"That's right."

"Okey-doke. See you there, mate."

"Don't display the box, though."

"Eh? Oh. Okay."

"Stand as close as you can to the very middle of the bridge, right at the top of the walking surface."

"Got that. Middle, top."

"What outer clothes are you wearing?"

"Blue jeans, white shirt, sort of, umm, orangey, beigey leather jacket."

"I'll find you."

"Okay, then. See you there."

Madame d'Ortolan The voice was sing-song. "Here-here, hyah-hyah!"

In the main study of the Palazzo Chirezzia, Bisquitine sat sprawled, unladylike, on a rather grand couch whose white covering had only recently been removed. She picked her nose, then inspected the finger involved, cross-eyed. Mrs Siankung sat to one side of her, one of her handlers to the other. Madame d'Ortolan sat on an ornate chair a couple of metres away across a Persian rug and a still sheet-covered occasional table. The other handlers stood behind the couch.

"Now, my dear," Madame d'Ortolan said quietly, "be very sure about this. He's still here, still in the city? Still in Venice. Are you certain?"

Bisquitine sucked in her lips, looked meaningfully up at the painted ceiling of the study and said, "These are my lawyers, called Gumsip and Slurridge, they'll send you the bill and then talk of demurrage." She smiled broadly, displaying white teeth with little bits of seaweed stuck between them. The body she'd found herself within when they had transitioned had been that of a smartly dressed young woman carrying a briefcase. She'd been standing on a pontoon waiting for a vaporetto when her own consciousness had been displaced by that of Bisquitine, who had immediately decided the weed growing on the side of the floating jetty looked edible; in fact, delicious.

Madame d'Ortolan looked at Mrs Siankung, who watched Bisquitine with anxious concentration. Bisquitine appeared dishevelled already; hair awry, her businesswoman's jacket removed as an annoyance, her blouse hanging half out, b.u.t.tons undone at the bottom, tights laddered, shoes discarded. She brought her head back, and stuck her jaw out, lowering her voice to something close to a man's as she said, "Blinkenscoop, why, you silly man, what do you call this? A fine to-do, to do, to-do, to-do, to-do-oo-oo. I can't see with you in the way. Begone, you tea urchin!"

"She will need one of the other blockers to be sure," Mrs Siankung announced.

Madame d'Ortolan and Mr Kleist exchanged glances. They were out of character, in a sense. He was too young, wiry and blond, she too fat and awkward, with badly dyed grey-black hair and a loud orange velour trouser suit. Mrs Siankung was similarly wrong, manifesting as a ma.s.sive, robustly built woman in a voluminous yellow dress who needed a three-pointed aluminium stick to walk. They'd had no time to find body types closer to their own, especially as they'd all had to transition together with Bisquitine and her handlers, who had been similarly randomised in physiques.

Madame d'Ortolan frowned. "A blocker? You're sure?"

"I think you mean a spotter," Mr Kleist suggested.

"No, a blocker," Mrs Siankung said, reaching out to flick an unruly lock off her charge's forehead. "And it has to be one of those who was here earlier, with the first intervention team."

Madame d'Ortolan glanced at Mr Kleist and nodded. He left the room. Bisquitine made as though to slap Mrs Siankung's hand away, then started pulling at her long, brown, still mostly gathered-up hair, tugging a thick length of it free and putting the end of it in her mouth and starting to chew contentedly on it. She looked at a distant painting with an expression of great concentration.

"What will happen to the blocker?" Madame d'Ortolan asked.

Mrs Siankung looked at her. "You know what will happen."

Mr Kleist returned with one of the two blockers a few minutes later.

The young man had been dried off after his dunking in the ca.n.a.l beside the palace's landing stage. His dark hair was slicked down, he was dressed in a towelling robe and he was smoking a cigarette.

"Put that out," Mrs Siankung told him.

"I work better with it," he said, glancing to Madame d'Ortolan, who remained expressionless.

He sighed, took a final deep draw, found an ashtray on the broad desk and stubbed the cigarette out. He took a frowning look at Bisquitine as he did so. She was in turn obviously fascinated by him, staring wide-eyed and still holding the hank of hair to her mouth while she chewed noisily at it.

A slight, bald man hurried through the study doors, came up to Madame d'Ortolan and kissed her hand.

"Madame, I am at your disposal."

"Professore Loscelles," she replied, patting his hand. "A pleasure, as ever. I am so sorry your lovely home has been made such a mess of."

"Not at all, not at all," he murmured.

"Please stay, will you?"

"Certainly."

