The Naming of the Beasts

17

‘The names build,’ said Gentle. ‘One syllable at a time.’

She had rough-and-ready photo printouts of the wards we’d found underground, laid out on the table in front of her. Her hand went from one photo to the next, and she pronounced each name as she pointed to it, slowly, like a primary school teacher mouthing kuh-ah-tuh.

‘Ket. Tlallik. Tsukelit. Illaliel. Jetaniul. Aketsulitur. Ajulutsikael.’

‘Illaliel and Jetaniul are the same length,’ Jenna-Jane pointed out.

Gentle shrugged. ‘The same length to us, but if you elide the medial “i” in either word there could be a difference that our ears don’t register.’

It was an hour and a half later, and we hadn’t moved. Well, that wasn’t strictly true: we’d relocated to the first floor, where there was a room that was still more or less intact. The furniture was under dust covers, the ornaments wrapped in plastic bags hailing from defunct supermarket chains like Gateway and Victor Value. Nobody had set foot in this room since Pen’s mother died.

My first instinct had been to go back to Asmodeus’ underground lair and storm the place, but Jenna-Jane said her people had it staked out and he hadn’t shown there. There was no way of knowing where he was. We couldn’t even use Trudie’s map. She’d torn it to pieces before she left the MOU, and in any case she was out of action for now, maybe for good.

So we sat, and we talked, and we went nowhere. Jenna-Jane restated her moult theory, that demons start out as simpler organisms, and change their names as they develop. I didn’t care, and I barely listened. Asmodeus had Pen and Sue, and that was all I could think about. Obviously it would help to understand what the fuck he was up to with Juliet, but I didn’t think insight was going to come from looking at pretty pictures. It was something to do with what Juliet was and what she did – and it had to fit in with all the other shit he’d been doing since he escaped.

Unless I was wrong. Unless he was just rabid and tearing at the world, and in the end he’d kill us all just for the immediate sense of relief it would bring.

I got up from the table. ‘I have to make a call,’ I said. Jenna-Jane and Gentle continued to pore over the printouts, and made no answer.

I crossed to the window, far enough away that I wouldn’t be overheard, and dialled Sue Book’s number yet again. Just the same answerphone message, and this time I found I couldn’t muster a reply. How do you say to an answerphone ‘a monster has stolen the woman you love’? I just said ‘Call me, Juliet. Please, for fuck’s sake, just call me.’ Then I hung up.

I stared down at the lawn. The piano still lay dead in the long grass, and the stolid Mr Dicks still stood by the gatepost, arms folded, glaring at the pre-dawn rubberneckers. He looked up at the window, and when he saw me watching him his eyes narrowed. I had too much on my mind right then even to flash him a wave.

Behind me, Jenna-Jane was rummaging in her pockets – an incongruously human thing for her to do, making her seem for a moment like a forgetful grandma, looking in vain for her front door keys.

‘Is the succubus his ally?’ Gentle was asking. ‘Could summoning all her aspects make her stronger? A sort of ontological layering . . .’

‘It was driving her insane,’ I muttered.

There was a momentary silence from behind me. Then I distinctly heard the dry click of Jenna-Jane’s tongue against her palate, an involuntary but very discreet expression of surprise and enlightenment.

‘Not a benign effect at all,’ she mused. ‘A form of torture.’

‘Or just an uncontrolled regression,’ Gentle chipped in.

A sequence of seven tinny and discordant notes sounded suddenly from somewhere nearby. J-J took her phone from her pocket and put it to her ear.

‘Mulbridge,’ she said, with a simplicity more arrogant than any degree of ostentation could ever be. Honorifics were for mere mortals.

She listened intently for a few seconds, then started to interject questions and comments. ‘Where? How far, exactly? Good. Good. What’s the address? Thank you.’

When she slapped the phone closed, less than a minute had elapsed.

‘Your Mr Moulson, Felix,’ she said. ‘The man who was possessed, and allegedly found a way to free himself. We’ve finally run him to ground. Appleton House, Godalming Lane, Eashing, in Surrey. It’s straight down the A3. Only twenty miles, apparently.’

I headed for the door, but I went from giant strides to dead stop again in the space of three steps.

‘Shit!’ I exploded. ‘Pen’s car. He fucking totalled her car!’

‘You can take my car,’ Jenna-Jane said without hesitation. ‘Gentle, give Mr Castor your radio. I’ll go and tell Dicks he’s to take you directly there.’

She hurried out of the room. Gentle took a somewhat bulky walkie-talkie out of her pocket and held it out to me.

‘What do I need this for?’ I demanded, nonplussed. ‘I’ve got my mobile.’

