhardy enough to defy them. His friends ran forward to help and more lights appeared on the floors below and above, almost as though a signal had been given for many of the residents to venture out from their separate flats, curiosity overcoming their previous caution. Many rushed back indoors as soon as they saw the people on the stairs, while others decided enough was enough: if the Law wouldn't do anything about intruders, then they, the residents would. Perhaps they would have stood more chance in the confused and brutal battle that ensued if a number of their own neighbours had not already succumbed to the Dark as they had waited in the blackout. The residents of the tower block had no way of telling who was friend and who was foe.

The swingdoors on the floor above Bishop opened and lights were flashed through it. He grabbed Edith's arm and said, 'Get Jessica we're going on.'

The medium did not bother to protest, for she saw his logic: the roof if they could get on to it was still the safest place to be. She reached Jessica and pulled her upwards, leading her around the bend in the stairs, catching up with Bishop and Kulek. They reached the next floor and the people waiting there watched them curiously.

'You'd better lock yourselves in until the police get here,' Bishop told them. 'Don't try to fight those people downstairs there are too many.'

They looked at him as though it were he who was mad, then peered down into the confusion of sounds and flashing lights below. He didn't bother to see if they had taken his advice, but kept onwards, the cool air that was rushing in through the open doors helping to revive him. Kulek was trying to help their ascent, his legs moving haltingly over each step, his thin frame trembling with the exertion.

'We're nearly there, Jacob. Just a little further.' Bishop could almost feel the remaining dregs of strength draining from the blind man. Kulek's left arm was tightly clamped against his stomach.

Jessica cried out in relief when she saw that the stairs ran out on the floor above: they had nearly reached the top of the building. Her arm encircled her father's waist and she pulled and lifted with Bishop, urging her father on to the last flight of stairs. Edith's steps were heavy, her breathing laboured. It had been a long climb and her body was in no condition for such stern exercise. One plump hand grasped the stair rail and dragged the rest of her body forward, the movement slow, the effort exhausting. Not far, she kept telling herself, not far now, a few more steps, just a few.

The man who waited for them at the top was the caretaker of the flats. He lived, in fact, on the ground floor, but earlier that evening had gone up to the tenth floor of the building to give a warning to the elderly couple who lived there. He had warned them before or at least, he had warned the old man. The Council did not, absolutely did not allow urinating in the lifts. The old man had always denied it had been him, blaming it on the kids who roamed the estate, vandalizing property, making the lives of the residents miserable. The little bastards broke windows, scribbled graffiti four-foot-high on walls, and generally created pandemonium up and down the stairs. The lifts were a particular source of joy to them and the all-too-frequent breakdowns were due to the kids tampering with the buttons, blocking the closing doors, opening the doors between floors, or jumping up and down while the lifts were in motion. Certainly, they messed in the lifts, but they were not the main culprits of this misdemeanour. Oh no, the old man had a lot to answer for in this respect. Why they put elderly people at the top of these flats, God only knew. When the lifts were out, either through the misdoings of vandals, the normal and not infrequent mechanical malfunctions, or as was the case tonight general power failures, these old folk were stranded. Another problem and this was the relevant one the two lifts had been engineered to move slowly, for too swift ascents and descents scared the life out of the residents. If you were aged, and if you liked to drink a lot, and if your bladder was no longer the sturdy water carrier it used to be, then a trip up in the lift could take a lifetime. Unfortunately, the old man was well past his prime, and had a weak bladder. Other residents had complained more than once that the lift doors had opened revealing the old boy standing in a puddle of liquid. The way in which he always doffed his hat and bade them a pleasant good day or evening could never disguise the foul smell of piss as he swayed past them. The caretaker had warned him three times so far, ignoring the protested denials, and now he would warn the old lady as well. Either she kept rein on him, or they were out. O.U.T. No nonsense. No more pissing in the lift. Putting up with the other tenants with their carping complaints about the heating, the plumbing, the vandalism, the rent, the lifts, the refuse collectors, the noise and their neighbours, was bad enough, but having to mop up the mess left by some incontinent old imbecile was too much. Sometimes the caretaker fantasized about planting a time bomb in one corner of the tower block, setting it for one-thirty and retreating to the pub further down the road, sitting there with his pint of bitter, checking the second hand of his watch as it crept up to the thirty minute mark, chomping on his veal-and-ham pie, studying the building through the pub window, ordering a fresh pint, having a joke with the landlord as the fatal seconds ticked away; then the lovely bang, the floors of the tower block crumbling like playing cards or like those films you saw of industrial chimneys being demolished, blown up at the base so the bricks tumbled down in a straight line, the structure resembling a telescope closing in on itself. All those tenants off his back once and for all, no more complaints, no more running around after them. All crushed, all dead. Lovely.

