Shadows

But Carr moved too quickly. He shot out a grasping hand and tugged her back by her hair, slamming her head against the fridge as he did so. A cut opened just above her hairline, crimson fluid running down her face and staining the white door of the fridge as she lay against it.

As he lunged for her once more she flung open the fridge door and rammed it against his legs, struggling to get to her feet.

Carr snarled angrily and almost fell but he recovered in time to see her pull a long serrated blade from the knife rack on the wall nearby. She turned on him, the vicious blade glinting wickedly. He did not hesitate, he grabbed for her, his hands aimed at her throat but Suzanne struck out with the knife.

The combined force of his momentum and her own upward thrust was devastating.

The blade punctured the palm of Carr’s right hand and erupted from the back, sawing through several small bones as it did so. Blood burst from the wound and Suzanne tore the knife free, nearly severing his thumb as she did so. He roared in pain and held up the mutilated limb almost as an accusation, watching the tendons and muscles beneath the skin moving frantically. It felt as if his arm were on fire but, despite the severity of the wound. Carr did not hold back. He reached for a chair and lifted it above his head, bringing it down with bone-crushing force across Suzanne’s outstretched arm.

The knife was knocked from her grasp and she fell backwards, blood now flowing more freely from the rent in her scalp.

Carr grinned maniacally and struck again.

So violent was the impact this time that the chair broke as he brought it down across her face and upper body. Her bottom lip exploded, her nose merely collapsed as the bones in it were obliterated. In one fleeting second, Suzanne’s face was a bloody ruin.

Carr dropped to his knees, one hand groping for the discarded knife. He gripped it in his gashed hand, ignoring his own pain as he took hold of a hunk of Suzanne’s hair and lifted her head.

She tried to scream but her bottom jaw had been splintered and the only sound she could make was a liquid gurgle.

Carr pressed the knife to her forehead, just below the hairline, using all his strength as he moved the serrated blade quickly back and forth, shearing through the flesh of her scalp. He slid it in expertly towards her ear, slicing off the top of the fleshy protruberance as he did so and, all the time, her body jerked violently as waves of pain tore through her.

The knife grated against bone as he sawed madly at her head, tugging on her hair as he did so until finally, with a loud grunt, he tore most of it free.

Like some bloodied wig, the hair came away in his hand, most of the scalp still attached.

Suzanne lay still.

Carr staggered upright, the grisly trophy held before him.

There was loud banging from the direction of the front door, growing louder by the second.

Carr closed his eyes tightly, suddenly aware of an unbearable pain in his right hand. The entire limb was going numb, he could hardly lift it. He staggered back, seeking support against the sink and, gradually, a vision plucked raw and bloody from a nightmare swam before him. Only he wasn’t dreaming.

He looked down in horrified disbelief at the scalped body of Suzanne Peters, almost shouting aloud as he recognized the matted mass of hair and flesh which he held. He dropped it hurriedly.

‘No,’ he murmured, quietly. ‘Oh God, no.’ His voice began to crack and he edged away from the girl as if she were somehow going to disappear. He continued to shake his head, not able to comprehend what had happened. Or how.

The banging on the front door intensified but all Roger Carr was aware of was the agonising pain in his hand, the stench of blood which hung in the air like an invisible pall.

And the icy chill which had wrapped itself around him like a frozen shroud.

The restaurant was small, what the owners liked to refer to as intimate. But, due to the number of people crowded into it, the place looked more like a gigantic rugby scrum. Not at all intimate, thought David Blake as the waiter led him through the melee towards the appropriate table.

Amidst the sea of lunchtime faces, the writer spotted Phillip Campbell immediately.

The Scot was sitting near to the window, sipping a glass of red wine and poring over a thick pile of A4 sheets, scribbling pencilled notes on the pages every so often. He was dressed in a light grey suit which seemed to match the colour of his hair. A red rose adorned his button-hole as it did on every occasion that Blake saw him. He wondered, at times, if Campbell was propagating the flowers in the breast pocket of his jacket. As each new one came up. Snip. Into the button hole.

He looked up as Blake reached the table, rising to shake hands with the writer.

They exchanged pleasanties and the younger man sat down, loosening his tie as he did so. The waiter scuttled over and placed a large glass before him.

‘Thank you,’ said Blake, looking rather surprised.

‘Vodka and lemonade,’ Campbell told him, smiling. ‘You haven’t started drinking something else have you?’

The writer chuckled, shook his head and took a sip from the glass.

‘I make a point of knowing all my author’s requirements,’ the Scot said, raising his glass. ‘Cheers.’

Both men drank. The waiter arrived with the menus and left them to decide.

‘What do you think of the completed manuscript now that you’ve read it?’ Blake asked, indicating the A4 sheets.

‘You’re no closer, David,’ Campbell toid him. ‘I’m still not convinced about half the things you claim in here.’ He tapped the pile of typewritten pages.

The writer was about to speak when the waiter returned. The two men ordered and he hurried off through the throng to fetch their first course.

“It’s too muddled,’ Campbell continued. ‘You don’t name any sources for some of the theories you’ve put forward, especially the ones to do with Astra!

projection. Control of the Astral body.1

‘I met a girl at the Institute of Psychical Study,’ Blake said. ‘She’s conducted laboratory tests into this kind of thing.’

‘Then why isn’t she named as a source?’

“Her superior is keeping a pretty tight rein on the research they’re doing. I don’t think he’d be too pleased if her findings turned up in my book.’

‘How well do you know this girl’?’

‘We’re pretty close,’ Blake told him.

Campbell nodded.

‘The Astral body can be activated by artificial stimulus like drugs or hypnosis, she told me.’

‘Then use her name for Christ’s sake,’ snapped Campbell. ‘Can’t you speak to her superior about this information? Maybe he’ll release some details.’

The waiter returned with the first course and the two men began eating.

i can’t use her name or her findings and that’s final,’ Blake told him.

‘Then you’ve still got nothing concrete and until you have, this manuscript is no good,’ said Campbell, pushing a forkful of food into his mouth.

‘I take it that means you’re not ready to negotiate a contract?’ Blake said.

Campbell nodded.

Blake smiled humourlessly.

‘You could do with a demonstration, Phil,’ he said.

The Scot took a sip of his wine.

‘That I could,’ he smiled. ‘See if you can arrange it, eh?’

Blake chuckled. Behind the tinted screens of his dark glasses his eyes twinkled.

Gerald Braddock reached forward and wound up the window of the Granada. It was warm inside the car but he decided that the heat was preferable to the noxious fumes belching from so many exhaust pipes. The streets of London seemed even more clogged with traffic than usual. High above, in the cloudless sky, the sun blazed away mercilessly.

The politician fumbled for the handkerchief in his top pocket and fastidiously dabbed the perspiration from his face. He thought about removing his jacket but decided against it, realizing that they were close to their destination.

The driver threaded the car skilfully through the traffic, hitting the horn every so often to clear offending vehicles out of the way.

Braddock sat back and closed his eyes but he found it difficult to relax. The events of two nights before were still uncomfortably fresh in his mind.

He had told no one of what he had witnessed at the seance, least of all his wife. For one thing she would probably never have believed him and, if she had, Braddock realized that mention of it may well have disturbed her. For his own part, the image of that maimed and burned child had surfaced, unwanted, in his mind on a number of occasions since. Albeit fleetingly. He wondered how long it would take to fully erase the image and the memory. He was thankful that nothing about the incident had appeared in any of the papers. Even the gutter press had so far remained blissfully ignorant of what would, for them, have been front page fodder. Braddock was grateful for that because he knew that the Prime Minister would not have looked kindly on his participation in such a fiasco.

He had held the post of Minister of the Arts in the last two Conservative administrations. Prior to that he had served as a spokesman on Finance in a career in the House of Commons which spanned over twenty years. Some had seen his appointment as Arts Minister as something of a demotion but Braddock was happy with his present position as it removed some of the pressure from him which had been prevalent when he’d been with the Exchequer.

As traffic began to thin he decided to roll down the window slightly. A cooling breeze wafted in, drying the perspiration on him. He glanced to his right and saw a sign which read: BRIXTON Vi MILE.

Another five minutes and the Granada began to slow up.

As Braddock looked out he saw that there was already a sizeable crowd gathered in the paved area which fronted the new Activity Centre. The building had been converted from four derelict shops, with the help of a two million pound Government grant. The minister scanned the rows of black faces and felt a twinge of distaste.

As the driver brought the car to a halt he saw two coloured men approaching.

Both were dressed in suits, one looking all the more incongruous because, perched on his head, was a multi-coloured woollen bonnet. His dreadlocks had been carefully pushed inside. Braddock smiled his practised smile and waited for the driver to open the car door.

He stepped out, extending his hand to the first of the black men.

Braddock cringed inwardly as he felt his flesh make contact with the other man and he hastily shook hands with the Rastafarian, allowing himself to be led across the concrete piazza towards a make-shift platform which had been erected in front of the entrance to the Activity Centre.

As he made his way up the three steps the crowd broke into a chorus of applause.

Braddock scanned the faces before him, some white but mostly black. He continued to smile although it was becoming more of an effort. The first of the organisers, who had introduced himself as Julian Hayes, stepped forward towards a microphone and tapped it twice. There was a whine from the PA system and Hayes tapped it again. This time there was no interference.

it’s been more than two years since building first started on this Centre,’

Hayes began. ‘And I’m sure we’re all happy to see that it’s finally finished.’

There was some more clapping and the odd whistle.

Hayes smiled broadly.

‘As from today,’ he continued. ‘We shall all be able to use the facilities. I would like to call on Mr Gerald Braddock to officially open the Centre.’ He beckoned the politician forward. ‘Mr Braddock.’

There was more applause as the minister reached the microphone. Beside it he noticed there was a small table and on it lay a pair of shears with which he was meant to cut the gaily coloured ribbon strung across the doors of the centre.

He paused before the microphone still smiling, scanning the rows of dark faces. Braddock felt the disgust rising within him. He coughed, suddenly aware of a slight shiver which ran down his spine. The sun continued to beat down relentlessly but, despite the heat, the politician felt inexplicably cold.

‘Firstly,’ he began, i would like to thank Mr Hayes for asking me to declare this new centre open. He must take credit for so much of the organisation which went into ensuring that the project was completed.’

There was more vigorous clapping.

Braddock smiled thinly and gripped the microphone stand.

‘The cutting of the ribbon is symbolic,’ he said, ‘in as much as it marks the cutting of ties between you people and my Government. We have pumped over two million pounds into the development of this Centre. I hope that it will be put to good use.’

Hayes looked at his Rastafarian companion who merely shrugged.

in the past we have tried to help this area but, up until now, that effort has been largely wasted,’ Braddock continued. ‘Our good faith has not been repaid. I sincerely hope that it will not be the case this time.’

The politician’s voice had taken on a dictatorial tone, one not unnoticed by the crowd.

There were one or two disapproving comments from the assembled throng. A babble of unrest which grew slowly as Braddock pressed on regardless.

‘There are many deserving causes to which we could have given a grant such as the one received to convert these old shops into this fine new Centre,’ he said, ‘most of which would normally come higher on our list of priorities.

Nevertheless, partly through pressure from leaders of your community, we decided to furnish your committee with the appropriate funds.’

Julian Hayes looked angrily at Braddock’s broad back then at the crowd who were muttering amongst themselves, angered by the politician’s remarks.

‘You seem to think that you qualify as a special case,’ Braddock said, vehemently, ‘because you’re black.’ ‘Steady, man,’ the Rastafarian rumbled behind him. Hayes raised a hand for him to be silent although his own temper was becoming somewhat frayed as the minister ploughed on.

it will be interesting to see how long this Centre remains intact. How long

before some of you decide to wreck it. As it is, one of the few advantages that I can see is that it will give some of you a place to go, instead of hanging idly around on street corners.’

The crowd, by this time, were now gesturing menacingly at Braddock. Someone shouted something from the rear of the crowd but the minister either didn’t hear it or ignored it. His own face was flushed, perspiration running in rivulets over the puffy flesh, yet still he felt himself encased in that invisible grip which seemed to squeeze tighter, growing colder all the time.

‘Perhaps now,’ he hissed, ‘with your own Centre, you will stop bothering the decent white people who are unfortunate enough to have to live in this filthy “ghetto” you have created in Brixton.’ He was breathing heavily, rapidly. His eyes were bulging wide and, when he spoke it was through clenched teeth.

‘That’s it,’ snapped the Rastafarian, stepping forward. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, man?’

Braddock spun around, his eyes blazing.

‘Get away from me you stinking nigger,’ he roared, his voice amplified by the microphone.

The crowd raged back at him.

‘Mr Braddock …’ Julian Hayes began, moving in front of his colleague to face the politician. ‘We’ve heard enough.’

‘You black scum,’ rasped the minister.

In one lightning movement, he snatched the shears from the table and drove them forward.

The twin blades punctured Hayes’ stomach just below the navel and Braddock tore them upwards until they cracked noisily against the black man’s sternum.

Blood burst from the hideous rent and Hayes dropped to his knees as a tangled mess of purplish-blue intestines spilled from the gaping hole. Hayes clawed at them, feeling the blood and bile spilling on to his hands and splattering down the front of his trousers. He whimpered quietly as he attempted to retain his entrails, pushing at them with slippery hands.

In the crowd someone screamed. Two or three women fainted. Others seemed rooted to the spot, not sure whether to run or try to confront Braddock who stood on the platform facing the Rastafarian, the dripping sheers now held in both hands.

‘Motherfucker,’ rasped the black man and lunged forward.

Braddock sidestepped and brought the razor sharp blades together once more.

They closed with ease around his opponent’s neck and, with a movement combining demonic force and seething anger, the politician snapped the blades together.

Two spurting crimson parabolas erupted from the Rastafarian’s neck as the shears bit through his carotid arteries, slicing through the thick muscles of his neck until they crushed his larynx and met against his spine.

Braddock roared triumphantly, exerting more force on the handles until the black man’s spinal column began to splinter and break. He was suspended in mid-air by the shears, held there by Braddock who seemed to have found reserves of strength he hadn’t formerly been aware of. Blood gushed madly forth, much of it covering the politician himself, but he ignored the crimson cascade, grunting loudly as he finally succeeded in severing his opponent’s head. It rose on a thick gout of blood as the body fell to the ground, twitching slightly.

The head rolled across the platform, sightless eyes gazing at the sky as torrents of red fluid poured from the stump of the neck.

Some of the crowd, by now, had scattered, others had surrounded the platform but, understandably, seemed reluctant to approach Braddock.

The politician had lowered the shears and his breathing seemed to have slowed.

He stood motionless, like a child lost in a supermarket. Those watching saw him raise one bloodied hand to his forehead and squeeze his eyes tightly shut.

When he opened them again his expression had changed from one of anger to utter horror. He looked at the headless corpse at his feet, then at Julian

Hayes who was rocking gently back and forth clutching at his torn belly.

Finally, Braddock lifted the shears before him, staring at the sticky red fluid which covered them. And him.

He dropped the weapon and staggered backward, his face pale and drained.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a police siren.

As the sun burned brightly in the sky, he shivered, his entire body enveloped by an icy chill, the like of which he had never experienced before.

Gerald Braddock took one more look at the carnage before him then vomited.

The dashboard clock showed 6.05 p.m. as Kelly pulled the Mini into Blake’s driveway. She tapped the wheel agitatedly, wondering, when she didn’t see his XJS, if he was out. She decided that he might have put it in the garage, hauled herself out of her own car and ran to his front door, clutching the two newspapers which she’d gathered from the back seat.

The sun was slowly sinking and the air was still warm from the daytime heatwave. Kelly felt her blouse sticking to her. The drive had been a long and tortuous one, especially once she’d reached inner London. Now she banged hard on Blake’s front door, almost relieved that she’d completed the trip.

She waited a moment but there was no answer.

Kelly banged again, this time hearing sounds of movement from inside. The door swung open and she saw Blake standing there.

“Kelly,’ he beamed. ‘What a great surprise. Come in.’ He ushered her inside, puzzled by her flustered appearance and look of anxiety.

is something wrong?’ he asked. She had still not smiled.

‘Have you seen the news today?’ she asked. ‘Or watched TV at all?’

Blake shook his head in bewilderment.

‘No. I had lunch with my publisher. I’ve been working since I got back. I haven’t had time to look at the papers. Why?’

She held two newspapers out before him, both were folded open to reveal headlines. He looked at one, then the other: ACTRESS KILLS BABY

Blake read it then looked at Kelly.

‘Read the other one,’ she told him. TELEVISION PERSONALITY CHARGED WITH MURDER

Below it was a photograph of Roger Carr.

The writer looked at the first article once more and noticed the name Toni Landers.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he murmured, sitting down on the edge of a chair. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Last night they found Roger Carr in his house with the body of a girl,’ said Kelly. ‘The night before, Toni Landers killed the baby. The article said it belonged to her friend.’

Blake frowned and skimmed the articles quickly.

‘That’s not all,’ Kelly told him. ‘When I was driving home from the Institute today, I had the radio on. Do you remember Gerald Braddock?’

Blake nodded.

‘According to the radio he went crazy this afternoon and killed two people,’

Kelly told him.

The writer hurriedly got to his feet and switched on the television.

‘There might be something on here about it,’ he said, punching buttons until he found the appropriate channel.

‘… Mr Braddock today. The Arts Minister is now in the Westminster Hospital, under police guard, where he was treated for shock prior to being charged.’

The newsreader droned on but Blake seemed not to hear the rest.

‘Treated for shock?’ said Kelly. ‘That’s a little unusual isn’t it? Do murderers usually go into a state of shock after committing the crime?’ She exhaled deeply.

i wish I knew,’ said BSake. ‘I know less than you do.’ He scanned the papers once more. ‘As far as I can make out Toni Landers and Roger Carr can remember nothing about the murders they committed. Yet they were both found with their victims.’

‘So was Gerald Braddock,’ Kelly added. ‘Only there were witnesses in his case.’

‘Three respected people suddenly commit murder for no apparent reason,’ Blake muttered. ‘They can’t remember doing it and nothing links them.’

‘There is a link, David,’ Kelly assured him. ‘They were all at the seance the other night.’

The two of them regarded each other warily for a moment then Blake got to his feet once more and picked up the phone. He jabbed the buttons and got a dial tone.

‘Can I speak to Phillip Campbell, please?” he asked when the phone was finally answered. He waited impatiently while the receptionist connected him.

“Hello, David,’ the Scot said. ‘You were lucky to catch me, I was just about to leave.’

‘Phil, listen to me, this is important. Do the names Toni Landers, Roger Carr and Gerald Braddock mean anything to you?’

“Of course. Toni Landers is an actress. Can’s an interviewer and Braddock’s a politician. Do F get a prize for getting them all right?’

‘In the past two days, each one of them has committed a murder.’

There was silence from Campbell’s end.

‘Phil, are you still there?’ Blake asked.

“Yes, look, what the hell are you talking about, David?’

‘It’s all over the papers, on the TV as well.’

‘But I know Braddock,’ Campbell said in surprise. ‘He couldn’t fart without help, let alone murder anyone.’