Gentle shrugged. ‘This uses police freaks,’ she said. ‘Some areas you don’t get good coverage from the mobile network. Radios always work – at least top-end kit like this does. You use band one unless there’s local interference, fall back to two, then three, and so on. Soon as the switchboard at the MOU picks you up, you’ll be patched through to Professor Mulbridge wherever she is.’

‘Wonderful,’ I muttered. ‘A hotline to God.’ I took the radio and shoved it into my pocket. I went downstairs with Gentle at my back, still explaining the finer points of the radio’s operation, but I couldn’t make myself listen any more. My mind was seething with questions and doubts. Why had Asmodeus taken Pen and Sue, instead of killing them here? How had he taken them, for that matter? In the back of a white van? Rolled up in a carpet? How did kidnapping fit in with the other things he’d done since he got free? Why did he need them alive, when he’d killed Ginny Parris and Jovan Ditko without a second thought?

Out on the lawn, Jenna-Jane was talking animatedly to Dicks. The big man shot me a glare as I approached, then nodded curtly – to Jenna-Jane, not to me.

‘It’s imperative,’ Jenna-Jane said. ‘This is the most important lead we’ve had so far, and we have to be free to pursue it wherever it leads.’ She looked round and seemed to notice me for the first time. ‘Castor. Good. Get into the car.’

‘Can’t I just drive myself?’ I asked. The last thing I wanted was a sulky South African security guard on my case all the way from here to Surrey, when I needed to get my thoughts in order and try to figure out a plan of campaign.

‘The car cost the hospital forty-eight thousand pounds,’ Jenna-Jane pointed out to me in a schoolmarmish tone. ‘And you’re exhausted, Felix. I simply wouldn’t trust you behind a wheel right now. In any case, you’ll need to be in touch with me at all times.’ She pointed to the radio, which I was still holding in my hand. ‘I’m going to leave Gentle here, in case we’ve missed something in our search. Some clue as to what the demon means to do. Assuming that Miss Bruckner and the other woman have been taken alive, he may have demands. You yourself may figure in his plans in some way that we don’t yet understand. Keep the radio on, and keep thinking about what we now know. About the names, and the summonings. If anything occurs to you – anything we can do that we’re not already doing – call me and I’ll do my best to see that it happens. When you return, come back directly to the MOU. I’ll debrief you there, unless we’ve located Asmodeus and we’re already in pursuit of him. If that happens, I’ll radio you and let you know where to find us.’

This entire speech was delivered without a pause. When it was over, Jenna-Jane stared at me in a way that said more loudly than words ‘Why are you still standing there?’ It was a good question. I got into the car, and Dicks slammed the door shut behind me with a muttered obscenity. As soon as he’d done so, Jenna-Jane tapped on the window. No manual wind. I opened the door a crack and she held out her hand.

‘Your phone,’ she demanded.

‘My what?’ I queried, mystified.

‘You’ve got Gentle’s radio,’ Jenna-Jane pointed out impatiently. ‘And the land line has been comprehensively destroyed. I can’t have her completely incommunicado. You’ll have to leave her your phone.’

‘Give her yours,’ I suggested.

Jenna-Jane bristled. ‘Castor, we’re in a situation where every second counts. Please don’t waste time arguing with me.’

I hesitated. I could see the point of the radio. If I found something that could work against Asmodeus without killing Rafi, and if Jenna-Jane’s people caught up with him while I was on the road, I had to get the information back to them immediately. It could be life or death at that point, and anything that could shorten the odds had to be a good idea. Giving up my phone struck me as a really bad idea, but my mind was full of urgency and emotional static. I took it out and tossed it into Jenna-Jane’s hand.

‘Stay in touch,’ she instructed me tersely as I shut the door again.

We headed south, and then west. Dicks drove quickly but with skill and control, taking advantage of the pre-rush-hour quiet to push the pedal wherever there was a clear stretch of road. He didn’t speak, and I had nothing to say to him, so I did as Jenna-Jane had suggested and thought about what Asmodeus had done.

By summoning Juliet’s cast-off aspects, he seemed to have regressed her to an earlier stage of her own history. Either that or he’d just driven her half-mad by reminding her of her past selves – surrounding her with names she thought she’d sloughed off forever. It was one of those two things or maybe a little of both, the names themselves having power over Juliet, power to define and shape her, or the overlaying of the names tormenting and confusing her, so that the restraints she’d built up around her demonic nature had begun to fall away.

Was all of this just a more elaborate form of payback? A quick death for Ginny Parris, torture and mutilation for Jovan Ditko, slow disintegration for Juliet. But in that case, why had he been prepared to kill me twice, in Brixton and then again in the Kingsway tunnel? Surely he had to blame me more than he did her for the half-life he’d endured these last few years.

The rule of names. Something to do with names, and how they worked. Something he knew and I didn’t, and because I hadn’t figured it out in time, he’d taken Pen and Sue.