The caretaker had been halfway up when the lights went out and the lift came to a shuddering halt. He had groped around in total darkness, cursing loudly as his index finger finally found the alarm button. He hoped his silly mare of a wife would hear it in their ground-floor flat, but after ten minutes of constantly stabbing at the button and banging on the metal walls of the lift, he decided the breakdown was probably due to something other than just mechanical failure in the drive motor. Bloody power cut, he told himself.

It had been creepy sitting there in the dark, sightless and unseen. Yet it was strangely comforting, like being back inside the womb, still unborn and still untouched. Or like being dead, nothing for companionship but nothingness. Soon, though, he had found he was not completely alone in the darkness.

After a while, the caretaker had forced open the lift door and, feeling with his hands, had discovered he was almost on the next floor, the step-up no more than three feet. Opening the shaft door which would let him out into the hallway beyond was a little more difficult, but he persisted, summoning up the reserves of strength the voices inside his head told him he had. The strange thing was that once you knew you could do something, it became easier to do.

He had continued his journey to the top of the building, using the stairs, no longer bothered by the blackness around him. The wind had howled around him when he had pulled open the swingdoors to the tenth floor landing, but he was grinning as he walked the length of the short hallway, then round to his right to the old couple's flat. They hadn't wanted to open the door at first, and he'd had to insist, telling them it was official business. The old lady had been the first to go and for her he had made use of the broom she kept in the hall of the flat, knocking her down, then forcing the broom-handle into her throat as far as it would go, blocking it so she could not draw in air. He had taken his time with the old man who had not tried to help his wife, but had cowered in his bedroom beneath his bed. The caretaker had merely laughed as he splashed through the foul-smelling puddle that was spreading out from under the bed, and had dragged the old boy out, enjoying the croaking screams as he hauled him back down the hallway and into the kitchen where so many innocent implements of death were waiting. Unfortunately, his victim's heart had given out before he could finish the job, but at least it had been pleasurable up until that final moment. No more pissing in the lifts for the old boy any more. No more pissing.

The caretaker had sat on the floor next to the warm corpse and continued to enjoy himself, free now to do whatever he pleased, free to indulge in new, forbidden experiences. The freedom tasted good. The sound of the crashing lorry came not long after and the sky outside briefly flared orange. The caretaker selected one of the bloodied kitchen tools he had been using and walked out on to the landing. He stood at the top of the stairs and waited.

Edith Metlock sensed his presence before she saw him. She was nearly at the top of the stairs when she stopped, her mind abruptly cutting out the screams, shouts and sounds of struggle below, to direct itself towards what lay ahead. One hand still gripping the iron stair rail and one knee resting on a step, she slowly shone the torch upwards slowly because she dreaded what the beam would reveal, an inner sense fearing the worst and found the man's legs, his knees, his waist. He was dressed in the blue overalls of a workman and, as the torchbeam came higher, she saw he was holding a stained, short-bladed chopper across his chest, the kind used in a kitchen for chopping meat; and as the beam reached higher still, she saw he was grinning, his teeth were red, and his mouth was red, and the redness ran down his chin and she now noticed it had splashed on to his overalls. She knew he was insane, for what normal person would eat raw meat. He came down a step and she screamed.

The first swing of the small chopper missed because he was blinded by the light, but the second scythed across the arm she had put up to protect herself. The whole of her arm went numb, as though it had been struck with a hammer and not a sharp instrument; she tumbled backwards, the torch in her other hand, sending its beam careering upwards, then around the walls as she fell. Bishop used his body to block her descent, gripping the handrail tight and still maintaining his hold on Kulek. His legs nearly went from beneath him with the medium's weight, but he managed to steady them. She had collapsed sideways on the stairs, her stout legs sprawled across one step, her body against the uprights of the stair rail; mercifully, she had not released the torch. Sure she would fall no further and sure he had regained his own balance, Bishop quickly snatched the torch from her grasp and pointed it upwards again. The man was slowly walking down, his grin made even more obscene by the sticky blood around his lips and on his teeth. The weapon was held high over his head, poised to strike.

