'Move,' he said.

Cal had no choice, scarcely believing, even as he walked, that this scene was taking place on a street whose paving cracks he'd counted since he was old enough to know one from two.

He was ushered into the back of the car, separated from his captors by a partition of heavy glass. The door was locked. He was powerless. All he could do was watch the Salesman slide into the driver's seat, and the woman get in beside.

There was little chance he'd be missed from the party, he knew, and littler chance still that anyone would come looking for him. It would simply be assumed that he'd tired of the festivities and headed off home. He was in the hands of the enemy, and helpless to do anything about it.

What would Mad Mooney do now, he wondered.

The question vexed him only a moment, before the answer came. Taking out the celebratory cigar Norman had given him; he leaned back in the leather seat, and lit up.

Good, said the poet; take what pleasure you can, while there's still pleasure to be had. And breath to take it with.

V.

IN THE ARMS OF MAMA PUS.

In the haze of fear and cigar smoke he soon lost track of their route. His only clue to their whereabouts, when they finally came to a halt, was that the air smelt sharply of the river. Or rather, of the acreage of black mud that was exposed at low tide; expanses of muck which he'd had a terror of as a child. It wasn't until he'd reached double figures that he'd been able to walk along Otterspool Promenade without an adult between him and the railings.

The Salesman ordered him from the car. He got out obediently - it was difficult not to be obedient with a gun in his face. Shadwell immediately snatched the cigar from Cad's mouth, grinding it beneath his heel, then escorted him through a gate into a walled compound. Only now, as he laid ryes on the canyons of household refuse ahead did Cal realize where they'd brought him: the Municipal Rubbish tip. In former years, acres of parkland had been built on the city's detritus, but there was no longer the money to transform trash into lawns. Trash it remained. Its stench - the sweet and sour of rotting vegetable matter - even overpowered the smell of the river.

'Stop,' said Shadwell, when they reached a place that seemed in no way particular.

Cal looked round in the direction of the voice. He could see very little, but it seemed Shadwell had pocketed his gun. Seizing the instant, he began to run, not choosing any particular direction, merely seeking escape. He'd counted maybe four paces when something tangled with his legs, and he fell heavily, the breath knocked from him. Before he had a chance to get to his feet forms were converging on him from every side, an incoherent mass of limbs and snarls that could only be the wraith-sister's children. He was glad of the darkness: at least he couldn't see their deformities. But he felt their limbs upon him; heard their teeth snapping at his neck.

They didn't intend to devour him, however. At some cue he neither saw nor heard, their violence dwindled to mere bondage. He was held fast, his body so knotted up his joints creaked, while a terrible spectacle unfolded a few yards in hunt of him.

It was one of Immacolata's sisters, he had no doubt of that: a naked woman whose substance flickered and smoked as though her marrow was on fire, except that she could have no marrow, for surely she had no bones. Her body was a column of grey gas, laced with strands of bloody tissue, and from this flux fragments of finished anatomy emerged: a seeping breast, a belly swollen as if by a pregnancy months beyond its term, a smeared fare in which the eyes were sewnup slits. That explained, no doubt, her hesitant advance, and the way her smoky limbs extended from her body to test the ground ahead: the ghost was blind.

By the light this unholy mother gave off, Cal could see the children more clearly. No perversion of anatomy had been overlooked amongst them: bodies turned inside out to parade the bowel end stomach; organs whose function seemed simply to seep and wheeze lining the belly of one like teats, and mounted like a coxcomb on another's head. Yet despite their corruptions, their heads were all turned adoringly upon Mama Pus, their eyes unblinking so as not to miss a moment of her presence. She was their mother; they her loving children.

Suddenly, she started to shriek. Cal turned to look at her again. She'd taken up a squatting posture, her legs splayed, her head thrown back as she voiced her agony.

Behind her there now stood a second ghost, as naked as the first. More so perhaps, for she could scarcely lay claim to flesh.