The Professore stood at the rear of Madame d'Ortolan's chair.

The sheet-covered table was moved back and the young man who was employed as a blocker was sat on a chair immediately in front of Bisquitine, almost knee to knee. He looked a little nervous. He pulled the robe tighter, cleared his throat.

"She will take your wrists," Mrs Siankung told him.

He nodded, cleared his throat again. Bisquitine looked expectantly at Mrs Siankung, who nodded. The girl made a noise like "Grooh!" and sat forward quickly, grabbing at the young man's wrists and encircling them as best she could with her own smaller hands while she thudded her head against his chest.

The reaction was immediate. The young man bowed his back, jackknifed forward and as though doing so deliberately vomited copiously over Bisquitine's head, hair and back before quivering as though suffering a fit and starting to slump backwards in the seat and then slide forwards out of it, legs splaying as he lost control of his bladder and bowels at the same time.

"Dear f.u.c.k!" Madame d'Ortolan said, standing so suddenly that she knocked her chair over.

Professore Loscelles put a handkerchief to his mouth and nose and turned away, bowing his head.

Mr Kleist did not react at all, save to glance briefly, as though concerned, at Madame d'Ortolan. Then he walked over and carefully set her chair upright again.

Mrs Siankung moved her feet away from the mess.

Bisquitine didn't seem to have noticed, still cuddling into the young man and pulling him to her as he spasmed and jerked and voided noisily from various orifices.

"Who's a bad boy, then?" they heard Bisquitine say over the noises of evacuation coming from the young man, her voice m.u.f.fled as she hugged his shaking body and they collapsed together onto the floor. A thick, earthy stink filled the air. "Who's a bad boy? Where's this? Where's this, then? You tell me. Ay, Ferrovia, Ferrovia, al San Marco, Fondamenta Venier, Ay! Giacobbe, is that you? No, it's not me. Ponte Guglie; alora, Rio Tera De La Madalena. Strada Nova, al San Marco. Alora; il Quadri. Due espressi, per favore, signori. Bozman, who said you could come along? Get back, get away, get thee to your own shop, if you have one!... Euh, yucky." Bisquitine seemed to notice the mess she was lying in. She let go of the young man, who flopped lifeless on the rug, streaked with his own excrement. His eyes wide, almost popping stared up at the biblical scene depicted on the ceiling.

Bisquitine got to her feet, smiling brightly. She stuck the length of hair in her mouth again, then made a sour face and spat it out. She continued to spit for a few more moments before holding her arms out to Mrs Siankung as a child would, straight, fingers spread. "Bath time!" she cried out.

Madame d'Ortolan looked to Professore Loscelles, who was dabbing at his lips with his handkerchief. He nodded. "It would sound," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "as though the person is heading from Santa Lucia the railway station towards the Piazza San Marco. So it would seem, given the names of the thoroughfares mentioned. Or they may already be there, at the Quadri. It is a cafe and rather fine restaurant. Very good cake."

Madame d'Ortolan looked at the other man standing nearby. "Mr Kleist?"

"I'll see to it, ma'am." He left the room.

Bisquitine stamped one foot, messily. "Bath time!" she said loudly. time!" she said loudly.

Mrs Siankung looked to Madame d'Ortolan, who said, "Shower." She glanced distastefully at Bisquitine. "And don't tarry. We may need her again, soon."

The Transitionary I make my way through the slow bustle of tourists on the main route leading towards the Rialto and beyond towards both the Accademia and Piazza San Marco, moving as quickly as I can without actually throwing people aside or trampling small children. "Scusi. Scusi, scusi, signora, excuse me, sorry, scusi, coming through. Scusi, scusi..."

At the same time I'm still trying to monitor what's going on just across the Grand Ca.n.a.l. What a stew of conflicting talents and abilities are ma.s.sed around the Palazzo Chirezzia! There are blockers and trackers and inhibitors and foreseers and adepts with skills I barely recognise, many of them recently arrived. I think I can identify individual presences now, too. That one there would be Madame d'Ortolan, this one here might be Professore Loscelles. And at the centre of them all that bizarre presence, that strange, guileless malignity.

One of the blockers seems to have gone. I remember the first blocker I'd Tasered, the young man who was smoking and fell into the small ca.n.a.l at the side of the palace. He isn't there any more. And some of the others are starting to move, quitting the Chirezzia and streaming in this direction, heading for the Rialto, others cl.u.s.tering in what must be a launch- "Jesus! Hey! Watch where you're going! What the I mean, Jesus."