Bishop tried to back away, but encumbered by Kulek's limp body, movement was awkward. Edith clawed at the man's legs, grabbing his overalls and tugging, trying to overbalance him. It was no use; the man was too strong.

The chopper was already swinging downwards when the bullet shattered his breastbone, the blast from the .38 made even more thunderous by the concrete walls around them. The caretaker screamed and fell backwards, the chopper dropping from his hand and slithering harmlessly off Edith Metlock's sprawled body. He turned over and tried to crawl away from them, but his legs kicked out spasmodically before he reached the top step and he slid back down, bumping Jessica as he passed her on the stairs. The gun was still pointing at the empty space where the caretaker had stood when she shot him, smoke curling from the barrel, the smell of cordite heavy in the air. The noises below had ceased as though the single, reverberating blast had stopped all action. Bishop knew the silence wouldn't last.

With one hand, he helped Edith to her feet, catching a glimpse of the cut in her lower arm as he did so. It was a long wound, just below her elbow, stretching from one side to the other, apparently not too deep, for she seemed to have no trouble in using her arm. He pushed her in the direction of the landing above and followed, almost lifting Kulek with him. He gently sat the blind man down with his back against the swingdoors. The stairs ended on a small landing, separated from the short hallway leading to the other side of the building by the yellow swingdoors. The iron stair rail ran off to the left making the small landing Bishop was on a balcony overlooking the steep stairwell. At the end was a door, which he assumed was the fire exit to the stairs for anyone living in the top flats on that side of the hallway. He saw what he was looking for when he shone the torch towards the ceiling: a large trapdoor was housed there, the metal ladder leading to it running down the wall opposite the balcony railings. A wooden plank was chained and padlocked to the ladder, top and bottom, a simple device to prevent children or trespassers from climbing up to the roof.

The sounds of battle began again and he ran down the few steps to Jessica. He had to prise the gun away from her clenched fingers and forcibly drag her past the spot where the overalled man had been standing.

'See to your father, Jessica,' he said harshly, shoving her towards Kulek. He knew the killing had sent her into a state of shock and the only way to bring her out of it was to occupy her mind with other problems; after all they had been through, it would be too easy for her to crack completely. Jessica knelt beside her father and cradled him in her arms.

Bishop shone the torch on to the lower retaining chain on the ladder, tugging at it to feel its strength. He was surprised when it fell away in his hand; someone kids probably had already worked on one of the links, cutting through it, but leaving it in position until they had cut loose the chain near the top of the ladder. The second was just within reaching distance, too high for smaller children, but easy enough for the caretaker or maintenance men to get at. He gripped the chain and pulled. It held.

Bishop swore. Should they use the fire escape door and get into one of the flats beyond? No, they'd be trapped in there; a determined mob could easily force their way in. The roof had to be the best bet an army could be held off from that position. He had to break the chain somehow, or bust the padlock; the gun he was holding would do it.

'Edith, get over by Jessica!'

The medium quickly did as she was told, realizing his intent. Bishop moved around so his body was between the three crouching figures and the target he was aiming at. He half-turned his head, keeping his eyes narrowed, praying there would not be a ricochet. The sound of shattered metal was smothered in the blast and the deflected bullet spun onwards, thudding into the wall just above the fire escape door. The chain fell to the floor and the wooden plank toppled away from the ladder, bouncing against, then resting on, the railing opposite. Bishop wasted no time; he climbed the ladder and pushed at the trapdoor. It would not budge.

He slipped the gun into his pocket and used the torch to examine the trapdoor; a small hole was set into a metal square at a point near the ladder. The caretaker obviously had a special key to allow access for himself and any authorized person.

'Edith, quickly hold the torch!'

She reached up and took the torch from him.

'Shine it on the lock,' he told her. His ears were still ringing from the previous gunshot, but he was sure he could hear footsteps mounting the stairs once more. He jammed the .38 up against the lock, having no other choice but to hope for the best. The recoil in the confined space jerked his arm downwards and scraps of metal and wood spat into his face. He clung to the ladder, his head tucked down, almost losing his grip on the rung he was holding. Then, the gun still clenched in his fist, he pushed at the trapdoor. For one dreadful moment, he thought it would not lift, but he exerted more pressure and grunted with relief when the door shifted. He climbed another rung and pushed even harder; the trap-door swung open and came to rest against something behind it. Bishop jumped back down on to the landing.