The sun came up behind us as we drove, and I had to turn my face away from the rear-view mirror to keep from being blinded. I’d been sunk in thought for twenty minutes or more, and so I hadn’t given much thought to the route until we suddenly slowed down and I recognised the lower reaches of the Edgware Road. The traffic was getting heavier now, but we weren’t in a jam and I couldn’t see any reason for Dicks to hit the brakes.

Then he pulled into the kerb and came to a stop. Another burly-looking guy in the same black uniform climbed into the front passenger seat beside him. Of course, I thought. We were only a short walk from the MOU here: base camp for Jenna-Jane’s grunts.

‘Reinforcements,’ Dicks said. ‘In case we have to insist on seeing this gent of yours.’ The newcomer – whose sewn-on name badge identified him as DeJong – shot me a look, nodded to Dicks, and then we were moving again.

We picked up speed now, rounding Hyde Park and threading our way through Victoria without hitting any real snarl-ups. Thank you again, Mr Livingstone. We crossed the Thames by Chelsea Bridge and picked up the A3 at Clapham Common. After that, Dicks really put his foot down.

Eashing is the same kind of mundanely schizophrenic market town you’ll find off any A road in south-east England. It consisted of one quaint little main street with a half-timbered pub, a few old cottages that would look great on a postcard, and an ungainly sprawl of red-brick closes and steel-and-glass low-rises built in the last fifty years to the same rigorous structural and aesthetic standards as your average latrine pit.

I was sort of assuming that Moulson might have retired to some dignified rustic seat, with a trellised archway over his garden gate, but Appleton House turned out to be an old folks’ home, a cheerless barn built in washed-out yellow brick with a one-storey flat-roofed annexe. Dicks and his friend waited in the car while I walked to the front door and pressed the buzzer.

‘Yes?’ A female voice, although you could only just tell over the fuzz and blat and crackle of the intercom.

‘I’m here to see Mr Moulson,’ I said.

Crackle. Hiss. Blat. ‘Are you a relative?’

I might as well be. Anything that would get the job done was fine with me. ‘He’s my great-uncle,’ I said.

The random static was replaced by a sustained metallic chainsaw sound as the receptionist buzzed me in. I stepped through into a reception area that looked like a doctor’s waiting room, except that it was deserted.

The formidable-looking woman at the reception desk took her thumb off the buzzer and instructed me to sign the visitors’ book, which I did. I even used my own name.

‘He’s in his room,’ she said, sounding apologetic. Her accent was Australian. ‘We try to get him to come out from time to time, but he prefers his own company.’

‘He always did,’ I bluffed automatically.

She nodded, looking at me a little curiously. ‘And to be honest,’ she added, ‘it’s a bit of a relief. That’s an awful thing to say, I know, but he scares a lot of the other residents when he does come out. Do you have any ID, Mr Castor?’

I showed her my driving licence, and she added a tick to the visitors’ book. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ she commented. ‘After that journalist tried to get in to see him. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

Shit. That wouldn’t do at all. ‘I’d rather surprise him,’ I said hastily, but the receptionist was already lifting the receiver on her switchboard phone and tapping the keys. She kept the receiver to her ear as she looked up at me. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Trust rules. Won’t take a moment.’

There was a long pause. I could just about hear the phone at the other end of the line ring three, four, five times. I was already thinking out my next avenue of attack: Great-Uncle Martin didn’t know about our branch of the family, because my mother’s pregnancy had been kept secret, but now I needed to see him because Grandma was dead and he was the only heir to her vast fortune. For half a heartbeat or so I considered just cutting loose while the receptionist was busy and trying to find Moulson by myself, but I had no idea what room he was in, or what he looked like besides scary, or what sort of on-site security this place might have.

‘Hello, Mr Moulson,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’ve got a visitor for you here. Mr Felix Castor. Your great-nephew. Can I send him up?’

A brief silence.

‘Your great-nephew. Yes.’

Another pause. I tensed, opening my mouth to get my explanation in as soon as she hit the panic button.

She put the phone down and gave me a polite smile.

‘I’ll show you the way,’ she said.

With a slight feeling of unreality, I followed her as she left her post and led the way down a short corridor to a flight of stairs. ‘Room 17,’ she said, pointing. ‘First floor. It’s not locked. Can I bring you up a cup of tea, Mr Castor?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No thanks. I’ll be fine.’

I went on up, passing a very old woman who was also climbing the stairs, at a more deliberate pace. She did it by assembling both feet on each step before launching an attempt on the next one. I was going to offer her a hand, but she was muttering under her breath, and when I got close enough to hear the words, I realised she was swearing to herself. ‘Fuck. Shit. Bastard. Cunt. Fuck . . .’ I didn’t want to break her concentration, which was scarily intense, so I squeezed round her and kept going. When I got to the top, she was still swearing and still climbing.

