#

# TEDD AND TODD'S SECRET

By

Fernando Trujillo Sanz

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2010 Fernando Trujillo Sanz

http://www.facebook.com/fernando.trujillosanz

nandoynuba@gmail.com

http://eldesvandeteddytodd.blogspost.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Cover design

Javier Berzal Rojo

Edited by

Nieves García Bautista

Translated by

Jack Buckeridge

# PROLOGUE

Only someone who is dead inside can take charge of the preparations for his own funeral without feeling even the slightest pang of nerves. Wilfred Gord threw the coffin catalogue as far as he could, barely a metre and a half, and lay back on the bed thoughtfully. He still hadn't discounted cremation. The idea that his body would rot in a box had yet to convince him.

According to most studies, seventy years was within the average life expectancy for men. However, this failed to console Wilfred. To tell the truth, nothing did.

His life had passed too quickly. He had achieved what others could only dream of, and very few get. He had built a financial empire with his own hands, starting from scratch, and become the powerful owner of a business conglomerate that encompassed every activity imaginable. There was no job that Wilfred's employees did not occupy. But despite the uncountable successes achieved during his life, and the incredible challenges that he had overcome, he was now completely defeated by a fearful enemy that would take his own life: cancer.

His mansion was one of the most distinguished in London, the city in which he had lived all his life and in which he was about to die.

"I couldn't get here any earlier," Ethan said, poking his head through the doorway.

The two formidable bodyguards that were always posted at the entrance stopped him for an instant, then, after verifying his identity, let him enter. Ethan threw them a sharp glance that would have been angrier under other circumstances. He approached the bed where Wilfred lay, and sat down beside him with the ease of a body that had yet to reach twenty years old. His smooth, unmarked face and his abundant mat of brown hair contrasted with the bald head and deeply lined face of the old man in front of him. They both had brown eyes: Ethan's shining with the intensity of youth, Wilfred's sunken and lifeless in their sockets.

"It doesn't seem to matter now," the old man said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, turning his head so he could look Ethan in the eyes, his expression of deep pain touching the young face beside him. "None of my doctors think I can live more than two or three months."

"They don't know what I know," Ethan said, taking Wilfred's thin hand in his. "There's still hope... I think I've found a way."

Wilfred's eyebrows lifted imperceptibly. "You said you couldn't reveal the secret," he murmured with difficulty.

"Remember the first thing I explained to you. There are rules. I can't tell anyone else. I've already risked too much. Think of the greatest danger you can imagine... I can assure you I am facing something a thousand times worse."

After a considerable effort, Wilfred lifted his left hand from under the sheet. The bodyguards, understanding the gesture, left their posts.

Wilfred still didn't know what to make of Ethan. Despite the undeniable proof of his identity, a sliver of doubt remained deep within. Neither his age, nor the foul cancer itself had affected his ability to reason, of that he was completely sure. And even in his wildest dreams he knew avoiding death was impossible. Still, he had nothing to lose in listening to Ethan's suggestion, even though there were many other things to attend to. Hope urged him to listen, to consider anything new, however absurd it might be.

Ethan waited until the door was closed before he turned back towards the old man.

"Well then, you must pay attention to the little that I can tell you," he said, lowering his voice. "It's possible that I can't see you again, so it's very important that you remember what I'm going to say. Can you do that?"

Wilfred was irritated by the thought that this insolent young man didn't realize that his memory still worked better than his. His frown was a good enough answer.

"Excellent," Ethan replied showing no sign of irritation. "The first thing is that never, under any circumstances, can you mention my name. It's simply better not to add unnecessary obstacles."

"Why can't I mention you?" Wilfred asked in a whisper.

"I can't tell you. If everything works out well you will know in time," the young man answered. "You have to trust me. Just follow my instructions and you will live a lot longer. More than you can imagine. What have you got to lose?"

"In the little time left to me... nobody can cure me... maybe you have to accept that as well."

"Damn! Isn't it enough for you to know who I am? You have to believe me. I'm doing all this for you. If my identity isn't enough to convince you that it's possible, I don't know anything else that will."

A look of desperation covered Ethan's face and he frowned until his eyes hurt and a tear ran down his cheek.

The memory of the time when Ethan had revealed who he was cut through Wilfred with the speed of a lightning bolt. He had never before had the sensation of having talked with a true madman. Ethan's story had been so strange that only a mind completely detached from reality could have come up with anything like it. In spite of everything, the details had fit into the puzzle one after the other with disconcerting ease. Wilfred had demanded a DNA test and anything else that he could think of to confirm that the whole thing wasn't a horrible joke. But in the end, his doubt waned and he was forced to accept the accuracy of the test results.

"I believe you," Wilfred mused. "Go ahead and tell me. I won't forget it and I will do what you tell me to."

"Do it, please, it's your only chance," Ethan said opening his eyes again and looking at the old man. "I'm risking much more than my life in helping you."

"More than your life? What are you talking about?"

"Don't worry about that. Just remember this name: Aidan Zack. He's a detective. You have to meet him."

"A detective can cure me?"

"No, but it's part of the solution, although he doesn't know it yet. He doesn't even suspect what's coming."

"What do I say when I meet him?"

"I can't reveal that now without breaking the rules. As strange as it may seem to you, and in spite of everything that is going to happen from now on, don't forget there are rules, and that sooner or later you will learn them. Everything follows a certain logic and everything has its consequences. Don't forget that."

"OK," the old man said, without sounding very convinced or even as if he understood what he had to do. "I will find this Aidan. Then, I'm afraid, I will have to improvise."

"I have to go," Ethan said, getting up abruptly and leaning over the old man, moving the bed slightly as he did. "I wish I could tell you more. I hope you will understand what this is all about before it's too late." The young man kissed Wilfred's bald head tenderly, as his hand stroked the old wrinkled skin of his face. "Look after yourself, my son. I'm always with you."

Ethan turned away to hide the pain that suddenly filled his heart, leaving the room quickly to avoid collapsing right there and then.

"Goodbye, father. I'll find that detective," Wilfred called after the young man disappearing through the door, his whole body shaking with the thought that nothing could help him get used to the fact that his father was fifty years younger than him.

# CHAPTER 1

With a threatening roar, flames leapt across the intersection of two of the principal traffic arteries of London. A tongue of fire surged out of the centre of the conflagration and enveloped several parked cars, setting off a chain of explosions that spread the fire further. The intense heat prevented anyone getting close to the scene of the accident, while further back a crowd formed at a safe distance, nervously watching the column of black smoke that swirled into the sky, where only moments before the traffic had been flowing normally.

Some pedestrians helped others who had been knocked onto the pavement by the force of the huge explosion, pulling them out of danger and looking back to see if they could help anyone else. The ground was covered with broken glass, and the smoke made breathing difficult.

"What happened here?" a tall, thin man covering his face with his arm asked. "Is anyone injured?"

"I don't know," a woman in the crowd answered. "It'd be impossible to survive this fire. It seems that a petrol tanker speeding down the street lost control in the chaos and crashed into a bus coming the other way."

From behind the poor shield that his hands offered against the burning temperatures around him, the tall man studied the fire through the space between his fingers. In the centre of the accident scene, a mass of unrecognizable metal jutted out of the flames. The man couldn't be sure what it was, but because of its size, imagined that it had been something bigger than a car. He turned his head away from the direction of the smoke, coughing violently.

"We have to get back," he said after a few seconds, "We're too close and that tanker must have been carrying petrol or something similar to cause a fire like this."

"Dear God!" a woman cried out. "There's someone alive."

To the crowd's astonishment, a portion of the fire in human form separated from the mass of flames and, after a couple of paces, stumbled. The poor soul waved his arms desperately and finally fell to the ground, dead. Someone made an effort to get close to him, but the searing heat forced him back.

After a few moments, police sirens could be heard. The squad cars quickly cordoned the area off, before the first fire engine arrived. Firemen filed out, formed groups, and in studied coordination located a fire hydrant, connected their hoses, and began to fight the fire from behind oxygen masks.

At first the jets of water made little inroad into the fire, but after a few minutes, and with the help of another fire engine, whose crew was working from the other side of the street, the flames began to subside, until, a while later, in a giant smoking mass it came under control.

"Captain!" a fireman shouted from within the cloud of smoke, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask, "If I tell you this, you're not going to believe me. You've got to come and see this for yourself."

"This isn't the time for games, Jim," the captain shouted back from his distant vantage point. "Search for heat pockets and secure the zone. You two," he said, signalling two firemen at his side, "go and see what Jim is doing and lend him a hand. And tell him I'm in no mood for jokes."

The pair nodded and entered the smoke that was beginning to disperse slowly. Stew Walton frowned as he watched them walk off, then turned to give orders to the rest.

"Let me go!" yelled a voice that Stew didn't recognize. "I'm fine."

"It's for your own safety," he heard Jim say.

Stew looked in the direction of the voices and was stunned to see Jim emerging from the smoke with a short, fair-haired man. Not only was it incredible that someone had survived the fireball, but the survivor was dressed in an impeccable white suit. His silky blond hair was perfectly combed. His movements give no indication of where he'd just been. He wasn't limping or coughing, only his clear blue eyes shone with a light expression of uncertainty.

"Get back to work," Stew said to the confused firemen who were beginning to surround the stranger. The captain cleared his way to the man and had the sensation of wanting to touch him to verify that he was real and not a hallucination. "How's it possible that he's come out of this unscathed?" he asked the two men. Jim just shrugged his shoulders. The survivor studied him without saying a word. "Is there anyone else alive?"

"No one," Jim answered. "We've found at least thirty bodies, and maybe there are more."

"I don't know what happened," the strange, white-suited man said when he noted Stew staring at him. "I was sitting in the bus when I heard the sound of tyres screeching on the asphalt. I crashed against the seat in front and I think something hit my head. The next thing I remember is finding myself in this mass of smoke with this man here," he said, pointing to Jim.

"Is that all?" the captain said, taking his mask off now that they were a fair way from the flames. "I've been working as a fireman for twenty years, more than enough time to know that no one walks away from a fire like this, let alone looking like you do." Stew could not avoid lacing his words with anger. "This is unacceptable. I need a better explanation than the one you've just given me. Who are you?"

"My name is James White," the man answered, defensively. "And I can't see why I would want to hide anything. Now leave me in peace."

Astonished, Stew watched the survivor walk away, carrying the mystery of his miraculous survival with him.

"I want you to look at every damn piece of ash you find and give me an explanation of how this individual has left these flames without a scratch," he said to Jim as he rushed after James White. "I'm afraid you can't leave," he said when he reached him. "There are a lot of dead people back there, and until we clarify the cause of the accident I can't let you go. It's possible that later on you might be able to remember something that can help us. Besides, you'll have to spend some time in observation to make sure you haven't suffered any injury."

"But I'm fine," James White complained. "How could I be walking like I am if there was something wrong with me?"

"Although there are no obvious fractures or contusions, there could be other problems," Stew said, thinking that he didn't give a damn what they might find. The only thing that he had as clear as a bell in his head was that he was going to get to the bottom of the mystery of who this James White was. "You could be intoxicated from smoke inhalation, for example. Let the professionals do their work."

After much protesting, Stew managed to get the man on to a stretcher and into an ambulance. He took a note of the hospital they were going to and returned to what was left of the fire.

Unable to stop his lips twisting into a cynical smile, Aidan Zack entered the surgery.

"You're late," Doctor Shyla said dryly.

"I had a bad night," Aidan lied without worrying too much about whether Shyla believed him or not. It was his last session for the year and he wanted to keep it as short as possible. "Besides, the traffic didn't help."

"The only thing this shows is that you don't take therapy seriously, detective," Shyla said, watching Aidan sit down in the comfortable leather armchair that he detested so much. "Do you want to talk about the causes of your bad night or admit there's another excuse?"

"I don't know what's up with you, Doctor," Aidan answered, beginning to regret having arrived late. He'd trusted that his therapist would be less strict in their last session together, at least until the first session in the new year. "Don't take it so seriously. It's our last meeting and no doubt you've already made a decision. I know you've already edited the report. We can get straight to the point."

Aidan relaxed a little seeing the doctor take a deep breath and move in her seat. It seemed she was going to get over her anger, and for once the implacable Shyla would let him do the same. Surely she was as sick of these confrontations as he was of this damn therapy. He leaned his six-foot-ten-inch frame back in the armchair and placed his hands on his knees.

"In the end," Shyla lamented, "I still haven't decided what recommendation I will put in my report. There are many things that still worry me. I'm given to understand that your superiors aren't too happy with you either."

"They're fools," Aidan snapped. He wasn't in any mood for a chat. He'd already argued this point in previous sessions and didn't see why it was necessary to cover his feelings up to someone who knew him so well. "Maybe some of them aren't too pleased, but they know I get the job done."

"It doesn't make any sense to beat around the bush," she said, looking him straight in the eyes. "They're going to release Bradley Kenton very soon. What do you think about that?"

"Absolutely nothing," Aidan replied without any emotion. "That happened a long time ago."

"You don't expect me to believe that, do you? I know you treat it as if it happened yesterday," Shyla said, watching Aidan cross his arms, returning her stare. "Very well. I know I can't prove that you've not got over it, your self-control has stopped you talking about this man unless you're forced to, but I don't have to be a psychologist to know that nobody gets over something like that without talking about it."

"Well, I have," Aidan assured her flatly.

"Five years isn't that long, Aidan," she disagreed. "Especially, taking into account that this man killed your wife. It would take a lot of time for most people to get over a trauma like that."

"That's most people, not me," Aidan said, forcing a smile. "It's another perfect example of who I am."

Both of them knew that was a lie, but there were other more important things. It was a game. Shyla had to evaluate whether Aidan Zack was capable of doing his job as a detective. It came down to whether or not he was a threat to himself or to others. There were many in the force who were carrying big problems that could hinder their work as policemen.

"Your physical recovery is one thing," she said. Aidan had been in a coma for two months after the accident. He'd made a full recovery, getting over injuries that should have been permanent or even fatal. His spinal injury alone should have left him paralysed. "Your physical tests have shown that you're back to normal. But the mind is something else. When was the last time you had sexual relations?"

"Last week," he answered without thinking, "A beautiful twenty-five-year-old blonde. It was pretty good." He paused, hearing Shyla's pen tap on the desktop, seeing her frown. "Ok... ok. Is the frequency of my sexual relations relevant to my detective work? If so, you'd better interview Jake, it's been two years since his last." Shyla's frown deepened and Aidan decided to leave it there. "Five months," he said thoughtfully, "Maybe six. I'm not sure."

"How was it?"

"A true disaster," he said without any sign of embarrassment. "It wasn't one of my best moments. Different tastes, you understand. I would have preferred something else. Do you really want all the details?"

"No. I'm familiar with your tastes. Did you feel anything more than just sexual attraction?"