'Up you go, Edith,' he said, once more taking the torch from her. He watched her climb, telling her to reach inside the opening for some kind of handhold. She had obviously found something, for soon she was pulling her plump body through the gap, her injured arm hardly impeding her progress. Bishop stepped up a few rungs and handed the light back to her.

'Keep it on us,' he said, then jumped down and went to Jessica and her father. 'We're going to get him up to the roof, Jessica.'

Kulek opened his eyes at the sound of Bishop's voice. 'I can make it, Chris,' he said, his words slightly slurred but still coherent. 'Just get me to my feet, will you?'

Bishop smiled grimly at the blind man's willpower. He and Jessica lifted the thin body and Kulek bit his lower lip in an effort to contain a cry of pain; something was wrong inside, something deep in his stomach had been twisted or torn. Yet he had to go on; he could not allow those creatures of the Dark to take him. Despite the weakness he felt and the pain he suffered, a thought was pounding in his brain, a thought that was struggling to surface, to sweep through his mind and . . . and what? Even as he tried to concentrate his head swam with a nauseating dizziness. The thought was close, but the barriers seemed impenetrable.

They helped him to the ladder and Bishop told Jessica to go first. 'I'll support him from down below, you try and pull him through.'

She swiftly climbed the ladder and disappeared into the black hole above. Bishop guessed there was some kind of box room built on to the flat roof of the tower block, the kind that usually housed the lift motors and drive pulleys, or water tanks. Jessica leaned her body back through the hole and reached down.

Bishop guided Kulek's hands on to the ladder and immediately knew the blind man would never make it. Kulek clung to the metal frame but did not have the strength left to move his legs. And the footsteps closing in from behind told Bishop that time was running out.

The first man was nearly at the top of the stairs, his two companions almost halfway. In the wide angle of light from the opening above, Bishop saw that all three were in a dishevelled state, a condition that had come to be recognized as belonging to the longer-term victims, those who had been affected perhaps weeks before. Their faces were black, their hands and clothes filthy and torn; no one could be sure where these people hid during the daylight hours, but it had to be somewhere dark, some place beneath the ground where nothing clean existed. The first man lurched forward, his deeply-sunk eyes fixed on Bishop, but dead and expressionless. The festering sores and scabs that corrupted his skin became clearly visible as he drew nearer.

Bishop drew the gun and pointed it at the advancing man who ignored the weapon, fearless because inside he was already dead. Bishop squeezed the trigger and the hammer clicked against an empty chamber. In panic, he tried again, knowing the gun was empty, the bullets all used.

The man spread his arms open to take him in his embrace, his eyes mere slits against the light, and Bishop struck out with the pistol, using it as a club, the blow cracking against the bridge of the creature's nose. The man still staggered forward as though the pain meant nothing to him, blood pouring from his injury and adding to the grotesqueness of his appearance. Bishop ducked beneath the clawing arms and used his shoulder against the man's chest, sending him reeling back towards the stairs. The gun was useless to him and he let it drop when he saw the only other object on the landing that could be used as a weapon. He picked up the heavy wooden plank that had been resting against the balcony rail and hurried towards the subhuman teetering at the top of the stairs, smashing it into him and pushing with all his strength. The man toppled backwards, falling on to his fellow victims, who were almost on to the landing, all three going down, their deteriorated bodies glancing off the concrete steps as they went, the heavy board following. They did not stop until they had reached the broader bend in the stairs where the tall woman stood gazing upwards.

Bishop saw her there in the gloom and hate surged through him. Again he wanted to rush down and kill her, not as punishment for what she had become, but for what she was and always had been; instead he hoisted Jacob Kulek over his shoulder and began the strenuous climb up the ladder. Just when he thought he would never make it, his last reserves of strength almost depleted, helping hands reached down and lightened his load. Jessica and Edith pulled together, grasping the blind man by his clothes, beneath his arms anywhere they could get a grip. Bishop made one final effort and heaved upwards, almost willing the injured man into the opening, and the two women gained firmer grips, lifting Kulek's upper body through, pulling him to one side so he could not fall back. The relief to Bishop was shortlived, for other, hostile, arms were wrapping themselves around his legs and pulling him down. His feet slipped from the rungs and he fell, the people beneath him cushioning the blow. He flailed out at the bodies trying to smother him, using his arms and feet to clear some space for himself, hearing Jessica's scream from above, the sound somehow making him even more desperate.

He felt himself lifted and then knew what they were about to do; the railings of the balcony rushed to meet him and suddenly he was looking directly down into the terrifying black depths below.