I knocked on the door of room 17, then opened it and went on in. The door opened onto a hall the size of a toilet cubicle, with a mirrored wall on the left and a row of three coat hooks on the right. The only door was facing me. It was half-open, but I couldn’t see anything beyond it because the room was completely dark. The institutional smell of boiled cabbage and floral disinfectant was strong, but something that was sharper, nastier and not so easy to identify lay under it, half-submerged like an alligator in a mud wallow.

‘Mr Moulson?’ I said in a conversational tone. The space was so confined, there didn’t seem to be any need to raise my voice.

‘Tell me why you’re here, you snot-nosed little fuck,’ someone said in the darkened room. The voice was slow and quavering, with a brittle click behind the words, a harmless-little-old-man voice that conjured up an image of the ageing, amiably bumbling Albert Einstein. The dislocation between the voice and the words – or for that matter between the voice and the grim, deadpan threat of the tone – was absolute. ‘And you’d better not bullshit me. I’ve got my hand on the emergency cord, but that’s the least of your worries. The first time you lie to me, you’ll be crying blood, you understand?’

‘My name is Castor,’ I said. ‘I’m—’

‘I already know your fucking name. Think I’m senile? She told me your name on the phone, didn’t she? London boy. Did some good work six or seven years back, but from what I heard you were never as good as you thought you were. Why can’t you people leave me alone? What, you get yourself in over your head or something? Figure you’ll pick my brains? Fuck off back to Babylon, baby boy.’

My brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders right then, but at that point the starter motor caught and the engine at least turned over. ‘You’re an exorcist,’ I said.

‘You’re telling me you didn’t know that?’ Moulson snarled. ‘So what, you’re just out here on a frigging day trip or something? Talk sense. I mean, right now. Talk some fucking sense, or else close the door behind you.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘I heard about what happened to you,’ I said slowly. The truth seemed to be the only option, because I didn’t know what Moulson’s agenda was, what would tickle his fancy, and what would be like a flicked towel to his wrinkled arse. ‘The same thing happened to my friend Rafael Ditko. He picked up a passenger. I want to know how you got yourself clean, because I’m hoping maybe the same trick will work with him.’

There was a long, pregnant silence from the darkness beyond the door.

‘Tell me its name,’ Moulson said at last, his voice barely a whisper. ‘Who’s he got?’

‘Asmodeus,’ I said.

Moulson laughed – a harsh, unlovely sound. ‘He doesn’t have a chance,’ he said. ‘Go on home, ghost-breaker. You came here on a fool’s errand.’

‘So what you did,’ I persisted, ‘it can’t be applied to a major demon? It only works with small fry?’ I put a mocking edge in my voice. If I couldn’t reason with the old bastard, maybe I could at least goad him into giving something away. ‘Here I thought you’d done something unique, and it turns out you just swatted a fly. Okay. Maybe I am wasting my time at that.’

There was another dry laugh, like twigs breaking underfoot, then Moulson’s voice came out of the shadows again. ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? I’ve got nothing to give you. But . . . a fly? I was possessed by Zohruen, son. Look him up when you leave here.’ A new tone had entered the voice now, a note of anger, or defiance. ‘His element is earth. I was rotting, breaking down into mulch. You think I had it easy? What I did, I did with fingers that were peeling away to the bone. I did with my teeth falling out of my jaw. So don’t you fucking tell me I had it easy.’

‘Then why won’t you let someone else get the benefit of your expertise?’ I demanded. ‘You want to sit there in the dark congratulating yourself because you got away clean, while someone else goes through what you went through, and maybe goes down under it? You made a living out of this, Moulson. Are you angling for me to pay you, is that it? You looking to get a consultancy fee?’

‘I don’t want your money.’ I hadn’t realised I was shouting until he yelled back at me. The effort cost him. He broke into a spasm of dry coughing that lasted for the best part of a minute. ‘Fuck you . . . and your money . . .’ he spluttered out when he could speak again. ‘I want to be left in peace, that’s all. I want all of you people to just tear my name out of your fucking books and stay away from me. I’ve got nothing to give you. What I did wasn’t even worth the fucking effort. I should have died back there, and got it over with. Turn on the light, you smug little prick. It won’t even cost you a penny to see this freak show.’

The skin on the back of my neck prickled, but I stepped forward over the threshold. My hand groped for the light switch at the left of the door, found a cord dangling there instead. I tugged it and the light came on: a single bare bulb, painfully bright, hanging without a shade in the centre of the room.

With the heavy curtains closed, the room seemed claustrophobically small, just a cubicle really, with a bed and a table and a single chair. I thought of Jovan Ditko’s cell back at Irdrizovo. Moulson at least had a carpet, although its red and orange exploding-sun pattern recalled the worst excesses of the 1970s.