Aidan didn't know how to answer. If it came to the crunch he hadn't even felt physical attraction for the woman. It wasn't that it had been that bad. It was simply a one-night stand that hadn't worked out well. He'd been in a bar drinking when the woman had walked up and started talking. It had been months since he'd slept with anyone. It had been the right time to take what she was offering with the minimum effort required. Aidan was a good-looking man, and he knew it, but not as much as all the women who walked up to him in bars. He was a well-muscled, low-fat forty-five-year-old. His hair was still on his head, he had movie star features, and his six-foot-ten- stature made him stand out anywhere. Even so, most of the time he was the one who'd taken the first step.

"It was just sex," he finally said instead of inventing a little sentimental drama. "If you really want to know."

"Like always," Shyla observed. "It's time you got over your wife's death."

"I don't see how that will make me a better policeman."

"It will help you generally. And that goes for any profession. I know you're a good detective," she said before he could reply. "Technically one of the best. But your attitude has changed since that terrible accident. You've got problems getting on with your partners, you don't get on with the press, incidences of insubordination are more frequent, and some say you're more violent with criminals."

"I've always got on bad with the press," Aidan said arrogantly, "Even before the accident. Any of my partners can vouch for that. As far as everything else is concerned, I reckon I've improved a lot in the last year. There are hardly any misunderstandings. You can see I'm on the right path," he concluded, smiling.

"It's not enough. Your work's dangerous. I only want the best for you."

"Then let me keep on getting better," Aidan said. "If it's true that you're worried about my health why do you want to leave me without a job? I've already lost my wife and lost a year being in and getting over that damn coma. Do you really think it's good for me to lose my job?"

Before the doctor could answer him, his mobile phone rang.

"I forgot to turn it off. Sorry," he said, secretly pleased that the session had been interrupted. "Yes? Inspector. Calm down... No, I'll get there late. I'm with the shrink." Aidan shrugged his shoulders, looking at the doctor. She just nodded disapprovingly, she was used to the disrespect that the word shrink implied. "I saw something on the news last night. What's that got to do with me? But, sir... I've just said that I saw it. Anyone who survived that accident should be in a hospital bed stuffed with tubes and surrounded by respirators. I can't interrogate him... Is this a joke? Ok. I'll write it down... I understand," he said finally, hanging up and putting the phone back in his jacket pocket. "Well, Doctor, I'm sorry, but I've got to go. If you're thinking of giving me the thumbs down, tell me now. It will save me worrying about this little job for the Inspector."

"I suppose we can see each other next year," Shyla said, taking a deep breath. "Get out of here."

"Thanks a heap, Doc," Aidan said from the door. "I wish all women were like you."

Excited about having finished therapy for the year, Aidan Zack left the building thinking about the interview with the survivor of yesterday's accident in which forty people had died. He lit a cigarette, started the car and drove towards the hospital.

# CHAPTER 2

After four years of marriage, it still excited Susan to watch her husband get dressed in an elegant suit, even though this time it wasn't one of her favourites. His body was made for it, the jacket showing his shoulders off in a way that she found irresistible. Despite his short height, she wouldn't change him for anyone else.

"Can't you wear something else?" she asked, as her husband combed his dark hair back from his forehead until his black eyes were satisfied with the image in the mirror before him. "It's not that it looks bad on you, but it's better not to go out dressed completely in black."

"I feel like wearing this suit," he said as he did the buttons up. "It's a long time since I've worn it."

"At least you could wear a different-coloured shirt," she insisted, without smiling.

"I didn't even think of that," William answered. "The only thing I know for sure is that I should go out like this today. It's strange, but something tells me that black's the right colour to wear. It's my first day of work at a new branch. I want to feel good."

"As if I didn't know," Susan exclaimed, getting close and throwing her arms around him. "We still have the house full of unopened boxes. We're never going to finish moving in." She took her husband's face in her hands and gave him a long passionate kiss. "You'd be cute in any colour. Let's have breakfast."

"When I get back from work I'll help you finish unpacking everything," he promised, as he went down the stairs of their home.

Susan detected a trace of guilt in his voice, most likely because of the little he'd done to help with the moving in since they'd arrived. They dodged the boxes that were scattered around the living room and entered the kitchen.

"As if I am going to believe that you'll help," she said, smiling.

In reality, he wasn't interested in anything related to the move and they both knew it. William was on the way up. They'd bought a big house, a two-storey flat in an upmarket block, and she felt happy. So happy, in fact, that she'd forgotten the thorn that had been in their sides for the last three years. She couldn't get pregnant. They'd tried all the traditional methods, and now were going through a series of tests. The doctors couldn't find any reason to explain it away. She was fertile, the abortion she'd had before meeting William proving that. And he didn't have any problem that they could find.

They breakfasted on coffee and a lot of toast, and agreed to go out later and look for a new sofa.

"Well, I've got to go," he said, standing up. "What's the problem?" he asked, studying his wife's smile, as she looked at him from head to foot.

"I can see them laughing at the undertaker look, sweetheart," she said, "especially when you introduce yourself as Mr Black."

"Don't be stupid. Everything'll be ok. I'll tell you about it later."

He gave her a long farewell kiss and an affectionate slap on the cheek as revenge for the joke she'd just made about his clothes and name.

As soon as he had closed the door, Susan cleared the table and began taking the cups to the sink, but stopped when she heard the doorbell.

"You're a disaster," she called out, leaving the kitchen and crossing the hall. "What, have you forgotten your keys?"

She got a shock when she opened the door and almost clashed heads with a stranger. The short man was dressed completely in white. His hair was blond, very blond, and his eyes were the lightest shade of blue she'd ever seen, almost white.

"What do you want?" she asked, thinking that the stranger was somehow very familiar. "You've mistaken–"

The man in white stepped around her and walked inside without saying a word. He stopped in the middle of the living room and looked around.

"What are you doing?" Susan demanded to know, her fear building. "Get out of my house straight away or I'll call the police!"

The stranger didn't seem to hear her. He returned to the door, closed it, and then went to the kitchen, staring at everything as he went. Her panic began to leave her slowly. The man in white didn't seem interested in her, but the very presence of a stranger in her house made every conceivable possibility spin through her head. Her legs were frozen and she prayed that this was a robbery and not a preamble to rape.

The man in white left the kitchen and walked among the boxes that filled the floor. Susan could see him more clearly now and suddenly realized why he was so familiar. He was William's double, except for the skin colour and eyes. It was her husband down to the smallest detail. His shoulders, nose, lips, everything seemed an exact replica. If William had dyed his hair, put in blue contact lenses and donned a white suit, she wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. And what bothered her even more was that he moved like William, had the same body language. It was crazy. So crazy, in fact, that she began thinking her husband was playing a terrible practical joke on her. He'd changed clothes outside and come back to play this little trick on her.

The intruder had finished studying the living room and was turning in the direction of the stairs that led to the floor above, when suddenly the front door swung open. Susan couldn't believe her eyes as William floated through the air and tackled the man in white. They began fighting their way around the room, bumping into the little furniture there was, until they suddenly stopped.

They stayed still, facing each other. Susan was speechless. She had to do something, say something, scream at William to call the police and run out of the house in search of help. But she couldn't do anything. She was paralysed with fear and stunned by this unbelievable scene in which her husband was fighting with what seemed like a mirror image of himself. It was simply crazy. And now she noticed for the first time that they were carrying swords. How did she miss that? Where had they got them from? And not ordinary swords at that. They looked like knight's swords. Something from the Middle Ages. And, not to spoil the mysterious contrast between the two men, her husband's sword was dark grey while the stranger's was light grey. Except for that, they were identical.

She came to life when she realized what was about to happen. A scream flew out of her throat as the duel began as if the two had been waiting for her scream to start it. The swords clashed, throwing sparks each time they met. The metallic echo of each thrust and block rang around the room as the two swordsmen followed careful lateral steps one following the other. Susan only stopped screaming when she could no longer breathe. Her husband was in a sword fight with his double. It didn't make any sense. Was she dreaming? It seemed not, as she watched William Black measure every movement and thrust with a precision that only a deep knowledge of fencing and hours of training could produce. He'd never mentioned anything about fencing to her.

The duel didn't last much longer. She thought it would never end, given that both men seemed to have the same mastery of the glistening sword in their hands. But suddenly, the man in white avoided a lunge and with a slash from above cut off William's head.

She would never remember exactly what happened next, so dominated was she by the greatest horror she'd ever witnessed. She could have sworn that the man in white's sword disappeared in his hand. The killer stayed still for an instant, studying the flow of William's blood across the carpet.

Just before she fainted, Susan saw William's killer leave by the front door, without ever having looked at her once.

On arriving at the hospital, Aidan Zack left the car in front of the main door, half on the pavement, and threw a cigarette butt through the window.

A fat security guard approached Aidan angrily. "You can't park there."

Aidan flashed his badge and walked past the guard towards the entrance.

"There's room for parking back there," the guard called after him.

"It's urgent," Aidan said without even looking at him. "It won't wait."

He heard an insult behind his back as he passed the automatic doors of the main entrance.

The tanker driver who had presumably caused the accident was a known member of a gang of drug dealers that Aidan had infiltrated the year before. That was why the captain had wanted him to talk to the survivor; to find out if he'd seen the driver. If so, maybe Aidan could identify him. But it didn't make much sense. Aidan Zack knew the gang's methods and they never used petrol tankers, especially if they were full.

He went up to the second floor and, following the signs, chose the corridor to the right.

"How much longer am I going to have to stay here under guard?" Aidan heard someone ask from within Room 211.

"Mr James White?" Aidan asked, entering the room.

Two men spun around immediately. At first glance it was difficult to tell them apart. They were both dressed in white. Evidently, the one in the long coat had to be the doctor.

"Who are you?" the doctor asked.

"Detective Inspector Aidan Zack. Are you Mr White?" he said, ignoring the doctor and staring at the man in the white suit.

"Yes, that's me. I hope you've got the authority to let me go. They can't keep me here when there's nothing wrong with me."

"Before that, I've got a few questions," Aidan said, lowering his head to look White in the eyes. He was at least two heads taller. "If you don't mind, it might be better if I sat down."

"You can leave us alone," James White said to the doctor with a touch of anger in his voice. "I'm sure you've got patients you can help."

The doctor closed the door behind him.

"You've got to get me out of here, detective. This is crazy."

"Take it easy," Aidan said, starting to get curious about James White. "First, tell me what happened and then I'll see what I can do."

"Don't you print reports?" James complained. "I've told this a thousand times already. They must have written it so anyone can read it."

"This will be the last time," Aidan said patiently.

"I don't remember much," James began after taking a great sigh. "Something hit me on the head and when I came round I was standing next to a fireman in the middle of a cloud of smoke. I don't know why, but nothing happened to me, simply nothing."

"That doesn't interest me. The doctors are here to bother you with that sort of question. What I want to know is what happened before the accident. Did you see how the bus came to crash against the tanker?"

"No," James answered, surprised by the question. "I was reading a magazine, when the bus braked suddenly and I slammed into the seat in front."

"Perhaps you heard something?" Aidan insisted, realizing that he'd come to the hospital for no good reason. "Any detail that could help us find out how the accident happened."

James shook his head.

"Then, that's all. Thanks for your cooperation."

"One moment," James White said, staring at Aidan strangely. "You seem familiar. Have we met before?"

"I don't think so," Aidan answered, thinking that he wouldn't have forgotten this short man dressed from head to foot in white.

"I don't think I've met you either. But there's something familiar about you," he reflected, his mood changing from bored to curious, the effort of trying to remember where he'd met Aidan changing the expression on his face. "I don't know why, but I've never had such a peculiar feeling about a stranger."

"It could be the knock on your head, Mr White," Aidan suggested, uninterested in White's vagueness.

"Curious," James murmured to himself staring at the floor. "It couldn't have been a casual meeting. I guess I'll remember later."

Aidan stopped listening and crossed the room on his way out. The door opened before he reached it and a tall man entered, stopped, and stared at him in surprise.

"Who are you?" Aidan asked.

"Stew Walton, Captain of the Fire Brigade. And you?"

"Detective Inspector Aidan Zack. You're the one who put the fire out after the accident, aren't you?" Aidan said, shaking the other man's hand. "I'd like to talk to you for a second."

They walked to a coffee machine that Aidan had seen outside the room.

"Want a coffee?"

Stew shook his head so Aidan just poured one for himself. "Have you been able to find out why the vehicles crashed?" Aidan asked. "Any unusual detail would help."

"No, nothing out of the ordinary. The tanker was loaded with fuel, which was why the fire was so big. I can't see what provoked the crash. From the few facts that we've got and from interviews with witnesses, it seems both vehicles were driving straight. We don't know why the tanker deviated."

"Any evidence of drugs?"

The captain shook his head, surprised. "No, not that I know of. But the fire would've incinerated drugs. Either way, we're still going through the ashes. Something might turn up later on. Do you think there's a connection between James White and drugs?"

"No. That's a dead end," Aidan said, sipping the coffee and nearly spitting it out. He knew now why Stew had turned his offer down.

"Then I suppose it's back to the truck driver," Stew concluded.

"I'm sure you understand why I can't answer that question. I imagine that if the Fire Chief is here it's to work out how this bloke walked clean."

"Exactly. I don't get it. Has he said anything to you?"

"About the same as he told you, I guess. He banged his head and can't remember anything."

Seeing that he was getting nowhere, Aidan bade farewell to the captain and went back to his car. He left his card and asked him to let him know when they'd finished examining the rubble from the accident.

The fat security guard was still at his post, bad tempered as before. Aidan put his coffee cup in his hand, along with a weak apology, and marched to his car. He was surprised not to hear a new insult behind his back. Before he got in, he lifted the wipers up to take a paper off the windscreen. He read it and screwed it up.

"I wouldn't chuck that if I were you," someone said as Aidan turned around. "It's an official document."

"You've fined me?" Aidan asked, watching the policeman approach arrogantly.

"I advised him that you refused to move your vehicle," the fat hospital guard said, close now, with a smirk on his face.

"Next time, don't commit infractions and this won't happen," the policeman advised Aidan. "There's no special deal for policemen. The law's the law."

"Well done," the hospital guard said approvingly.

"I'm in no mood for this," Aidan told him, without showing any sign of irritation. He looked away and threw the parking notice over his shoulder onto the ground.

"Did you see that, detective?" the hospital guard asked, pointing animatedly at the paper ball. "Look, he's just thrown it on the ground. This is complete disrespect for the law. A little respect would be better, don't you think?"

"Of course," the policeman said firmly.

The motor of Aidan's car purred as soon as he turned the key and started the ignition. And to the security guard's surprise, the policeman who'd just written the ticket got into the front seat and patted Aidan on the back as the car started to move off.