30.

His body was slipping from them, going over the rail, beginning to slide forward; and the receding floors below were like a square-shaped whirlpool, its dark centre eager to suck him down. He started to scream, but his own instinctive reaction took over from his petrified mind. He grabbed at the handrail that was only inches away from his face just as they released him. His body went over the top, but he maintained his grip, falling back against the other side of the rail, feet dangling in empty air. He gasped at the pain as his shoulder socket was wrenched, his fingers almost opening at the shock. In one movement he swung round and grasped a metal upright, both hands now taking his full weight. He managed to get a foot on to the sill of the landing and there he clung, pausing for brief seconds to recover his strength and senses.

A hand smashed down against his and he looked up to see the tall woman standing over him. Bishop knew who it was even though her features were in shadow, and, despite his helpless position, the anger flared once more. A man was reaching over to grab at his hair, trying to push him down, away from the rail. Bishop twisted his head, in an attempt to break the grip, but the hand merely moved with him, pushing, forcing him away. Someone else had a foot through the metal supports and was kicking at his chest, trying to dislodge him; through the fury of the attack, Bishop was vaguely aware that this third person was a young girl, no more than a teenager. Another shadowy figure, unable to reach Bishop because of the others, stood at the rail and shouted encouragement.

Bishop felt his fingers becoming numb and he knew they could not resist the constant hammering for much longer. The tall woman changed her tactics and began to prise them open one by one. His body was well away from the rail, the girl's foot forcing him outward, the man's vicious grip on his hair pushing his head backwards. The tall woman cried out in triumph as she finally broke his hold on the rail; only his grip on the upright prevented him from plunging downwards. He knew he had only seconds left.

And then Jessica was down among them, kicking and clawing, merciless in her desperation to help Bishop. She pulled the teenager away and thrust her hard against the wall, the impact stunning the girl. Then she was on the man who held Bishop's head, tearing into him and raking his face with her fingernails. He let go of Bishop and tried to grab her, but was powerless against her fierce onslaught; he fell back, his arms covering his face. Jessica had her back towards the man who had been watching and now he moved towards her, arms outstretched.

'No!' the tall woman screeched, knowing Bishop was the more dangerous. 'Help me!'

He stopped, then leaned over the rail and began to smash his fist down against the clinging man's head. The blows stunned Bishop and he did the only thing possible: he jumped.

Using his grip on the rail and his foothold to thrust himself sideways, he snaked out a hand to grab the descending stair rail to his right. He seemed to be suspended in open space for an eternity and Edith Metlock, in the hatchway overhead, closed her eyes, unable to watch the frightening leap. His fingers curled around the slanted rail as his body slammed into the uprights and the side of the concrete steps. His other hand found purchase and he pulled himself up instantly, tumbling over the stair rail with a speed that owed much to panic. Without pausing, he raced back up the stairs, reaching up for the collar of the man Jessica had been forcing backwards and who was now near the top step. Bishop pulled hard, twisting sideways as he did so, and the man hurtled past, his body only striking concrete when it was three steps from the bottom. He screamed as he made contact, then was silent as he rolled down. He came to rest in a crumpled heap among the groaning bodies of those who had fallen earlier.

Still Bishop did not stop; he was on the landing, running past Jessica and slamming his shoulder into the other man standing next to the tall woman. They both went down, but Bishop's mind was his own and he was able to move quickly. His fist smashed down into the upturned face, knocking the man's head against the concrete. Bishop dug both hands into the man's hair, then lifted the head almost a foot off the floor and pushed it back, the sickening smack telling him the man would not be a problem for a while.

Hands closed over his eyes, digging into them, and he knew it was the tall woman who was trying to tear them from their sockets. He threw his head back and the pressure eased slightly. Then he was released and, as he staggered forward on his knees, he saw that Jessica was holding the tall woman from behind, one arm around her waist, the other around one shoulder. The tall woman was too strong, too cunning; she brought an elbow sharply back, driving it into Jessica's ribs. Jessica doubled up and the woman whirled around, aiming two swift punches to her breasts. Jessica screamed and collapsed to the floor. The tall woman's eyes were hidden in the dark shadows, but Bishop could feel the hatred in them. She rushed at him like a thing possessed, her teeth bared in a snarl that was primitive, the sound ascending to a high-pitched screeching as she closed in on him.