‘Well, all that changed today,” Blake said. He went on to explain what had happened to Toni Landers and Roger Carr. ‘None of them could remember what they’d done. It’s almost as if they were in some kind of trance. In my book I’ve discussed the possibility of some kind of unconscious reaction to an external stimulus …’

Campbell interrupted.

if you’re trying to use three random killings to justify what you’ve written, David. Forget it.” snapped the Scot.

‘But you’ll admit it’s a possibility?’

‘No. Christ, that’s even more bloody conjecture than you had before. Ring me when you’ve gathered some real evidence.”

Blake exhaled wearily and dropped the receiver back into place.

‘What did he say?’ Kelly asked, tentatively.

The writer didn’t answer. He was staring past her, his eyes fixed On the twin headlines:

ACTRESS KILLS BABY

TELEVISION PERSONALITY CHARGED WITH

MURDER Outside, the dying sun had coloured the sky crimson.

Like cloth soaked in blood.

The smell of roast meat wafted invitingly through the air as Phillip Campbell stepped into the sitting room of his house.

The television was on and, through the open kitchen door, he could hear sounds of movement. As he drew closer, the smell grew stronger, tempting him toward the kitchen like a bee to nectar. He paused in the doorway and smiled. His daughter had her back to him, busily inspecting the dials on the cooker. Her black hair was long, spilling halfway down her back, almost to the waist band of her jeans. She looked a little too large for the pair she wore, possessing what were euphemistically known as ‘child-bearing hips’. But her legs were long and relatively slender. She wore a baggy sweater, cut off at the elbows, which she’d knitted herself during her last break from University. She always came home during the holidays, only this time she had felt it as much out of duty as a desire to be with her parents.

Campbell’s wife was in Scotland and had been for the past two weeks. Her mother was terminally ill with colonic cancer and was being nursed through her final few weeks by her family. Campbell himself had been up to see her twice but, after the secdnd visit, he had been unable to bear the sight of the old girl wasting away. His wife phoned every other night and the presence of his daughter in some way compensated for her absence.

‘Whatever it is it smells good,’ the publisher said, smiling.

Melissa spun around, a look of surprise on her face.

i didn’t hear you come in, Dad,’ she told him. ‘You must be getting sneaky in your old age.’ She grinned.

You cheeky little tyke,’ he chuckled. ‘Less of the old age.’

Her mood changed slightly.

‘Mum phoned earlier,’ Melissa told him.

Campbell sat down at the carefully set table.

‘What did she say?’ he wanted to know.

‘Not much. She sounded upset, she said something about being home next week.’

‘Oh Christ,” Campbell said, wearily. ‘We!!, perhaps it’s a kindness if her mother does pass on. At least it’ll be the end of her suffering.’

There was a moment’s silence between them then Campbell got to his feet.

‘I’m going to get changed before dinner,’ he said.

‘You’ve got about five minutes,’ Melissa told him. ‘I don’t want this to spoil.’

‘You cooks are really temperamental aren’t you?’ he said, smiling.

The cuckoo clock on the wall of the kitchen burst into life as the hands reached 9 p.m.

Campbell set down the plates on the draining board and picked up a tea-towel as Melissa filled the sink with hot water.

Til do the washing up, Dad,’ she told him. ‘You go and sit down.’

He insisted on drying.

‘Are we going to be seeing any more of this young fellow Andy or whatever his name was, next term?’ Campbell asked, wiping the first saucepan.

‘I don’t know. He’s gone grape-picking in France for the summer,’ she chuckled.

‘You were keen on him though?’

“Y6u sound as if you’re trying to get me hitched.’

‘Am I the match-making type?’ he said with mock indignation.

‘Yes,’ she told him, handing him a plate. ‘Now, can we change the subject, please?’

Her father grinned.

‘What sort of day have you had?’ Melissa asked him.

They talked and joked while they cleared away the crockery, pots and pans and cutlery then Melissa decided to make coffee.

‘I’ve got a few things to read before tomorrow,’ he told her.

‘I thought you didn’t usually bring work home with you?’

‘Sometimes it’s unavoidable.’

Til bring your coffee in when it’s ready,’ she said.

He thanked her then wandered through into the sitting room, searching through his attache case for the relevant material. Seated in front of the television, Campbell began scanning the synopses and odd chapters which he had not found time to get through at the office. There was work from established authors, as well as unsolicited efforts from those all too anxious to break into the world of publishing. The mystique which seemed to surround the publishing world never ceased to amaze the Scot.

Melissa joined him in the sitting room and reached for the book which she had been reading. They sat opposite one another, undisturbed by the television.

Neither thought to get up and turn it off.

It was approaching 11.30 when Melissa finally put down her book and stretched.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece.

‘I think I’ll go to bed, Dad,’ she said, sleepily.

Campbell looked up at her and smiled.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

He heard the door close behind her as she made her way upstairs. The Scot paused for a moment, his attention taken by a photograph of Gerald Braddock which had been flashed up on the TV screen. He quickly moved forward and turned up the volume, listening as the newscaster relayed information about the horrific incident in Brixton that afternoon. Campbell watched with

interest, remembering his phone conversation with Blake. He shook his head.

How-could there possibly be any link between Blake’s theories and Braddock’s demented act? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come, returning to the work before him. Campbell yawned and rubbed his eyes, weariness creeping up on him unannounced. He decided to make himself a cup of coffee in an effort to stay awake. There wasn’t much more to read and he wanted everything out of the way before he eventually retired to bed. He wandered into the kitchen and filled the kettle, returning to his chair in the sitting room. He slumped wearily into it and decided to watch the rest of the late news before continuing. He yawned again.

Phillip Campbell made his way quietly up the stairs, pausing when he reached the landing. He heard no sounds from Melissa’s room and was certain that he hadn’t disturbed her. The Scot slowly turned the handle of her door and edged into the room. He smiled as he looked at her, sleeping soundly, her long black hair spread across the pillow like a silken smudge. She moved slightly but did not awake.

Campbell paused for a moment running his eyes over the numerous pen and ink, watercolour and pencil drawings which were displayed proudly in the room.

Beside the bed was a plastic tumbler crammed with pieces of charcoal, pens and pencils and, propped against the bedside table was an open sketch-pad which bore the beginnings of a new drawing.

Campbell moved closer to the bed, his eyes fixed on his sleeping daughter.

Even when he stood over her she did not stir.

He bent forward and, with infinite care, pulled down the sheets, exposing her body. She wore only a thin nightdress, the dark outline of her nipples and pubic mound visible through the diaphanous material. Campbell felt his erection growing, bulging urgently against his trousers. Without taking his eyes from Melissa, he unzipped his flies and pulled out his rampant organ.

It was then that she rolled on to her back, her eyes opening slightly.

Before she could react, the Scot was upon her, tearing frenziedly at the nightdress, ripping it from her, exposing her breasts. He grabbed one roughly, using his other hand to part her legs. She clawed at his face then attempted to push him off, using all her strength to keep her legs together but he knelt over her and struck her hard across the face. Still dazed from sleep, she was stunned by the blow and her body went momentarily limp. Campbell took his chance and pulled her legs apart, forcing his penis into her.

Melissa screamed in pain and fear and bit at the hand which he damped over her mouth but he seemed undeterred by her feeble assaults and he struck her once more, harder this time. A vicious red mark appeared below her right eye.

With a grunt of triumph he began to thrust within her, using one forearm to hold her down, weighing heavily across

her throat until she began to gasp for air. She flailed at him weakly and he slapped her hands away contemptuously as he speeded up his movements, thrusting harder into her.

With his free hand, Campbell reached for the bedside table and pulled a pencil from the pastic container. The point had been sharpened repeatedly to a needle-like lead tip and he gripped it in one powerful hand.

Melissa, who was already on the point of blacking out now seemed to find renewed strength as she saw him bringing the pencil closer, but the weight on top of her prevented her from squirming away from her father.

He guided the pencil inexorably towards her ear.

She tried to twist her head back and forth but he struck her again and she felt the pressure on her throat ease as he held her head steady.

With fastidious precision, Campbell began to push the needle sharp pencil into her ear, putting more weight behind it as the wooden shaft penetrated deeper.

He felt his daughter’s body buck madly beneath him and her eyes bulged wide as he pushed the pencil further, driving it into the soft grey tissue of her brain, forcing it as far as it would go. Almost a full half of the length had disappeared before she stopped moving but still Campbell forced the object deeper, as if he wished to push it right through her skull, to see the

bloodied point emerge from the other side.

The Scot grunted in satisfaction and continued to pound away at her corpse, a crooked smile of pleasure on his face.

Phillip Campbell awoke with a start, his body bathed in perspiration. He was panting like a carthorse, his heart thudding heavily against his ribs. He looked across at the empty chair opposite him.

‘Melissa,’ he breathed, a note of panic in his voice.

He hauled himself out of his chair and bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time, stumbling as he reached the landing. He threw open the door of his daughter’s room and looked in.

She was sleeping soundly but, as he stood there, breathless, she murmured something and opened her eyes, blinking myopically at the figure silhouetted in her doorway.

‘Dad?’ she said, puzzlement in her voice. ‘What’s wrong?’

He sucked in a deep, almost painful breath.

‘Nothing,’ he told her.

‘Are you all right?’

The Scot wiped-his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘I must have dozed off in the chair,’ he said, softly. ‘I had a nightmare.’ He dare not tell her about it. ‘Are you OK?’ he added, his voice full of concern.

She nodded.

‘Yes, of course I am.’

Campbell exhaled.

Tm sorry I woke you,’ he croaked, and pulled the door shut behind him.

He walked slowly back across the landing, pausing as he reached the top step.

There was a sticky substance on his underpants, a dark stain on his trousers.

For a moment he thought he’d wet himself.

It took but a second for him to realize that the substance was semen.

How long the phone had been ringing he wasn’t sure but the discordant tone finally woke him and he thrust out a hand to grab the receiver.

‘Hello,’ Blake croaked, rubbing a hand through his hair. He glanced at the alarm clock as he did so.

It was 12.55 a.m.

‘David, it’s me.’

Blake shook his head, trying to dispel some of the dullness from his mind.

‘Sorry, who is it?’ he asked.

Beside him, Kelly stirred and moved closer to him, her body warm and soft.

‘Phillip Campbell,’ the voice said and finally Blake recognised the Scot’s drawl.

‘What do you want, Phil?’ he said, with surprising calm.

“I had a dream … a nightmare. It was so vivid.’

‘What about?’

Campbell told him.

- ‘So now you believe what I’ve been telling you about the subconscious?’

Blake said, almost mockingly.

‘Look, we’ll sort out the contract in a day or two. All right?’

‘That’s fine.’

Blake hung up.

Kelly, by now, was partially awake.

‘What was that, David?’ she purred. Her voice thick with sleep.

He told her of Campbell’s insistence on going ahead with the book.

‘I’m glad he’s decided to publish the book, I wonder why he changed his mind?’

she said.

Blake didn’t speak. He merely kissed her gently on the forehead then lay down again.

Kelly snuggled up against him and he pulled her close.

In no time they had both drifted off to sleep again.

Paris

The full moon was like a huge flare in the cloudy sky, casting a cold white light over the land. The breeze which was developing rapidly into a strong

wind, sent the dark banks scudding across the mottled heavens.

Michel Lasalle stopped the car and switched off the engine, sitting motionless behind the wheel. Despite the chill in the air he was sweating profusely and wiped his palms on his trousers before reaching over onto the back seat where the shovel lay. He pushed open his door and clambered out.

The gates of the cemetary, as he’d expected, were locked but Lasalle was undeterred by this minor inconvenience. He tossed the shovel over the wrought iron framework where it landed with a dull clang. He stood still, looking furtively around him in the” darkness then, satisfied that no one was around, he jumped and managed to get a grip on one of the gates, hauling himself painfully upward until he was in a position to swing over the top.

The impact jarred him as he hit the ground but the Frenchman merely rubbed his calves, picked up the shovel and headed across the darkened cemetery towards the place he knew so well. Trees, stirred by the wind, shook their branches at him, as if warding him off, but Lasalle walked on purposefully, a glazed look in his eye.

The gendarme had heard the strange noise and decided that his imagination was playing tricks on him. But, as he rounded a corner of the high wall which guarded the cemetery, he saw Lasalle’s car parked outside the main gates. The uniformed man quickened his pace, squinting at the vehicle through the gloom in an attempt to catch sight of anyone who might be inside. He moved slowly around the car, tapping on two of the windows, but received no response.

As the moon emerged from behind the clouds he peered through the gates of the graveyard.

Illuminated in the chilly white glow was a figure.

A man.

The gendarme could see that he was busy digging up the earth of a grave.

The uniformed man looked up and saw that the walls were covered by barbed wire, his only way in was over the metal gates. He leapt at them, gained a grip, and began to climb.

Lasalle had dug his way at least three feet down into the earth of his wife’s grave when he looked up and saw the gendarme approaching. Lasalle murmured something to himself and froze for precious seconds, not sure what to do.

He bolted, still clutching the spade.

‘Arretez!’

He heard the shout and looked over his shoulder to see that the gendarme was pursuing him.

Lasalle didn’t know where he was going to run. The uniformed man had blocked his only way out of the cemetery. He had no chance of scaling the wall at the far side and, more to the point, the other man was gaining on him. Weakened by the exertions of his digging, Lasalle stumbled, peering round a second time to see that his pursuer was less than ten yards behind. The uniformed man shouted once more and Lasalle actually slowed his pace.

He spun round, the shovel aimed at the gendarme’s head.

A blow which would have split his skull open missed by inches and cracked into a tree.

The uniformed man hurled himself at Lasalle and succeeded in bringing him down. They crashed to the ground, rolling over in the damp grass. The gendarme tried to grip his opponent’s arms but, despite Lasalle’s. weakness, he found a reserve of strength born of desperation and, bringing his foot up, he flipped the other man over. The gendarme landed with a thud, the wind knocked from him as he hit a marble cross which stood over one of the graves.

Lasalle snatched up the shovel again and brought it crashing down.

There was a sickening clang as it caught the other man on the back, felling him as he tried to rise.

Lasalle hesitated a moment then sprinted back the way he had come, towards the grave of his wife.

The gendarme hauled himself to his feet and spat blood, trying to focus on his

fleeing quarry. He tensed the muscles in his back, wincing from the pain where he’d been struck but there was a determined look on his face as he set off after Lasalle once more.

It only took him a moment to catch up with the running man.

Again, Lasalle swung the shovel, his blow shattering a marble angel, the head disintegrating to leave a jagged point of stone between the wings.

The swing set hint off balance and the gendarme took full advantage, hitting the other man with .a rugby tackle just above the knees.

Lasalle grunted. The sound turning to a scream as he toppled towards the broken angel.

The moon shone brightly on the jagged stone.

The point pierced Lasalle’s chest below the heart, snapping ribs and tearing one lung. Wind hissed coldly in the gaping wound as he tried to suck in an agonised breath. Impaled on the marble angel, he tried to pull himself free but blood made the stone slippery. He tasted it in his mouth, felt it running from his nose as his struggles became weaker.

The gendarme rolled free and attempted to pull the other man clear, the odour of blood filling the air around them.

Lasalle finally freed himself and toppled backward, blood pumping madly from the gaping hole in his chest. His body shook once or twice but, even as the uniformed man knelt beside him, he heard a soft discharge which signalled that Lasalle’s sphincter muscle had given out. A rancid stench of excrement made him recoil.

The moon shone briefly on the dead man’s open eyes.

The gendarme shuddered as the wind hissed through the branches of a nearby tree.

It sounded like a disembodied voice.

A cold, invisible oration spoken for the man who lay before him.

The last rites.

Oxford

The sun shone brightly, pouring through the windows of her office and reflecting back off the white paper before her. She told herself that was the reason she found it so hard to concentrate. She had read the same two pages half-a-dozen times but still not a word had penetrated. It was the heat. It had to be the heat that was putting her off.

Kelly sat back in her chair and dropped the wad of notes.

She sighed, knowing full well that her lack of concentration had nothing to do with present climatic conditions.

Since arriving at the Instiute that morning she had been able to think of nothing but Blake. Even now, as the vision of him drifted into her mind she smiled. For a moment she

rebuked herself, almost angry that she had become so strongly attached to him.

She felt almost guilty, like a schoolgirl with a crush on a teacher but, the more she thought about it, the more she realized how close to love her feelings for Blake were becoming. Was it possible to fall in love with someone in such a short time? Kelly decided that it was. She was certain that he felt the same way about her. She felt it in his touch, in the way he spoke to her.

Kelly shook her head and chuckled to herself. She could hardly wait for the evening to see him again.

Once more she began reading the notes before her.

There was a light tap on the door and, before she could tell the visitor to enter, Dr Vernon walked in.

Kelly’s eyes widened in unconcealed surprise.

Standing with the Institute Director was Alain Joubert.

He and Kelly locked stares as Vernon moved into the room.

i believe you already know Alain Joubert,’ he said, motioning to the Frenchman.

‘Of course,’ Kelly told him, shaking hands with Joubert curtly.

‘How are you, Miss Hunt?’ Joubert asked, his face impassive.

‘I’m fine, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Is Lasalle here too?’

Joubert opened his mouth to speak but V rnon stepped forward. His face was suddenly somehow softer and Kelly noticed the difference in his features.

‘Kelly, you were a friend of Lasalle’s weren’t you?’ he said, quietly.

‘What do you mean “you were”? Why the past tense?’ she asked.

‘He was killed in an accident last night.’

‘What kind of accident?’ she demanded, her voice a mixture of shock and helplessness.

‘We don’t know all the details,’ Vernon explained. ‘The Director of the Metapsychic Centre informed me this morning. I thought you had a right to know.’

She nodded and brushed a hand through her hair wearily.

‘He was dying anyway,’ Joubert said.

‘What do you mean?’ Kelly snapped, looking at the Frenchman.

‘He was cracking up. Taking more of those pills of his. He was dying and he didn’t even realize it.’

Kelly detected something close to contempt in Joubert’s voice and it angered her.

“Doesn’t his death mean anything to you?’ she snapped. ‘The two of you had worked together for a long time.’

The Frenchman seemed unconcerned.

it’s a regrettable incident,’ Vernon interjected. ‘But, unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do.’ He smiled condescendingly at Kelly, the tone of his voice changing. ‘That wasn’t the real reason I came to speak to you, Kelly.’

She looked at him expectantly.

‘You’re probably wondering why Joubert is here?’ he began.

it had occurred to me,’ Kelly said.

i want you to work with him on the dream project.’

Kelly shot a wary glance at the Frenchman.

‘Why?’ she demanded, i can handle the work alone. I’ve been doing it since John Fraser … left,’ she emphasised the last word with contempt.

‘Joubert is more experienced than you are. I’m sure you appreciate that,’

Vernon said, in fact, I felt it only fair to put him in charge of the project.’

‘I’ve been involved with the work from the beginning. Why should Joubert be given seniority?’

i explained that. He’s more experienced.’

‘Then you don’t leave me much choice, Dr Vernon. If you put Joubert over me, I’ll resign.’

Vernon studied Kelly’s determined features for a moment.

‘Very well,’ he said, flatly. ‘You may leave.’

Kelly tried to disguise her surprise but couldn’t manage it.

if that’s the way you feel, then I won’t try to stop you,’ Vernon continued, unwrapping a fresh menthol sweet. He popped it into his mouth.