"You fined me?" Aidan said, looking at his passenger.

"I couldn't help myself. Besides the guard begged me to. Do you know how long it's been since the last ticket I wrote? I can hardly remember."

Lance Norwood was in many respects the exact opposite of his partner Aidan. A pleasant detective who got on with everyone, or at least anyone who didn't ruffle anybody's feathers. He was always in a good mood and did his job according to the rules, mainly to avoid problems.

"You're a funny bastard," Aidan said. "I'm going to recommend to the Inspector that you be assigned to the traffic department."

"Too boring. I'd prefer to stay with you," Lance said. "Solving mysteries and the rest of that shit. It's more entertaining. Have you heard about Big Ben?"

"No. What's up?"

"It seems it's gone crazy. Today I passed there and I could've sworn I was drunk. The bells sounded out of tune. And I don't know if the time was right. Everyone was looking at the tower."

"They'll fix it. That clock is the symbol of the city."

"Just as well. Turn to the right at the next," Lance said, indicating a junction ahead. "Hey, you've passed it. What's up? Have you still got the hump because of the fine?"

"We'll take longer that way," Aidan grumbled.

"You're wrong there. We're not going to the station. We've got a case, and you're going to love it. A murder."

"The captain told me to talk to the survivor. He didn't say anything about a new case."

"Well, he rang me later. How else do you think I knew where you were?"

"What makes you think I'm going to enjoy this?" Aidan asked, lighting a cigarette and veering out of his lane as he did. He stopped at the next red light and stared at his partner. He was angry although he didn't know for certain why.

"It's a strange case," Lance said, hardly covering up his smile. "It seems the victim has been decapitated with a medieval sword. What do you think about that?"

# CHAPTER 3

"Only a little more effort and you'll do it," Earl White advised enthusiastically.

Keeping that optimistic smile on his face was a lot more difficult than the effort the pathetic lump of flabby flesh stretched out in front of him was making. Earl felt worried, but clung to the smile desperately, as a vein in the boy's forehead swelled threateningly. He considered wasting a couple of new sentences loaded with false hope that it could build him up, but in the end he chose to convince the youth to take a break and helped him put the bar back on the rack before it crashed down into his chest.

"You almost finished the set," Earl lied. "Cool off, then try something else."

"I was close, wasn't I?" the boy said, panting, getting up and wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Some day I'll be as strong as you, Mr White. A lot stronger, you'll see."

"I told you to call me Earl," the trainer said patiently. "The only thing that you have to do is keep at it and you'll outdo me, for sure."

Anyone with a minimum of common sense would have known immediately that there was no possibility that the boy could ever do that or even have a body like Earl White's. Earl was the most admired weight trainer at the gym and a real treat to look at for bodybuilding fans. When he did his exercises in his tight singlet, everybody around him stopped what they were doing to watch. He knew that well enough, showing off his physique went with the job.

Earl strolled through the gym equipment looking for anyone who needed his expert help. He ran his hand through his blond hair, as his blue eyes located an attractive female silhouette hanging from a bar trying to finish a set.

"Need any help?" he asked kindly.

The girl let go of the wooden bar and her feet landed on the ground. She was dark skinned, green eyed, her long black hair pinned in a ponytail. If it hadn't been for the prominent nose, Earl would have considered her perfect.

"Mr White, I presume," she said, looking at him, amused.

"Precisely. I'm the weight trainer, and to be honest I'd prefer you to call me Earl," he said, taking care to sound natural and keep his enormous biceps in her line of sight. "You're new, aren't you? I don't remember having seen you here before."

"Really, you're the new one," she pointed out. "I live in London and have been coming here for three years. I've missed the last seven months because of work. I guess you started working here some time then."

"Yes, four months ago." Earl couldn't take his bright blue eyes off her. "You shouldn't put so much pressure on your back without spending time in the weight room first."

"What makes you think I don't?"

Much to his dismay, Earl stopped listening to her. He was in a pleasant conversation with an attractive girl on the point of getting her phone number. But something was stopping him doing that. A feeling of alarm invaded his mind, making him tremble. Something was about to happen and he had to intervene. It wasn't a hunch or anything in his imagination. It was a certainty.

"Is everything all right?" the young woman asked, watching the expression on the trainer's face change. The shine in his eyes had gone and he was studying everything in the room around him as if his life depended on it.

Earl didn't realize that the young woman had stopped talking and was staring at him. The only thing that made any sense was working out what was going on around him. He couldn't see anything but his senses were working overtime trying to locate the danger. But what risk could there be inside the gym? He didn't have the least idea. Nevertheless, his emotions didn't leave any room for doubt, and suddenly he knew what he had to do. He took a quick step towards the woman and slapped her hard with the back of his hand. She flew across the floor with the force of the blow and crashed into a column several metres away. Everybody in the gym stopped, as astonished by the trainer's action as the girl had been. One of the bodybuilders reacted and went to the girl's assistance.

Without paying any attention to the chain reaction that had spread through the room, Earl concentrated on his feelings and surprised himself by crouching down. He doubted that he was going to be able to explain what had happened to those staring at him now. But he managed to get his growing sense of urgency under control. He felt ridiculous, but he bent his knees as much as he could and squatted, trying to convince himself that he was not going mad.

A great rumble sounded just above his head and he felt something fall on his back. He looked up and saw small chunks of plaster dragged along by an enormous vibrating steel lance stuck in the wall. He understood immediately that if he hadn't crouched down the lance would have gone right through his head, and that of the girl he'd knocked out of the way. He passed his hand along the steel bar and realized that his arm was covered by the sleeve of a jacket. His tight singlet had disappeared along with the rest of his gym clothes, and, as weird as it seemed, he was now dressed in an elegant white suit.

He had no time to examine his new clothes, as a sharp whistle cut through the air. Earl spun around on his heels in time to see another lance heading straight for him. In a flash, he raised his left hand and felt an impact. The blow sounded like metal against metal. He was now carrying a shield.

Without showing the slightest surprise about the shield or the amazement that reigned through the room, the trainer crossed the gymnasium, treading softly in his recently acquired white shoes, dodging broken glass. Helped by the shield, he made it to the front door and ran down the street.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" Lance Norwood asked, tightening the seatbelt. "Later, you'll be surprised that the press is complaining about you."

"Whatever you say. It was a pure coincidence, I swear," Aidan said, without looking at Lance.

He'd just put his arm back in the car after tossing a cigarette into the street, which had landed on the back of one of the journalists that formed a crowd there.

"It won't fit there," Lance said.

Ignoring his partner's advice, Aidan Zack squeezed the car into the little space there was between the two other vehicles, and after a few fancy manoeuvres parked the car. One of the tyres finished up on the pavement and in the end a new dent was added to the rest.

"Not very fair," Aidan said, closing the door behind him.

"As usual, a load of old iron," Lance observed, passing his hand over the latest damage. "It's the worst looked-after car in London. Doesn't it occur to you to ring me when it starts falling to pieces?"

Lance took a deep breath and went after Aidan, who was already in the circle of journalists. It wasn't hard following his partner because his head stood out above everyone else's. The microphones followed Aidan like predators after their prey.

"Police, make way," Aidan yelled as he cut through the pack of journalists. "There are no statements for the moment. Move on."

Lance fell into stride behind Aidan to avoid having to face the flood of questions himself. It wouldn't be the first time that Aidan had argued with a journalist who interrupted his work. In Lance's opinion, Aidan was right, but that wasn't enough, he had to maintain control because that's how it was with the press. Freedom of the press meant just that.

Finally they made the entrance to the building, where some uniformed police were holding the throng back. Aidan pushed his way through with his elbows and the two of them showed their badges and were let through.

"You still haven't told me how it went with the shrink," Lance said while they were making their way upstairs.

"Great," Aidan smiled. "I'm off the hook till next year. I told you that would happen. You owe me money."

"I still don't know why they haven't asked me about your madness." Lance raised his head. The prospect of going up so many stairs struck him as being too hard. "I'm your partner, the human being you spend most time with, given your pathetic social life. Nobody knows better than me how sick you are. I can assure you, if she asked me I'd put you in an institution for life. So you'd better pay me for my silence. I'm the one who should get paid for being your partner."

"Don't bet next time," Aidan said, his hand following the railing upstairs.

"I don't have any cash on board," Lance said opening his hands. "Let's do it this way. I'll pay you if you come along on Friday."

"We've already talked about that. It doesn't turn me on. I don't trust you."

"That's unfair," Lance said, offended. "I've been looking for the perfect woman for you. She's got the lot. Besides, she won't knock you back."

Aidan stopped on each step and stared back at Lance, leaning into his face. Lance pulled back each time, swallowing saliva.

"I'm not going to get involved in another one of your messes," Aidan said threateningly. "I don't even feel like hearing what you've arranged so that she won't reject me."

"It isn't what you think," Lance explained, raising his hands in an attempt to calm things down. "I can see that you're still too angry with that redhead, but I feel that mistake more than you do. This time will be different. She's perfect. Almost seven foot tall, like you. That's one reason why she won't reject you. Am I a genius or what? Do you know how difficult it is to find a woman that tall? Obviously, I haven't told her anything about you being mentally unbalanced. We'll keep that to ourselves."

"I'm not going to argue with you," Aidan said, turning and continuing up the stairs. "I'll find an excuse before Friday. And stop calling me unbalanced. I wouldn't exactly call you normal."

"I'm only trying to help you," Lance explained, panting. His legs felt as heavy as iron. "The first thing's to accept your problem, that's the only way to get over it. The mind is very delicate..." He paused as Aidan shot him a glance. "Very well, I'll stop, but only if you let me help you with the other problem. You've got to admit your social circle's the pits. You need a push. Besides you accepted the idea of going on Friday and I–"

"Ok, I'll go," Aidan cut in, realizing Lance wouldn't let up. "Now, enough of this crap." Lance had the smile of a winner written on his face even though he was puffing. "We're here," Aidan said, "and it's only the fifth floor. You look like you've run fifty miles. Why don't you spend more time burning fat than giving me a hard time?"

"It's my bad luck that the lift's out of order," Lance grumbled, running his hand over his stomach, promising himself he would lose weight. "Well, at least I get mine in now and again. You, with all those muscles of yours, you're hard pressed eating a chicken."

Aidan spun around and crossed his lips with his index finger.

Lance knew that he'd reached Aidan's edge of tolerance and backed off. He nodded and watched his partner walk to the door of Mrs Black's flat.

The flat was full of police and there were a few that Aidan didn't know. Some were taking samples, others looking for prints. Photographers were taking photos. Others were standing around drinking coffee and talking about what had happened as if the whole thing had been a scene from a new film. Inspector Wystan was frowning in the corner at something one of the pathology squad was telling him. To tell the truth, there was nothing strange about the scene. Just more police than normal, which Aidan imagined was because of the weird nature of the crime.

"Have you ever seen so many police?" Lance asked, looking around. "Seems like decapitations bring them out. It looks like an office party."

"I'll take a look at the body," Aidan said. "It looks like Mrs Black's in the kitchen. Go and find out."

"Somebody else's sure to have done that. I'd prefer to go with you."

"I want you to do it. The psychiatric team has no doubt been harassing the woman. They've probably already given her tranquillizers."

"I can see you don't have much time for our psychologists," Lance said, laughing. "Ok, I'll interrogate her but don't get used to giving me orders."

Aidan watched Lance disappear into the kitchen. He walked into the living room. The headless body was sprawled on the carpet, dressed in an elegant black suit. A pool of blood filled the space where the head should have been. Aidan observed that Mr Black had been very short, five foot six or less. He looked around the floor at the evidence of a fight. The furniture was broken and boxes were tossed everywhere.

He recognized Fletcher Bryce kneeling by the body. He was, in Aidan's opinion, one of the best pathologists, and had a lot of experience. He was sixty years old, and his propensity for getting into bad moods was his only defect.

"Seems like someone's lost his head," Aidan said, crouching down beside Fletcher, who was stretched out beside the body studying the cut on the neck. "A clean cut, don't you think?"

"Too good," the pathologist answered. "The head rolled over there by the wall. Maybe yours should be there too, Aidan. You know how many head jokes I've been listening to? Can't say you detectives are that original."

"I see you're still grumpy," Aidan said, extending his hand. The pathologist shook it with difficulty from the angle he was at. "Just as well you don't have to wait that long before you retire."

"You'll miss me when you have to work out one of these without me. How you going with the shrink?"

"Doesn't anyone forget my appointments with the psychiatrist? You never remember my birthday, old man. Come on, let's have a coffee and I'll tell you about it."

They walked over to a corner of the room, next to the window that looked out over the street that was still full of journalists. Aidan assured him everything was going well with his therapy, trying to talk about it as if it was nothing, sounding bored, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Fletcher frowned most of the time he was listening, but didn't say anything.

"Have we got the weapon?" Aidan asked, changing the subject.

"No, it would seem that he took it with him."

"Was it a sword?"

"Could've been. It must have been very sharp, and the thrust would've had to be perfect. It isn't easy to cut a head off so cleanly with one slash of a blade. Unless, that is, the victim was standing still to make the killer's job easier, which doesn't make any sense."

"Could he have immobilized or drugged him?"

"We'll check for drugs in the laboratory," the pathologist answered. "But I can't see how he could have been immobilized. There are no rope marks. Besides, his wife saw what happened. She said it was a sword fight."

Aidan didn't know what to think. It was strange enough that somebody would kill another person with a sword. To tell the truth, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen a real sword. He'd never worked on a case like this. Typical weapons were flick or kitchen knives. But swords? It seemed very strange. Nevertheless, the sword fitted the witness's description of what had happened. He decided to wait and hear what Lance had found out. It might have all been made up. Or maybe the wife had simply lost it from the shock.

"Aidan," Wystan yelled behind his back. The Inspector's voice didn't sound exactly happy. "Come here."

"Fuck!" Aidan said, gritting his teeth. "See you later, old man. I've got to see what's up with the boss."

"Be careful, Aidan," Fletcher warned him. "The rumour's doing the rounds that they're putting a lot of pressure on him in this case, and that he's not happy with you."

"Great. Then why did he give me the case?"

Fletcher just shrugged his shoulders as Aidan turned around and walked towards Wystan. The Inspector's enormous stomach looked like it was going to burst the buttons of his shirt, and his usual poor dress sense was underlined today by the choice of the ugliest tie Aidan had seen this year or any other. It not only didn't go with the suit but the colour was so bright he felt like throwing up.

"Fine place to meet," Aidan said when he made it to the Inspector.

"I hope you're working on this," Wystan grumbled. "Taking it serious. This time I don't want to hear about any problems."

"Nor do I. You can give it to someone else if you haven't got faith in me. But if things don't work out right it won't be my fault. You know who's going to be the lawyer this time?"