The chair had a wing back and was upholstered in brick-red leatherette, darkened here and there by the sweat-and-scuff smear marks of a couple of difficult decades. Moulson was sitting in the chair, his head slumped sideways against one of the wings, his hands resting limply on its arms. He was in shirt and trousers, his feet bare. The shirt hung open all the way down, I guess because it was a little early in the day to worry about that level of fine detail.

He was in the same colour range as the chair, more or less, his skin flushed an unhealthy red that darkened locally to brown and even black. His face was like a Maori mask that had been tossed off quickly for the tourist trade, with no real feel for what a face ought to look like. Gnarled little bosses stood out from his flesh like rivets on a cast-iron bucket, stretching in two lines from his temples to the bridge of his nose, then flaring out again across his cheeks and down under his chin. There were similar bumps on the backs of his hands where they gripped the chair arm – straight lines of them radiating from wrist to knuckles. His chest, sunken in on his ribs like the sails of a becalmed ship, bore a horizontal line of swellings across the collar bone and two diagonals sweeping in towards the nipples on either side. There was also a little cluster of them to the left of his chest, where his heart would be.

Every one of the swollen bumps rose out of a nest of old scar tissue, which was what gave his skin its piebald look. There was scarcely an inch of his body that didn’t bear the asymmetrical spoor of old, unimaginable excavations.

‘Like it?’ Moulson creaked. He raised his hand in a vague, tremulous gesture, inviting me to feast my eyes. ‘It’s something to see, isn’t it? All done with my own fair hand.’

‘Why?’ was the only thing I could think to ask.

‘Inoculation,’ Moulson said. He said nothing more for a moment or two. Then his right hand, still raised, unfolded and flexed as he pointed towards the bed.

‘In the drawer,’ he said. ‘A shoebox. Take it out.’

I didn’t see what he meant at first. Then I saw that the bed was a drawer divan, the drawers mostly hidden by the unmade sheets hanging down to the floor. I pushed them aside and opened the left-hand drawer, where his hand pointed.

The shoebox sat at the front, ready to hand, nestling in a substrate of socks and underwear. I lifted it out and set it on the floor next to the bed.

‘Open it,’ Moulson commanded.

I did. It was full of tiny copper discs – halfpennies, I thought at first, but since the halfpenny hasn’t been lawful currency in Britain for two decades or more, I lifted one out and gave it a closer look.

It was a little thicker than a halfpenny, and it had never been legal tender anywhere in the world. Two words had been stamped on it, slightly off centre, in letters so small I could barely read them. The spidery diagonals of a pentagram enfolded them.

Martin Moulson.

I grabbed a handful of the things and sifted them between my fingers. Every one of them bore the same imprint, on one side only. The verso was blank.

I stared at Moulson in amazement. The magnitude of what he had done was dawning on me. It was like glancing over a garden wall and finding an abyss, unsuspected, on the further side.

‘How many?’ I managed to ask. ‘How many of them?’

Moulson grinned, his lips peeling back from regular but blackened teeth. In the virtual absence of gums, they filled his mouth from top to bottom, like the bars of a cage. ‘That’s the question, all right,’ he agreed. ‘How many? How small a hole can one of these filthy bastards crawl into?’

His hand wove across and down through the air, sketching a process I couldn’t begin to imagine, and fervently didn’t want to.

‘The first ones were the hardest, because he was fighting me. Look at this mess here.’ The old man turned his hand and tugged his loose shirt-cuff up over his skinny wrist so that I could see the inner surface of his forearm. The seamed and rutted skin was like the surface of the moon, and the bosses that stood out there were in no real order: just five ragged bumps, clustered together. ‘I made the holes with a penknife, jab jab jab.’ He mimed doing it. ‘Then just shoved the sigils in one after another. He didn’t know what I was doing at first. Probably thought I was just trying to slit my wrist, which would have been a real fucking hoot as far as he was concerned.

‘Once he realised, he started to fight me. But I knew damn well it was the only chance I had, and he couldn’t take my right hand back from me, and I was still holding the knife.’ Moulson opened his eyes wide and stared. The light from the bare bulb was stark and eye-hurting, but he was looking into the dark of his own recollections. ‘It took hours. Most of a day, I think, but it wasn’t that easy to tell because he was messing with my head. You’ve probably heard that expression about having a tiger by the tail. Well imagine how it fucking feels if you’ve swallowed the tiger and it’s fighting you from the inside.’

I lifted the box in my hands so I could gauge its weight. Twenty, thirty pounds of metal? Madness. Madness born out of complete and utter desperation. The grudging respect I’d started to feel for Moulson shifted slightly, became something like awe.

‘Did you come up with this idea by yourself?’ I asked him.