"Scusi, sorry, sorry, signore, I beg your pardon," I tell the backpacker I've just knocked to his knees, helping him back up to a surrounding chorus of tutting.

"Well, just-"

"Scusi!" Then I'm off again, sliding and dancing through the crowd like the people are flags on a slalom course, leading with one shoulder then the other, sliding and swivelling on the b.a.l.l.s of my feet. The boat with the half-dozen or so Concern people in it is on its way down the Grand Ca.n.a.l. More maybe a dozen are on foot, heading over the Rialto now. I'm just a couple of minutes away from there. If they turn left on its far side, they'll pa.s.s right by me or we'll b.u.mp into each other.

My phone goes. It's Ade. A symbol on the display that wasn't flashing before is flashing now. I suspect the battery is about to give out.

"Fred?"

"h.e.l.lo, Adrian."

"Just landed at the Rialto, mate, just past the vaporetto sort of floating bus stop wotsit. On the bridge in one minute."

"I'll see you very shortly."

I stop, walking into the doorway of a glove shop, breathing hard. I still can't flit across to another person. I can feel the squad of Concern people splitting up, most heading on down the main route for San Marco, three coming this way. I turn to face the calle and close down as much as I can, calming myself, attempting, if it's possible, to take all that I can of my new abilities off-line. A minute or two pa.s.ses, the street teems with people. I recognise somebody and my heart leaps, then I realise they're heading the other way and it's just the backpacker I bowled into earlier. I try a quick toe-in reading with my sense of where the Concern people are. All three of the nearest are still heading up the way I've just come.

I walk out and on and turn a corner, find myself facing the eastern end of the Rialto.

Madame d'Ortolan "Cripes! Heads up, mateys! Here's our boy! Whoop whoop! Last one in's a scallop! I say, that ain't politic. I ain't even broke my fast yet, dontcha know?"

"What? Where?" Madame d'Ortolan said. She glared at Mrs Siankung. "Is this something new?"

Mrs Siankung stared into Bisquitine's eyes, letting one of the other handlers take over the job of towelling her hair dry. "I think so," she said. They were in one of the main bedroom suites of the palace. Mr Kleist and Professore Loscelles looked on, as did Bisquitine's handlers and a spotter in a schoolboy's uniform who was keeping in continual touch with the intervention teams heading for the San Marco and the smaller groups checking out the other places that Bisquitine had already mentioned. Bisquitine sat on the bed in a white towelling robe like the one the unfortunate young blocker had been wearing. "This is the bad man?" Mrs Siankung asked her gently.

Bisquitine nodded. "Dish it all, Chaplip, I'm hungry! I mean, jeepahs!"

Mrs Siankung took one of the girl's hands in both of hers, stroking it as though it was a pet. "We shall eat, my love. Very soon. You get dressed now and we go to eat, yes? Where is the bad man?"

"Sausinges would be nice. I says it like that cos it's cute. Where's my old ma, then? I ain't seen her round the blinkin farmstead in mumfs."

"The bad man, my love."

"He's here, love-a-kins," Bisquitine said, putting her face very close to Mrs Siankung's. "Shalls we to go see da bad mun?" she said, deep-voiced, as though talking to a baby. She shook her head. "Shalls we? Shalls we to go and see the bad mun? Shalls we? Shalls we?"

"Yes," Mrs Siankung said quietly, at the same time as Madame d'Ortolan shouted, "Enough of this!"

Bisquitine seemed to ignore them both. She stuck one finger sharply up into the air, narrowly missing the eye of the handler towelling her hair. "To the Rialto, me hearties! Realty bound! Tally f.u.c.king prostimitute!"

Madame d'Ortolan looked at Professore Loscelles. "The Rialto. That's close, isn't it?"

"Five minutes away," he told her.

Mrs Siankung patted Bisquitine's hand. "We'll get you dressed," she started to say.

"No, we won't," Madame d'Ortolan said, standing. "Bring her as she is. It's warm out." She looked sourly round them all. Only Professore Loscelles appeared like himself or well enough turned out to be presentable. "We can't look any more ridiculous than we do already."

The Transitionary It looks like all humanity is packing the Rialto; the bridge over the Grand Ca.n.a.l is compact but ma.s.sive, st.u.r.dy yet elegant. Two lines of small packed shops are separated by the broad central way whose surface is composed of flights of shallow grey-surfaced steps edged with the same cream-coloured marble found throughout the city. Behind the shops two further walkways face up and down the ca.n.a.l, linked to the pitched street of the central thoroughfare at either end and the centre. The walkway facing south-west is the busier as it provides a longer, more open view down the Ca.n.a.l and the bustle of boats plying its milky blue-green waters.