She got to her feet and, without speaking, picked up her leather attache case and fumbled for the notes on the desk.

‘Leave the notes,’ said Vernon, forcefully.

She dropped them back on to the desk.

‘I’m sorry you couldrft have accepted this situation,’ Vernon told her. ‘But, as you know, the work of the Institute

comes first.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ she said, acidly, i hope you find what you’re looking for.’ She glanced at Joubert. ‘Both of you.’

Kelly felt like slamming the door behind her as she left but she resisted the temptation. As she made her way up the corridor towards the entrance hall she felt the anger seething within her.

She stalked out into the bright sunshine but paused for a moment, narrowing her eyes against the blazing onslaught. She found that the palms of her hands were sweating, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She marched across to her waiting car and slid behind the wheel, sitting there in the cloying heat,

not allowing herself to calm down. She thumped the steering wheel in frustration, looking to one side, towards the Institute.

How could Vernon let her walk out just like that? She inhaled and held the breath for a moment.

And Joubert.

The arrogant bastard. She wondered if his research was the only reason for being in England.

The reality of the situation suddenly seemed to hit her like a steam train and she felt tears welling in her eyes.

Tears of sadness for Lasalle.

Tears of frustration for herself. Of anger.

Her body shook as she felt the hot, salty droplets cascading down her cheeks and she reached for a tissue, hurriedly wiping them away.

She wondered if Joubert and Vernon were watching her.

The seed of doubt inside her mind had grown steadily over the past few weeks until now, it had become a spreading bloom of unquenchable conviction.

There was, she was sure, a conspiracy taking place between the Frenchman and the Institute Director. Nothing would dissuade her from that conclusion now.

First John Fraser, then Michel Lasalle. Both had been involved with the projects on Astral projection and both were now dead.

Coincidence?

She thought about what had happened over the past couple of days as she started the engine and drove off.

The seance.

Toni Landers. Roger Can. Gerald Braddock. She glanced over her shoulder at the gaunt edifice of the Institute. Even in the warm sunshine it looked peculiarly menacing.

She rang Blake as soon as she got in. She told him what had happened that morning. He listened patiently, speaking softly to her every now and then, calming her down. She felt like crying once more, such was her feeling of helplessness and rage.

He asked her if she was OK to drive and, puzzled, she said that she was.

‘Will you come and stay with me?’ he wanted to know.

Kelly smiled.

You mean move in?’

‘Stay as long as you like. Until this is sorted out or, you never know, you might even decide that you can put up with me for a few more weeks.’

There was a long silence between them finally broken by Blake.

‘Best food in town,’ he said, chuckling.-

Til start packing,’ she told him.

They said their goodbyes and Kelly replaced the receiver, suddenly anxious to be with him. She hurried through into the bedroom, hauled her suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and began rummaging through her drawers for the items she would need.

She felt a slight chill but disregarded it and continued packing.

London

The crushed lager can landed with a scarcely audible thud on the stage in front of the drum riser. A roadie, clad in jeans and a white sweatshirt, scuttled to pick up the debris and remove it. On the far side of the stage two of his companions were dragging one of the huge Marshall amps into position alongside three others of the same size. Each was the height of a man.

Jim O’Neil picked up another can of drink and downed half in one huge swallow.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wandered back and forth behind the curtain. From the other side he could hear the sound of almost 2,000 voices muttering, chatting expectantly. Whistles punctuated the gathering sea of sound.

He guessed that the theatre was full to capacity and the crowd were growing restless as the minutes ticked away until the curtain rose. The place smeiled of sweat and leather.

O’Neil himself looked like something from a gladiatorial arena clad as he was

in a pair of knee boots, leather trousers and a waist-coat decorated with hundreds of studs. On both arms he wore leather wrist-bands which covered his muscular forearms, the nickel-plated points glinting in the half-light.

There was a burst of sound from his left and he turned to see his lead guitarist, Kevin Taylor, adjusting his amps.

A loud cheer from the other side of the curtain greeted this involuntary action and when the drummer thundered out a brief roll there was even more frenzied shouting from the waiting crowd.

O’Neil wandered over towards Kevin Taylor and tapped the guitarist on the shoulder. He turned and smiled at the singer. At twenty-four, Taylor was almost five years younger than O’Neil but his long hair and craggy face gave him the appearance of a man much older. He wore a white tee-shirt and striped trousers.

‘Go easy on the solos tonight,’ O’Neil said to him, taking another swig from his can of lager. ‘There are four of us in the band you know.’

i don’t know what you mean,” said the guitarist, a slight Irish lilt to his accent. ‘At the last gig you nearly wore your fucking fingers out

you played so many solos.’

‘The audience seems to enjoy it,’ Taylor protested.

‘I don’t give a fuck about the audience. I’m telling you, don’t overdo it and keep it simple. Nothing fresh. Right?’

“You’re the boss.’

‘Yeah,’ O’Neil grunted. *I am.’ He finished the lager, crushed the can in one powerful hand and dropped it at the Irishman’s feet.

O’Neil walked away, wondering if he was the only one who felt cold.

‘Two minutes,’ someone shouted.

The singer moved towards the front of the stage and tapped the microphone then, satisfied, he retreated out of view and waited for the curtain to rise.

The lights were lowered until the theatre was in darkness and, as the gloom descended, the shouts and whistles grew in intensity finally erupting into a shattering crescendo as the curtain began to rise and the coloured lights above the stage flashed on and off. As the band opened up with a series of power chords which would have registered on the Richter scale, even the swelling roar of the audience was eclipsed. The explosion of musical ferocity swept through the hall like a series of sonic blasts, the scream of guitars and the searing hammerstrokes forged by the drummer merged into a force which threatened to put cracks in the walls.

O’Neil took the stage, his powerful voice soaring like an air raid siren over the driving sound of his musicians.

As he sang he ran from one side of the stage to the other, grinning at the hordes of fans who clamoured to get closer to the stage, occasionally pausing to touch their upraised hands. Like some leather clad demi-God he strode the platform, his disciples before him, fists raised in salute and admiration.

The heat from the spotlights was almost unbearable but still O’Neil felt an icy chill nipping at his neck, spreading

slowly through his entire body until it seemed to fill him. He gazed out at the crowd, their faces becoming momentary blurs to him as he spun round and moved towards Kevin Taylor.

O’Neil raised the microphone stand above his head, twirling it like a drum-major’s baton, much to the delight of the crowd.

Even Taylor smiled at him.

He was still smiling when O’Neil drove the stand forward like a spear, putting all his weight behind it, forcing the metal tube into Taylor’s stomach. The aluminium shaft tore through his midsectionand, propelled by O’Neil, erupted from the guitarist’s back just above the kidneys. Blood burst from botn wounds and Taylor croaked in agony as he was forced back towards the stack of amps behind him. O’Neil let go of the mike stand as Taylor crashed into the speakers.

There was a bright flash as they shorted out and, the guitarist, still transfixed, began to jerk uncontrollably as thousands of volts of electricity ripped through him.

There was a blinding white explosion as the first amp went up.

The PA system began to crackle insanely as a combination of feed-back and static accompanied the short circuit.

Another amp exploded.

Then another.

Rigged to the same system, it was like dropping a lighted match into a full box.

Flames began to lick from the first amp, devouring Taylor’s twitching body hungrily, writhing in his long hair like yellow snakes. He looked like a fiery Gorgon. On the far side of the stage the other banks of speakers began to blow up, some showering the audience with pieces of blazing wood.

Those in the front few rows clambered back over their seats, anxious to be away from the terrifying destruction before them but those behind could not move fast enough and many were crushed in the mad stampede to escape. Anyone who fell was immediately trodden underfoot as fear overcame even the strongest and panic rapidly became blind terror. On the balcony, some stared mesmerised at the stage which was rapidly becoming an inferno.

Flames rose high, destroying everything they touched. The other musicians had already fled the stage and a roadie who dashed on to help was crushed beneath a falling amp, pinned helplessly as he burned alive, his shrieks drowned out by the deafening crackle coming from the PA and the horrified shouts of the crowd.

The curtain was lowered but flames caught it and it became little more than a canopy of fire, suspended over the stage like some kind of super-nova. Dozens of lights, unable to stand up to the heat, shattered, spraying glass on to those below. A large frame holding eight football-sized spotlights came free of its rigging and plummeted into the audience where it exploded. Dozens were crushed, others were burned or sliced open by flying glass which hurtled around like jagged crystal grapeshots.

Motionless on the stage, framed by fire, stood Jim O’Neil, his face pale and blank as he gazed uncomprehendingly around him at the destruction. He saw people in the audience screaming as they ran, he saw others lying on the floor, across seats. Bloodied, burned or crushed.

A roadie ran shrieking across the stage, his clothes and hair ablaze. The acrid stench of burned flesh filled O’Neil’s nostrils and he swayed as though he were going to faint.

Behind him, still impaled on the microphone stand, the body of Kevin Taylor was being reduced to charred pulp by the searing flames which leapt and danced all around the stage.

O’Neil could only stand alone and shake his head. Like some lost soul newly introduced to hell.

Sweat was pouring from him but, despite the blistering temperatures, he felt as if he were freezing to death.

As darkness crept across the sky, Blake got to his feet and crossed the room to draw the curtains. Kelly watched as he shut out the gloom, feeling somehow more secure, as if the night were comprised of millions of tiny eyes — each one watching her.

The writer paused by the drinks cabinet and re-filled his own glass. Kelly declined the offer of a top-up. She felt that she had already consumed a little too much liquor since arriving at Blake’s house earlier in the day.

Throughout the journey to London she had felt an unexplained chill, an inexplicable sense of foreboding which only seemed to disappear once she saw Blake. She felt safe with him. But, more than that, she was now even more convinced that she was falling in love with him.

He returned to his chair and sat down, glancing across at Kelly.

Barefoot, clad only in a pair of skin tight faded jeans and a tee-shirt, she looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her before. And also, perhaps

because she was unaware of it, more alluring. Yet he knew, beneath that apparently anxious exterior, she still retained the courage and determination which had first drawn him to her.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked, noticing how intently she stared into the bottom of her glass.

‘I was just thinking,’ she told him, finally gracing him with her attention.

‘I know we’ve been over this dozens of times but I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. I’m convinced that someone at that seance is responsible for what’s been going on, for these murders.’

‘Go on,’ he prompted her.

‘The only one who knew all five victims …’

Blake interrupted.

‘How can you call Braddock and the other two, victims when they were the ones who committed the murders?’

‘They did them against their will. They were used.’ She looked intently at him. ‘And I’m sure that the same person who influenced them was also responsible for the deaths of Fraser and Lasalle. It has to be Dr Vernon.’

Blake shook his head.

“Fraser was killed in a car crash, right? You’ve already told me that Lasalle was starting to crack up again. What proof is there that Vernon had anything to do with their deaths?’ he said. ‘Who’s to say that both men didn’t die in bona fide accidents?’

‘Whose side are you on?’ she snapped.

it’s nothing to do with sides, Kelly,’ he said, angrily. ‘It’s a matter of practicality. You can’t go accusing someone like Vernon without proof.

Besides, if it were true, how the hell are you going to prove it? There isn’t a policeman in the country who’d believe you. The whole idea of controlling someone else’s Astral personality is difficult enough to understand, even for people like you and I, let alone for someone with no knowledge of the subject.’

‘Are you saying we’re beaten?’ she muttered.

‘No, I’m just trying to be practical,’ Blake explained.

‘Three of the people involved in that seance have already commited murder.

What about the rest of us? How long before something happens to us?’

Blake picked up the phone.

‘I’m going to call Mathias and Jim O’Neil,’ he said. T want to know if they’re aware of what’s been happening. They could be in danger too.’

‘And so could we,’ Kelly added, cryptically.

Blake didn’t answer.

‘Grosvenor House Hotel. Can I help you?’ said a female voice.

.‘I’d like to speak to Mr Jonathan Mathias,’ said Blake. ‘He has a suite at the hotel. My name is David Blake.’

There was a moment’s silence and, from the other end of the line, Blake heard the sound of paper rustling.

Kelly kept her eyes on him as he stood waiting.

Tm afraid Mr Mathias checked out this morning,” the voice told him.

‘Damn,’ muttered the writer; then to the receptionist, ‘Have you any idea where he is? Where he went? It is important.”

‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you there, sir,’ she said.

Blake thanked her and pressed his fingers down on the cradle.

‘No luck?’ Kelly asked.

‘He’s probably back in the States by now,’ the writer said, reaching for a black notebook which lay close to the phone. He flipped through it, running his finger down the list of names and numbers. He found what he was looking for and tapped out the correct number, listening as the purring tones began.

‘Come on,’ he whispered, impatiently.

‘Are you calling O’Neil?’ Kelly wanted to know.

Blake nodded.

‘He’s probably on stage at the moment but perhaps if I can talk to one of his crew I can get him to ring me back.’ The purring went on. Blake jabbed the

cradle and pressed the numbers again.

Still no answer.

‘What the hell are they playing at?’ he muttered.

He flicked the cradle and tried yet again.

A minute passed and he was about to replace the receiver when he heard a familiar click from the other end.

‘Hello, is that the Odeon?’ he blurted.

The voice at the other end of the line sounded almost unsure.

‘Yes. What do you want?’

Blake detected a note of unease in the voice. Fear perhaps?

is Jim O’Neil still on stage? If …”

The man at the other end cut him short.

‘Are you from a newspaper?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Blake told him, puzzled. ‘Why?’

i thought you might have heard about the accident. No press allowed. The police won’t let any of them through.’

‘What’s happened there?’ the writer demanded. ‘I’m a friend of O’NeiFs.’

‘There was an accident, a fire. God knows how many people are dead.’ The man’s voice began to crack. ‘O’Neil killed one of his band. It happened on the stage. I …’

‘Where’s O’Neil now?’

Kelly got up and walked across to the table. Blake picked up a pencil and scribbled a note on a piece of paper. She read it as he continued speaking: O’NEIL HAS KILLED. FIRE ON STAGE. PEOPLE IN AUDIENCE KILLED.

‘Oh my God,’ murmured Kelly.

‘Where is O’Neil at the moment?’ the writer repeated.

‘The police took him away,’ the other man said. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked as if he didn’t know what was going on, he …’

The phone went dead.

Blake flicked the cradle but could get no response. He gently replaced the receiver.

For long moments neither he nor Kelly spoke, the silence gathering round them like an ominous cloud.

‘Toni Landers. Gerald Braddock. Roger Carr and now O’Neil,’ Kelly said, finally. ‘Who’s going to be next?’

Her words hung, unanswered, in the air.

New York

Jonathan Mathias raised both arms above his head and stood for a moment, surveying the sea of faces before him. All ages. All nationalities. But with a single purpose.

To see him.

The hall in the Bronx was the largest that he used and as he ran an appraising eye over the throng he guessed that somewhere in the region of 2,000 people had packed into the converted warehouse. They stood in expectant silence, waiting for a sign from him.

‘Come forward,’ Mathias said, his powerful voice reverberating around the crowded meeting place.

Men working for the psychic, dressed in dark suits, cleared an aisle through the middle of the horde, allowing the procession of pain to begin. First came the wheelchairs, some

of their occupants looking expectantly towards the stage where Mathias stood.

He saw a young woman being brought forward by two men who had laid her on a stretcher. She lay motionless, sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling, her tongue lolling from one corner of her mouth.

Dozens hobbled towards the psychic on crutches, many struggling with the weight of the callipers which weighed them down. Others were supported by friends or relatives.

Mathias counted perhaps twenty or more figures moving slowly behind those on crutches. Most carried the white sticks which marked them out as blind, others were led forward by members of the crowd or by the dark-suited stewards. One

of them, a man in his forties, stumbled and had to be helped up, but he continued on his way, anxious to reach the figure whom he could not see but who he knew would help him.

As the last of the sick passed through the midst of the crowd, the gap which had opened now closed. The people drifting back to their places. From where Mathias stood, it looked like one single amoebic entity repairing a self-inflicted rent in itself. The sea of faces waited as the lights in the hall dimmed slightly, one particularly bright spotlight focusing on the psychic, framing him in a brilliant white glow.

The psychic had still not lowered his arms. He closed his eyes for a moment and stood like some finely attired scarecrow, his head slightly bowed. In the almost palpable silence, even the odd involuntary cough or whimper seemed intrusive.

Without looking up, Mathias nodded imperceptibly.

From the right of the stage, a woman put her strength into pushing a wheelchair up the ramp which had been erected to facilitate the countless invalid chairs. A steward moved forward to help her but Mathias waved him back, watching as the woman strained against the weight contained in the chair. Eventually, she made it and, after a swift pause to catch her breath, she moved towards the psychic who fixed both her and the boy in the wheelchair in his piercing gaze.

The occupant of the chair was in his early twenties, his ruddy features and lustrous black hair somehow belying the fact that his body was relatively useless. The boy had large,

alert eyes which glistened in the powerful light and he met Mathias’ stare with something akin to pleading. He still wore a metal neck-brace which was fastened to his shattered spine by a succession of pins. Paralysed from the neck down the only thing which moved were his eyes.

‘What is your name?’ Mathias asked him.

‘James Morrow,’ the youngster told him.

‘You’re his mother?’ the psychic asked, looking at the woman fleetingly.

She nodded vigorously.

‘Please help him,’ she babbled. ‘He’s been like this for a year and …’

Mathias looked at her again and, this time, his gaze seemed to bore through her. She stopped talking instantly and took a step back, watching as the psychic gently gripped her son’s head, circling it with his long fingers, their tips almost meeting at the back of the boy’s skull. He raised his head and looked upward, momentarily staring at the powerful spotlight which held him like a moth in a flame. His breathing began to degenerate into a series of low grunts and the first minute droplets of perspiration started to form on his forehead. The psychic gripped the boy’s head and pressed his thumbs gently against his scalp for a moment or two, passing to his temples, then his cheeks.

James Morrow closed his eyes, a feeling of welcome serenity filling him. He even smiled slightly as he felt the psychic’s thumbs brush his eyelids and rest there.

Mathias was quivering violently, his entire body shaking madly. He lowered his head and looked down at Morrow, his own teeth now clenched. A thin ribbon of saliva oozed from his mouth and dripped on to the blanket which covered the boy’s lower body.

The psychic gasped, a sound which he might have made had all the wind suddenly been knocked from him. He felt his hands beginning to tingle but it wasn’t the customary heat which he experienced. It was a searing cold, as if someone had plunged his hands into snow.

James Morrow tried to open his eyes but was unable to do so due to the fact that Mathias’ thumbs held his lids closed. The boy felt a slight increase of pressure on the back of his head as the psychic gripped harder.

Mathias felt the muscles in his arms and shoulders throbbing as he exerted more force, pushing his thumbs against Morrow’s closed eyes. He was aware of the youngster trying to pull his head back and, as if from a thousand miles

away, Mathias heard him groan slightly as the fingers and thumbs dug into him.

The psychic looked down at him and smiled thinly, his face appearing horribly distorted by the blinding power of the spotlight.

Even if Morrow had been aware of what was happening, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. All he felt was the steadily growing pain as Mathias gripped his head with even more force, a vice-like strength which threatened to crack the bones of his skull. But, as it was, all he could do was remain helpless in the wheelchair, unable to sqirm away from those powerful hands which felt as if they were intent on crushing his head.