His gaze flicked across to me, as though he’d almost forgotten I was there and had to remind himself who I was. He nodded slowly, distractedly. ‘It was the rule of names,’ he said. ‘I remembered my mother telling me that story when I was maybe four or five years old. How God brought all the animals to Adam to be named. “And whatsoever he called them, that they became.” As though they hadn’t been anything up until then, and the names pinned them down.’

A violent shudder went through him, but I couldn’t tell whether it was something that came from the memories he was reliving, or a purely physical thing. ‘We bring them by using their names,’ he said. ‘And we send them away by using their names. The names have got all the power in them, even now. So I drove that evil fucker out of me by driving in my own name, every few inches, until he had no place to hide, no place he could go that wasn’t marked as mine.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Fucking brilliant.’

Moulson showed his prison-house teeth again. ‘Brilliant? If I’d had the brains I was fucking born with, I would have used stainless steel. Or gold, if I could have afforded it. Copper’s poisonous. Did you know that? I didn’t. Came as a real shock to the system. Started to get the shakes, first, a few months after I did it. Then the shakes turned into falling-down fits. I knew what it was, but I didn’t go to a doctor because I didn’t see any point. It wasn’t as though I had a choice.

‘Then my liver started to give out, and when they took me in for the transplant they X-rayed me. As soon as they found out I was walking around with all this metal in me, they tried to get me to agree to take it out. I told them to go fuck themselves. It was touch and go for a while whether or not they’d give me the transplant, since any new liver would go the same way as the first. In the end they did it, and gave me ovalbumin injections to keep the copper salts under control. Whole load more shit too, pills and needles and all of it. I still get the fits from time to time, but I can ride them out, mostly. Been a while now since I broke a bone or anything.’

Moulson fixed me with a grim, defiant stare. ‘So that’s me,’ he said. ‘Doing well. Doing really well. And believe me, this is the best your friend can look forward to. Except that a big player like Asmodeus won’t let you get away with a move like this. He’ll see you coming and melt the metal out of your fucking hands. Make you drink it hot, most likely.’

I didn’t answer. For a moment or two I’d forgotten why I’d come, lost in the old man’s crazy, sickening narrative. His words jolted me back to the present with deadening finality. He was right. The trick with the coins was balls-out genius, but it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t help Rafi. I was still looking for salvation in all the wrong places.

‘Seen enough?’ Moulson demanded. ‘Then turn the light out.’ He pulled his shirt closed a little, pathetically trying to reclaim a little of his dignity.

‘Can I . . . ?’ I asked, awkwardly. ‘Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?’

He stared at me bleakly. ‘You can get the fuck out, ghost-breaker,’ he said. ‘You and all your friends. That’s what you can do for me.’

The two security men were leaning against the bonnet of the sleek black limo, looking like ugly and unlikely tumours that had grown out of its smooth lines. DeJong levered his arse off the metal and opened the door for me with ironic civility. I got in without looking at him, and he slammed it shut.

We did a tight little U-turn on the drive, rejoined the road and threaded our way back through the village. I thought we’d get back up to cruising speed as soon as we were on the open road, but Dicks held the car to a leisurely thirty-five miles an hour. ‘You want to pick up the pace a little?’ I suggested.

Dicks ignored the suggestion. ‘Learn anything?’ he asked over his shoulder as he drove.

I glanced up. He was staring at me via the medium of the rear-view mirror, his piggy eyes narrowed.

‘I learned it’s a good idea to watch the road,’ I said, deadpan. ‘But that was a while back.’

DeJong chuckled softly, and Dicks scowled. ‘Good idea to watch the road,’ DeJong repeated, savouring the joke a second time. ‘Oh, he got you, Linus. He got you there.’

Linus Dicks? What kind of a name was that to saddle a kid with? No wonder he’d become an over-muscled rent-a-cop; he’d started life with so much to prove.

‘I’m serious,’ Dicks pursued, his voice lowering to a growl. ‘Did you get anything worth having from that old fart? I’m supposed to ask you.’

‘Says who?’ I asked.

‘Says the professor.’

‘Well she told me to tell you to face front and shut up. Let’s wait till we see her, and then she can sort out the mix-up herself.’

The big man looked as though he had some further opinions to offer on the subject, but he was forestalled by a high-pitched beep-beep-beep like the sound a microwave oven uses to tell you that your food is ready. It was coming from me. I groped in my pocket and fished out the radio I’d taken from Gentle.

‘How does this thing work again?’ I asked DeJong. He made to take it from me and demonstrate, but I remembered what Gentle had told me and tapped the SEND button. ‘Castor,’ I said, and flicked over to RECEIVE.