They've left the Palazzo Chirezzia. The thing, the person, the nexus of sheer terrifying weirdness is on the move, and so is practically everybody else who was still there, including Madame herself and the Prof. They're a minute away; they can probably see the bridge by now.

My mobile phone goes and I start to answer it, seeing that it's Adrian. The display blinks off. The phone won't come back to life. I shove it in a pocket and start up the slope of the Rialto with the rest of the tourist crowd.

Madame d'Ortolan "When, sir? Why, sir. I'll tell you when, then; between the Quilth of Octoldyou-so and the Nonce of Distember, THAT'S JOLLY WELL WHEN!" Bisquitine's shout echoed off the surrounding buildings.

"Hush, my dear," Mrs Siankung said, conscious of the stares they were attracting.

They were on the Ruga Orefici, within sight of the Rialto. Bisquitine padded happily along in the midst of their motley collection of ungainly bodies and unfortunate clothing styles. She wore the same towelling robe she'd been wrapped in after her shower and had been persuaded into a pair of panties but had adamantly refused shoes or even slippers. She hugged the gown about her, looked round at the various shops with their excitingly bright displays and tried unsuccessfully to whistle.

The smell of a bakery distracted her as the square in front of San Giacomo di Rialto opened out to their left.

"Still hungry!" she cried out.

"I know, dear," Mrs Siankung said, trying to keep an arm round the girl's waist. "We'll eat soon."

"Wot you lookin at then, squire?" Bisquitine said in a deep voice as two bronze-skinned teenage girls pa.s.sed by, staring and then laughing at her. "Pop a c.r.a.p on yo petal, b.i.t.c.hes, upside ya head. An no mitsake, mistake, mystique, Mustique. I meant that."

"Shush now, dear."

"Claudia?" a man said suddenly, stepping right in front of Bisquitine. She had to stop, as did the others. The man was tall. He wore sungla.s.ses, had salt-and-pepper hair, wore a suit and carried a briefcase. He took the sungla.s.ses off, frowned, eyes s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up as he stared into Bisquitine's eyes.

"Ill met by sunlight, my good fellow," Bisquitine said haughtily. "Why, I've half a mind to scratch the boundah!"

The man looked confused and concerned in equal measure. "Claudia?" he asked. "Is that you? You were supposed to be at-" He took a step back, taking in the knot of people obviously with this woman who looked like somebody he knew and yet was not her. "Hey, what the h.e.l.l's-"

Mr Kleist didn't wait for the nod from Madame d'Ortolan. He stepped up to the man, saying. "Sir, if I may explain..." and did a straight-finger jab into his throat. Gasping, eyes wide, unable to speak, clutching his gullet, the man staggered back. It had been done so quickly that it seemed n.o.body had noticed. "I'll catch you up," Mr Kleist told the others quietly. He squatted as he made the man sit down on the road surface, still wheezing and struggling for air. Madame d'Ortolan glared at Mr Kleist but he couldn't just leave the man making that noise. He told himself that he was lingering here because he needed to make sure the man stayed down, out of action, not likely to follow them, but really it was to stop him making that terrible choking, gasping noise; to ease him. He pinched the fellow's neck, attempting to reopen his windpipe. The man tried to bat his hand away. A crowd of people had formed around them and he heard somebody call for the carabinieri. The man made a series of terrible gagging, strangling, sucking noises.

Bisquitine glanced back as they hurried away. "Dat gotta hurt, sho nuff. I'd get some cream on that. Trot on!"

"Dearest," Mrs Siankung said, "please. We're nearly there. Very soon."

"When, sir? Why, sir. I'll tell you when, then; somba tyme atwixt da the Quilth of Oncoldyou-such and zee Chonce of Plastemper; tank.u.ms, wilc.u.ms, nodd.i.n.ks, hurtsies. Oh-dear-oh-dear-oh-drear. Oh-dear-oh-drear-oh-drolldums. The backstroke? In these shoes? Have you taken leafs off your fences? Enough already. You muddy funster; you're landfill."

"I wish we could shut her up," Madame d'Ortolan muttered to Professore Loscelles as they hurried up towards the broad shallow steps of the Rialto itself.

"I suspect-" the Professore began.

"Tuk-tuk, talkink in the ranks!" Bisquitine sounded affronted.

"There there, dearest," Mrs Siankung said, patting her arm. She glanced back at Madame d'Ortolan.