"That's enough, Aidan." Wystan was tired of going over the same thing time and time again. "That's history. Whoever they assign to this case is irrelevant."

"I don't look at it that way, Inspector. That imbecile ruined my investigation and made me responsible. I'm not going to take the rap for that. They don't crucify him when he loses a court case, but if I make a mistake..."

"That doesn't justify what you did," Wystan pointed out.

Aidan knew he was right. Six months earlier he'd lost a case and the drug dealer who had been so hard to bring to justice had walked free. The lawyer had put the blame on him, sullying Aidan's image to discredit him. His insubordination hadn't helped, the year that his drinking problem had got out of control and various not very flattering psychiatric reports. His wife's death five years before was brought up. It didn't create an image that the jury would have expected from a law enforcement officer.

The whole affair highlighted his sense of impotence. His anger threatened to consume him. His had been the key statement, and without witnesses the profile established by the defence lawyer brought the whole affair down. When the lawyer accused him of making the whole thing up, Aidan punched him in the mouth in front of the whole court, breaking two teeth.

"He deserved it," Aidan said defiantly. "They shot me in the arm. They were close to killing me and this individual got angry because his legal reputation suffered a little."

"Do you really believe that we resolve all our problems by thumping people?" Wystan paused and Aidan realized that he was making an effort to contain himself. The Inspector continued his speech, controlled. "You weren't expelled because I think you were right, but I'm not going to tolerate you going around punching every Tom, Dick and Harry. Is that clear? I want this time to be different. No confrontations. Take what I'm saying seriously. You're walking a tightrope. Another problem like the last and it won't matter how good a detective you are. The force and the public want normal blokes who know how to control their tempers."

"Understood, Inspector," Aidan said grumpily. "I'll get whoever killed this dwarf in the black suit."

"You already know that this murder has attracted the curiosity of the press. Being decapitated by a sword makes an interesting headline. It's going to be a very public case and there's going to be a lot of pressure. So no scandals, thank you very much."

"How come all of these jokers are here so soon?"

"Must've been the neighbour," Wystan explained with a shrug. "She found Mrs Black in a state of shock. She informed us straight away and without any doubt anyone else in hearing distance... what do you know about the case?"

"Almost nothing. I've just arrived, I've only had time to glance around a bit and talk to Fletcher for a while."

"Well, get up to date, quick. The victim is William Black and he doesn't have a record. There are no drugs in the house, no weapons, nothing suspicious. No sword, either. He'd just moved into this house with his wife. There are no children. He worked with computers for a multinational that's got a branch near here."

"I'll see what I can find out. I've sent Lance to question the wife."

"Keep me informed, Aidan," Wystan said.

Aidan nodded without much enthusiasm and went looking for Lance. The conversation could have been worse. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken with the Inspector like that. There'd been almost no tension, not like almost every other time they'd spoken in the last few years, when it had turned into an argument. They were like chalk and cheese, their different points of view keeping them far apart. Aidan knew Wystan was a good man and carried out his job in an exceptional manner and kept corruption to a minimum. He didn't fly off the handle for no good reason. And the thought crossed Aidan's mind as he walked out of the room that maybe the fault was his.

It seemed that Lance was still questioning Mrs Black. He was seated beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder. He was much better at this sort of thing, and Aidan treated him like a brother, but sometimes he just couldn't stand him. Lance was too protective and Aidan needed to be alone from time to time.

The thought came to Aidan that he hadn't looked at the head of the victim. It was lying on the floor next to the wall. He guessed they didn't want to move it for some legal reason. He walked over and bent down and began to study the former Mr Black in detail. The hair was very dark, almost black, like the eyes. The mouth, half open, showed perfect teeth. Aidan couldn't take his eyes away from the man's lifeless face. He looked familiar, in fact he could swear that he knew him from somewhere. But that wasn't possible, he thought, because he never forgot a face. His visual memory was faultless, and that had always served him well in the job. But his intuition was screaming at him that he was missing something this time.

"You can take a photo," Lance said behind his back. "You don't have to stay there all day staring."

"You know something?" Aidan said standing up. "Look closely. Does his face look familiar?"

"Are you saying it does to you?" Lance leaned over and studied the face, "I've never seen this bloke in my life."

"I don't know why," Aidan said, thoughtfully, "but I could swear I know him from somewhere."

"Let's hope he's not one of the lawyers," Lance said, smiling.

"Very funny. Now tell me what you found out."

"A seriously interesting story. It seems the killer entered the house and started a fight with this poor bastard," he said, looking at the head on the floor. "The pair of them drew medieval swords and this here was the result. As far as Mrs Black knows her husband had never had a sword in his hand his whole life. She didn't even know he owned one. Wait, wait!" he said, stopping Aidan interrupting him, "I still haven't told you the best. The killer was dressed exactly the same as her husband, except he was dressed in white.

"Did she sound affected by the medication?"

"Let me finish, mate. You're going to love this. The killer looked exactly the same as her husband. She was explicit on this point. They were identical except for two details. The killer was blond with blue eyes. Everything else matched down to the finest detail. What do you make of that?" Lance opened his hands and smiled as if he'd just performed some magic act and was waiting for the applause. "This is going to be the best case we've ever had. And the press is going to love it, especially when they get wind of this. What I liked most about it was the suits. We're going to be famous, mate. We'll be a feature in all the tabloids. The investigators of a medieval murder. No, you don't like that. What about detectives investigate sword duel? Yeah, that's better."

Aidan looked at William Black's head again. He wasn't crouching but his eyes hadn't left the head. He hadn't even heard Lance's last words; he was too absorbed in trying to work out why William Black seemed so familiar. For the first time he concentrated on his surname and something clicked. It had to mean something. He was vaguely conscious of Lance speaking at his side. He ignored him deliberately and then an idea came to him. He crouched down quickly and extended his hand towards the head.

"Hey!" someone from the pathologist's team called out. "Nobody can touch it. At least not without gloves."

"You'll know that these prints are mine," Aidan explained after closing William's eyes.

"Why did you do that?" Lance asked, intrigued.

"Now the hair," he murmured to himself.

"Are you going to tell me why? Come on, I don't like being ignored. What's happening?"

"I've got it!" Aidan exclaimed, pulling himself away from staring at the head and turning to his partner. "Did Mrs Black say whether her husband had family in London?"

"I didn't ask her about that," Lance answered defensively. "She's too knocked up by what's happened to answer any more. I just kept my questions to the murder."

"Go back and find out if William had family in London, in particular, a twin brother."

"What?" Lance asked, frowning. "What gave you that idea? I leave you a few minutes alone with this head here and you've gone nuts. You haven't been drinking, have you?"

"Stop playing the fool and do what I asked you to. It might lead to a good clue about who cut our friend's head off here."

# CHAPTER 4

"Look, doctor, it's nothing personal, but I'm out of here," James White said, getting out of the bed. He'd made up his mind that the hospital wasn't for him. "Give me something decent to wear and I'm on my way."

"I can't let you go, Mr White," the doctor explained patiently. "We still don't have all the results. We still need a blood test and your blood pressure has to be taken."

"You don't seem to be a bad bloke so I won't tell you what I really think about all of this," James said, walking to a wardrobe in search of something to wear. The only thing that he had was a hospital gown which zipped up from the back. "Where are my clothes?"

"You'll get them back later. Now, get back into bed. You can't walk around the hospital like that."

"Shit! You're not even half as healthy as I am," he said, dodging the doctor and making for the door. "I've been locked up here for a day since the accident, putting up with all sorts of questions and stupid medical tests. If you think this stupid gown is going to stop me walking out of here, you don't know me very well. My clothes are as important to me as my respect for your medical opinion is. There's no way I'm staying here."

At that point, the sexiest nurse that James White had ever set eyes on entered the room and he completely lost the thread of what he was saying as a flood of his favourite sexual fantasies poured out of his head as he looked at the collection of curves that had just walked in. He was in the bed with her, running his hand over...

A strong tug on his arm brought him back to reality with a jolt. He hadn't even noticed that the nurse had led him back to the bed and was taking his blood pressure. James couldn't, or rather didn't want to, miss even the smallest detail of that moment. He knew his mouth was half open and hoped he wasn't drooling.

"I'll take this opportunity to visit other patients seeing as you've gone quiet," the doctor said, accustomed to the effect the nurse had on patients. "I'll drop back later, Mr White."

"Yes, yes. Whatever you say, doctor," James mumbled, turning his attention back to the nurse as the door closed. "And when does your shift end?"

"I've still got a good while to go," she answered indifferently.

"I can wait. We could have a drink when you finish."

"I've already got plans," she answered, securing the cuff around his arm and preparing the syringe. "Another time, perhaps."

"Is it because I'm short? You can't have everything. If you take off your shoes, maybe..." James said, leaning to one side and closing an eye while he calculated her height.

"Stay quiet, Mr White!" the nurse ordered, pulling him back to his previous position.

"We could go to the cinema. Sitting down you won't notice the height difference. What do you think?"

"I would like to but I told you I've already made plans," the nurse said, extracting the syringe and yanking the armband off. She put cotton wool around the prick mark and taped it. "And your height's got nothing to do with it. I like men with a sense of humour. There, we've finished."

"Wait! Don't leave it there. I'm the funniest man in this damn city. I swear it. Just let me know where you'd like to go. Give me a clue."

"Maybe. I'll think about it," the nurse said, opening the door. "I'll drop in later. See you then."

"Rest assured, I'll be here," James called after her in case she couldn't hear him as the lock clicked shut the other side. "I guess I'll be here. I'm not going to move from this bed."

Despite everything that had happened in his sanitary jail, James rubbed his hands energetically and rolled over on his back on the bed, going through his seduction routines. He discovered he didn't have as many as he would have liked. And his tendency to beg had to go. That hadn't brought him much luck in the past, even though he only resorted to begging when everything else had failed. It's what you do when you've got no dignity and lack options. In a desperate situation anything's better than nothing. But surprisingly his style seemed to have gone down well with the nurse. The smartest move would be to play the funny man like he'd promised her.

The thread of his thoughts was cut sharply as another sensation invaded his mind and body.

"Here we go again."

He got up and walked to the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. He wasn't surprised to see himself dressed in an elegant white suit. He ran his hand softly over the suit sleeve and sighed deeply.

"In the end, what can I do? There's no point resisting."

James White went to the door, played with the handle, and pulled lightly. The lock opened as if it were made of paper and bounced on the floor. James calmly left the room.

The chubby security guard nearly swallowed his coffee when he saw Aidan Zack's battered car again. For the second time in a day he'd have to put up with the insult of seeing the detective put his curious vehicle in a no-parking zone. It was a wonder the pile of dented metal on wheels was still drivable.

Aidan Zack and Lance Norwood got out and walked towards the entrance. The guard approached them with a grim look on his face.

"Police business," Aidan proclaimed before the guard could warn them. "The car better be here when I get back."

"And without a scratch," Lance added.

The guard was lost for words. After they'd walked out of hearing range Lance said, "If I was a big bastard like you I'd scare the shit out of everyone too."

"I doubt it," Aidan mumbled to himself as he entered the hospital.

"I heard you," Lance said, following him in. "OK. We're here again. Let's concentrate on the job in hand. Do you really think this idea of yours about them being twins makes sense?"

"If it bothered you so much, you could've stayed at Mrs Black's house, looking for clues. Or all the other stuff that police do to make sense out of investigative work."

"Are you kidding me?" Lance asked, surprised, trying to keep up with the big man. The hospital was full of people and the smell of medication hit him as soon as they entered. "That's what real detectives do, that's why you are better at that. I just came along to keep an eye on you and see if you wanted to check yourself in. You belong here. They say the psychiatric wing isn't too bad."

Although he wouldn't admit it, Aidan knew that Lance was as curious as he was to see if they were on to something about James White, the miraculous survivor of a traffic accident, and William Black, the poor computer technician who had been decapitated. They didn't have to look any further than their surnames, Black and White, to get the feeling that something was going on. It could have been a coincidence, but if it was, it was a big one. Not to mention the fact that William Black was dressed in black when he was killed and James White walked away from the worst traffic accident in living memory dressed in white, without a scratch.

Nevertheless, the most amazing thing was their physical similarity, except for the colour of their skin and eyes. It had taken Aidan some time to realize that Black and White were identical, given the fact that Black's head wasn't on his shoulders. But when Susan Black showed him photos of her husband he could see that they were indeed identical.

Mrs Black had explained to them that her husband didn't have any brothers. Aidan found that hard to believe, given that such similarity was not likely to be the product of chance. But she'd insisted there was no twin brother. So, in Aidan's mind in the end it came down to whether she actually knew about the existence of the twin. It wasn't something that he could have debated with her. However, he'd seen James and talked with him and had no doubt that he was right.

When he told Lance he knew he'd committed a grave error. His jokey partner didn't let up after that. Aidan was hallucinating. Mental problems did that. It was the reason he'd come with him to the hospital, to keep tabs on him.

As they continued down the corridor Aidan saw two nurses in front of White's room examining an object that one of them was holding in their hands with great attention. Something was wrong for sure. He covered the rest of the distance, quickly followed by Lance who was having trouble keeping up. A quick glance inside the room told Aidan that White wasn't there.

"Where is Mr White?" Aidan asked without introducing himself, showing his badge. "Police."

"We don't know," one of them said.

Lance caught up and was on the point of saying something but was struck speechless by the beauty of one of the nurses.

"And who might know?" Aidan snapped, seemingly immune to the charms of the woman before him, which only confirmed to Lance what he'd been saying all morning.

"No one," the nurse answered. "He's gone. We left him locked up in the room, but somehow he found a way out and left the hospital."

The nurse showed them the object that they had been looking at when Aidan arrived. He studied it for a couple of seconds. The iron lock had been forced. A quick inspection of the marks on the door showed that the lock had been placed this side of the door. Which raised the question of how James White had forced it if he'd been locked inside. Somebody could have done it in the corridor but the marks didn't back that up. It had been opened from the other side of the door. That was clear enough. What wasn't clear was how.

Aidan remembered James White complaining about being held against his will, and the insolent attitude that had gone with it. The detective had put it down to the knock on the head that James kept talking about and remembered him saying that he knew Aidan from somewhere. Thinking he'd never see him again Aidan hadn't paid too much attention to him. He regretted that now. Too many things were happening. And he was convinced that James White was involved.

Without getting involved in the mystery of James's leaving the hospital, Aidan turned Lance away from his new-found obsession with the nurse. He decided not to share his doubts with him for the present. What he had in his head now would only add fuel to the fire of Lance's opinion of his state of mind. And what was worse, given the thoughts that were raging through his head, he couldn't be sure that Lance's opinion of him was unfounded.

"Do you know if they took a blood test?" he asked the nurse.

"Yes. I took it," she answered. "He asked me out while I was doing it."

"That doesn't surprise me," Lance said, as Aidan's elbow impacted on his ribs.