The pressure on his eyes became unbearable as Mathias’ thumbs drove forward.

Mathias felt some slight resistance at first but then he grunted triumphantly as he felt Morrow’s eyes begin to retreat backward beneath the force he was exerting. Blood burst from the corner of the left one and cascaded down the younger man’s cheek. Mathias felt the glistening orb move to one side, his thumb slipping into the crimson wetness which was the socket. His nail tore the lid of Morrow’s right eye, scraping across the cornea before puncturing the entire structure. The psychic felt his other thumb tearing muscle and ligaments as he began to shake his paralysed victim.

With both thumbs embedded in Morrow’s eyes, Mathias forced him backwards, aided by the motion of the wheelchair.

The watching crowd were stunned, not quite sure what was going on. They saw the blood, they saw Morrow’s mother running forward but still they looked on in dumb-struck horror.

It was Morrow’s keening wail of agony which seemed to galvanise them into action.

In the watching throng, a number of other people screamed. Shouts rose. Shouts of fear and revulsion.

One of the screams came from James Morrow’s mother who ran at the psyshic, anxious to drag him away from her son, who sat motionless in his wheelchair as the psychic continued to gouge his thumbs ever deeper into the riven cavities of his eye sockets. Blood was running freely down the boy’s face now, staining his shirt and the blanket around him.

Mathias finally released his hold, turning swiftly to strike the approaching woman with one bloodied hand. The blow shattered her nose and sent her sprawling.

The body of James Morrow, sitting upright in the chair, rolled towards one side of the stage where it tipped precariously for a second before toppling over. The lifeless form fell out and the psychic watched as Mrs Morrow, her face a crimson ruin, crawled helplessly towards it, burbling incoherently.

Mathias blinked hard, aware that people were moving away from the stage. Away from him. He glanced down at the struggling form of Mrs Morrow, draped over her dead son like some kind of bloodied shroud. He took a step towards the carnage then faltered, his head spinning, his eyes drawn to the twin gore-filled holes which had once been James Morrow’s eyes.

The psychic looked down at his own hands and saw that they were soaked with blood. A fragment of red muscle still clung to one thumb nail. The crimson fluid had run up his arms, staining the cuffs of his shirt.

He shook violently, struggling to breathe as he surveyed the grisly scene before him.

The spotlight pinned him in its unremitting glare but, despite the heat which it gave off, Mathias found that he was shivering.

London

Kelly slipped off her jeans and shivered momentarily before climbing into the large bed in Blake’s room. She heard the sound of footfalls approaching across the landing.

Blake entered the room and pulled the door closed behind him. He began unbuttoning his shirt.

Til drive to the Institute tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Confront Vernon. I’ll mention his wife. Anything I have to in order to get him to respond.’

He walked to the bedside cabinet and knelt down. The bottom drawer was locked

but a quick turn of the ornate gold key and the writer opened it. He reached inside and lifted something out, hefting it before him.

It was a .357 Magnum. A snub-nose model. Blake flipped out the cylinder and carefully thumbed one of the heavy grain bullets into each chamber then he snapped it back into position. He laid the revolver on top of the cabinet.

Kelly regarded the gun warily.

if Vernon does respond,’ said Blake slipping into bed beside her, ‘then, at least you’ll know you were right. If he doesn’t, then you can start looking for another suspect.’

‘That narrows the field down quite a bit,’ Kelly said, cryptically. She moved close to him, nuzzling against his body, kissing first his chest then his lips. ‘Please be careful,’ she whispered.

Blake nodded, glanced one last time at the Magnum then reached over and flicked off the lamp.

She was blind.

Kelly thrashed her head frantically back and forth, the terror growing within her.

She could see nothing.

She tried to scream but no sound would come forth.

It took her a second or two to realize that she had been gagged. A piece of cloth had been stuffed into her mouth, secured by a length of thick hemp which chafed against the soft flesh of her cheeks. Her eyes had been covered by more, tightly fastened, strands of knotted material, sealed shut as surely as if the lids had been sewn together.

She felt someone moving beside her, felt a hand gently stfoking her flat stomach before first moving upwards to her breasts and then down to her pubic mound.

Kelly attempted to move but, as she did, red hot pain lanced through her wrists and ankles as the rope which held her to the bed rasped against her skin. She made a whimpering sound deep in her throat, aware that her legs had been forced apart. She lay spreadeagled, her body exposed to whatever prying eyes chose to inspect it. Her legs had been pulled apart to such an extent that the muscles at the backs of her thighs felt as if they were about to tear. Pain gnawed at the small of her back, intensifying as she struggled in vain to free herself. The rope which was wound so tightly around her wrists and ankles bit hungrily into her flesh until she felt a warm dribble of blood from her left ankle.

Kelly was aware of movement, of a heavy form positioning itself between her legs.

She felt fingers trickling up the inside of her thighs, seeking her exposed vagina.

In the darkness she felt even more helpless, unable to see her assailant because of the blindfold.

Something nudged against her cleft and she stiffened.

Whatever it was, it was excruciatingly cold on that most sensitive area. She lay still as the freezing object probed deeper and, again, she tried to scream.

Kelly heard soft chuckling then a guttural grunt of pleasure.

It was followed by a rapid, rhythmic slopping sound which seemed to keep time with the low grunts.

She realized that her invisible assailant was masturbating.

The cold object between her legs pushed deeper, now adding pain to the other sensation she was feeling.

Another second and Kelly felt warm fluid spilling onto her belly in an erratic fountain. The grunts of her captor grew

louder as he coaxed the last droplets of thick liquid from his penis.

Light flashed into her eyes as the blindfold was torn free and, in that split second, she saw the face of her attacker.

His penis still gripped in one fist, the other hand holding the gun against her vagina, he grinned down at her.

She heard a noise which she knew to be the pulling back of the revolver’s hammer but her senses were already reeling as she stared with bulging eyes at the man who hovered above her.

David Blake smiled down at her, his face twisted into an unearthly grimace.

Kelly awoke from the nightmare bathed in perspiration. She let out a moan of terror and sat up, looking around her, trying to convince herself that what she had experienced had been the work of her imagination.

The room was silent.

Blake slept soundly beside her, his chest rising and falling slowly.

She let out a long, almost painful breath and ran her hands through her sweat-soaked hair.

As she did so she became aware of a slight tingling in her hands and feet so she pulled the sheet back and glanced down.

Kelly stifled a scream.

On both her wrists and ankles, the flesh was puffy and swollen. Ugly, vivid red welts disfigured the skin.

They were very much like rope burns.

The sound of the alarm shattered the silence and shocked Blake from his slumber. He shot out a hand and silenced the insistent buzzing before lying back for a moment to rub his eyes. He took two or three deep breaths and blinked at the ceiling before easing himself slowly out of bed.

Beside him, Kelly did not stir.

The writer gathered up some clothes and crept out of the room in an effort not to wake her. He paused once more when he reached the bedroom door, satisfied that Kelly had not been disturbed.

He showered and dressed, returning to the bedroom once more to retrieve the Magnum. He then made his way downstairs where he slipped the revolver into his attache case and clipped it shut.

Blake ate a light breakfast then he got to his feet and, case in hand, headed out to the waiting XJS.

The drive to Oxford should take him a couple of hours.

Kelly watched from the bedroom window as Blake climbed into the Jag and started the engine.

She remained hidden in case he looked round but she need not have worried. The sleek vehicle burst into life and the writer guided it out onto the road.

Kelly had heard the alarm clock earlier but had lain awake, eyes still closed, while he had slipped away. She had feigned sleep, aware of his presence in the room. She had heard him moving about downstairs and then, finally, she’d listened as he had walked out to the car. Only at that point had she clambered, naked, out of bed and crossed to the window to watch him leave. Now she returned to the bed and sat down on the edge.

First she inspected her ankles, then her wrists They were unmarked.

She told herself that she should have woken Blake immediately after she’d had the nightmare but it had frightened her so much that she had decided to remain silent. Even now, in the light of day, she could not find the courage to Speak to him about it. That was why she had chosen to give him the impression she was still sleeping when he left.

The dream had been so vivid. Too vivid. Parts of it still burned brightly in her mind like a brand. Ugly and unwanted.

Kelly dressed and made her way downstairs where she found a note propped up on the kitchen table.

SEE YOU LATER, SLEEPYHEAD. It was signed with Blake’s sweeping signature.

She smiled, folded up the note and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. As she waited for the kettle to boil she put two pieces of bread in the toaster and propped herself against the draining board, waiting.

Should she tell Blake about the dream when he returned? She ran a hand through her hair and decided that she shouldn’t. After all, it had been only a dream, hadn’t it?

She looked at her wrists and remembered the rope burns which she’d seen the

previous night.

Kelly sighed. She wasn’t even sure she had seen them.

The toast popped up and she buttered the slices, chewing thoughtfully.

!

She heard a noise from the front of the house and wandered through the sitting room in time to see the postman retreating back up the path. Kelly walked through into the hall and picked up the mail he’d pushed through. As she straightened up she glanced across at the door which led to Blake’s underground workroom.

The key was in the lock.

Kelly placed the mail on a nearby table and wandered across to the cellar door. She turned the handle and found that the door was unlocked anyway. She pushed it, reaching for the light switches inside. Kelly slapped them on and the cellar was bathed in the cold glow of fluorescents.

Apart from the steps which led down to the work area itself, the floor had been carpeted. She scurried down the stairs, the coldness of the concrete on her bare feet giving her added speed. Finally she stood at the bottom, glad of the

warmth from the carpet. The cellar was large, stretching away from her in all four directions. A huge wooden desk occupied central position and she noticed that there was a typewriter on it. A small waste bin, overflowing with scraps of balled up paper stood nearby. There was a telephone too. The entire cellar had been decorated in white; it positively gleamed and, as she moved around, Kelly detected the scent of an air freshener. Bookcases lined two walls, huge, dark wood creations creaking with hundreds of volumes but, unlike those which Blake displayed on his shelves upstairs in the sitting room, these books were more in the manner of research material. A great many were bound in leather and, as Kelly drew closer, she realized that most were very old.

She reached up and took one.

The gold leaf title was cracked and barely readable so she opened the book and scanned the tit\e page: inside the Mind, She checked the publication date and saw that it was 1921. Replacing it she found another, this one even older: Psychiatry and the Unknown. It was dated 1906.

No wonder Blake kept these books hidden away, Kelly thought, scanning more titles. They must be worth a fortune. She ran her index finger along the shelf, mouthing each title silently as she went.

She came to a shelf which consisted entirely of ring binders, each one labelled on the spine. She recognised Blake’s writing on the labels.

‘Dreams,’ she read on the first and took it down, flipping through quickly.

Some of the pages were typed, others hand-written. Here and there she spotted a photograph. There was one of Blake’s house and, beside it, a rough drawing of the same building. It was almost childlike in its simplicity, drawn, as it was, with a thick pencil. However, the similarity was unmistakable. Kelly replaced the file and reached for another.

‘Hypnosis,’ she murmured.

There was a photo of Mathias inside.

Kelly turned the page and found one of Blake himself but apparently he was sleeping. It must, she reasoned, have been taken with an automatic timer. She was puzzled as to why he should have taken such a shot though. Kelly scanned what

was written beneath the photo but saw only a date. The photo, it seemed, had been taken over a year ago. She wondered if Blake had, perhaps, asked someone else to take it but she still couldn’t understand why he would need such a photograph.

She reached for another file marked ‘Astral Projection’ and skimmed through that.

There were more photos.

Of Mathias. Of Blake himself.

Of Toni Landers.

She turned a page.

There was a newspaper clipping which featured Roger Carr.

Kelly swallowed hard and perched on the edge of the desk as she read one of the typewritten sheets in the file.

‘December 6th,” she read, keeping her voice low, as if she were in a library.

‘The Astral body is a separate entity. I am sure of that now. From what I have observed and read, but, more importantly, from experimentation upon myself, I know that it can be summoned in tangible form. By a long and tortuous process I have actually managed to separate my Astral body from my physical body at will. To unlock the part of the mind previously unexplored by scientists and psychologists. I now feel confident enough to use this process on others.’

Kelly swallowed hard and read on:

‘In order to confirm that tangible Astral projection is possible, I conducted the following test. While in a self-induced trance, I inflicted injury upon my own Astral body and discovered that this injury was subsequently manifested on my physical body.’

There were two photographs beneath. One showed Blake looking at the camera, the other, identical in appearance, highlighted a small scar on his left shoulder. The photos were marked with dates and times. The unblemished one bore the legend: December 4th 7.30p.m. The second: December 5th 8.01 a.m.

‘This proved two important things, firstly that it is possible to possess two centres of consciousness simultaneously and also that any injury sustained in the Astral state will manifest itself on the host body. The proof is irrefutable. Tangible

Astral projection is possible, so too is the manipulation of another person’s subconscious m/‘nd.’

Kelly closed the file, got to her feet and replaced it. For long seconds she stood motionless in the silent cellar then she scurried back up the steps, aware of the icy chill which seemed to have enveloped her.

She closed the cellar door behind her, noticing that her hand was shaking.

It was almost 3.15 p.m. when the XJS came to a halt outside the house.

Kelly, watching from the sitting room, peered out and saw Blake lock the vehicle before gathering up his attache case. He headed for the front door and, a moment later, she heard the key turn. As it did she moved across to the sofa and sat down, her eyes on the hall door.

Blake smiled at her as he entered.

She watched as he laid the attache case on the coffee table and flipped it open, removing the Magnum which he placed beside it.

‘Vernon didn’t try anything?’ she said, looking at the gun.

The writer shook his head.

‘If he has acquired some kind of power then he knows how to control it,’ he said, crossing to the drinks cabinet and pouring himself a large measure of Haig. He offered Kelly a drink and she accepted a Campari.

‘Did he say anything at all?’ she wanted to know.

‘Nothing that I found incriminating if that’s what you mean,’ Blake told her.

i mentioned his wife. You were right, he does get touchy about that. He wanted to know how I knew about her, what I knew about her. When I mentioned John Fraser he threatened to have me thrown out or arrested.’ The writer downed a sizeable measure of the fiery liquid.

‘You didn’t accuse him of killing Fraser did you?’

‘Not in so many words. I just told him what you’d told me. He didn’t react very favourably.’

There was a long silence, finally broken by Blake.

i don’t know where we go from here,’ he said.

Kelly didn’t speak for a moment then she sucked in a long breath and looked at Blake.

‘David, how much do you know about Astral projection?’ she asked.

He sipped at his drink, his eyes glinting behind the dark screen of his glasses.

‘Why do you ask?’ he said, his voice low.

‘I was just curious,’ she told him. She opened her mouth to speak again but

couldn’t seem to find the words.

Blake sat beside her on the sofa and placed one arm around her, drawing her to him. He smiled reassuringly. She moved closer to him, aware of an icy chill which surrounded her.

He held her firmly and only when her head was resting on his shoulder did his smile disappear.

He looked across at the Magnum.

Oxford

The strains of ‘God Save the Queen’ died away gradually to be replaced by a rasping hiss of static, so loud that it jolted Dr Stephen Vernon from his uneasy dozing. He moved to get up, almost spilling the mug of cocoa which he held in one hand. He switched off the television and stood silently in the sitting room for a moment. He was alone in his house. Joubert was at the Institute and would be for the remainder of the night, going through reams of notes so far untouched. Vernon gazed down into his mug of cold cocoa and winced as he saw the film of skin which had covered the surface. He put it down and headed for the sitting room door, turning off lights as he went.

He had reached the bottom of the staircase when he heard the noise.

Vernon froze, trying to pinpoint the direction from which it had come. He felt his heart begin to beat a little faster as he heard it once more.

A dull thud followed by what sounded like soft whispering.

He turned, realizing that it came from the study, behind him to the left. The white door was firmly shut however, hiding its secret securely.

Vernon hesitated, waiting for the sound to come again.

He heard nothing and prepared to climb the stairs once more. He’d left the window in the room open. A breeze might well have dislodged something in there, knocked it to the floor, caused …

He heard the sound like whispering again and, this time, turned and approached the door.

Vernon paused outside, his ear close to the wood in an effort to detect any sounds from within. His hand hovered nervously over the knob, finally closing on it, turning it gently.

He tried to control his rapid breathing, afraid that whoever was inside the study would hear his approach. Also, as he stood there waiting for the right moment to strike, he felt suddenly vulnerable. He released the door knob and looked around the darkened hallway for a weapon of some kind.

There was a thick wood walking stick propped up in the umbrella stand nearby; Vernon took it and, for the second time, prepared to enter the study.

Beyond the closed door all was silent once again, not the slightest sound of movement disturbed the solitude. A thought occurred to Vernon.

What if the intruder was aware of his presence and, at this moment, was waiting for him?

He swallowed hard and tried to force the thought from his mind.

He gripped the knob and twisted it, hurling open the door, his free hand slapping for the light switches just inside.

As the study was illuminated, Vernon scanned the area before him, the walking stick brandished like a club.

His mouth dropped open in surprise as he caught sight of the intruder.

Hunkered over the large table, one of the files open before him, was David Blake.

‘You,’ gasped Vernon, lowering his guard.

That lapse of concentration was all that Blake needed. He flung himself across the table, catapulted as if from some gigantic rubber band. He crashed into Vernon, knocking the walking stick from his hand, rolling to one side as the older man lashed out at him. Vernon managed to scramble to his feet, bolting from the room but Blake was younger and quicker and he rugby-tackled the doctor, bringing him down in the hallway. They grappled in the gloom and Vernon found that his fear gave him added strength. He gripped Blake’s wrists

and succeeded in throwing him to one side. The younger man crashed against a nearby wall but the impact seemed only to slow him up for a moment. He scrambled to his feet and set off after the older man again, following him into the kitchen this time.

Vernon tugged open a drawer, the contents spilling across the tiled floor.

Knives, forks, spoons, a ladle — all rained down around his feet with a series of high pitched clangs. He snatched up a long carving knife and brandished it before him.

Blake hesitated as he saw the vicious blade winking at him and, for what seemed like an eternity, the two men faced one another, eyes locked. Like two gladiators, they both waited for the other to move first.

‘What do you want?’ asked Vernon, the knife quivering in his grip.

The younger man didn’t answer, he merely edged forward slightly.

Til kill you, Blake, I swear to God I will,’ Vernon assured him, making a sharp stabbing movement with the blade.

Blake was undeterred. He took another step forward, something on the worktop to his right catching his eye.

It was a sugar bowl.

With lightning speed, he picked it up and hurled the contents into Vernon’s face. The tiny grains showered him, some finding their way into his eyes, and he yelped in pain, momentarily blinded by the stinging shower of particles.

Blake took his chance. Dropping to one knee, he grabbed a corkscrew and hurled himself at Vernon who somehow managed one last despairing lunge before Blake reached him.

The blade sliced through the younger man’s jacket and laid open his left forearm just above the wrist. Blood spurted from the cut and plashed on to the tiles. But Blake slammed into Vernon with the force of a pile-driver, knocking him back against the sink. He snaked one arm around the older man’s neck and held him firmly, bringing the corkscrew forward with devastating power.