The radios were good kit, worth every penny of what Jenna-Jane had spent on them. Without as much as a whisper of static, Gil McClennan’s voice came through loud and clear. Or rather soft and clear, because he seemed to be talking under his breath. ‘Don’t say a word just yet, Castor,’ he said. ‘Think of someone plausible I might be, and pretend that’s who you’re talking to. Do it now, before they get suspicious.’

‘How’d you get this frequency, Nicky?’ I improvised.

‘Good,’ McClennan said. ‘Is it just you and Dicks there, or did he bring some back-up? Say . . . I don’t know, say single if he’s alone.’

‘Double that,’ I said.

‘Shit. Okay, listen to me. They’re not bringing you home.’

‘What?’ I tried to keep my tone neutral, but it wasn’t easy. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘They’re not bringing you home. The professor wants you far away from what she’s doing here. She’s told them to hold you down there until—’

I missed the rest of the sentence because the car pulled off the road into a small lay-by at the same time as DeJong shoved the short, unlovely barrel of a handgun into my face.

‘Tell him you’ll get back to him later,’ he suggested, giving me a playful wink.

‘Sorry, Nicky,’ I said. ‘It’s hard for me to talk right now.’

‘The Mad Bishop and Bear, in Paddington station,’ McClennan said quickly. ‘I’ll wait for you. If you manage to get away from them, meet me here.’

He said something else, but Dicks pulled the radio from my grasp, tapped the OFF switch and stowed it away in the glove compartment. ‘Let’s go for a little walk,’ he suggested.

‘Fuck that,’ I counter-offered.

The pressure of the gun against my cheekbone increased perceptibly. ‘You get no penetrating power at all with nine-millimetre MagSafe,’ DeJong observed conversationally. ‘There’d be a lot of blood to clean up, but the bullet would stay inside your head. Spread out and make itself comfortable. ’

‘You’re going to kill me after you’ve both been seen with me?’ I demanded. ‘No offence, but you boys are something special in the way of stupid.’

‘Let’s go for a little walk,’ Dicks repeated, and DeJong thumbed off the safety on the gun. At least I assume that’s what he did: I’m far from an expert in these things. He moved his thumb, in any case, and the gun made a ratcheting sound that I didn’t like one bit.

I slid slowly over to the near-side door and opened it. DeJong kept me covered while Dicks got out of the driver’s door and came around to join me. He hauled me out of the car and pushed me away from it towards a small stand of trees. I glanced back at the road. We were still in plain sight, and if anything had happened to come rolling by just then I would have chanced my arm and made a break for it. But nothing did. That left total surrender or trying to overpower Dicks. There was a moment or two in which I could have tackled him, but he outweighed me by a good sixty pounds or so and it was all muscle. I was still weighing up my chances and coming up short when DeJong got out and joined us, making the point moot in any case.

I let myself be pushed and poked across the narrow strip of asphalt and in under the trees. The ground sloped away sharply here towards a drainage ditch about eight feet below us. Dicks looked back, decided we were still too visible and gave me another push in the direction of the ditch.

‘Down there,’ he said.

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘This will do for me. Dicks, whatever Jenna-Jane told you, this is a really bad—’

The big man planted his hand against my chest, fingers spread, and pushed. I lost my footing and fell over backwards, rolling a few feet, but I managed to put the brakes on before I slid into the ditch. Dicks and DeJong fanned out slightly, blocking me to right and left in case I decided to run. They wanted me in the ditch, and they weren’t going to take no for an answer.

I stayed down, because another push like that would send me rolling down the slope arse over tip. In any case, I’d met my share of thugs and bully boys and knew this game of old. The ground was the only location from which they couldn’t knock you down again.

Dicks stared down at me with unmistakable satisfaction. ‘A stop-me-and-buy-one deal,’ he rumbled. ‘Very funny line. A bit smug though. I don’t like people getting smug with me. Now what the professor actually said was that I should let you meet the old fart, use up as much time as you wanted to, then drop you off in the middle of nowhere and leave you to find your own way home. But as I understand it, the longer it takes you to do that, the better. How far are we from the village back there, DeJong?’

The other man tapped his chin with the butt of the handgun – way too casually, in my opinion, considering I hadn’t heard him put the safety back on. ‘Maybe three miles,’ he hazarded. ‘Maybe a bit more.’

‘How long at a fast walk, would you say?’

‘Probably about an hour.’

Dicks showed his teeth. ‘And how long at a slow crawl?’

I saw the kick coming, and jackknifed at the waist to get some distance from it, but Dicks had a lot of weight to put into the manoeuvre. His foot slammed into my stomach like a freight train coming through, knocking all the breath out of me in an explosive bolus as it actually lifted me momentarily off the ground. I came down at the very lip of the ditch, staring down into it, my diaphragm spasming agonisingly as I tried without much success to suck in more air.

Dicks turned me over with his foot, then leaned down and dragged me to my feet, without apparent effort. I was still too busy with the quest for oxygen to offer any resistance. I hung from his fist, my heels scrabbling at the loose earth.