"Good. That blood is requisitioned," Aidan informed her. "Tell the doctor or whoever is responsible that someone from the police will collect it."

The nurse shrugged her shoulders and walked off with her companion. Lance was still getting his breath back after the dig in the ribs so Aidan slipped his mobile phone out of his pocket and rang Fletcher. The pathologist was in a bad mood and still in William Black's flat arranging the moving of samples to the laboratory. Aidan could hear a lot of orders and disagreements at the other end. Aidan's request didn't please him too much but he agreed to send someone to collect the blood sample and compare it with William Black's.

"Are you still going on with this idea about them being twins, then?" Lance asked, opening the lift door. "You're going to miss this old pathologist. He's the only one who acts on your hunches."

"We won't lose anything by comparing their DNA," Aidan advised. "Have you got a better idea, detective?"

"I might do."

Aidan doubted that but didn't say anything. The lift doors opened and they filed out towards the exit. Aidan reflected about the possible motives for White's escape from the hospital. By the look of it, it had been a spur of the moment decision. The feeling was building that they needed to locate him as soon as they could. He decided to give Lance the job of finding him. He had to do something. He was about to give the other detective his new instructions when a familiar voice interrupted him.

"Aidan! How pleased I am to see you."

A beautiful woman with big black eyes and dark wavy hair was walking towards them. A broad smile covered her warm face. On seeing his sister-in-law, a flood of sensations swirled through Aidan. The pain that appeared with any memory of his wife competed with nostalgia and an arsenal of other emotions in Aidan's heart.

Jane greeted Lance first, who was happy to see her, but stepped aside straight away to let the others renew old acquaintances. Lance was conscious that it came down to a delicate but important situation in Aidan's life. And he really hoped that his friend would know how to behave.

Jane gave Aidan a warmer greeting. She threw her arms around him and hugged him with what seemed like all her strength. Aidan pulled back slowly and ran his hand across her cheek. Her eyes were watery; it was a moving moment. But then she punched him on the chest.

"Why haven't you rung or come around?" she demanded, her voice surprisingly hard. "We're still family. Have you forgotten that?"

"I'm happy to see you too. It's just that I've been busy," Aidan explained.

"Don't give me that. It's almost a year since we've heard anything from you. The last time we had any news about you was in the paper. A report about a court case. Something to do with drugs. It didn't give you much of a wrap." Aidan was about to say something. "Don't interrupt me. Imagine how I felt when the article talked about my sister's death. I wanted to help you, to be with you. But you wouldn't let me get close. I found out later that you'd punched the lawyer."

Jane's words were painful. Aidan knew that she was being sincere. It must have been bad for her reading all of that rubbish. There had always been a special feeling between them; she was the only member of his dead wife's family that he had really got on with. He'd never got on well with his father-in-law, even though he'd always been respectful and concealed his lack of approval as much as he could. He'd simply had nothing in common with the rest of the family. But Jane was different. He'd always enjoyed her company, her direct manner. In a way, she reminded him of Lance, in the sense that she got on with everyone, something Aidan couldn't lay claim to.

"I couldn't meet you on that occasion," he explained. "I was working undercover. No one could know I had family. I promise you I would've given anything to have had your support."

"Very well. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt," Jane said, relaxing, "And what are doing here? Are you sick?"

"No way. I'm jumping out of my skin," he said, but stopped when he realized that she didn't like hearing him treat his own health as a joke. After the accident and during the months of being in a coma, Jane had thought she might lose him as well. And despite his amazing recovery she still didn't like him taking his own health lightly. "We're here on police work. And you?"

"My back's been killing me lately. I came to see if the doctors can find a solution for the pain," she explained, running her hand over the lumbar region, which for some reason prompted her to go quiet as if she'd turned to stone.

"Come this year, Aidan! Do it for me," she begged, grabbing him by the shoulders.

"I don't want you to take this wrong, Jane," he said seriously. "It's got nothing to do with you. I'm not going to cry over my wife's grave. You know that."

Aidan watched her as she lowered her head and exhaled as if all the air in her lungs was leaving her right then. He knew he'd been unfair to her. He should have visited her a long time ago and although his excuse had been valid, he could have called around later on and it wouldn't have made any difference. He'd always been willing to accept any case and chase human scum wherever he had to to keep his mind occupied. But she didn't deserve the sort of treatment he'd been giving her. And more than that, he didn't deserve the brotherly affection that she offered him. He couldn't let it get any worse than it already was.

Yet, he still couldn't do what she wanted. To go to the cemetery and pray to an empty coffin was beyond him. His wife's remains weren't there. The Thames had taken the body and it was never found. He hadn't even attended the funeral, because he was still in a coma. They buried an empty coffin in a symbolic gesture, so that the family could bid her farewell, they'd said. At each anniversary of her death the family went to the cemetery. Aidan had never gone and he wasn't going to do it this time either. He just couldn't pretend that his dead wife's spirit was at the cemetery.

"The children miss you," Jane insisted. "They love to see you. You're still their hero. They even tell their friends that you're the highest ranked policeman in the city."

"I'll try to go, seriously. If I can't, I'll call in later."

"That's what I'm hoping," she sighed sadly.

She said goodbye with a long kiss on the cheek before she walked down the corridor. Aidan watched her go until she disappeared through the lift doors.

"Shit!" Lance said. "I forgot that tomorrow is the anniversary of her death."

"It doesn't matter, Lance," he said, walking towards the exit. "It's not your problem. It's mine."

"You're an imbecile," Lance let him know. "It peeves me that you're capable of saying that. Do you think I don't miss her too?"

"I didn't mean to say that," Aidan said, softening his voice. "I'm sorry, mate. You know that wasn't my intention."

"Stop carrying it inside and go tomorrow. Jane's right. They want to share it with you."

As they left the hospital Aidan looked at his partner seriously. He wasn't angry with him but he realized that Lance simply didn't understand that his situation had nothing to do with logic. Aidan couldn't get his emotions under control sufficiently to be able to do what seemed right. He concentrated on Lance's good sentiment and not on getting angry for a reason the other man wouldn't understand.

"She's not buried there. I can't go."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Lance stopped him in the middle of the street. "I was the one who went looking for her body. Have you forgotten that? You were in a coma. The doctors said it was more than likely that you wouldn't wake up. I directed the search in the Thames for weeks, until they wouldn't let me go on with it."

"At least you did something. I woke up to discover that she was dead and buried. I couldn't do anything."

"Well, there's something you can do now," Lance said in a different tone. "There are people who want to share your pain. The few neurons that you've got should know that I'm right." Aidan stood still, without expression. Lance moved his head from one side to the other looking at him. "I know that bothers you. But that's how it is. You're big and tall and you're lucky you recovered. But your virtues end there, my friend. I know you recognize in me an intellect of a higher order, and that drives you crazy."

"You're spot on." Aidan paused. "But shut up or I swear I'll pull your tongue out."

"You can't survive without my advice. Besides, if I shut up I won't be able to give you the good news."

"What are you talking about? More advice?"

"No," he said smiling. "I just wanted to tell you that at this very minute your girlfriend is walking towards you."

# CHAPTER 5

"You take care of it this time," Mike said, his shoulders slumped at the bottom of the stairs. "I promise you if I get out of going up, I'll give you half of my wages."

"Stop dreaming," Steve replied quickly. "It's our work, my friend. This bastard of a job is for the two of us. Don't think I'm going to take it on alone."

Steve wasn't capable of holding his bad temper in. He threw the backpack carrying the equipment onto the ground and kicked it. Mike watched him in silence, he was exhausted and the situation wasn't something to be exactly happy about.

"You know I'd do it for you," Mike insisted. "It's just a question of age, nothing more. I would go back myself, but I'm exhausted. You're fifteen years younger. You could do me a favour."

"Don't crawl, Mike. I can't do it alone. We've both got to go back."

"Remember that girl, the blonde that pronounced her vowels bad?"

"I think so," Steve said with a faint glint in his eyes. "Are you trying to work me up? What's she got to do with all of this?"

"They almost caught you on top of her at work," Mike reminded him. "I saved your arse, covered for you and it almost cost me a month's salary."

"Good try. I can see you're trying to score points to get out of this. Very well, you asked for it. What happened that time you arrived completely drunk to work after that clown's stag night? You know the friend who's always asking you for money? I was the one who did all the maintenance work that day so that no one would catch on."

"You see," Mike exclaimed, triumphantly. "That shows that you're perfectly capable of taking care of this alone. I've always said that you were the better of the two of us."

"I'm immune to false praise," Steve said, walking up to Mike and putting his arms on his shoulders. "Mike, friend... partner. You're a great bloke, of that there's no doubt. I appreciate you, but not that much to leave you here. There's no doubt you can do it to free yourself. I don't like it any more than you do. But this is the way to go. Pluck up some courage and let's get back up there."

He'd fired his last bullet and it had missed its mark. Mike accepted that he couldn't avoid responsibility on this occasion and gave out a great sigh of defeat. He got up from the ground slowly and under Steve's look of bitter victory, he walked towards the stairs, to get the inevitable over and done with. At least that's what he thought as he arrived at the first step.

"A watchmaker shouldn't have to go through this," Mike lamented, raising his head.

"I swear if it starts to malfunction again I'll give up. I'm not an architect and I've never had to worry about this before. But I tell you I'll put a curse on whoever designed this bastard of a tower. Its fame doesn't mean anything to me. Why isn't there a fuckin' lift?"

The prospect of going back up the three hundred steps of Big Ben was sucking what little energy they had left out of them. They'd only just come down. It couldn't have been more than two minutes before. They'd just repaired the world-famous clock on top of the tower when that weird thing had started to happen again.

It couldn't have been more inopportune. Big Ben's out-of-tune chiming started again. For a moment, Mike seriously considered the possibility that it was a practical joke. At any second, a comedy show host would appear along with a cameraman diligently filming the anger on the faces of the two workers. There'd be laughter all round and Steve and Mike would be excused from any more participation in the mad joke. They'd be free to leave and would never have to climb the stairs again.

For a long moment neither of them moved and to Mike's dismay no cameraman appeared. When they looked at each other again, they could see the same thought in each other's eyes: burn the damn neo-gothic tower, along with the clock.

The worst thing of all was that they didn't know what was wrong with Big Ben. The clock was a masterpiece of precision but lately it had been out of time and tuning for no apparent reason. Another unknown factor was how to fix it. They'd checked the mechanism over and over again but couldn't find anything to explain what was going on. The only thing that seemed to work was rewinding it.

Forcing themselves with great difficulty to control their frustration, they began slowly to go back up the three hundred steps that they'd learnt to hate.

"This is unbearable," Mike said, leaning against the wall. "I've had it. And it's all for nothing. It's going to break down again."

"What gets me most," Steve said, sitting down at his side, "is that it's getting more frequent. This time we've just come down and the problem's started again."

"Do we have to fix it?"

"Yes, you know we do."

They shared a look of defeat, waited a while longer to get their breath, and began the ascent again. Mike thought about a new job on the way up. He could see himself seated comfortably in an office somewhere, a computer screen in front of him, the punching of his fingers on the keyboard the only effort required.

When they got to the top it wasn't necessary to check what the problem was. It was always the same thing. Two opposing faces of the clock had slowed down and the other two continued with the unaltered time. This time it was the north and south faces that had stopped. The last time it had been the other two. The fault switched constantly.

While Mike was helping Steve rewind the clock, the prospect of going through this again and again weighed heavily on his mind. He was near to breaking.

He wanted to finish for the day and go home. It was getting dark and he didn't have the strength to keep fighting something that was beyond his comprehension. Aidan Zack suppressed the urge to grab Lance Norwood, give him a whack in the face and take him back into the building, seeing as they were already at the hospital entrance.

"Do you mind telling me what you're doing?" Aidan asked.

There had been a sudden change in the conversation and Aidan felt disorientated. What was all that girlfriend stuff? Lance knew perfectly well that he didn't have a girlfriend. Since his wife's death he'd only been out with two or three women and none of those had lasted more than two or three dates. It was one of the facts Lance used to make him feel uncomfortable. For some reason he felt the necessity to revive Aidan's love life, seeing all the big man's efforts to get something going had failed. Lance kept his head down to the task, telling Aidan he was going to meet the perfect woman someday and when that day came he'd have Lance to thank for keeping him going.

Aidan felt that Lance pitied him. He knew he was a good friend, probably the best he had. But even so, he was convinced that it was this feeling sorry for him thing that kept him hanging around all the time.

"Let me see," Lance said, tilting his head and looking at some point behind Aidan's back. "Nice legs, long dark hair. Great curves and that look that young women have that makes you want to find out more about them. Yes, it's her."

"Damn!" Aidan exclaimed, turning his head. He'd just recognized her. "She didn't see us. Let's get off."

"Too late, mate. Hi, Carol," Lance called out.

Carol looked their way. She recognized them immediately and strutted her beautiful twenty-eight-year-old body their way. She knew how to walk, this woman. And everything she had looked better the closer she got.

"You're going to pay for this, fats," Aidan warned Lance.

"I'm not fat," Lance complained, running his hands over his generous belly. "Maybe I'm a few kilos overweight, nothing more."

"You're perfect," Carol said, grabbing Lance by the shoulders and shaking him a bit.

"It's great to see you, beautiful," he said, smiling, stepping back. "You don't think I'm fat then?"

"No way," she answered. "I'd swear that you've lost weight since the last time I saw you."

"The same old lies," Aidan mumbled as he passed by without looking at her.

"I can see you still haven't forgiven me," she pointed out without looking too worried about the fact. They were walking side by side. "Didn't know you carried grudges."

"There's a lot you don't know, sweetheart. What's the point of telling you everything?"

"It surprises me that you haven't killed a journalist yet, given what you think of us."

"Have you come here to look for more dirt to print in your paper?"

"How many times do I have to apologize for that? And stop walking while I'm talking to you," Carol said, taking two long strides ahead and cutting Aidan's path. They were standing face to face now, very close. The journalist stared up into Aidan's eyes. "Everything I've published about you was correct. The court was open to the public and everything that was said there too. I didn't have to rummage in your rubbish bin."

"It wasn't necessary," he accused her. "The defence lawyer had already taken care of that."

They always talked about the same case. And as far as Aidan was concerned, there'd been no need for her to print the lawyer's damaging character profile of him in the newspaper. She gave the public all the details along with the final punch in the face he'd given the lawyer outside the court.

It hadn't been a pleasant way to meet each other. It had been a bad time for Aidan, and seeing the drug dealer walk scot free didn't help either. It was better not to talk about it. Only Lance could bring it up without him going into a rage.