She was obscenely withered her dugs like empty purses, her face collapsed upon itself in a jumble of tooth-shard and hair. She'd taken hold of her squatting sister, whose scream had now reached a nerve-shredding height. As the swollen belly came close to bursting, there was an issue of smouldering matter from between the mother's legs. The sight was greeted with a chorus of welcomes from the children. They were entranced. So, in his horrified way, was Cal.

Mama Pus was giving birth.

The scream became a series of smaller, rhythmic shouts as the child began its journey into the living world. It was less born than shat, dropping from between its parent's legs like a vast mewling turd. No sooner had it hit the ground than the withered midwife was about her business, coming between mother and spectators to draw away veils of redundant matter from the child's body. The mother, her labours over, stood up, the flame in her flesh dying, and left the child to her sister's ministrations.

Now Shadwell came back into view. He looked down at Cal.

'Do you see?' he said, his voice all but a whisper, 'what kind of horrors these are? I warned you. Tell me where the carpet is and I'll try to make sure the child doesn't touch you.'

'I don't know. I swear I don't.'

The midwife had withdrawn. Shadwell, a sham of pity on his fare, now did the same.

In the dirt a few yards from Cal the child was already standing up. It was the size of a chimpanzee, and shared with its siblings the appearance of something traumatically wounded. Portions of its inner workings were teased out through its skin, leaving its torso to collapse upon itself in places and in others sport ludicrous appendages of gut. Twin rows of dwarf limbs hung from its belly, and between its legs a sizeable scrotum depended, smoking like a censer, uncompanioned by any organ to discharge what boiled within.

The child knew its business from its first breath: to terrorize.

Though its face was still wreathed with afterbirth, its gummy eyes found Cal, and it began to shamble towards him.

'Oh Jesus . . .'

Cal began looking for the Salesman, but the man had vanished.

'I told you,' he yelled into the darkness, 'I don't know where the fucking carpet is.'

Shadwell didn't respond. Cal shouted again. Mama Pus' bastard was almost upon him.

'Jesus, Shadwell, listen to me, will you?'

Then, the by-blow spoke.

'Cal...' it said.

He stopped struggling against his restraints a moment, and looked at it in disbelief.

It spoke again. The same syllable.

'Cal...

Even as it pronounced his name its fingers pulled at the muck about its head. The face that appeared from beneath lacked a complete skull, but it was recognizably that of its father: Elroy. Seeing familiar features in the midst of such deformity was the crowning horror. As Elroy's child reached to touch him Cal started yelling again, scarcely aware of what he was saying, only begging Shadwell to keep the thing from touching him.

The only reply was his own voice, echoing back and forth until it died. The child's arms jerked forward, and its long fingers latched onto Cal's fare. He tried to fight it off, but it drew closer to him, its sticky body embracing him.. The more he struggled the more he was caught.

The rest of the by-blows loosed their hold on him now, leaving him to the new child. It was only minutes old, but its strength was phenomenal, the vestigial hands on its belly raking Cal's skin, its grip so tight his lungs laboured for breath.

With its face inches from Cal's. it spoke again, but the voice that, came from the ruined mouth was not its father's this time, but that of Immacolata.

'Confess,' she demanded. 'Confess what you know.'

'I just saw a place,' he said, trying to avoid the trail of spittle that was about to fall tram the beast's chin. He failed. It hit his check, and burned like hot fat.

'Do you know what place?' the Incantatrix demanded.

'No . . .' he said. 'No, I don't.'

'But you've dreamt it, haven't you? Wept for it. .'

Yes, was the answer; of course he'd dreamt it. Who hadn't dreamt of paradise? Momentarily his thoughts leapt from present terror to past joy. To his floating over the Fugue. The sight of that Wonderland kindled a sudden will to resist in him. The glories he saw in his mind's eye had to be preserved from the foulness that embraced him, from its makers and masters, and in such a struggle his life was not so hard to forfeit. Though he knew nothing about the carpet's present whereabouts he was ready to perish rather than risk letting anything slip that Shadwell might profit by. And while he had breath, he'd do all in his power to confound them.

Elroy's child seemed to read this new-found resolution. It drew its arms more tightly about him.

'I'll confess!' he yelled in its fare. 'I'll tell you everything you want to know: Immediately, he began to talk.