The sharp point pierced Vernon’s skull at the crown and he screamed in agony as Blake twisted it, driving the curling metal prong deeper until it began to churn into the older man’s brain. White hot pain seared through him and he felt himself blacking out but, just before he did, Blake tore the corkscrew free, ripping a sizeable lump of bone with it. Greyish red brain matter welled up through the hole and Vernon fell forward on to the tiles as Blake struck again. This time driving the corkscrew into the hollow at the base of his skull, ramming hard until it erupted from Vernon’s throat. There was an explosion of crimson as blood spouted from both wounds and his body began to quiver uncontrollably as Blake tore the twisted weapon free once more He stood there for a moment, gazing down at the lifeless body before him, now surrounded by a spreading pool of red liquid. Then, almost contemptuously, he tossed the corkscrew to one side, stepped over the body and headed back towards the study.

Kelly let out a strangled cry as she sat up, the last vestiges of the nightmare still clinging to her consciousness like graveyard mist.

She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, aware that her heart was thundering against her ribs. But, gradually, she slowed her breathing, aware that the dream was fading.

Blake was sleeping peacefully beside her. Apparently he had not heard her frightened outburst. She thought about waking him, telling him what she had dreamt but she thought better of it. Kelly could hear his gentle, rhythmic breathing beside her and she looked down at his still form.

The breath caught in her throat.

There was a small dark stain on the sheet.

She prodded it with her finger and found that it was still damp. Kelly noticed that whatever the substance was, it also coloured her finger. In the darkness of the bedroom it looked black but, as she sniffed it, she caught the unmistakable odour of blood.

Blake moved slightly, turning on to his side.

Kelly pulled the sheet back further and ran her gaze over his body.

On his left forearm, just above the wrist, there was a cut.

She stood in the bedroom doorway for a full five minutes, her eyes riveted to Blake’s sleeping form then, certain that she had not disturbed him, she crept downstairs to the sitting room.

Kelly did not turn on the light, not even one of the table lamps. She found the phone and selected the appropriate number, waiting for the receiver to be picked up, hoping that she had remembered Dr Vernon’s number correctly.

She didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

‘Yes.’ The voice sounded harsh and she realized that it wasn’t the doctor.

‘Can I speak to Dr Vernon, please?’ she whispered, casting a furtive glance towards the door behind her.

‘Who is this?’ the voice asked.

Tm a friend of his,’ she persisted. ‘Could I speak to him please?’

‘That isn’t possible. Dr Vernon was murdered earlier tonight.’

Kelly hung up, banging the phone down with a little too much force. She wondered if Blake had heard her but the thought swiftly vanished. There was no sound of movement from upstairs. She stood alone in the dark sitting room, perspiration forming droplets on her face and forehead.

Vernon murdered.

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, her head cradled in her hands, still not fully comprehending what she had heard.

She thought of the blood on the sheet. Of her nightmare. The cut on Blake’s wrist.

And of what she had read earlier in the day; ‘An injury sustained in the Astral state will manifest itself on the host body.’

Kelly suddenly felt more frightened than she could ever remember.

Kelly brought the Mini to a halt and sat behind the wheel for a moment, scanning the area in front of Dr Vernon’s house. In addition to the doctor’s Audi, there was a dark brown Sierra in the driveway and, by the kerbside itself, a Granada. She could see two men seated in that particular, car. One was eating a sandwich while the other, the driver, was busy cleaning his ears out with one index finger. Both men wore suits despite the warmth of the early morning sunshine.

She wound down the window a little further, allowing what little breeze there was to circulate inside the car. She was perspiring, but not all of it was due to the heat of the day.

The drive from London had taken over two hours. She’d told Blake that she wanted to pick up some more clothes from her flat. He’d seen her off like the dutiful lover he’d become, then retired to his workroom for the day. She had not mentioned anything to him about either her nightmare or the phone call to Vernon’s house. She had not slept much the previous night, not after returning to bed. What was more, she’d been mildly disturbed to find that the bloodstains on the sheet had all but disappeared and, that morning, Blake’s wrist appeared to be uninjured but for a minute red mark which looked like little more than a cat-scratch.

Now Kelly sat in the car staring across the road at the Granada and the house beyond it, realizing that, sooner or later she was going to be forced to make her move. Her palms felt sticky as she reached for the door handle and eased herself out of the Mini. She sucked in a deep breath then headed across the road towards the driveway.

She was a foot or two beyond the Granada when a voice called her back and she turned to see one of the men getting out, his cheeks bulging, hamster-like, with the last remnants

of his sandwich.

‘Excuse me, Miss,’ he said, trying hurriedly to swallow what he was chewing.

Kelly turned to face him, noticing as she did that he was reaching inside his jacket. He produced a slim leather wallet and flipped it open to reveal an ID

card which bore his picture. It was a bad likeness, making his thick brown hair appear ginger.

‘I’m Detective-Sergeant Ross,’ the man told her. ‘May I ask what you’re doing here?’

‘Police?’ she said, feigning surprise.

He nodded and succeeded in forcing down the last of his food.

‘What are you doing here?’

Ross smiled thinly.

7 asked first, Miss,1 he said.

The lie was ready on her tongue.

‘I’ve come to see my father,’ she told him.

Ross’s smile faded suddenly and he almost took a step back.

‘We weren’t aware that Dr Vernon had any close family,’ he told her.

Kelly felt her heart beating a little faster.

‘Is something wrong?’ she wanted to know, hoping that her little act was working.

‘Could you come with me please, Miss?’ the DS said and led her up the driveway towards the house. As they drew nearer, Kelly tried frantically to slow her rapid breathing. She had suddenly begun to doubt the success of her little venture. The front door opened and a man dressed in a grey suit, carrying a black briefcase, emerged.

He exchanged brief words with Ross then climbed into the Sierra, reversed out of the driveway and sped off.

‘You still haven’t told me what’s going on?’ Kelly insisted, not trying to disguise the mock concern in her voice.

They were inside the house by now and Ross ushered her into a sitting room where she sat down on one of the chairs.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he told her and disappeared.

Keliy looked around the room, hands clasped on her knees. She swallowed hard and attempted to stop her body quivering. Her roving eyes scanned the shelves and tables for

photos. If there was one of Vernon’s daughter then she was finished. Although Ross had. told her that the police were unaware he’d had a family, it did little to comfort her. She was still in the process of composing herself when Ross returned, accompanied by a taller, older man with a long face and chin which jutted forward with almost abnormal prominence. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Allen.

‘You’re Dr Vernon’s daughter?’ he asked, eyeing her up and down.

‘Yes,’ she lied.

Allen looked at his companion then at Kelly. He cleared his throat self-consciously and proceeded to tell her what had happened the previous night. Kelly reacted with all the rehearsed shock and grief she could muster.

‘As far as we know, nothing was stolen,’ Allen continued. ‘There was still money in one of the drawers upstairs and your father’s wallet was in his jacket which is hanging in the hallway.’

‘So why was he killed?’ Kelly asked, reaching for a handkerchief which she clutched between her hands in mock despair, tugging at it most convincingly.

‘We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that,’ Allen said.

‘Did he have any enemies that you know of?’

Kelly shook her head.

‘He kept himself to himself,’ she said, lowering her eyes slightly.

‘Did you know that there was someone living in the house with him?’ the DI wanted to know. ‘One of the guest rooms is occupied.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ she said, with genuine surprise.

Allen frowned.

‘How often did you see your father, Miss Vernon?’

Kelly licked her lips self-consciously. She was going to have to tread carefully.

‘Not regularly. I live in London at the moment. But that’s not my permanent address.’

‘Alone?’

‘What?’

‘Do you live alone?’

She paused a second or two longer than she should have and, what was more, she was aware of that fact. Kelly realized that she was on the verge of blowing the entire facade wide open.

‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ she said, pressing the handkerchief to her eyes.

‘I can’t seem to think straight. After what you’ve told me about my father I …’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.

Allen nodded comfortingly.

‘I realize it must be difficult,’ he said, softly. ‘Take your time.’

How many more questions, she wondered?

She was spared the trouble of answering by Ross who popped his head around the corner and called to his superior. Allen excused himself and left the room for a moment. Kelly let out an audible sigh of relief, grateful for the momentary respite. She heard voices in the hallway, one of which she was sure she recognised.

A moment later, Alain Joubert entered the sitting room, followed by Allen.

The Frenchman stopped in his tracks when he saw Kelly, who shot an anxious glance in the policeman’s direction, thankful that he hadn’t noticed her reaction. He did, however, glimpse the surprised expression of Joubert.

‘Do you two know each other?’ Allen asked.

‘We …’

Kelly cut him short.

‘My father introduced us about a month ago,’ she said, stepping forward. ‘How are you, Mr Joubert?”

The Frenchman managed to conceal his bewilderment and Kelly prayed that he wouldn’t give the game away.

‘I’m sorry to hear what happened,’ Joubert said, flatly.

Kelly nodded.

‘Were you aware that Mr Joubert had been staying at your father’s house for the past two weeks.?’ asked the policeman.

‘No,’ Kelly said. ‘But I knew that he was working on a new project with someone. I wasn’t aware it was Mr Joubert though. My father likes to keep his work to himself.

‘You claim that you’ve been at the Research Institute all night?’ Allen said to the Frenchman.

‘Yes I have,’ Joubert told him. ‘The night-watchman will verify that if you ask him.’

‘As far as we can see, nothing of Dr Vernon’s was taken, but you might like to check your own belongings,’ the DI suggested.

Joubert nodded.

it would be more convenient for all of us if you could leave the house for a day or two, sir,’ Allen said. ‘While the lads from forensic go over the place.’

Joubert nodded.

‘I’ll book into a hotel,’ he said. Til get some things from upstairs.’ The Frenchman glanced once more at Kelly then left the room.

‘How was my father killed?’ Kelly asked.

‘He was stabbed,’ said Allen, hastily.

‘Knifed?’

The policeman swallowed hard.

‘No. He was stabbed with a corkscrew. I’m sorry.’

Kelly closed her eyes for a moment, the details of her dream suddenly flashing with neon brilliance in her mind. She felt a twinge of nausea but fought it back. Allen moved towards her as if he feared she would faint but she waved him away.

i’m all right,’ she assured him, smiling thinly.

Joubert returned a moment later carrying what looked like an overnight bag.

‘There is one more thing I’d like to check on before I leave,’ he said, entering the study.

Kelly and DI Allen followed him.

The Frenchman muttered something in his own tongue as he surveyed the empty table in the study.

‘The files,’ he said, wearily. ‘They’ve been taken.’

“What files?’ Allen demanded.

‘The project that Dr Vernon and I were working on,’ Joubert snapped. ‘All the information was compiled in half a dozen files. They’re gone.’

‘What kind of information?’ the policeman persisted.

‘Just research notes, of no importance to anyone but us.’ He cast a sly glance at Kelly.

‘Are you sure they’ve been taken?’ said Allen.

‘They were here,’ Joubert snapped, tapping the table top.

‘Can you describe them?’ asked Allen.

The Frenchman shrugged.

‘Six plain manilla files, what more can I tell you?’

‘Whoever took them knew what they were looking for,’ Kelly interjected.

Joubert nodded and looked at her once more.

‘Damn,’ he said, under his breath.

‘Well,’ Allen told him. it’s not much to go on but, we’ll do our best to trace them.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’d like the name of the hotel you’re staying in, Mr Joubert, if you could phone me at the station as soon as you’ve booked in.’ He handed the Frenchman a piece of paper with a phone number on it. ‘And you, Miss Vernon, I’d appreciate an address where I can reach you.’

She gave him that of her flat in Oxford.

i don’t think we need keep you any longer,’ the DI told them. ‘But we’ll be in touch.’

Joubert was the first to turn and head for the front door.

Kelly followed, catching up with him as he reached his car. She glanced round, making sure they were out of earshot.

‘Did Lasalle know what was in those files?’ she asked.

‘What the hell has he got to do with all this?’ Joubert barked. ‘And you are taking a chance posing as Vernon’s daughter aren’t you?’

‘Joubert, I have to speak to you. But not here.’

His expression softened somewhat.

it’s important,’ she persisted.

‘Very well. Perhaps you could recommend a hotel.’ He smiled humourlessly.

‘I’ve got my car,’ she told him. ‘Follow me into the town centre. We must talk. There’s a lot that needs explanation.’

He regarded her impassively for a moment then nodded, climbed into his Fiat and started the engine. Kelly scuttled across the road to her own car and twisted the key in the ignition. She waited until Joubert had reversed out into the street, then she set off. He followed close behind. Kelly could see the trailing Fiat in her rear view mirror as she drove.

She wondered if finally she would learn the answers to the questions which had plagued her for so long.

There were only a handful of people in the bar of ‘The Bull’ hotel. It was not yet noon and the lunchtime drinkers had still to appear.

Kelly sat over her orange juice, waiting for Joubert to join her. When he finally sat down opposite her she noticed how dark and sunken his eyes looked, a testament to the fact that he had been working all night. He sipped his own drink and watched as Kelly did the same.

‘You said you wanted to talk,’ the Frenchman said. “What had you in mind?’

‘For one thing, I’d like to know what the hell you and Vernon had been up to for the past month or so,’ she said, challengingly. ‘Ever since the two institutes began work on Astral projection and dream interpretation it’s been more like working for MI5 than a psychic research unit. What were you and Vernon working on?’

‘What happened to the famous English quality of tact?’ he said, smiling. “What do you want to know?’

if I asked all the questions that are on my mind we’d be here until this time next year. Right now I’ll settle for knowing why you and Vernon were so

secretive about the research findings.’

Joubert sipped his drink once more, gazing into the glass as if seeking inspiration.

‘How much did you know about Vernon?’ he asked.

‘Personally, not a great deal. Professionally he seemed obsessed with the work on Astral projection and mind control,’ Kelly said.

‘He was. But with good cause, as I was. We both had reasons for wanting the findings kept quiet until a suitable time.’

‘Reasons worth killing for?’ she asked.

Joubert looked aghast.

‘Certainly not,’ he said, indignantly. “Why do you say that?’

‘The death of Lasalle didn’t seem to make much of an impression on you.’

‘You thought I was responsible for Lasalle’s death?’ he said, although it sounded more like a statement than a question.

She nodded.

‘He was cracking up, close to insanity when he died,’ said Joubert. ‘No one could have helped him, least of all me. He was afraid of me.’

‘You gave him cause to be. I noticed the hostility between you.’

it was nothing personal. I was angry with him for revealing our findings so early. That was all.‘The Frenchman lowered his voice slightly. ‘Lasalle was a good friend of mine,’ he said, reflectively. ‘But he did a lot of damage to our research with that article he wrote. It brought too much media attention to a project which should have been fully completed before being put up for scrutiny. And, he ruined my chances of making a name for myself in our field.’

He went on to recount the story he had told Vernon, about how the limelight had been snatched from him once before. ‘So, perhaps you can understand my reasons for secrecy. That was why I was unco-operative with you. I didn’t want anybody or anything to interfere with my chances of making the breakthrough. /

wanted to be the one who was remembered for making one of parapsychology’s greatest finds.’

Kelly exhaled.

‘And Vernon?’ she said. ‘Why was he so fascinated by mind control?’

‘His reasons were even more genuine than mine,’ said the Frenchman.

‘One of my colleagues said that he was hiding something about his wife. He …’

Joubert interrupted.

‘Vernon’s wife has been irretrievably and irreversibly insane for the past six years. When you masqueraded as his daughter this morning you took a bigger risk than you could have imagined. Vernon has a daughter. Admittedly, he hadn’t seen her for six years and, as far as she is concerned, he had no place in her life but she exists nevertheless.’

Kelly raised her glass to her lips but she lowered it again, her full attention on Joubert as he continued.

‘He had a Grandson too. As he explained it to me, the child, who was less than a year old at the time, was being cared for by Mrs Vernon. She doted on the boy, worshipped him as if he were hers. Vernon himself has always been a nervous man, afraid of burglars and intruders. He and his wife owned two Dobermans. They were kept in a small compound during the day and released at night.’ He sighed. ‘This particular day, they escaped. The baby boy was crawling on the lawn. There was nothing Mrs Vernon could do. The dogs tore the child to pieces before her eyes.’ ‘Oh God,’ murmured Kelly.

‘She went into a state of shock and then slipped into a catatonic trance.

Vernon thought that if he discovered a way to unlock the subconscious mind, he could use it to cure his wife. That was his secret. Nothing sinister.” Kelly shook her head almost imperceptibly, if only he’d said something,” she whispered. ‘He never intended the truth to be revealed,’ Joubert said. ‘But now it doesn’t matter.’

‘Who would want to kill him?’ she asked, as if expecting the Frenchman to furnish her with an answer.

‘The same person who would want to steal those files,’ he said, i can’t think

what possible use they would be to anyone not acquainted with the paranormal.

Besides, who else but Vernon and myself even knew they were at the house?’ He shook his head.

i saw Vernon murdered,’ Kelly said, flatly. Joubert looked at her aghast. ‘In a dream,’ she continued.

‘Have you had precognitive dreams before?” he asked, somewhat excitedly.

“Never.’

‘Did you see who killed him?’

Kelly took a long swig from her glass, wishing that it contained something stronger. She nodded.

“His name is David Blake,” she said. ‘The man I’m living with.’

Joubert watched her across the table, aware that she was quivering slightly.

‘Could there have been some mistake?’ he asked.

She shrugged.

i don’t know what to believe any more.’

‘Kelly, if it’s true then you could be in a great deal of danger.’

‘He doesn’t know I suspect him,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Besides,’

Kelly wiped a tear from her eye corner, i love him.’ Her eyes filled with moisture which, a second later, began to spill down her cheeks. ‘Oh God it can’t be Him. It can’t.’

Joubert moved closer and curled one comforting arm around her shoulder.

‘He wouldn’t hurt me though, I know he wouldn’t,’ she murmured.

‘How can you be sure?’

She had no answer.

London

It was late afternoon by the time Kelly drew into the driveway outside Blake’s house. There was no sign of his XJS. He was either out for a while or the car was in the garage. She left her Mini where it was, locked it, then headed for the front door.

As she stepped inside the hall, the silence seemed to envelop her like an invisible blanket and she stood motionless for a moment as if reluctant to disturb the solitude. She glanced across at the cellar door.

It was open slightly.

Kelly approached it silently, listening for the noise of a clacking typewriter from below but there was none.

‘David,’ she called and her voice sounded hollow in the stillness.

No answer.

She walked back to the sitting room door, opened it slightly and peered in, calling his name as she did so.

Nothing.

Kelly wandered to the bottom of the staircase and looked up.

‘David, are you up there?’

The silence reigned supreme.

She opened the cellar door wider and gazed down into the subterranean chamber.

Kelly began to descend.

Half way down the stairs she called his name once again, now satisfied that the house was empty. The extractor fan was on, a slight whirring sound filling the calmness. Kelly felt that all too familiar ripple of fear caress her neck and spine. The celiar looked vast, stretching out all around her, making her feel vulnerable and exposed. She moved towards his desk, her pace slowing, her jaw dropping open.

Perched on top of the typewriter were the six manilla files.

Kelly froze for a second then reached forward and picked one up, nipping it open. She recognised Lasalle’s handwriting on the first page.

‘Found what you’re looking for?’

The voice sounded thunderous in the silence.

Kelly spun round, almost dropping the file, her eyes fixed on the figure at the top of the stairs.