Carol hadn't chosen a good moment to get an interview. She was a young journalist full of talent and ambition, and Aidan was the news of the moment. On one occasion she'd followed him an entire morning looking for his version of what had happened. Lance was sure that if she'd been a man she would have gone to work the next day with a black eye and a broken jaw. Lance saved her that day, pulling her away from Aidan before she found out the hard way the type of man she had been harassing.

Even after that, she kept on seeking interviews with Aidan, and the strange thing was that she was usually successful. Lance had nearly fallen off his chair a month later when he found out the two of them were going to have lunch together. He had to control the temptation to spy on them and listen to what they had to say. He even thought about fixing a microphone on one of them. In the end he just made do with Aidan's version of what had taken place during that lunch. And that consisted of more than a fair share of grumbling and gave Lance the impression that it had been more argument than interview.

Lance suspected that, despite being seventeen years younger than him, Carol was one of the few women in the last few years to kindle Aidan's dormant sex drive. Although nothing had happened between them she was the first woman to have gone out with his partner more than three times since his wife's death. Lance was no expert in affairs of the heart, but he suspected Carol had more on her mind than just interviews. As far as Lance knew, she wasn't in a relationship with anyone else.

"I only reported what they said in the court," Carol said, defending herself. "And I've already apologized for that. Can't we just shelve it this time?"

"You concentrated on the juicy bits. You didn't mention anything about my work in tracking that criminal down. But to sell more papers you wrote about my drinking problem and my wife's death. It was worth more to you to ruin my reputation as a human being than praise my work as a policeman. Don't forget that I was the one responsible for bringing one of the major cartels in the city to justice."

"I wrote that as well," Carol screamed, twitching. She was losing her composure, fast. "I'm impartial. It's my work."

"You dedicated three lines to the detention and three paragraphs to my medical and psychiatric reports," he snapped.

"Damn it, Aidan. I've already explained it to you," she said, visibly upset. "I have bosses at the newspaper, you know. I'm not the owner of what they publish. They edit my articles. And whether you like it or not, everybody was interested in your medical report. There aren't too many who've survived what you have, Aidan. Christ, there's no one. You broke your back in the accident and you lost your wife. You could have been paralysed. But you came out of it all unscathed."

"That's my business," Aidan roared, "And no one else's."

"That's enough. More than enough," Lance said, stepping between them and forcing them apart. "You know, I don't understand you two. Why don't you work your differences out in bed? That looks like what both of you want."

"Shut up, Lance!" Aidan screamed. "This argument's finished. I've got work to do. You can stay with her. Thanks for all your help."

"Don't pay any attention to him," Lance explained. "He hasn't taken his medication. The attack will pass."

"I can help you, Aidan," Carol said, stopping him. "I know which case you're working on."

"That doesn't surprise me. You're always on our heels in search of news. What makes you think I need your help?"

"You've come here to see James White, if I'm not mistaken," Carol said, smiling at the look of disbelief on Aidan's face. "Judging by your face, that's surprised you. I can tell you he's not here. He's gone. And if you behave yourself, I'll let you know what I know. But first I need a coffee."

Showing a perfect understanding of his partner's emotional state, Lance intervened cleverly, stopping Aidan from firing another bullet at Carol, and guiding them towards a bar just round the corner. He couldn't see any reason to doubt that Carol had information about James White. He didn't think having a coffee with her would be a waste of time. Besides, it was late and he wasn't going to lift a finger before the morning anyway.

Lance decided to let Aidan cool off. He monopolized the conversation until they got to the bar, limiting the chat to whether Carol had a boyfriend or not. She simply let him know that it was hard to find a man who was worth the effort. Aidan said nothing all the way, like a seven-foot zombie. Lance had no idea what he was thinking about and there was nothing in the world that irked him as much as that. For the most part, Aidan was like an open book to him, but on those rare occasions when he couldn't figure out what he was thinking, it made him really nervous.

They sat at a table in the corner.

"I asked for a beer," Aidan complained when he discovered that a coffee had come instead.

"The waiter made a mistake," Lance explained.

The truth was that Aidan had spent almost a year dipped in alcohol after leaving the hospital. He had been on the verge of losing his job and everything else he had. Those days were a thing of the past, he claimed, and he could have a social drink now without any problem. But when Lance could, he made sure he didn't drink anything stronger than coffee or herbal tea. When he was drunk he was impossible to control. Once it had taken Lance an hour to get him home from half a block away, and dragging a drunken man mountain that far had nearly killed him.

"How's the hunt for news going?" he asked, steering the conversation away from booze. Aidan pushed the coffee away with a look of disgust. Lance didn't know if that was because of the coffee or his question. "I bet men are dying to get interviewed by you. You're the cutest reporter around."

"Don't overdo it, Lance," Carol said, hiding her pleasure at the comment. "One thing's for certain, there's certainly a lot of work around at the moment. Tomorrow I've got to cover for a workmate and interview Dylan Blair."

"No kidding," Lance said, wide-eyed. "I like that bloke."

She sounded surprised.

"You're not serious, are you? I thought you were a good judge of character. How can you like a clown like him?"

"It sounds like you don't understand him. He's got everything and does what he wants. Most of us would do the same if we could."

"Maybe, he's got everything that you say, but why does he have to look the way he does."

"Dylan Blair is a total dickhead," Aidan advised them, before changing the subject. "How did you know we were looking for James White?"

"That wasn't too hard to guess," she said mysteriously. "I've found out that Black and White are identical except for the colour of their eyes and skin too."

"But you're not on about them being twins too, are you?" Lance asked incredulously.

He'd only seen the accident photos of White that had been shown on television. And they lacked detail. As far as he could make out, the only thing the two men had in common was their height.

"How do you know they're identical?" Aidan asked.

"Just coincidence. A year ago I covered the death of a man named Alfred. He was found dead in an alley."

"And what's that got to do with this?"

"Yesterday, I saw the news about James White and I realized that he was exactly like Alfred. I came to the hospital to confirm that, but he'd already left. A workmate who was covering the murder of William Black showed me some photos and bingo! He told me you were working the case. That's why when I saw you at the hospital entrance I concluded you were there to see him.

"Hey! We're both on the case," Lance protested.

"Don't start, Lance," Aidan warned him.

"Very well, I can see you're irritated. I've stepped over the line. I'll leave you two alone. I was getting bored anyway and I've got a pretty wife at home waiting for me."

Lance left a note next to his empty cup and gave Carol a farewell hug. As he left the table he winked at Aidan without Carol seeing him. He left the bar, weaving through the tables.

"Don't pay any attention to Lance," Aidan told her. "He doesn't mean any harm."

"He's still worrying about you, don't you think?" she asked him, looking at him differently now that they were alone. "So why has he left us alone here? Does he think I make good company for you?"

"Lance's judgement isn't too hot. He thinks any female company is good for me."

"And that isn't true?"

Aidan didn't answer. He looked away and kept his thoughts to himself.

"I guess, it's not easy," she went on. "After a first meeting, when you accused me of writing about you without being informed, I did a little investigative work of my own. It had to be very hard to lose your wife the way you did." She stretched her hand across the table and rested it on Aidan's. He continued staring at the floor. "You are still wearing the wedding ring..."

"Why shouldn't I wear it?" he said softly, turning it around his finger.

"You love her a lot, don't you?" She watched him nod. "It must have been difficult to get over?"

"Lots of people lose loved ones. If I'd been stronger I wouldn't have committed so many mistakes since her death. And you wouldn't have had anything to write about."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. You haven't done that much wrong."

"This man Alfred that you were speaking about," he said, changing the subject, "was he short?"

Carol took a while to answer, surprised by the sudden change of direction.

"Yes. He was identical to James White. The eyes and skin too."

"What was his surname?"

"White. The same as James's."

"And the opposite of William Black," Aidan said, running the details through his mind. "Was he decapitated?"

"No, he was cut through the chest. From one side to the other."

"By a sword?"

"No. With something even bigger. It might have been an iron bar or something like that."

Aidan thought it through. It needed a better explanation than he currently had. The physical similarity, the surnames, killed by strange weapons... It was all too unusual to be a product of chance, he was convinced of that. Nevertheless, he needed more information to find out what was happening.

"Was Alfred dressed in a white suit?"

"He might have been," Carol answered, frowning. "I'm not sure. Why ask about the clothes?"

"Black was wearing a black suit when he was murdered."

"The same colour as his surname. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," he said, thinking she must have concluded he was mad. "And White was wearing a white suit."

"It could be just coincidence?"

"Maybe, but Black's wife said the killer was dressed in white. And he was Black's double, to boot."

"This is crazy," she said. "If you follow that line where's it all going to end?"

"It's pretty obvious that this is, as you say, crazy. Black wears black, has black eyes and dark skin, while White wears white, is blond and blue-eyed. Alfred White conforms to that, according to you. And we have to believe the testimony of Mrs Black. Why would she make it up?"

"You're not suggesting James White killed William Black are you?"

"Anything's possible. But he was here in the hospital. And I don't understand anything about this Alfred that you've mentioned. I've got a hunch, but it's pretty weird."

"Want to share it with me?"

"I said it's just a hunch," he repeated, his voice hollow. "It seems like Black against White. When we find William Black's killer I'll bet on his surname being White."

"Interesting theory. And following that through, Alfred White was killed by someone with the name Black. William, for example. Maybe his murder was revenge."

"It's possible."

"But this thing about the surnames doesn't make any sense. What's it all about – destiny? A group of people with these names killing each other. Or did they all change their surnames?"

"I haven't got the least idea," Aidan said, staring at the floor.

"And how come they all look alike?"

"Can't answer that either."

They remained silent for a while, going over the information in their minds. Aidan drank his cold coffee as an idea penetrated his mind like a sharp prick. He looked at Carol in such a way that she suddenly looked frightened. And for a second he completely forgot with whom he'd been talking. She was a journalist and could publish what he had just said. He'd been so involved in unravelling the mystery that he'd forgotten that. If she published what he was thinking now the investigation would be compromised. Another fight with the press wasn't exactly what he wanted right now.

"You can't publish any of this," he told her.

"Are you talking about my column? I've told you more than you've told me," she said, angrily.

"You only did that to get information from me. Don't you think I know that? This case is very sensitive. Men beheading their doubles. I've already heard other detectives talking about all of this with their wives."

"Look, Aidan. I'm doing my best to understand you, but..."

"You've got your work. But the consequences of what you write is what I'm talking about. I've already seen that."

"You're not starting again, are you? I've already told you that I don't write anything that's false. That goes for this case too. The public's got a right to know."

"And what if that prejudices my investigation? What's more important, entertainment or me catching the killer? Besides if you publish this madness about Black versus White the whole city'll be talking about it."

"I can't avoid that. The other papers are already on to it. It's inevitable."

"Yes, but they don't know about this connection between Alfred and James. They don't know the connection between their surnames. Just leave that out. By the way, why did you tell me this about Alfred?"

"I wanted to help you. I know you've been going through a bad time."

"Carol," Aidan said, rapping the table with his index finger.

"It's true. I swear. I need your help as well. I thought we could help each other out. I tell you this and you tell me how the investigation's going. But you've got to believe me."

"OK, I believe you. What do you want to know?"

"The post mortem. Have you got DNA results? You've got a sample of James White's blood if I'm not mistaken."

"Very clever," Aidan said, surprised. "This is what we'll do. I'll give you the results if you don't publish what I've asked you not to. Is that a deal?"

"That sounds fine," she agreed. "Now that we understand one another, we've got to have that appointment tomorrow," Carol advised him, fluttering her eyelashes as Aidan frowned with the shift in the conversation. "Don't look like that. Trust me. Because we haven't been able to talk to James White, how about coming with me tomorrow to talk to James Black?"

"James Black?" Aidan said, stunned.

Carol nodded. She'd left this bombshell for the end of their chat and was enjoying the look of shock on the big detective's face.

"You can be sure I'll be there tomorrow," Aidan assured her.

It was imperative to find out if this James Black was connected to the case. He was already dying to find out if he was James White's double. Was it possible that the names meant something as well?

"That's enough for one day. No time to drink, old man," Carol suggested, imitating Lance's voice. "You've got to take me home. An innocent little girl like me can't walk along these dangerous streets at this hour. Isn't that right?"

"What else can we do?"

"Not very gentlemanly. Lance would have offered to drive me home. You should learn from him."

"He is comfortable at home now and I'm the one that has to drive you home. You're right. I have to learn from him."

"Stop complaining and wait for me here. I'll go to the bathroom first."

Aidan stayed where he was as Carol walked away. When he lost sight of her he turned to notice the bar had filled up since they'd walked in.

# CHAPTER 6

Ethan Gord couldn't be sure how many days the rubbish had been scattered across the floor but, judging by the smell, it had to be more than a week. He weaved his way through a sea of the unwanted, screwing up his face in disgust, as he went down the narrow passageway, keeping as close as he could to the middle of the corridor, avoiding the grime on the windows, highlighted by the tenuous light of the street lamps outside. His eyes saw something move on the floor, and he prayed that it was nothing more than a draught stirring the filth.

Since leaving his son Wilfred's mansion he'd gone from one extreme to the other. Back there, he could have eaten off the floor, only to come to this giant latrine, where it seemed impossible that any human being could survive.

He turned a corner and stopped in front of a rotting door. A crack ran from high on the door and zigzagged through the ceiling. He covered his hand with his sweater sleeve before turning the door handle. The door was locked. He called a couple of times but no one answered. He kicked the door and it opened with a creak and came off its hinges. The wood was so rotten that even a child could have knocked it down.

He entered a flat that unfortunately mirrored the corridor outside. He continued through new dirt and rubbish, past a window half-covered by ripped and faded curtains. He walked as lightly as he could across the filthy carpet that covered the floor at the entrance and past several chairs that he would swear no one would ever sit in.

He wanted to go back to the mansion and abandon this horrible place. It turned his stomach just being here. But that was not a problem that concerned him too much, if it wasn't like this, he wouldn't be fifty years younger than his son.

He finally arrived in the living room, kicked the door open to avoid touching it, and found what he had come in search of.

"Ethan, it's you," a man in a wheelchair in the centre of the room exclaimed. The chair was made of dark wood and metal, its back higher than normal. Otis Cade was thin, of medium height with sparse brown hair. He had a permanently sad look in his eyes that Ethan had seen get worse in recent months. "If I'd known it was you, I would've come to the door. You've caught me by surprise. I was just about to go."

"What's all this shit here, Otis? I know you're short of time, but this is too much."

"You said it. Time," Otis agreed. "I've got very little, and my affairs are of the maximum importance, as you know only too well."

"I know," Ethan said. "I've seen Big Ben. The end's near."

"Then you'll understand that I have more important things to think about," Otis said with a hint of sadness in his voice. "You're the great champion. If you've seen Big Ben, tell me, what's your opinion?"

