'Like thieves in the night,' she replied softly.

3.

When Cal and the woman had gone, Brendan sat awhile watching the garden. He'd have to get to work on it soon: Eileen's letter had chastized him for being so lax in its upkeep.

Musing on the letter inevitably led him back to its carrier, the celestial Mr Shadwell.

Without analysing why, he got up and went to the 'phone, consulting the card the angel had given him, then dialled. His memory of the encounter with Shadwell had almost been burned away by the brightness of the gift the Salesman had brought, but there'd been a bargain made, that he did remember, and it somehow concerned Cal.

'Is that Mr Shadwell?'

'Who is this please?'

'It's Brendan Mooney.'

'Oh Brendan. How good to hear your voice. Do you have something to tell me? About Cal?'

'He went to a warehouse, for furniture and such.'

'Did he indeed. Then we shall find him, and make him a happy man. Was he alone?'

'No. There was a woman with him. A lovely woman.'

'Her name?'

'Suzanna Parrish.'

'And the warehouse?'

A vague twinge of doubt touched Brendan. 'Why is it you need Cal?'

'I told you. A prize.'

'Oh yes. A prize.'

'Something to take his breath away. The warehouse, Brendan. We have a deal, after all. Fair's fair.'

Brendan put his hand into his pocket. The letter was still warm. There was no harm in making bargains with angels, was there? What could be safer?

He named the warehouse.

'They only went for a carpet -' Brendan said.

The receiver clicked.

'Are you still there?' he said.

But the divine messenger was probably already winging his way.

IX.

FINDERS KEEPERS.

1.

Gilchrist's Second-Hand Furniture Warehouse had once been a cinema, in the years when cinemas were still palatial follies. A folly it remained, with its mock-rococo facade, and the unlikely dome perched on its roof; but there was nothing remotely palatial about it now. It stood within a stone's throw of the Dock Road, the only property left in its block that remained in use. The rest were either boarded up or burned out.

Standing at the corner of Jamaica Street, staring across at the dereliction, Cal wondered if the late Mr Gilchrist would have been proud to have his name emblazoned across such a decayed establishment. Business could not flourish here, unless they were the kind of dealings best done out of the public eye.

The opening times of the warehouse were displayed on a weather-beaten board, where the cinema had once announced its current fare. Sundays, it was open between nine-thirty and twelve. It was now one-fifteen. The double-doors were closed and bolted, and a pair of huge ironwork gates, a grotesque addition to the facade, padlocked in front of the doors.

'What are your house-breaking skills like?' Cal asked Suzanna.

'Under-developed,' she replied. 'But I'm a fast learner.' They crossed Jamaica Street for a closer inspection. There was little need to pretend innocence; there had been no pedestrians on the street since they'd arrived, and traffic was minimal.

'There must be some way in,' said Suzanna. 'You head round the far side. I'll go this way.'

'Right. Meet you at the back.'

They parted. Whereas Cal's route had taken him into shadow, Suzanna's left her in bright sunlight. Oddly, she found herself longing for some clouds. The heat was making her blood sing, as though she was tuned in to some alien radio-station, and its melodies were whining around her skull.

As she listened to them Cal stepped around the corner, startling her.

'I've found a way,' he said, and led her round to what had once been the cinema's emergency exit. It too was padlocked, but both chain and lock were well rusted. He had already found himself half a brick, with which he now berated the lock. Brick-shards flew off in all directions, but after a dozen blows the chain surrendered. Cal put his shoulder to the door, and pushed. There was a commotion from inside, as a mirror and several other items piled against the door toppled over; but he was able to force a gap large enough for them to squeeze through.

2.

The interior was a kind of Purgatory, in which thousands of household items - armchairs, wardrobes, lamps large and small, curtains, rugs - awaited Judgment, piled up in dusty wretchedness. The place stank of its occupants; of things claimed by woodworm and rot and sheer usage; of once fine pieces now so age-worn even their makers would not have given them house room.

And beneath the smell of decrepitude, something more bitter and more human. The scent of sweat perhaps, soaked up by the boards of a sick bed, or in the fabric of a lamp that had burned through a night whose endurer had known no morning. Not a place to linger too long.

They separated once more, for speed's sake.

'Anything that looks promising.' Cal said, 'holler.'

He was now eclipsed by piles of furniture.

The whine in Suzanna's skull did not die down once she was out of the sun; it worsened. Maybe it was the enormity of the task before them that made her head spin, like an impossible quest from some faery-tale, seeking a particle of magic in the wilderness of decay.

The same thought, though formulated differently, was passing through Cal's mind. The more he searched, the more he doubted his memory. Maybe it hadn't been Gilchrist they'd named; or perhaps the removal men had decided the profit made bringing the carpet here would not repay their effort.

As he turned a corner, he heard a scraping sound from behind a stack of furniture.