Blake stood there motionless for a moment then slowly descended the steps.

His face was expressionless as he approached her, one hand extended. He

motioned for her to give him the file which she did, not shifting her gaze from his eyes, trying to look through those twin dark screens which covered them.

‘Why did you kill Dr Vernon?’ she asked, falteringly.

‘Kelly,’ he said, softly. ‘You shouldn’t have come down here. What goes on in this room is my business.’

‘You did kill him didn’t you, David?’ she persisted.

‘Yes,’ he said, unhesitatingly. ‘I needed the files.’

‘I’ve been to his house today. I’ve spoken to Joubert.’

Blake chuckled.

‘Not so long ago you were convinced that Vernon and Joubert were responsible for these events,’ he said.

‘Tell me why you did it,’ she said. ‘Why you caused all those deaths.’

He didn’t answer.

‘Why?’ she roared at him, her voice a mixture of fear and desperation.

He saw a single tear trickle from her eye corner. She wiped it away angrily.

‘Ever since I can remember, even before I began writing about the paranormal, the idea of Astral projection has fascinated me,’ he began, his tone measured and calm. ‘Not just travelling through space on an ethereal level, but actual physical movement of the Astral body through time. The tangible realization of that movement which meant I could literally be in two places at once. In control of two centres of consciousness. I made it work. It took years to master but I learned how to do it and the more I learned, the more I realized that it was possible to manipulate the subconscious personalities of others as well. To use them.’ He regarded her with no hint of emotion on his face.

‘Like Toni Landers and the rest?’ she said.

‘I learned to control the Shadow inside them.’

‘The Shadow?’ Kelly said, looking vague.

‘The alter-ego. What you know as the subconscious. That part of the mind which controls our darker side, that’s the Shadow. I found a way to release it.’

‘How?’ she wanted to know. ‘Is it by a form of hypnosis?’

‘Yes, combined with my own ability to absorb the energy which the Shadow radiates. It’s like an infra-red beacon to me. I can tap into it. Feed on it.

It increases my own power. Everyone, no matter who they are, has this darker side to their nature. Most people are able to control it, and it’s kept in check by their code of morals or by the law. But when the force is released, they act out thoughts and desires which had previously been hidden.’

Kelly shook her head.

‘Why did you do it, David?’ she asked, tears brimming in her eyes once again.

‘What did you hope to achieve by having Toni Landers kill that baby, or Roger Carr murder that girl. Or Braddock or O’Neil. Why did they have to kill?’

‘I had to be sure of my own abilities. Now I am,’ he said, impassively. ‘The seance gave me a perfect opportunity to

use that power, to prove once and for all that I could influence other people’s alter-egos. Use them. Can’t you appreciate what this means?’ His voice had taken on a note of excitement. ‘Politicians could be manipulated.

Leaders of the Church, Heads of State.’

‘You’re mad,’ she said, taking a step back.

‘No, Kelly, I’m not mad,’ he said. ‘This power is too great to be wasted.

Think about it. There need be no more wars, no more civil unrest, because those who provoke such incidents could be found and destroyed before they were able to create trouble. Any trace of evil inside their minds would be visible to someone like me who knew how to use the power of the Shadow.’

‘And if you did discover some evil inside them?’

i told you, they would be destroyed. Executed. This knowledge gives me the power of life and death over anyone I choose. It’s a weapon too.’

‘For selling?’ she asked, cryptically.

‘If necessary,’ he told her. There’s no weapons system on earth to match it.’

‘But why use it to kill?’

‘Every discovery has its sacrifices,’ he said, smiling. ‘You should know

that.’

‘No one will believe it.’

Blake smiled and crossed to his desk. He pulled open one of the drawers and took out a letter. Kelly watched him, warily.

if you’d searched my office more thoroughly,’ he said. ‘You’d have found this.’ He unfolded the letter, it arrived two days ago, from Thames TV. I’ve been invited onto a discussion programme. Myself and two other “experts” are supposed to discuss whether or not the supernatural is real or imaginary. Nice of them to include me don’t you think?’

“What are you going to do?’

His smile faded.

‘I’m going to prove, once and for all, exactly how powerful the Shadow is,’

Blake told her.

Kelly took another step back.

i loved you, David,’ she said, softly, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘Then stay with me,” he said, moving towards her.

‘You’re a murderer. I saw you kill Vernon.’

‘Ah, your dream,’ he said, that chilling grin returning, i had already been probing your mind for a week or two prior to that little incident. Can’t you see, Kelly, you and I are one. We belong together. You can share this power with me. Learn how to use it.’

‘Learn how to kill, you mean?’ she said, vehemently.

‘All right then, leave. Go to the police. Tell them I killed Dr Vernon but who the hell is going to believe you? Hqw could I have killed him?’ he added, mockingly, i was in bed with you last night.’

She swallowed hard, realizing he was right.

‘Go. Get out,’ Blake roared, i offered you the chance and you refused. Leave here.’

He watched as she turned and hurriedly climbed the stairs, disappearing into the hall. A moment later he heard the front door slam behind her. His expression darkened as he gripped the file. He clutched it a second longer then, with a grunt, hurled it across the room.

Kelly knew Blake was right.

As she started the engine of the Mini she realized she would never convince the police of his guilt. She was helpless, something which made her feel angry as well as afraid.

She guided the car out into traffic, wiping more tears away with the back of her hand. Combined with that feeling of helplessness was also one of loss, for somewhere inside her, despite what she knew, she retained her affection for Blake. Kelly felt as if the world were collapsing around her.

She knew that she must tell Joubert what she had learned. There was a phone box on the corner of the street. Kelly slowed down and prepared to swing the car over. She checked her rear view mirror.

She could not supress a scream.

Reflected in the mirror, glaring at her from the back seat, was the face of Blake.

Kelly twisted the wheel, her eyes riveted to the visage in the mirror.

All she heard was the loud blast of the air horns as the lorry thundered towards her.

It was enough to shake her from her terror and now she looked through the windscreen to see the huge Scania bearing down on her. The driver was waving madly for her to get out of his way.

She pushed her foot down on the accelerator and the Mini shot forward, swerving violently, missing the nearest huge wheel by inches. Kelly yelped as the car hit the kerb with a bone jarring bump before skidding across the pavement and coming to rest against the hedge of the garden opposite.

A car behind her also came to a grinding halt and the lorry pulled up a few yards further on, the driver leaping from the cab.

Kelly shook herself and twisted in her seat. The back seat was empty. There was no sign of Blake.

She felt sick, the realization of what had just happened slowly dawning on her. She heard footsteps approaching the car then her door was wrenched open.

The lorry driver stood there, his face flushed. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, anxiously. She nodded.

‘What the hell were you doing? You pulled straight in front of me. I could have killed you.’

Kelly closed her eyes tightly for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

The driver of the other car had arrived by now and he reached in to undo Kelly’s seatbelt. The two men helped her from the car, standing beside her as she sucked in deep lungfuls of air.

‘I’ll phone for an ambulance,’ said the truck driver. ‘No.’ Kelly caught his arm. ‘I’ll be OK. I wasn’t hurt.’ ‘You look pretty shaken up,’ he told her.

‘Please. No ambulance.’

She wasn’t sure what had disturbed her the most. Nearly being hit by the lorry or the sight of Blake’s leering face. ‘I’m fine, really,’ she assured them both. Other vehicles slowed down as they drove by, glancing at the roadside tableau.

Kelly eventually clambered back into the Mini and strapped herself in. The two men watched as she guided her car off the pavement back on to the road.

‘Thanks for your help,’ she said and drove off, leaving the two men shaking their heads as she disappeared into traffic.

After another mile or so and Kelly came to a second phone box. Glancing somewhat nervously into her rear-view mirror she signalled then pulled in, clambering out of the car and reaching the box moments before two young girls, who began muttering to each other and pacing up and down outside.

Kelly fumbled for some change and dialled the number of Joubert’s hotel. She tapped agitatedly on one glass panel of the phone box as she waited to be connected. Finally she heard the Frenchman’s voice.

Scarcely had he identified himself than she began babbling her story to him.

About Blake. About Vernon’s death. The murders committed by Toni Landers and the others. Blake’s TV appearance.

The power of the Shadow.

The Frenchman listened in stunned silence, only his low breathing signalling his presence on the other end of the line.

The rapid pips sounded and she pushed in another coin.

‘Kelly, you must get away from there,’ Joubert said, finally.

‘I can’t leave now,’ she told him.

‘For God’s sake, he could kill you too.’

“He must be stopped.’

‘But Kelly …’

She hung up, paused a moment then walked back to her car. As she opened her hand she glanced at the bunch of keys resting on her palm.

One of them unlocked the front door of Blake’s house.

The thought hit her like a thunderbolt. She scrambled behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

It was 5.56 p.m.

She had time but it was running out fast.

PART THREE

‘We’ll know for the first time, If we’re evil or divine …’

— Ronnie James Dio

‘The evil that men do lives after them …’

— Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene II

At 6.35 David Blake walked from his house, climbed into the waiting XJS and started the engine. Despite the relative warmth of the evening, the sky was a patchwork of mottled grey and blue. Away to the north clouds were gathering in unyielding dark formations and Blake wondered how long it would be before the impending storm arrived. As if to reinforce his supicions, a distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.

He guided the Jag out into the street and swung it right.

He didn’t see Kelly.

She had been standing about twenty yards further down the street for almost an hour, watching and waiting, the key to Blake’s front door clutched in her hand.

Now she watched as the XJS pulled away, disappearing around the corner.

As if fearing that he might return, she paused for another five minutes then began walking briskly towards the house, not hesitating as she made her way up the path, attempting to hide the anxiousness in her stride. She reached the front door and pushed in the key.

‘He’s just gone out.’

She gasped aloud as she heard the voice, turning to discover its source.

Kelly saw the middle-aged man who lived next door to Blake. He was struggling to hold his Alsatian under control, the large dog pulling on its leash as if threatening to tug the man off his feet. He stood there, watching as Kelly turned the key in the lock.

‘! don’t know where he’s gone,’ the man persisted.

She smiled as politely as she could manage.

‘It’s all right, I’ll wait,’ she told him and stepped inside.

Through the bevelled glass of the front door, Kelly could see the distorted image of the man next door. He appeared

to be standing staring at the house but, after a moment or two, he moved on.

She sighed and moved quickly across the hall to the staircase, scuttling up the steps towards Blake’s bedroom.

She paused outside the door, aware of a slight chill in the air but she ignored it and walked in. The silence swallowed her up and she was aware only of the sound of her own heart beating.

Kelly moved around the bed to the cabinet, her eyes fixed on the ornate gold key in the lock of the bottom drawer. She dropped to her knees and turned it.

It was almost seven o’clock by the time she left the house. As she clambered into the Mini she guessed that the drive across London would take her forty-five minutes if she was lucky. She prayed that the traffic wouldn’t be too heavy. Her heart was still thumping hard against her ribs and she took a tissue from her handbag to wipe the moisture from the palms of her hands.

As she dropped the bag on to the passenger seat she noticed how heavy it was.

The .357 Magnum nestled safely inside.

Blake turned up the volume on the casette and drummed on the steering wheel as he waited for the lights to turn green. Traffic in the centre of London was beginning to clog the roads but the writer seemed unperturbed by the temporary hold-up. The show he was due to appear on was going out live but he looked at his watch and realized he’d make it in time. He smiled as he saw the traffic lights change colour.

Another fifteen minutes and he would be at the studio.

Another ominous rumble of thunder shook the heavens. The storm was getting closer.

Kelly looked first as the dashboard clock and then at her own watch. She drove as fast as she was able in the streams of traffic, slowing down slightly when she saw a police car cruise past in the lane next to her. Almost without thinking, she reached over and secured the clasp on her handbag, ensuring that the revolver didn’t fall out. Kelly could feel the perspiration on her back and forehead, clinging to her like

dew to the grass.

She guessed that Blake must have reached his destination by now.

Another glance at her watch and she estimated it would be over ten minutes before she caught up with him.

The first spots of rain began to spatter her windscreen.

By the time Kelly reached the Thames Television studios in Euston Road the rain was falling in torrents. Large droplets of it bounced off the car and she squinted to see through the drenched windscreen. Her wipers seemed quite inadequate for the task of sweeping away the water which poured down the glass.

She found a parking space then jumped out of the car, picking up her handbag.

She sprinted towards the main entrance, slowing her pace as she saw a uniformed doorman barring the way. A thought crossed her mind.

What if he wanted to search her bag?

She held it close to .her and looked at him warily but his only gesture was to smile happily at her. Kelly smiled back, as much in relief as anything else.

The man opened the door for her and she walked inside the vast entry-way.

‘Could you tell me which studio David Blake is in?’ she asked.

‘Who?1 he said.

‘David Blake,” she repeated. ‘He’s a writer. He’s taking part in a discussion programme tonight at eight. I hope I’m not too late.’

‘Oh yes, that’s Studio One, they started about ten minutes ago. It’s that way.’ He hooked a thumb in the general direction.

Kelly walked past him.

‘Just a minute. Miss,’ he called.

She froze.

‘Have you got a ticket?’ he wanted to know.

She opened her mouth to speak but he continued.

‘There’s a few seats left. If you see that young lady behind the desk, I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.’ He smiled and indicated a woman who was sitting beneath a large framed photo of a well-known comedian.

Kelly asked for a ticket.

‘I’m afraid that the programme in Studio One is being transmitted live,’ said the other woman, apologetically. ‘It’s not normal policy to allow members of the audience in while the show is on.’

‘Damn, my editor will kill me,’ said Kelly, with mock exasperation. ‘I’m supposed to cover this show for the paper, talk to the guests afterwards.

We’re doing a feature on one of them this week.’

‘Do you have your press card with you?’ asked the receptionist.

‘No, I don’t, I was in such a rush to get here I …’ She shrugged, wondering if the ruse would work.

The woman ran an appraising eye over her.

‘Which paper?’ she asked.

‘The Standard,’ Kelly lied, it is very important.’ She played her trump card.

‘You can call my editor if you like.’

The woman thought for a moment then shook her head.

‘No, that won’t be necessary. I think we can get you in.’ She called the doorman over. ‘George, can you show this lady into Studio One. But they are on the air at the moment.’

The doorman nodded, smiled politely at Kelly and asked her to follow him. She swallowed hard, trying to control her breathing as they made their way up a long corridor. The walls on either side bore framed photographs of celebrities past and present. Kelly felt as if she were being watched, scrutinised by each pair of monochrome eyes, all of whom knew her secret. The .357 suddenly felt gigantic inside her handbag and she hugged it closer to her, watching as the doorman paused beneath a red light and a sign which proclaimed: STUDIO ONE. He opened the door a fraction and peered inside.

‘Keep as quiet as you can,’ he whispered and led Kelly into the studio.

Apart from the area which made up the studio floor, the entire cavervous room was in darkness. Kelly saw rows and rows of people before her, their attention directed towards the four men who sat in front of them.

She caught sight of Blake.

The doorman ushered her towards an empty seat near the back of the studio where she settled herself, mouthing a silent Thankyou’ to him as he slipped away. A man seated in front of her turned and looked at her briefly before returning his attention to the discussion being conducted by the four men.

Kelly glanced around the studio.

Cameras moved silently back and forth. She saw a man with headphones hunched close to the interviewer, a clipboard clutched in his hand. He was counting off seconds with his fingers, motioning a camera forward as one of the four

men seated amidst the modest set spoke.

Blake was seated between the interviewer and an elderly priest who was having trouble with a long strand of grey hair which kept falling over his forehead.

He brushed it back each time he spoke but, within seconds, the gossamer tentacle had crept back to its original position.

Arc lights burned brightly, pinpointing the men in their powerful beams while sausage-shaped booms were lowered carefully by the sound engineers, all of whom were intent on staying out of camera shot. The sound was coming through loud and clear but Kelly seemed not to hear it. Her gaze was riveted to Blake who was in the process of pouring himself some water from the jug on top of the smoked-glass table before him. He smiled cordially at a remark made by the old priest and sipped his drink.

Kelly watched him, unable to take her eyes from the writer’s slim frame. She heard his name spoken then his voice filled the studio.

‘In the course of my work I’ve come across all manner of religions, each one as valid as the next,’ he said.

‘But you mentioned voodoo earlier,’ the old priest reminded him. ‘Surely you can’t class that as a religion?’

‘It’s the worship of a God or a set of Gods. As far as I’m concerned that makes it a religion.’

‘Then you could say the same about witchcraft?’ the priest countered.

‘Why not?’ Blake said. ‘The deities worshipped by witches were thought to be powerful in their own right. A God doesn’t have to be benevolent to be worshipped.’

‘Do you have any religious beliefs yourself, Mr Blake?’ asked the interviewer.

‘Not in God and the Devil as we know them, no,’ the writer told him.

Kelly sat motionless, watching him, her eyes filling with tears once more. She touched the Magnum inside her handbag but, somewhere deep inside her, she knew that she could not use the weapon. What she should be feeling for Blake was hatred but, in fact, she felt feelings of love as strong for him now as she had ever known. Could this man really be evil? This man she felt so much for?

‘What do you believe in then?’ the interviewer asked Blake.

i believe that there is a force which controls everyone’s lives but I don’t believe that it comes from a God of any description,’ the writer said. ‘It comes from here.’ He prodded his own chest.

‘Don’t you, in fact, use this theory in your forthcoming book?’ the interviewer said. ‘This idea of each of us having two distinct sides to our nature. One good, one evil.’

‘That’s hardly an original concept,’ said the psychiatrist, haughtily. ‘Surely every religion in the world, in history, has revolved around the struggle between good and evil.’

‘I agree,’ said Blake. ‘But never before has it been possible to isolate the evil side of man and make it a tangible force independent from the rest of the mind.’

Kelly shuddered, her mind suddenly clearing as if a veil had been drawn from it.

She slid one hand inside her handbag, her fist closing around the butt of the .357. She slowly eased back the hammer, glancing around furtively to see if anyone else had noticed the metallic click.

There was a man standing directly behind her.

He wore a short sleeved white shirt and dark trousers and, Kelly caught a quick glimpse of the badge pinned to his chest: SECURITY.

She took her hand off the Magnum and hurriedly turned to face the studio floor once again, her heart beating madly against her ribs.

She glanced at Blake.

A camera was moving closer towards him.

She realized the time had come.

‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ the interviewer asked, smiling.

Blake looked into the camera.

‘Everyone can be made to commit acts normally abhorrent to them,’ he said.

The camera zoomed in on him.

Kelly allowed her hand to slip back inside the handbag, and, once more, she gripped the revolver. She could hear the low breathing of the security guard behind her but she realized that she had no choice.

She began to ease the gun slowly from its place of concealment.

Behind her, the security man moved and Kelly swallowed hard as she heard his footsteps gradually receding. The next time she saw him he was a good fifty feet away, to the left of the studio’s set. Kelly watched him for a moment longer then turned her attention back to Blake.

He was staring into the camera, motionless in his chair.

The other three men looked at him in bewilderment and, after a minute or so of silence, some impatient mutterings began to ripple through the audience but Blake merely sat as he was, his eyes fixed on the camera as if it were a snake about to strike him.

The cameraman was not the only one in the studio to feel as if iced water had been pumped through his veins. He shivered.