"I can't get involved and you know it," Ethan confessed. Despite only knowing each other for around four years, Otis and he were great friends. They were the type of people who could sum the other's situation up immediately. "If it was up to me–"

"I'm losing," Otis stopped Ethan. "It's not necessary to talk, it's obvious and there's no point denying the truth."

"I'm sorry," was all Ethan could say. The surroundings didn't exactly encourage enthusiasm.

Otis lifted himself out of the wheelchair and covered the distance between him and Ethan. He rested his hands on his shoulders and looked at him understandingly.

"It's all right, friend. I'll take care of this. I still haven't lost. You never know, maybe I can finish the Whites off and win," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm sorry about your son. Cancer is a terrible thing. At least he's had a long life. Seventy years is a fair innings. How did you get him to accept the truth? I wouldn't be able to believe a man who's younger than me telling me he's my father."

"It wasn't easy. And even now I'm not sure he's accepted everything. But I don't blame him. It's something that I should never have revealed. Really, if he hadn't been sick I would never have done it. I was only trying to help him."

"How are you going to do it? Cancer is impossible..." Otis froze for an instant, his mouth open and his eyes narrowing slightly on understanding what his friend was thinking. "No. Don't do it. It's madness!"

"I can't let him die without doing anything. He's my son."

"I can't believe that you're even considering this. Not for a moment. Have you already done it? Have you told him everything?"

"No, you know I can't, but I've given him a clue. He'll get it."

"It's not one of your best ideas. He's your son, Ethan. It's not a problem for you. But I don't understand you putting him on the line."

"It'll be his decision if he does it. I'm just giving him the option."

"You're talking like Tedd and Todd," Otis advised him.

"They want to stop you. Don't pay any attention to them, Otis. Tedd and Todd are only trying to influence you."

"There's no choice. There's more than my life on the line. And I'm losing. If Tedd and Todd throw me a line, why wouldn't I take it?"

"Because they're putting something together. They don't do anything without a reason. Think it through, Otis."

"I've already done that and their idea is correct. It suits me. The final decision is mine and nobody else's. They're the rules. Besides, I still haven't used Earl Black. It's time to put that giant into the ring. I'm not going to let the Whites finish me off." Otis sounded scared. "You should understand that better than anyone else."

"I understand, but there are different ways of doing things. Maybe you shouldn't use Earl Black this time."

"It's easy for you to say," Otis said, his shoulders slumping, his voice now little more than a whisper. "There are those like you, or my rival, who got into this for a reasonably noble cause. That's not true in my case. I'm the same selfish bastard I've always been. And now I have to accept what they've given me because of that. Because, even though I know I deserve to lose, and face everything that comes my way afterwards, a pig like me always finds a way out. They know that as well as I do. Goodbye, my friend. I hope to see you again, even if it's only to say a final goodbye."

And with that Otis turned and stumbled away. When he got to the wheelchair he leaned an arm on the chair and looked back. "It's the same one you used. Isn't that right?" he asked, running his hand over one of the wheels.

"No, I used your opponent, Ashley's. You've still got time to find another way."

"It's too late," he said, sitting carefully down in the chair. "My fear drives me on. I've got to go. See you soon, old friend."

And, staring Ethan in the eyes, he slipped his right hand to a point on the chair and pulled a mechanism, and disappeared without a trace.

Smiling arrogantly, Jake placed the ball carefully on the penalty mark and threw a mocking smile at Earl Black, the other team's goalkeeper.

He was about to convert the penalty into a goal. He stepped back several paces from the ball, Earl Black watching him like a hawk. A fact that didn't bother the forward one bit because he reckoned Earl was overrated and he put the good defence record of Earl's team down to the midfielders, not big Earl guarding the posts.

"Show him you're the best, Jake," a teammate called out. "He's too big an elephant to move quick. Put a cannonball past him."

"Don't worry," Jake assured him, "this match is ours."

There were only five minutes left and neither team had scored. That made this kick crucial. It meant victory, as long as he could get the ball past Earl.

Jake was the leading goal scorer in the league and had no intention of tarnishing his reputation by missing a sitter like this. The only thing that the goalkeeper had in his favour was his size. He filled half the goal area. He looked more like a bodybuilder than a soccer player but his teammates wouldn't swap him for any other.

The tension was palpable, the crowd and the players watching Jake. He turned and steadied himself. The referee blew his whistle and Jake ran towards the ball. Earl waited motionless beneath the posts. Jake decided to go right. The gap seemed bigger there. Suddenly, something distracted him. Just as he was about to shift his eyes from the goalkeeper to the ball, he could have sworn that Earl was wearing an elegant black suit. He must be wrong. It was just some weird sort of illusion. He was seeing things. The ball! Concentrate on the ball. And he went into the kick without realizing that he was about to score the easiest goal of his life.

He kicked it perfectly, just as he'd wanted, but the roar of the crowd was different than at other times. It was a roar of shock, not jubilation.

The huge goalkeeper had vanished into thin air. There was no trace of him; he had disappeared before the eyes of hundreds of spectators.

Jake approached the referee and requested him to update the scoreboard at once.

As if she was putting the finishing touches on a work of art, Carol finished painting her fleshy lips with her favourite carmine. She traced the line of her mouth and then studied herself in the mirror, pleased with the result.

A chubby woman of around fifty walked in and the noise of the bar outside invaded the ladies' toilet. Carol had decided to keep Aidan waiting a little longer. She wanted to be just right when she went back out.

She looked at her reflection again, combing her hair now, going over what she and the detective had just been talking about. He'd seemed angry with her at first, and if it hadn't been for Lance, she doubted the conversation would have lasted very long. She had Aidan pretty well worked out, knew he'd been through a lot and also that it had made him the angry man he was now. She had to get to him somehow. The age difference didn't mean anything to her.

The first time she saw him in court she'd been attracted to him straight away. And when the defence lawyer had tried to discredit him, she'd felt a pang of sympathy for Aidan. There was no way he could have done half the things that the lawyer had claimed that day. She was on his side when he looked like getting out of the witness box and sorting the pompous little bastard of a lawyer out. She'd liked seeing that flash of temper.

The flow of her recollections was interrupted suddenly when she discovered something black and enormous behind her reflection in the mirror. The other women in the toilet began to scream, bumping into each other in their haste to get through the door. The noise outside filled the bathroom again and for a second Carol was disorientated. She turned around to find out what had caused all the commotion and found herself face to face with the biggest man she'd ever seen. He wasn't as tall as Aidan, but he was a lot broader. His arms were twice the size of the detective's. He was wearing an elegant black suit that matched his hair and eyes. His neck was huge, which suggested the body of a weightlifter under the well-cut suit.

"Filthy pervert," the tubby woman screamed, belting him with her handbag.

"Calm down, lady," the stranger said, lifting his huge arm to shield himself from the flurry of blows.

"How did this gorilla get in here?" she demanded, echoing the thoughts of the others still there.

More women raced out of the toilet, crashing into a crowd that was building outside, while Carol tried to regain her composure, convinced that this huge man in black had simply materialized in front of her eyes. He hadn't entered through the door, or crawled out from behind a toilet door. He'd simply appeared.

Carol calmed down when she saw Aidan's face in the crowd, "Get out of the way," the detective roared, elbowing and kneeing his way through, until the owner barred his way, demanding to know who he was. "Police," he said, flashing his badge. Inside the toilet, the woman was still laying into the giant in black. "Enough of that," Aidan said, "And you, muscles. Stay right where you are."

"As you say," the woman said, calming down as Aidan led her out of the room.

"Are you all right?" he asked Carol, turning around, obviously concerned.

"I'm fine," she said, holding herself back from throwing her arms around him.

"Everyone else all right?" he asked the other four women, who were looking at Aidan and the man in black wondering who to fear most. One of them nodded.

He turned his attention to the intruder.

"Keep quiet until I get to you. That way we won't waste any time working this out." He turned back to the others. "OK, tell me what happened."

They all looked at Carol.

Five minutes later, after listening to all their different versions, Aidan didn't have the foggiest notion of what had happened. And the worst thing of all was that Carol couldn't help him either. Her version of the incident was the vaguest of the lot. The only thing he had clear was that the giant hadn't walked through the bar to get to the toilet. Nobody would've missed him in the bar. He decided to send the women outside, but Carol refused to leave.

"OK, your turn, weightlifter," he let the man in black know when the women had gone. The giant watched him carefully, without blinking. "Would you like to tell me how and why you're in the ladies'?"

"By mistake. I was looking for the men's."

"How come no one saw you come in?"

"I don't know," he said strangely, as if he genuinely didn't know. "Maybe they were concentrating on their make-up."

Carol objected. "That's a lie. You appeared out of nowhere."

"Um, you mustn't have heard me come in," he supposed, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "That's why you were shocked."

"Nothing of the sort. You simply materialized right there, behind me," she indicated, pointing to a spot on the toilet floor.

"Very well," the giant said, his expression changing. "I just appeared out of nowhere."

"Careful what you say, smart arse," Aidan warned him. "This isn't the moment for wisecracks."

"What do you propose to do?" the man in black asked. "Hold me for materializing in a ladies' toilet?"

"I could make up a half a dozen infractions and invite you back to the cells for a few days if I want to. Can I see some ID."

The intruder remained quiet for a few seconds, as if he was testing Aidan's patience. Then he took a wallet out of his suit pocket.

Aidan snatched it and then dropped it on the floor when he read the name on the driving licence.

"Black. Earl Black. Is that your name?" he asked, his eyes wide open, his tone nervous. His muscles had tensed, involuntarily, as if he was expecting something to happen.

Carol was just as surprised as Aidan and imagined exactly what the detective was thinking.

Earl Black looked at them both strangely, the expression on his face showing that he had no idea why his name meant so much to them. He noticed that Aidan had tensed, and followed suit.

"Where did you get this suit from?" Aidan asked him.

"I bought it."

"Has it got anything to do with your name?"

"What, the colour...?"

"Do you know a William Black?" Aidan went on without waiting for an answer about the colour.

He had to ask that question whether it made any sense or not. What finding a man in the ladies' toilet had to do with another, the other side of the city without a head, was beyond him. But the whole day had been weird. He waited for Earl's answer, concentrating more on whether the big man was lying than the logic of his words.

"No, I don't know him."

"He's got your surname. He could be a relative."

"No way," Earl answered flatly.

"Why's that?"

"I don't have any family."

Aidan sighed, resigned now to not understanding anything. He looked for any connection in the new silence. There was something there that he couldn't put his finger on, doing the rounds in his head.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked Earl Black, grabbing him by the arm as he made for the door.

"I'm off. I don't propose to answer any more questions about someone I don't know. I told you, I lost my way. Nothing's happened. No laws have been broken. And I've already lost too much time," he said, opening the door and marching through the crowd outside.

Aidan took Carol by the waist and they followed through the aisle the big man had cut through the crowd.

It was dark outside, the air fresh. Better than the stuffy confines of the bar they'd just left. Aidan lit a cigarette and they walked in silence to the car. Carol wanted to tell him that he shouldn't have let Earl Black go, but she knew there was nothing to hold him on.

Getting to Aidan's car, she doubted he could get it to start. But it purred sweetly enough when he turned the key and not long after that they pulled up in front of her house. She felt like a girl on her first date waiting for the first kiss.

But Aidan didn't oblige. He didn't even bother to stop the motor. He just lit another cigarette, the thought she had in her mind far from his.

"You sure you're all right?" he asked.

"Fine," she answered sharply, getting out.

"Carol," he called after her, "we'll visit James Black tomorrow. Ring me when you're free."

He didn't bother to say anything else. She was already too far away.

# CHAPTER 7

Punctuality was one of the many differences between Aidan Zack and Lance Norwood. While Lance arrived on time every day, Aidan treated alarm clocks with disdain.

Faithful to his morning ritual, Lance draped his coat over the back of his chair, turned the computer on, and went to the coffee machine, where most of the other detectives assembled each morning to talk the previous day over. Football was on their minds this morning.

"He just disappeared," one of them told the rest. "Just when he was about to take the penalty."

"Did he kick the goal?"

"Are you nuts? There was no one there to stop the ball. The goalkeeper vanished in front of our eyes."

"So early and you're already talking shit," Lance informed them, cutting his way through to the machine.

"What I'm telling you is true," the sergeant went on.

"John, you've made up plenty of whoppers," Lance reminded him, coffee in hand. "Remember the two foreign medical students?"

The others laughed, forcing John on to the defensive.

"I've got proof of that–"

"Haven't you lot got anything better to do?" Inspector Wystan asked, walking past the coffee club. "Get on with whatever you were doing before or you can start choosing streets to direct traffic on."

The group broke up and the laughter stopped. Lance went back to his desk and sat down, wondering what his next step should be. He discovered to his surprise, and against all his normal early morning instincts, that he wanted to work. To get to the bottom of what was going on with these Blacks and Whites.

He wrote a report about the previous day's events, which helped him refresh his ideas. He remembered a few of Carol's comments and printed out a list of all the residents of London with the surname Black or White. Then he concentrated on William Black. Nobody was likely to lose his head like that without a motive. But William had no connection with drugs or gambling. His finances were an open book; he was just an employee, without investments or other business interests.

Delving a little deeper into the rest of the family failed to produce anything either. William Black had been abandoned as a baby. The government had found him an adoptive family, and his parents had left the country more than a decade earlier when they were in their late eighties. They might even be dead now.

Getting into the real facts meant going deeper than he'd done so far.

He'd been working since he'd arrived and was already tired, but pleased just the same that he'd put his nose to the grindstone. He decided to wait for Aidan before going any further.

Thinking about his partner made him suddenly nervous, as if some sort of internal alarm had gone off. He looked at his watch and discovered he'd been at his desk for three hours. Where was Aidan? He should have been there by now. He rang his home number. No answer. He rang his mobile. No answer. That only made him more nervous.

"Where's Aidan?" Inspector Wystan demanded to know, walking towards Lance's desk, his big gut shaking under his shirt. "It's one thing not being on time, being this late is something else."

Normally, Wystan forgave Aidan for being late, because the rest of his work was exemplary. His hours were irregular. And he followed leads around the clock. But today was beyond acceptable.

Lance thought he knew why Aidan was late and cursed himself for having forgotten. He undid his collar and rubbed the sweat off his hands.

"What's wrong with you?" Wystan asked.

"I think it's his car. You know what it's like."

"Don't be stupid," Wystan said, leaning on Lance's desk. "Where is he?"

Telling Wystan that about the car had only made things worse. But he couldn't tell the truth. If his hunch was right it was better that Wystan didn't find out. It was the anniversary of Aidan's wife's death. The year before he hadn't been a pretty sight after getting drunk, and he could be anywhere now.

"I'm waiting for your answer, Lance? Where's your partner?"

"Here," Aidan said, walking towards them. "I've just had a coffee. I didn't know you cared so much, Inspector."

