'Where's who?'

The woman who was here.' said Hobart. He took off his glasses, the better to see this suspect in the half-light. The man has dangerous eyes, thought Shadwell. He has the eyes of a rabid fox. And he wants Suzanna too. How interesting.

'Her name is Suzanna Parrish.' said Hobart.

'Ah,' said Shadwell.

'You know her?'

'Indeed I do. She's a thief.'

'She's a good deal worse than that.'

What's worse than a thief? thought Shadwell. But said: 'Is that so?'

'She's wanted for questioning on charges of terrorism.'

'And you're here to arrest her?'

'I am.'

'Good man,' said Shadwell. What better? he thought: an upstanding, fine-principled. Law-loving despot. Who could ask for a better ally in such troubled times?

'I have some evidence,' he said, 'that may be of value to you. But strictly for your eyes only.'

On Hobart's instruction Richardson retired a little way.

'I'm in no mood for games,' Hobart warned.

'Believe me,' said Shadwell, 'upon my mother's eyes: this is no game.'

He opened his jacket. The Inspector's fretful glance went immediately to the lining. He's hungry, thought Shadwell; he's so hungry. But what for? That would be interesting to see. What would friend Hobart desire most in all the wide world?

'Maybe ... you see something there that catches your eye?'

Hobart smiled; nodded.

'You do? Then take it, please. It's yours.'

The Inspector reached towards the jacket.

'Go on,' Shadwell encouraged him. He'd never seen such a look on any human face: such a wilderness of innocent malice.

A light ignited within the jacket, and Hobart's eyes suddenly grew wilder still. Then he was drawing his hand out of the lining, and Shadwell almost let out a yelp of surprise as he shared the lunatic's vision. In the palm of the man's hand a livid fire was burning, its flames yellow and white. They leapt a foot high, eager for something to consume, their brilliance echoed in Hobart's eyes.

'Oh yes,' said Hobart. 'Give me fire -'

'It's yours, my friend.'

'- and I'll burn them away.'

Shadwell smiled.

'You and I together,' he proposed.

Thus began a marriage made in Hell.

Back Among the Blind Men

'If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awoke - Aye, and what then?' S. T. Coleridge Anima Poetae

Part Six

I.

TIME'S GONE BY.

1.

The people of Chariot Street had witnessed some rare scenes in recent times, but they'd re-established the status quo with admirable zeal. It was just before eight in the morning when Cal got off the bus and began the short walk to the Mooney residence, and everywhere along the street the same domestic rituals that he'd witnessed here since his childhood were being played out. Radios announced the morning's news through open windows and doors: a Parliamentarian had been found dead in his mistress' arms; bombs had been dropped in the Middle East. Slaughter and scandal, scandal and slaughter. And was the tea too weak this morning, my dear?; and did the children wash behind their ears?

He let himself into the house, turning over yet again the problem of what to tell Brendan. Anything less than the truth might beg more questions than it answered; and yet to tell the whole story ... was that even possible? Did the words exist to evoke more than an echo of the sights he'd seen, the feelings he'd felt?

The house was quiet, which was worrying. Brendan had been a dawn riser since his days working on the Docks; even during the worst of recent times he'd been up to greet his grief early.

Cal called his father's name. There was no response. He went through to the kitchen. The garden looked like a battlefield. He called again, then went to search upstairs.

His father's bedroom door was closed. He tried the handle, but the door was locked from the inside, something he'd never known happen before. He knocked lightly.

'Dad?' he said. 'Are you there?'

He waited several seconds, listening closely, then repeated his enquiry. This time from within came a quiet sobbing.

'Thank God.' he breathed. 'Dad? It's Cal.' The sobbing softened. 'Will you let me in, Dad?'

There was a short interval; then he heard his father's footsteps as he crossed to the bedroom door. The key was turned; the door was opened a reluctant six inches.

The face on the other side was more shadow than man. Brendan looked neither to have washed nor shaved since the previous day.

'Oh God ... Dad.'

Brendan peered at his son with naked suspicion. 'Is it really you?'

The comment reminded Cal of how he must look: his face bloodied and bruised.

'I'm all right, Dad,' he said, offering a smile. 'What about you?'

'Are all the doors closed?' Brendan wanted to know.