He rose to meet her and failed to stop her clutching his throat, her strength no longer normal, her savagery no longer her own. But he remembered her evil, the horrible deaths of Agnes Kirkhope and her housekeeper, the near-killing of Jacob Kulek, the murder of the policeman. The burning of Lynn. She was the willing tool of the unclean force that was in every man, woman and child; she was its servant and its instigator, a creature who worshipped the dark side of the mind. He pushed her back against the rail, her eyes visible now, tiny black pools in muddy brown irises, shrunken apertures to something darker and boundless inside. She squeezed his throat, spittle from her open mouth splattering his face, her own neck straining forward in an attempt to tear his flesh with her bared teeth. His whole body quivered with the fury he felt and blood rushed through him, swelling veins and arteries with their torrent. Then he was lifting her, scooping her legs up in one mighty heave, the movement fast but drawn out in time so the action was slow and dreamlike. Higher, her back on the rail, her shriek becoming that of fear, her hold on him loosening. Higher until she was tilted over the black void as he had been earlier. Higher until the balance was drawing her down. Then her body slipped from his grasp and she was screaming and flailing at the air as she plummeted, bouncing against the sides of stairs, an arm snapping, a leg torn from the hip, her back breaking even before she disappeared from sight and squelched against the concrete below.

Bishop hung over the rail, the strength finally drained from him. He could no longer think, no longer reason; the urge to sink to the floor and lie there was almost overwhelming. But the shouts below grew louder and footsteps drummed on the stone steps. He saw faces peering up at him, disappearing, hands snaking up the stair rail, the crowd now ascending as one, the battle with the tenants of the tower block over. A hand pulled him away from the railing and towards the ladder reaching up into the roof. Jessica implored him to climb to safety, her face stained with tears of anxiety and exhaustion.

'You first,' he told her.

'Hurry!' came Edith's voice from the open hatchway. The mob were on the last flight of stairs, the strongest of them coming fast, the torchlight growing strangely weaker as though the darkness of night were approaching with them.

Without further hesitation, Jessica climbed the ladder and disappeared into the hole above. Bishop leapt upwards, forcing his weary legs to climb, knowing the desperation of the hunted. He felt a hand close around his ankle and he stamped down hard with his other foot, the heel scraping down his pursuer's face, causing the man to drop to the floor. And then Bishop was rolling over the side of the opening, the hatch slamming closed behind him. Edith and Jessica fell on to the covering as fists pounded against it. Fortunately the hatch was solidly made and they knew that no more than one person at a time could climb the ladder to push against it. They lay in the gloom, the torch on its side and pointing towards the machinery that operated the lift, Edith and Jessica slumped over the hatch, Bishop on his back panting for breath and totally spent, Kulek sprawled on one side near a wall. They listened to the muted howls of anger below, the drumming of fists against the hatch, and they were aware of the oppressive darkness that was there with them in the small box room on top of the ten-storey building. The wind tore round the corners outside as though it were an unseen force trying to enter and Edith Metlock rejected the probing she felt at the edges of her mind, refusing to hear the anguished voices that whispered their threats. She thought only of her three companions in the machine room, keeping an imagined wall of light between her and the Dark.

After a while the noise from below faded away and there was no more pressure against the hatch. Bishop breathed more evenly as he raised himself on one elbow.

'Have they gone?' he asked, not daring to hope.

'I don't think so,' the medium said. 'I don't think they'll give up until they have Jacob.'

'But why do they want my father?' said Jessica. 'You said before that they feared him. Why should they? What can he do against them?'

'Because I'm close to the answer, Jessica.'

They swung their heads around at the sound of his weak, quavery voice. Edith picked up the torch and shone it towards where Jacob Kulek sat, his back propped up against the wall, his hands pressed down against the floor to keep his body erect. He seemed strangely shrunken, as though his body were slowly crumbling in upon itself, his cheeks collapsed inwards, eyes half closed as though resisting sleep. Jessica quickly crawled towards him, not having the strength to rise, and Bishop followed.

Jessica took one of her father's hands and tenderly touched his cheek. The lids of his eyes briefly opened wider and he tried to smile at her. She pressed her face against his, afraid for him without knowing why; it had nothing to do with the physical danger they were in, and concern over his injuries was only part of it. He opened his mouth to speak again, but she softly placed her fingertips against his lips.

'Don't, Father. Save your strength. Help will be here soon, I'm sure of it.'

A trembling hand took hers away. 'No, Jessica . . . there will be . . . no help . . . for us this night.'