Kelly too felt that freezing hand grip her tightly but the tears which ran down her cheeks were warm.

She could not take her eyes from Blake and now the cold seemed to be intensifying, growing within her until it was almost unbearable.

She slid the Magnum from her handbag and stood up, holding the gun at arm’s length, fixing Blake hurriedly in the sights.

The man in front of her turned and opened his mouth to shout a warning.

From the studio floor, the security guard spotted her. He raced towards her, his eyes fixed on the gleaming Magnum.

The noise was thunderous.

As Kelly squeezed the trigger, the .357 roared loudly. The savage recoft nearly knocked her over and she winced as the butt smashed against the heel of her hand. The Magnum bucked violently in her grip as it spat out the heavy grain bullet. The barrel flamed brilliant white for precious seconds and, in that blinding illumination, members of the audience dived for cover, most of them unaware of what had made the deafening blast.

The bullet hit the floor and drilled a hole the size of a fifty pence piece in the hard surface.

Kelly fired again.

The second shot shattered the smoked glass table in front of Blake who turned and looked up into the audience, the muzzle flash catching his eye. Shards of glass sprayed in all directions and the old priest yelped in pain as one laid open his cheek. He felt himself being pulled to one side by the psychiatrist.

Blake rose, his arms outstretched.

The writer presented a much bigger target and, this time, Kelly didn’t miss.

Moving at a speed of over 1,430 feet a second, the heavy grain slug hit him squarely in the chest. It shattered his sternum and tore through his lung before erupting from his back, blasting an exit hole the size of a fist. Lumps of grey and red viscera splattered the flimsy set behind him and Blake was lifted off his feet by the impact. He crashed to the floor and rolled over once, trying to drag himself away, but Kelly fired once more.

The next bullet hit him in the side, splintering his pelvis, decimating the liver as it ripped through him.

He clapped one hand to the gaping wound as if trying to hold the blood in. His chest felt as if it were on fire and, when he coughed, blood spilled over his lips and ran down his chin, mingling with that which was already forming a pool around him.

Nevertheless, fighting back the waves of agony which tore through him, he managed to claw his way across the set and he was on his knees when the third bullet hit him. It smashed his left shoulder and spun him round, fragments of bone spraying from the exit wound, propelled by the eruption of blood which accompanied the blast.

He sagged forward across the chair, hardly feeling any pain as^nother round practically took his head off. It caught him at the base of the throat, the

massive force throwing him onto his back where he lay motionless, a crimson fountain spurting from the large hole.

Kelly stood at the back of the studio, the gun hot in her hand, her palms stinging from the constant recoil. The smell of cordite stung her nostrils but she seemed not to notice it and, as the security man approached her, one eye on that yawning barrel, she merely dropped the Magnum and looked blankly at him.

He slowed his pace as he drew closer and she saw his lips moving as he spoke but she heard nothing. Only gradually did the sounds begin to filter back into her consciousness.

The screams. The shouts.

She shook her head then looked in bewilderment at the security man, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. She looked down at the gun which lay at her feet then back at the set.

Kelly saw two or three people gathered around a body and it took her a moment or two to realize it was the body of Blake.

She saw the blood. Smelled the cordite. Her ears were still ringing from the explosive sound of the gunshots.

First aid men scurried on to the set to tend to Blake but she saw one of them shake his head as he felt for a pulse and heartbeat. Another man removed his jacket and laid it over Blake’s face.

She realized that David Blake was dead.

The security guard took her by the arm and she looked at him, her eyes wide and questing. She shook her head, glancing down once more at the gun.

In that instant, as she was being led away, Kelly felt as if her entire body had been wrapped in freezing rags.

The room inside Albany Street police station was small. Despite the dearth of furniture it still appeared miniscule. Less than twelve feet square, it contained two chairs, one on each side of a wooden table. A cracked washbasin was jammed into one corner near the door and there was a plastic bucket beneath it to catch the drips which dribbled through the chipped porcelain.

The room smelt of perspiration and cigarette smoke, but the windows remained firmly closed. Powerful banks of fluorescents, quite disproportionately bright for the size of the room, blazed in the ceiling.

Inspector Malcolm Barton lit up another cigarette and tossed the empty packet onto the table in front of Kelly.

‘How well did you know David Blake?’ he asked.

‘I’ve already told you,’ Kelly protested.

‘So tell me again.’

‘We were lovers. I was living at his house. I had been for about a fortnight.’

‘Then why did you kill him?’

‘I’ve told you that too.’

Barton blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head.

‘You can do better than that, Miss Hunt,’ he said. ‘First you told me you intended to kill Blake then you said you didn’t remember pulling the trigger.

Now, I’m just a thick copper. I like things plain and simple. Te!l me why you shot him.’

Kelly cradled her head in her hands and tried to keep her voice calm. She had been at the police station for over an hour, taken directly there from the Euston Road studios.

‘He was dangerous,’ she said.

‘He never seemed like a nut-case to me the odd times I saw him on the box.

What gave you this special insight?’ The policeman’s voice was heavy with scorn.

‘He told me about his powers,’ said Kelly, wearily.

‘Of course, his powers, I’d forgotten about them.’

if you won’t believe me then at least let someone else back up what I’ve told you. Blake had the ability to control people’s minds, to make them act out their worst desires. That was his power.’

‘And you know of someone who’ll verify that do you?’ Barton chided. ‘I’d be

interested to meet him.’

‘Then let me make a bloody phone call,’ Kelly snapped. ‘Like you should have done when you first brought me here.’

Barton pointed an accusatory finger at her.

‘Don’t start giving me orders, Miss Hunt, you’re not in a bargaining position,’ he hissed. ‘Jesus Christ you were seen by dozens of people. You told me yourself that you had to kill Blake.’

‘Have I ever denied I shot him?’ she said, challengingly.

‘You said you didn’t remember pulling the trigger.’

‘I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure what had happened until I saw him lying there.’

There was a moment’s silence then Barton crossed to the glass panelled door behind him.

‘Tony, bring the phone in here will you,’ he called, then turned back to face Kelly. ‘AH right, you make your phone call.’

A tall, slim man in a sergeant’s uniform entered the room carrying a trimphone which he plugged into a socket in the wall near Kelly. He hesitated a moment then walked out.

‘Go on,’ urged the Inspector, nodding towards the phone.

Kelly picked up the receiver and dialled the number of the hotel where Joubert was staying. She wiped perspiration from her face with her free hand, looking up occasionally at Barton who was rummaging through his pockets in search of another packet of cigarettes. He found one and lit up.

On the other end of the line, Kelly heard the sound of Joubert’s voice.

‘Blake made the broadcast,’ she told him. ‘I couldn’t stop him in time.’

He asked where she was.

‘I killed Blake. The police are holding me here now. Please Joubert, you must come to London. It might already be too late.’ She gave him instructions on how to reach the police station then hung up.

‘Too late for what?’ Barton wanted to know.

‘Everyone who watched that programme,’ she said.

‘He might have been bluffing,’ said Barton, disinterestedly.

i wish to God he had been,’ Kelly said, quietly.

There was a knock on the door and the tall, slim sergeant entered, carrying a piece of paper. He passed it to Barton. The Inspector read it, glancing occasionally at Kelly as he did so. He sucked hard on his cigarette.

‘What do you make of it, guv?’ said the sergeant.

‘When did these reports come in?’ Barton wanted to know.

‘These were the first three, they came in less than an hour ago.’

Barton looked puzzled.

‘What do you mean, the first three?’ he asked.

‘We’ve had five more reports since,’ the sergeant told him.

i suppose you’d take this as proof of your little story would you, Miss Hunt?’

the Inspector said, tapping the piece of paper.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘At 8.07 a pet shop owner in Kilburn slaughtered every single animal in his shop with a knife. One of our constables found him in the street outside the shop. He’d just gutted a couple of kittens. At 8.16 a woman in Bermondsey held her eight-week-old child against the bars of an electric fire until it died.

At 8.29 a man in Hammersmith killed his wife and daughter with a chisel.’

Kelly closed her eyes.

‘Oh God,’ she murmured.

‘Go on then, tell me it was your friend Blake who caused these killings.’

‘It doesn’t matter any more,’ said Kelly, wearily, it’s already begun and there’s no way to stop it.’

This time Barton did not add a sarcastic remark.

He felt inexplicably afraid as he lit up another cigarette.

And he wondered if he was the only one who felt the peculiar chill in the room.

Manchester

8.36 p.m.

The scissors fell to the carpet with a dull ring as Laura Foster knocked them off the arm of the chair. She reached down and retrieved them, replacing them next to her. Her husband, Paul, got to his feet as she handed him the trousers she’d finished turning up. He pulled them on and strutted around the sitting room happily.

‘They’re OK aren’t they?’ he asked.

‘They are now,’ Laura told him. ‘You’d have worn them without me turning them up. They looked like concertinas on your shoes.’

Paul slipped them off again and walked across to her chair, bending down to kiss her. She giggled as he slipped one hand inside her blouse and squeezed her unfettered breasts.

‘Shall I bother putting my others back on?’ he asked.

Laura chuckled again, pointing out how comical he looked in just his socks and underpants.

He moved closer, kissing her fiercely and she responded with equal fervour, one hand straying to the growing bulge in his pants. She slipped her hand beneath his testicles and fondled them, feeling his erection throbbing against her fingers.

Paul closed his eyes as she pulled his pants down, freeing his stiff organ.

The next thing he felt was an unbearable coldness as the scissor blades brushed his testicles. His eyes jerked open and, for interminable seconds he found himself gaping at Laura. Her own eyes were glazed, almost unseeing. Her face was expressionless.

The blades snapped together.

Laura sat impassively as he dropped to his knees, hands clutching his scrotum.

Blood sprayed from the neatly severed

veins and Paul found that his agony was mixed with nausea as he saw one egg-shaped purple object glistening on the carpet before him.

As he fell backward he heard laughter and, just before he blacked out, he realized that it was coming from the television.

Liverpool

8.52.

The child was small and it had been common sense to keep him in plain view at all times since his premature birth two weeks earlier. Now he gurgled happily in his carry-cot, his large brown eyes open and staring at the multi-coloured TV screen nearby.

Terry Pearson looked down at the child and smiled.

‘Is he all right, love?’ asked his wife, Denise, who was glancing through the paper to see what other delights the networks were offering for the remainder of the evening. She and Terry had been watching the screen since six that evening. Though Denise doubted if there’d be anything else to match the excitement of what had happened on the chat show they’d been watching.

i suppose there’ll be something on News at Ten about that fella getting shot,’

she said, putting down the paper and crossing to the carry-cot.

Terry nodded, not taking his eyes from his son. Denise also gazed down at the baby, both of them mesmerised by it.

Il looked so helpless. So tiny.

Terry reached into the cot and, with contemptuous ease, fastened the fingers of one powerful hand around the baby’s neck, squeezing tighter until the child’s face began to turn the colour of dark grapes. He held it before him for a moment longer, watched by Denise, then, with a grunt, he hurled the child across the room as if it had been a rag doll.

The baby hit the mirror which hung on the far wall, the impact bringing down the glass which promptly shattered, spraying the carpet with needle-sharp shards of crystal.

Terry crossed the room and prodded the tiny body. There was blood on the wall and a sickly grey substance on the

carpet.

He reached for a particularly long piece of mirror, ignoring the pain in his hand as it cut into his palm. Blood dribbled down his arm, the flow increasing

as he put his weight behind the rapier-like implement.

Denise chuckled as she watched her husband tear her child’s flesh and raise it to his lips.

Then she held the tiny body still as Terry set about hacking the other leg off.

Norwich

9.03.

The book fell from her grasp and she awoke with a start, picking the paperback up, muttering to herself when she saw that she’d lost her page. Maureen Horton found her place and folded down the corner of the page, checking that Arthur wasn’t looking. He hated to see books being mistreated and, as far as he was concerned, folding down the corner of a page was a particularly heinous crime.

He’d reminded her time and again what bookmarks were for. Well, she didn’t care. This was one of her books. A good old romance. Not that pompous Jeffrey Archer stuff that Arthur always had his nose in.

Arthur.

She looked across to his chair but he was gone.

Probably out making a cup of tea, she reasoned. He’d left the TV on as usual.

She was always nagging him about wasting electricity. What was the point of having the television on if they were both reading she insisted? Arthur always tried to tell her he preferred what he called ‘background sound’.

She smiled to herself and leant forward to turn up the volume. The news had just started.

She heard a slight whoosh then felt a numbing impact across the back of her head as her husband struck her with the petrol can.

Arthur Horton grabbed his semi-conscious wife by the hair and dragged her back into her seat.

She lay there, twitching slightly, watching him through pain-racked eyes. Maureen could feel something warm and wet running down her back, pouring freely from the cut on her skull.

He moved to one side of her and she heard the noisy squeaking of the cap as he unscrewed it. Arthur gazed down at her with glassy eyes, the aroma of petrol stinging his nostrils. He upended the can, emptying the golden fluid all over his wife and the chair, watching as she tried to move. Maureen opened her mouth to scream but some of the petrol gushed down her throat and she gagged violently.

He struck the match and dropped it on her.

Maureen Horton disappeared beneath a searing ball of flame which hungrily devoured her skin, hair and clothes. She tried to rise but, within seconds, the searing agony had caused her to black out. Her skin rose in blisters which burst, only to be replaced by fresh sores. Her skin seemed to be bubbling as the flames stripped it away, leaving only calcified bone.

Arthur Horton stood motionless as his wife burned to death, the leaping flames reflected in his blank eyes.

London

9.11 p.m.

Kelly coughed as Inspector Barton stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, the plume of grey smoke rising into the air. The entire room seemed to be full of fumes, so much so that she felt as if she were looking at the policeman through a fine gauze.

is there anything in this statement you want to amend?’ he said, tapping the piece of paper before him with the end of his pen.

‘What’s the point?’ she wanted to know.

‘The point is, that you’re looking at a twenty year stretch for murder, that’s what the point is.’

‘Perhaps I should plead insanity,’ she said, cryptically.

‘Looking at some of the things that are in this statement you’d probably get away with it too,’ snorted Barton.

‘Why can’t you understand?’ Kelly rasped. ‘Blake had the ability to reach people on a massive scale. For him, this TV show provided the ultimate

opportunity to display his ability to control the minds of those watching, to summon their evil sides. From the amount of reports you’ve been getting, it looks as if he succeeded.’

it’s coincidence,’ said Barton, although he sounded none too convinced.

‘No, Inspector,’ Kelly sighed, it isn’t coincidence and, so far, the reports have been restricted to a small area of London. That show was networked, nationwide.’

‘So you’re telling me there are people carving each other up from one end of Britain to the other?’

‘Anyone who saw that programme is at risk,’ Kelly said.

‘That’s bollocks,’ snapped Barton, getting to his feet. He left the statement lying on the table in front of her. ‘You read that over again, I’ll be back in a while, perhaps you’ll have some more convincing answers for me then.’ He closed the door behind him. Kelly heard the key turn in the lock.

She slumped back in her chair, eyes closed. Where the hell was Joubert? It had been over an hour since she’d phoned him. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. The hands which had held the gun. Kelly found that she was quivering.

She remembered reaching into her handbag for the pistol but, after that, her mind was a blank. Nothing remaining with any clarity until the point when she was grabbed by the security guard. She wondered if Toni Landers, Roger Carr, Gerald Braddock and Jim O’Neil had felt the same way after committing their crimes.

She glanced at her statement, aware of how ridiculous the whole affair must appear to someone like Barton.

Alone in that small room she felt a crushing sense of desolation.

Blake had released a wave of insanity which was now unstoppable.

Glasgow

9.23 p.m.

The shrill whistling of the kettle sounded like a siren inside the small flat.

Young Gordon Mackay got slowly to his feet and wandered through from the sitting room, glancing back at the television as he did so.

‘Turn it off, Gordon,’ shouted his younger sister, Claire, it’ll wake the baby up.’

He nodded wearily and switched off the screaming kettle.

“Why couldn’t you do it?’ he asked Claire who was sitting at the kitchen table with three or four books spread out in front of her.

‘Because I’m doing my homework,’ she told him. ‘Anyway, all you’ve been doing all night is sitting in front of the television.’

‘Fuck you,’ grunted Gordon, pouring hot water on to the tea bag in his mug. He stirred it around then scooped the bag out and dropped it into the waste-disposal unit of the sink. As he flicked it on it rumbled into life, the vicious blades churning noisily as they swallowed the solitary tea-bag. That was one of the perks of baby-sitting, Gordon thought. Normally his mother wouldn’t let him near this lethal device but, when she and his father left him to mind the other three kids, it was like a new toy to him. He took some withered flowers from a vase on the window sill and watched as they were gobbled up by the hungry mouth of the machine.

“Mum said you weren’t to use that,’ Claire bleated.

Gordon ignored her, feeding more refuse into the gaping hole.

Claire got to her feet and crossed to the sink.

‘Turn it off, Gordon,’ she said, angrily.

He ignored her.

Claire reached across him for the button which controlled the machine.

Gordon grabbed her arm tightly.

‘Let go,’ she shouted, striking him with her free hand, trying to pull away.

As he turned to look at her, his eyes were glazed, as if he didn’t see her at all. Claire was suddenly afraid.

With a strength that belied his size, Gordon wrenched her towards the sink, guiding her hand towards the churning blades of the waste-disposal unit.

Claire began to scream as her finger tips actually brushed the cold steel of the sink bottom. She clenched her hand into a fist but it only served to prolong the moment for precious seconds.

Gordon thrust her hand into the machine, forcing her arm in as far as the wrist.

Blood spurted up from the razor sharp blades, spewing up crimson fountains as the limb was first lacerated then crushed. He heard the noise of splintering bone as her arm was dragged deeper into the yawning hole, the skin being ripped away as far as the elbow. The stainless steel sink flooded with thick red fluid and, as Claire’s shrieks of agony grew shrill, the noise of the machine seemed to be deafening. Her hand was torn off and she fell back, blood spurting from the shredded stump that was her arm. Gordon looked down at her, at the pulped flesh and muscle and the spreading puddle of crimson which formed around the mutilated appendage.

He didn’t realize that bone was so white. It gleamed amidst the crimson mess, fragments of it floating on the red puddle.

The sound of the waste-disposal unit filled his ears.

Southampton

9.46.

The garage door opened with a distressing creak and Doug Jenkins peered from beneath the bonnet of his car to see who had come in. He saw the door close and the sound of footsteps echoed throughout the garage as Bruce Murray approached the old Ford Anglia.

‘Sorry, Doug,’ Murray said. ‘That all night spares place doesn’t carry the parts for a car as old as this. I rang them before I came over.’

Jenkins cursed under his breath.

‘Why the hell don’t you buy a new car?’ Murray wanted to know. ‘This one’s twenty years old at least.’

‘I’ve had this since I was eighteen,’ Jenkins protested. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for it.’

‘The best spot for it would be the bloody junk yard,’ Murray chuckled as he stepped forward to inspect the engine. ‘Have you been working on it all night?’

‘No, only for the past hour or so, I’ve been watching TV.’

Jenkins stepped back, wiping his hands on an oil-covered rag. He shuddered, despite the warmth inside the garage.

‘Pass me that wrench will you, Doug?’ said Murray, holding out a hand.