‘Oh, well, crawling, that’s different,’ DeJong allowed.

‘It is different,’ Dicks agreed. ‘I don’t think he’s going to make it.’

He punched me in the mouth. I spun like a top and hit the ground rolling. My own momentum tumbled me down the slope into the ditch, where I came to rest against the curve of a concrete culvert at its very bottom. Levering my face and upper chest off the ground, I spat out some of the blood that was welling into my mouth. A throbbing note like the buzz of a Black & Decker power drill on low speed filled my head, giving me the momentary hallucination that I was thirteen again and at the dentist’s, having a bad tooth hollowed out with just a gulp or two of gas by way of anaesthetic.

Dicks and DeJong strolled down to join me, in no particular hurry. DeJong circled round towards my head, but it was clear by now that this was Dicks’s show. He stood over me, a frown of concentration on his face. The ditch was his crucible, and I was an experiment he’d set aside the whole morning for. The sun was coming up behind him, giving him a halo he’d done nothing to deserve.

I tried one last time.

‘Drop it,’ I warned him, my voice slurred. ‘Drop it, you stupid lager-lout fuckwit, or I’ll make you wish you’d never left the SAP.’

Dicks drew back his foot for another kick. There was no way of avoiding this one and, truth to tell, I didn’t even want to. I just put my hands out in front of my chest, where I could see he was aiming.

I might have been able to break open the cheap plywood music box by myself, but this was economy of effort. Dicks’s size-12 boot smashed it into matchwood, but unfortunately spent very little of its velocity in doing so. It thudded into my ribs, and my world dissolved into abstract, incendiary gouts of agony.

It was a lot worse than I was expecting. I may even have passed out, but if I did it was only for a second or two. When the first wave of pain had finished ripping and ricocheting its way through me, I became suddenly aware of three things. The ground pressing against my hands and face, the pervasive smell of rotten leaf mould, and a continuous scream like the whooping note of a London fire engine.

I tried to sit up, found that my body had no interest in that idea. Something rose in my gut and I tried to be sick, lying there on my side, but I couldn’t even do that. My muscles weren’t in the right alignment to heave, and their abortive efforts just made me twitch and shudder like a half-landed fish.

That was when the terror kicked in. But the intense pain I was in acted like a kind of neural Kevlar, protecting me from the worst of the impact. I was able to hold the nauseating dread at one remove; watch it writhing in the air like a clutch of tapeworms. Dicks and DeJong weren’t so lucky. The fear-thing had been rudely awakened, and it was pissed off. The two men were down, Dicks on his back and DeJong on his knees, both of them flailing and swatting at the air. It was DeJong who was screaming, although it had turned into a sort of high-pitched mewling sound now, like the protest of a hungry kitten.

Things might have gone pretty badly for me, because right then I was too far gone to move, but the fear-thing didn’t seem inclined to stick around. Perhaps it was because it didn’t have an anchor here. It had made itself a nice nest at Super-Self but it had been evicted, and the peaceful Surrey countryside didn’t have the same appeal. Or maybe it was scared itself, because it had been taken once before and didn’t know whether or not I had another shot left in my locker.

For whatever reason, the sense of panic lifted by slow degrees as the entity took to its metaphysical heels. After a couple of minutes, I was able to get back up on my feet, despite the stiffness in my chest and the fierce pain in my bruised guts.

Dicks and DeJong were slower coming out of it, but then this was their first time on the merry-go-round. I had all the time in the world to pick up DeJong’s gun from where it had fallen. Not knowing how to put the safety back on, I just fired the damn thing into the air until it stopped going bang and started going click. Then I gave each man a couple of hard whacks on the back of the head, sending them into dreamland before they could get control of their limbs again. Those are my kind of odds.

Dicks had the car keys in his pocket. He also had a wallet with a clutch of credit cards and two hundred and some quid in cash. Christmas in July.

I pocketed the cash, threw the cards into the culvert. Since they brought in chip and pin, plastic has never been worth the trouble.

Dicks was already stirring again, and trying to talk as he stared myopically up at me. He must have one hell of a hard head.

I climbed up the bank, wincing with every step. There were two bands of pain, one around my chest and one around my stomach. Moving without setting them off was like keeping two hula hoops on the go in very, very slow motion. The jagged fuzz filling my head didn’t help a bit.

By the time I got to the car, Dicks was at the lip of the ditch and crawling towards me, dragging one leg in a way that didn’t look good at all. I got inside the car and locked the doors.

Automatic. Deadlock on the key fob. No trouble.

Dicks was fumbling with the door handle, bellowing at me through the glass. His eyes were rolling in his head and there was foam or saliva on his lips.

I pulled round in a tight arc and fed him some dust.