His companion selected one from the dozens which hung on the wall and passed it to Murray. The wall was like something from a hardware store. Hammers, spanners, saws, wrenches, hatchets and even a small chainsaw were hung neatly from nails, all of them in the correct order. Doug Jenkins was nothing if not methodical. He rubbed his eyes with a dirty hand, leaving a dark smudge on his face. The cold seemed to be intensifying.

i heard there was some trouble on TV earlier,’ said Murray, his back to his friend. ‘Somebody got shot in full view of the camera or something. Did you see it?’

Silence.

‘Doug, I said did you see it?’ he repeated.

Murray straightened up and turned to face his companion.

‘Are you going deaf, I …’

The sentence trailed away as Murray’s jaw dropped open, his eyes bulging wide in terror. A sound like a revving motorbike filled the garage.

‘Oh Jesus,’ Murray gasped.

Jenkins advanced on him with the chainsaw, holding the lethal blade at arm’s length, its wicked barbs rotating at a speed of over 2,000 rpm.

‘What are you doing?’ shrieked Murray, gazing first at his friend’s blank eyes and then at the murderous implement

levelled at him.

Jenkins drove it forward.

Murray tried to knock the blade to one side with the wrench but fear affected

his aim. The chainsaw sliced effortlessly through his arm just below the elbow. He shrieked as blood spouted from the stump and he held it up, showering both himself and Jenkins with the sticky red fluid.

Jenkins brought the spinning saw blade down in a carving action which caught Murray at the point of the shoulder. There was a high pitched scream as the chainsaw cut through his ribs, hacking its way deeper to rupture his lungs which burst like fleshy balloons, expelling a choking flux of blood and bile.

The churning blade chewed easily through muscle and sinew, finally severing Murray’s bulging intestines. Like the glutinous tentacles of some bloodied octopus, his entrails burst from the gaping rent in his stomach, spilling forth in a reeking mass.

As he fell forward into a pool of blood and viscera,, his body jerked uncontrollably as the final muscular spasms racked it.

Jenkins switched off the chainsaw and, in the silence, looked down at the corpse of Murray.

He looked on disinterestedly as blood washed over his shoes.

London

9.58.

The diesel was picking up speed.

As the train hurtled through Finsbury Park station, people on the platforms appeared only as rapid blurs to Derek West. He had only been driving for about five or ten minutes, since picking up the diesel at the Bounds Green Depot earlier on. Up until then he and five or six of the other drivers and guards had been sitting idly around reading the papers or watching TV. Derek had consumed yet another mug of strong tea then clambered into the cab and started the powerful engine. The diesel was pulling eight tankers behind it. Each one containing almost 71,000 litres of liquid oxygen.

Now, Derek felt the massive engine throbbing around him as he glanced down at the speedometer.

As the train roared through the last tunnel it was travelling at well over ninety miles an hour.

Up ahead of him, Derek could see the massive edifice which was King’s Cross, lights gleaming in the darkness.

He smiled thinly.

Out of his eye corner he caught sight of a red warning light but he paid it no heed.

The needle on the speedo touched ninety-five.

The diesel thundered on, travelling as if it had been fired from some gigantic cannon. It swept into the station, the air horn sounding one last defiant death-knell which echoed around the cavernous interior of the station.

It struck the buffers doing ninety-eight.

Concrete and metal seemed to dissolve under the crushing impact of the hundred ton train. The huge machine ploughed through the platform, sending lumps of stone and steel scything in all directions like shrapnel. Such was the power with which it hit, the engine buckled and split open, the top half of it somersaulting, blasting massive holes in the gigantic timetable a full fifty feet from the buffers. Screams of terror were drowned as the engine exploded, followed, a second later, by a series of devastating detonations as the liquid oxygen tanks first skewed off the track and then blew up.

An eruption of seismic proportions ripped through the station as a screaming ball of fire filled the giant building, melting the glass in the roof and roaring upward into the night sky like a searing, monstrous flare which scorched everything around it. Concrete archways were simply brushed aside by the incredible blast and part of the great canopy above fell inward with a deafening crash. It was impossible to hear anything over the high-pitched shriek of the flames which shot up in a white wall. People not instantly incinerated by the fireball were crushed by falling rubble or flattened by the shock wave which ripped the station apart as if it had been made of paper. The searing temperatures ignited fuel in the engines of other trains and more explosions began to punctuate the persistent roar of the main fire. Wheels,

buffers, sleepers and even lengths of rail flew through the air, those that hadn’t already been transformed

to molten metal by the fury of the temperatures.

The glass front of the station exploded outward, blown by the incredible shock wave, and the street beyond was showered with debris. Taxis waiting in the forecourt were overturned by the blast.

It was as if the station had been trodden on by some huge invisible foot. Huge tongues of flame still rose, snatching at the darkness, melting everything near them with the blistering heat. Platforms had been levelled, people inside the once proud building had been blasted to atoms, pulverised by the ferocity of the explosion. The entire building had become one massive ball of fire.

It looked as if a portion of Hell had forced its way up through the earth.

Mere seconds after she heard the loud bang, Kelly felt the floor move. She gripped the table and looked anxiously around her as if fearing that the roof were going to fall in on her. She heard the unmistakable sound of shattering glass and was thankful that the room had no windows. There were shouts and curses from the rooms beyond hers.

She guessed that the violent vibrations continued for a full fifteen seconds then the room seemed to settle once again. A couple of pieces of plaster fell onto the table and she cast an anxious glance at the ceiling once more.

Kelly was aware that there had been a massive explosion somewhere close but she could not have imagined it was as close as King’s Cross.

Phones began to ring. It sounded like pandemonium beyond the locked door.

She closed her eyes, wondering what could have caused the blast, her mind tortured by the fact that the perpetrator was more than likely acting out some maniac scheme previously hidden deep within his subconscious.

Until tonight.

Until Blake had …

She got to her feet and paced up and down for a moment, still partially stunned by the bang and its subsequent tremor.

Even she had not fully believed that anyone could possess such an awesome power as Blake had claimed. Now, she had been given ample proof. Kelly wondered what would have happened if she had arrived at the studios earlier.

If she had not walked out on him. If she had joined him.

If she had killed him earlier.

The questions were immaterial now. The final act had been completed. The horror unleashed.

She glanced up at the clock, then at her own watch.

Where was Joubert?

Had he been butchered by some demented victim of Blake’s master plan? she wondered, but then hurriedly pushed the thought to the back of her mind. He would come. She knew he would come. How foolish she had been to doubt him.

Those suspicions stung even more now as she remembered how she had confided in Blake, never suspecting the man she had trusted, lived with. Loved.

She sat down once more, her head cradled in her hands, eyes fixed on the statement before her — her admission of guilt, although she still did not remember pulling the trigger and blasting the writer into oblivion. All she remembered was the feeling of cold, a sensation she had experienced many years earlier whilst in a haunted house. The coldness which comes with absolute evil.

Kelly slumped forward on the desk, tears trickling down her face.

She didn’t raise her head when she heard the footsteps from the direction of the door.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I heard an explosion.’

Silence greeted her enquiry.

‘I asked you what happened,’ Kelly said, wondering why her companion was silent. She looked up.

Had she been able to, Kelly would probably have screamed. As it was, she felt as if someone had fastened a cord around her throat and was slowly twisting it, tighter and tighter, preventing her from making any sound. She shook her

head slowly from side to side.

Standing before her was David Blake.

For long seconds, Kelly could not speak. Her eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she gazed at Blake.

Or was it Blake? Was she too losing her grip on sanity?

He reached forward and touched her hand and she felt a shiver run through her.

It seemed to penetrate her soul.

‘How?’ was all she could gasp, her voice a horrified whisper. ‘I saw you die.’

She screwed up her eyes until they hurt then looked again.

Blake remained opposite her.

‘Tell me how,’ she hissed.

‘The power of the Shadow,’ he told her, quietly. ‘It enabled my Astral body to live on after death. Only total destruction of my physical form can cause my Astral body to disappear.’

She ran both hands through her hair.

‘How will it end?’ she asked him.

Blake didn’t answer.

‘Did you use hypnosis?’ she said.

‘A form of hypnosis, but the word is inadequate.’

‘Stop it now, please,’ she begged. ‘Let it end.’

‘It’s only just beginning,’ he whispered.

Kelly finally did manage a scream, a long wild ululation of despair. Tears were squeezed from her eyes as she closed the lids tightly. She slumped forward on the table, sobbing.

‘Make it stop,’ she whimpered. ‘Please, make it stop.’

She raised her head.

Blake was gone. She was alone once more.

The door to the room was flung open and Barton dashed in.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, seeing how distraught she looked. ‘We heard you scream.’

Kelly could not answer him. Tears dripped from her face and stained the statement sheet below. She saw Barton motion to someone behind him and, a second later, Joubert entered the room.

‘They told me what happened,’ said the Frenchman, watching as she wiped the tears from her face. She looked at Barton.

‘Where was Blake’s body taken after he was shot?’ she asked.

Barton looked bewildered.

‘Great Portland Street Hospital,’ he said. ‘What the hell does that matter?’

‘It has to be destroyed,’ Kelly told him. ‘Burned. Dismembered. Anything. But please, Inspector, you must destroy Blake’s body.’

‘You are off your head,’ the policeman said.

She turned to Joubert.

‘Blake was here. In this room. Not two minutes ago,’ she babbled. ‘He’s found a way for his Astral body to survive beyond death. These atrocities will continue unless the physical form can be destroyed.’

‘Hold up,’ Barton interrupted. ‘Are you trying to say that Blake isn’t dead, because if he’s not, who’s the geezer laid out at Great Portland Street …’

‘/ understand what she means, Inspector,’ Joubert interrupted.

‘Well I fucking well don’t,’ snapped the policeman. ‘Now one of you had better start making some sense, and fast, because I’m not known for my patience.’

‘Just destroy the body,’ Kelly said, imploringly.

‘Forget it,’ said Barton. ‘Who the hell do you think I am? The body’s at the hospital and it stays there until it’s buried.’

He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Kelly and Joubert looked at each other and, if defeat had a physical face, then it was mirrored in their expressions.

The light flickered once then died.

‘Sod it,’ muttered Bill Howard getting to his feet. He put down his copy of Weekend and fumbled his way across to the cupboard set in the far wall. He banged his shin on one of the slabs and cursed again, rubbing the injured

area.

There was some light flooding into the basement area but it was largely dissipated by the thick glass and wire mesh which covered the ground level window, the only window in the morgue of Great Portland Street Hospital.

Bill had worked there for the past thirty-eight years, ever since he’d been de-mobbed. He’d tried a spell as ward orderly but his real niche had been down below in the morgue. He felt curiously secure within its antiseptic confines.

He knew it was a place where he. would not be disturbed by the day-to-day running of the hospital. As long as he did his job then things went along fine. Clean up the stiffs, make sure they were ready for the post-mortems which were carried out in the room next door. Not once, in all his years at the hospital, had the task bothered him. Hardly surprisingly really, he reasoned, after having spent six years in the army medical corps treating all manner of wounds, gangrene, dysentery and other illnesses from Dunkirk to Burma. He’d seen sights which made his present job positively tame.

His wife had died three years earlier after a long battle with cancer but now Bill lived quite happily with his dog in a nice little flat not far from the hospital. Another half an hour and he’d be able to go home.

Bill found his way to the cupboard and opened it, peering through the gloom in search of the strip-light he required. In the dark confines of the morgue he had but one companion.

Bill had been informed that the body would be removed the following day by the police. It had been brought in at

about 8.30 that evening, the man had been shot, so Bill had been told. He’d waited until the police and hospital officials had left then he’d lifted the plastic sheet which covered the body and glanced at it. They had left it clothed and the name tag pinned to the lapel of the man’s bloodied jacket read ‘David Blake’.

Now Bill took the light tube from its cardboard casing and went in search of a chair to stand on.

As he passed the body he shuddered involuntarily. The morgue was usually cold but tonight it seemed positively wintry. Bill saw his breath form gossamer clouds in the air as he exhaled. He wouldn’t be sorry to get home in the warm.

He would not have to return until nine the following morning.

Bill clambered up onto the chair and removed the old light and slotted in the replacement.

He heard a faint rustling sound.

Bill froze, trying to detect where the noise was coming from. He realized that it was coming from the direction of his desk. He paused a moment, ears alert.

Silence.

He stepped down off the chair.

The rustling came again.

Bill hurried across to the light switch, his hand poised over it but, as he was about to press it, he saw what was making the noise. A slight breeze coming from the half open door was turning the pages of his magazine. He smiled.

Getting jumpy in your old age, he told himself.

Bill almost gasped aloud as he felt a particularly numbing sensation on the back of his neck. It felt as if someone had placed a block of ice against his back. He felt his skin pucker into goose-pimples.

Bill switched on the light and turned.

He suddenly wished he hadn’t.

The night was alive with the sound of sirens as dozens of accident and emergency vehicles raced towards the blazing inferno which was King’s Cross.

For miles around flames could still be seen leaping through the fractured roof, turning the clouds orange. A dense pall of smoke hung over the ruins raining cinders down on all those nearby.

Inside Albany Street Police station Sergeant Tony Dean was hurriedly, but efficiently, answering phone calls and barking instructions into the two-way radio on his desk. The tall sergeant was sweating profusely due to his

exertions.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Inspector Barton.

‘I’ve called in the blokes who were off duty tonight,’ Dean told him. ‘And we’ve got every available man at the scene.’

‘Don’t spread us too thin, Tony,’ Barton reminded him. ‘With so many coppers in one place, the villains could have a field day.’

‘Scotland Yard have been on the blower, they’ve sent an Anti-Terrorist squad to the station to check it out.’

‘It must have been a bloody big bomb then,’ said Barton, sceptically, remembering the devastating explosion. He looked warily at the sergeant. ‘Have there been any more reports in like the ones we had earlier? You know, the murders.’

Dean nodded.

‘Another six since nine o’clock,’ he said. T checked with a couple of other stations as well. It’s happening all over the city, guv.’

Barton didn’t answer, he merely looked towards the door which hid Kelly and Joubert from his view. He decided he’d better check on them. As he turned he heard Dean’s voice, loud in his ear:

‘You took your bleeding time, didn’t you?’

The Inspector saw PC Roy Fenner hurrying through the door towards the desk where he stood.

‘Sorry, Sarge, I got held up, there was loads of traffic,’ he babbled.

‘Evening, Inspector,’ he added.

‘Get your uniform on and get back out here,’ Dean told him.

‘What’s been going on anyway?’ Fenner wanted to know. ‘I’ve been watching telly all night. First this bloke got shot. In full view of the camera, I thought it was a gimmick but …’

‘Move yourself,’ bellowed Dean and the PC disappeared into the locker room to change.

Barton stroked his chin thoughtfully, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his eyes.

‘Something wrong, guv?’ the sergeant asked him.

He shook his head slowly.

‘No,’ he murmured then passed through the door which led him to Kelly and Joubert.

Dean snatched up the phone as it rang again and jammed it between his shoulder and ear as he scribbled down the information.

‘Christ,’ he muttered, as he wrote. ‘What was that again? Some bloke’s killed his wife by pressing a red hot iron into her face. Yes, I got it. Where was this?’ He scrawled down the location. ‘Gloucester Place. Right. Have you called an ambulance? OK.’ He hung up. Dean stared down at what he’d written and shook his head, then he turned towards the door of the locker room.

“What are you doing, Fenner? Making the bloody uniform?’

The door remained closed.

‘Fenner.’

There was still no answer.

Dean opened the door and poked his head in.

‘For Christ’s sake, what …’

His sentence was cut short as Fenner leapt forward, bringing his hard-wood truncheon up with bone-crushing force.

The impact lifted the sergeant off his feet and the strudent sound of breaking bone filled his ears as he heard his lower jaw snap. White hot agony lanced through him and he felt consciousness slipping away from him. But, through a haze of pain, he saw the constable advancing. Dean tried to speak but as he did, blood from his smashed jaw ran down his face and neck and the sound came out as a throaty croak. He could see Fenner looking at him, but the constable’s eyes did not seem to register his presence. He looked drunk.

Dean managed to scramble to his feet as Fenner brought the truncheon down again.

The sergeant succeeded in bringing his arm up and the solid truncheon cracked

against his forearm but he managed to drive one fist into Fenner’s face, knocking him backward. He fell with a crash, the truncheon still gripped in his fist.

All three of them heard the sounds from beyond the door but Kelly was the first to speak.

‘What’s happening out there?’ she asked.

Barton hesitated a moment, looking first at Kelly, then at Joubert. They stood motionless for a moment then there was another loud crash, like breaking wood.

Barton turned and scuttled through the door.

‘We have to get out of here,’ said Kelly.

‘But how?’ Joubert wanted to know.

‘There has to be a way. We must find Blake’s body and destroy it.’ She was already moving towards the door which she found, to her relief, was unlocked.

‘No,’ said Joubert, stepping ahead of her. ‘Let me go first.’ He pulled the door open and both of them saw that a narrow corridor separated them from another, glass panelled door about twenty feet further away. Through the bevelled partition they could see the dark outlines of moving figures. Shouts and curses came from the room beyond and Kelly swallowed hard as they drew closer.

They could have been only a yard away when they heard a demonic shout.

A dark shape hurtled towards the glass-panelled door.

Inspector Barton crashed through the thick glass, his upper body slumping over the door which swung under the impact. Shards of glass flew towards Kelly and Joubert, one of them slicing open the Frenchman’s left ear; he clapped a hand to the bleeding appendage, using his body to shield Kelly from the worst of the flying crystal. Barton lay across the broken shards, one particularly long piece having pierced his chest. The point had burst from his back and now held him there, blood running down it.

Joubert pulled the door open a fraction more, edging through.

Kelly followed.

She was almost through when she felt a bloodied hand close around her wrist.

Joubert spun round as she screamed and he saw that the dying Barton had grabbed her as she passed. Impaled on the broken glass, the policeman raised his head as if soliciting help. Crimson liquid spilled over his lips and he tried to lift himself off the jagged points but, with one final despairing moan, he fell forward again.

Kelly shook free of his hand and followed Joubert through the door.

Albany Street Police station resembled a bomb-site.

Filing cabinets had been overturned, their contents spilled across the floor.

Furniture was smashed and lay in pieces everywhere. The windows were broken.

Kelly saw blood splashed across the floor and on the far wail.

Close by lay the body of Sergeant Dean, his face pulped by repeated blows from the truncheon. A foot or so from him, the leg of a chair broken across his head, lay PC Fenner.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ said Joubert and the two of them bolted.

They dashed out into the rainy night, pausing momentarily to gaze at the mushroom cloud of dark smoke and orange flame which still ballooned upward from the blazing wreckage of King’s Cross. Then, Joubert pulled her arm, leading her towards his car.

They scrambled in and he started the engine.

‘How far is Great Portland Street Hospital from here?’ the Frenchman asked, guiding the Fiat into traffic.

‘Not far,’ she told him.

Joubert glanced at her but Kelly was looking out of the side window.

If they could get to Blake’s body, perhaps they still had a chance to stop the horror he had released.

Perhaps.

‘There,’ Kelly shouted, pointing to the dimly lit sign over the hospital entrance.

Joubert waited for a break in the stream of traffic then swung the Fiat across