Lance couldn't believe his eyes. Aidan was dressed impeccably. He looked as fresh as a daisy, his shirt ironed, which struck Lance as definitely strange.

"A coffee?" Wystan said, surprised. "It's nearly midday. I want to see you two in my office now!"

"Helen Black," the priest said, lifting his eyes to study the face of the radiant bride. "Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

At seven foot tall, Helen was the tallest bride the priest had ever had the honour of marrying. There'd been other tall women, and on one occasion even a professional basketball player, but none had been as tall as Helen Black.

And what made her equally striking was her beauty. She was in a league of her own there. It had been a pleasure to watch her enter the church, her figure, the angel face, her long dark hair, all accentuated by her height.

Watching her approach him down the aisle, the priest had felt the stirrings of the devil in his body, even felt jealous of the bridegroom, a man as tall as she was.

Right now, after a Mass that had lasted an hour and a half, the ceremony was about to end. The bride and bridegroom only had to answer a few simple questions. He'd just asked Helen hers.

"Yes–" she began to answer.

The priest stepped back surprised. The bridegroom groaned and then fell silent. There were whispers in the congregation.

Helen Black had stopped in the middle of her answer as her wedding dress vanished in front of the priest, only to be replaced by one in black. An expression of cold determination on her face replaced the special smile of a minute before.

She turned and retraced her steps out of the church. A few of the congregation thought of trying to stop her, but the long bow on her back discouraged them. The bridegroom stumbled after her, grappling with the shock of seeing her dress change colour and the sight of her from behind carrying the biggest bow he'd ever seen.

The priest, joined by some of the others, abandoned the church, chasing the still unmarried couple. But they all froze when they saw Helen Black draw three arrows from her sheath and shoot them in the crowd's direction.

No one got in her way after that, as everyone ran for cover and she disappeared down an empty street.

"I want to know the truth," Wystan said as they followed him into his office. He looked relaxed but curious, now that he had closed the door on the rest of the detectives. "Is everything OK? Tell me if it isn't."

"Perfect," Aidan Zack said, realizing that Wystan had remembered that this was the anniversary of his wife's death. "I don't expect any special attention. I think the others shouldn't see your special attitude towards me, Inspector."

"Don't be shy because of me," Lance Norwood said, smiling. "If you want to hug each other or something, go ahead. You shouldn't suppress your true feelings."

"I'm glad you're all right, Aidan," Wystan said. "I know we've had our differences, but if there's anything I can do..."

"What's going on, sir?" Aidan asked. "I'm starting to worry about all this attention."

Lance had to agree. This wasn't the Wystan he knew. He never showed interest in anything outside work. There was something going on, another reason behind the concern.

"I think you'd better sit down, Aidan," Inspector Wystan said, supporting the suggestion by pointing at the chair. Lance watched his partner sit down reluctantly, wondering what was coming next. "I've just received news that they're going to release Bradley Kenton earlier than expected."

"When?" Aidan asked coldly.

It was unpleasant news. Kenton was the man who had crashed into Aidan and his wife five years before, pushing their car into the Thames. It wasn't exactly the right day to receive this sort of news.

"Tomorrow," Wystan replied. "I don't know how his lawyer managed it, but they've brought his release forward two months."

"Very well. Anything else, sir?"

Both Wystan and Lance were surprised by Aidan's lack of emotion. It was the second time today that Lance had been worried about Aidan, and both times it had been unnecessary. He decided to pay more attention to what was going on in his partner's head.

"Sir, anything else?" Aidan repeated.

"No, nothing else," Wystan replied. He'd expected a different reaction and waited until Aidan had left the office before he grabbed Lance by the arm. "You mind explaining what's going on with him?"

"I haven't got the foggiest. Maybe he's growing up."

"Keep an eye on him, Lance. Any sign of him losing it or turning violent, bring him here. I'm making you responsible for his actions. Understand?"

"Shit," Lance grumbled. "How can I keep him under control? He's two heads taller than me."

"You heard me," Wystan said, pushing Lance through the door and closing it after him.

It wasn't going to be an easy day. Lance approached Aidan's desk slowly, like a member of the bomb squad approaching a bomb.

"You took all of that pretty well," he said nervously.

"It's something that was coming," Aidan said dismissively. "What's all this? You've been working?"

"Cut the crap. Where've you been this morning?" Lance asked, hoping Aidan would tell him the cemetery.

"I went looking for James White," Aidan explained, blowing Lance's hope to bits. "I didn't like the way he left the hospital the other day,"

"You're kidding. What did he have to say?"

"He wasn't there," Aidan said, frowning at some papers on Lance's desk. "As far as I could find out he didn't go back there after he left the hospital. Seems like he's split and nobody knows where."

Lance wondered how Aidan had got into White's house if there was no one there. But asking that seemed like a stupid question.

"I've been working my butt off here while you went for a stroll."

"Found anything, detective?"

"Of course. I've discounted drugs as the motive in William Black's murder. After all, that's the case we're working on."

"How did you work that out? Did you have any help?"

"You've woken up strange today, Aidan."

"What's this?" Aidan asked, swiping Lance's face with a sheet of paper.

"A list of all the Blacks and Whites in London," he explained, recovering the list. "I don't know what I was thinking about. Seems you've got me believing in your theory."

"Very good. At least you've done something useful," Aidan said, pleased. Lance had no idea what had caught Aidan's attention. "Let's go to the computer. I've got an idea. Carol told me about a James Black and I just saw he's on your list. She's interviewing Dylan Blair today. I'll ring her later. Tell me what you've found out."

"Just a hunch. I went through the list carefully. Separated out those with the same first names," Lance explained, feeling the thrill of the hunt coming back, as he started punching the keyboard. "There's eighteen. I don't know if I'm on to anything but it's sure made the list smaller."

"Where's Alfred? Remember what Carol said yesterday. They found the body of Alfred White last year. He's not on the list."

"That's because there's no Alfred Black. The two names have got to coincide. I've left the rest out."

"Maybe the other Alfred's dead. Include stiffs on your list. Go back ten years."

Muttering to himself, Lance introduced the new criteria into the list but stopped protesting when the new result came up. There were two Alfreds, one Black, and one White. He waited a second for a slap on the back but none came.

"Now there are thirty," he said.

"I want to know how many are dead. We've got to find this James White before there's another one."

"I doubt anything will happen to him. He's the luckiest man in the world. He walked away from an accident that killed forty others. Don't worry about him."

Aidan's mobile rang.

"Yes. How are you, Fletcher? Now...? Ok. We're on our way," Aidan said, hanging up and looking at Lance. "We'll carry on with this later. We've got to see Fletcher straight away."

"We could show up in a few hours," Lance suggested, thinking of the work in front of them and lunch in a while. "Nothing's going to happen if we show up late."

"Let's go," Aidan said, grabbing Lance by the sleeve.

"OK, what's the rush?"

"He's got the results of the blood tests on James White and William Black. There's something odd."

"I hate seeing corpses before lunch," Lance complained, following Aidan out of the station.

# CHAPTER 8

The man had hardly put a foot outside the courthouse door when the cameras began flashing. He covered his face with his hands instinctively, almost frightened, as if they were throwing stones at him.

"Enough!" a woman's voice screamed above the fracas. "It isn't him, you idiots."

The photographers put their cameras down, one after the other, and turned towards the woman.

Carol observed her workmates with an expression of pity. They were so anxious to get the photos that they'd forgotten who they were waiting for.

The stranger mumbled something to himself and continued on his way, sure that he'd never been harassed by so many journalists before.

Carol was calmer than everyone else, waiting for the other man to leave the court. There was no doubt that the case had no precedent, and was going to appear in every newspaper, on every TV and radio station. She'd met better people than Dylan Blair, the object of all this interest. She remembered Lance saying the night before that he had no problem with Dylan, which had surprised Carol because she'd thought the policeman had better judgement. And thinking about Lance, her thoughts were led to Aidan, but she checked them quickly. She was still angry about the way he'd left her the night before.

The photographers got it right the next time as the enormous glass doors opened and Dylan Blair appeared in his typical aura of arrogance. He stopped and opened his arms in a welcoming, almost messianic gesture, while the journalists flocked around him. Cameras flashed and reporters recited their rehearsed questions. Dylan's eyes were protected by designer sunglasses and he waited, smiling. He wasn't in any hurry. He waited until the din subsided.

"Gentlemen, please," he said, feigning irritation, as he stood there with his unruly hair and three-day growth of stubble. He seemed to always look like that. Not exactly what most would expect to see from a multimillionaire. "You know I'm willing to collaborate with you, but if you all ask questions at the same time, I won't understand anything."

The flurry of questions abated.

Dylan Blair had a history of involvement in scandals, but for one reason or another he always spoke to the press. But it wasn't only the respect that his availability engendered that tamed the crowd of journalists. His words, always carefully selected, were not those of an angry pop star, or a politician who'd rehearsed his post-judgement speech. Dylan Blair was different and whatever he chose to say was never boring.

Carol studied him with displeasure. She didn't want to be there. This wasn't the sort of journalism that she aspired to. She wondered if her fellow journalist had feigned illness to get out of it. Either way, it didn't matter. She was stuck where she was.

Dylan continued in the new silence. "Thanks for that. Now, let's have the questions. One after the other, please. If not, I'm off, gentlemen." He paused, pointing to a young-looking man in the front of the pack. "You first."

"Is it true your company has beaten all the predictions and doubled profit in the last twelve months?"

The question was off the mark and sounded as if it had come from a rookie reporter. Everyone knew that Dylan didn't like to talk about his finances. The eccentric millionaire had no qualms talking about his many affairs but he side-stepped anything to do with his business empire. That in itself was just one of Dylan's many contradictions.

He'd only been in the public eye for three and a half years. Before that, he'd been nothing more than an administrative clerk in a brick factory. He'd appeared suddenly in the media after making a fortune in less than two months, buying shares in a business on the verge of bankruptcy. That business merged with another that dominated the industry and the share values increased many times over. A short time later the new millionaire founded his own business. And by the time Dylan Blair had turned forty-two, he was one of the richest, most famous men in London.

Writing about him sold papers. The press started to hunt its new prey, curious about a success that was difficult to believe. There was no record of him having saved money, and as such, it was impossible to explain how he had established his business. The divorce from his wife had decimated what few assets he'd had at the time. Dylan had been in the same job since he'd started at the brick factory, watching others get promoted while he stayed where he was. His situation would have led many to believe that he'd spent what little money he had on anti-depressants. Yet, despite all that, Dylan got his first bundle of cash in the most unexpected way. He had a run of luck at a casino playing roulette, so much so that he'd been asked to leave, and from that moment on, luck didn't desert him in another series of amazing wins and small business speculations, that led to the share market deal which made him his fortune.

It had all been legal without any outside help. Other than luck on his side, that is.

Since becoming a famous millionaire he'd been involved in his fair share of scandals, to the delight of social columnists. He'd been seen nude, drunk, with prostitutes, and involved in practically every form of decadence that big money can buy. The latest incident had brought him to the courts that day and it wasn't the first time it had happened.

However, the reporter had preferred to ask him about his company's profits, which had the rest holding their breath and hoping that Dylan wouldn't refuse to answer any more questions.

"What a mistake I made in choosing you," Dylan said, sarcastically. "But looking at you now I can see you're a fool. If you ask any more questions, my young friend, I'll be forced to leave you and your mates here alone."

Someone dragged the young journalist back into the crowd.

"Have you got the verdict yet?" another asked.

"Well," Dylan explained excitedly, "that's more interesting, don't you think? No, not yet. Or at least, not as far as I know."

"Do you believe you're going to win the case?"

"It seems you are the second idiot this morning," Dylan answered, smiling. "I haven't got a chance in the world of winning this case."

The answer made the crowd laugh and several journalists started firing questions at Dylan at the same time, which had him frowning and putting a hand to one ear as if he couldn't hear.

"Don't you consider yourself a repulsive, vengeful individual for doing what you've done?" a voice demanded to know, yelling above the rest.

A hush came over the crowd as they tried to locate the speaker.

Dylan continued smiling, "At last. Someone with a sense of humour. Who might he be?" he asked, studying the faces before him.

"It was me," Carol answered, pushing her way through the crowd. "I haven't heard your answer yet. Are you going to refuse to answer because you find the question boring?"

"Of course not," he said, coolly. "You don't have to believe me, but I'm not vengeful. I wouldn't know how to prove that to you, so you'll just have to take my word for it. In reference to being repulsive, I would like to point out that it's a subjective term, not everyone is repulsed by the same thing. Although in my case, it seems an adequate description." Another journalist interrupted with a question meant to get them on another tack, but Dylan would have none of it. "No, no. I'm speaking with this young lady. Please, go on."

"At least we agree on one point," Carol informed him. "Do you expect us to believe that this case against your old boss isn't to seek revenge against someone who didn't promote you when you were a nobody?"

"Exactly. You've understood it to perfection. You're an excellent reporter. The rest of the herd here should take a leaf out of your book. "

"You spent twenty years in that company."

"Nineteen and a half."

"Excuse me."

"Excused." Dylan seemed to be enjoying himself as he watched Carol trying not to lose her temper. "Do you feel all right? We can continue this on another occasion, if you don't feel up to it."

She ignored this comment. "In all that time, your boss promoted many employees, several of whom had started working after you did. And that included the colleague your ex-wife left you for. And you're trying to tell us that this ridiculous claim hasn't been made out of revenge?"

"The claim isn't ridiculous," Dylan said, seemingly offended. "But the rest of your assertion is thoroughly correct."

"How can you deny that it isn't ridiculous?"

"It's a claim for damages. He punched me."

"You hit him first."

"He insulted me."

"That is the least important thing in this affair and you know it."

The conversation was turning vicious. Both of them were talking as if they were alone, ignoring the crowd of journalists around them, feverishly writing every word down.

"You caused the punch and the insults. You went to see your old boss with the intention of provoking a fight. Isn't that so?"

"Not at all," Dylan replied. "I only wanted to demonstrate, by giving him a present, what working for him for twenty years meant to me. I only wanted to deliver it with all my respect, but he took it the wrong way, lost his rag. When he insulted me, everything took a turn for the worse and now the judge will have to decide if my claim is justified or not."

"A present?" Carol said horrified. Dylan would have to be the devil himself to classify what he had given his ex-boss as a present. "Is that what you call it, a present?"

"At least that's how I would like it to appear in your articles. Gift would also be acceptable."

Carol couldn't believe what she was hearing, couldn't believe that someone like Dylan Blair really existed. "This is repulsive."

"Think it through," he advised her. "Everyone is aware of my fortune. If I wanted to hurt my ex-boss, I could have bought the company and fired him, for example."

"Just one more question," Carol said, keen to finish up. It was obvious that Dylan wasn't going to talk seriously. But first she wanted to find out the only thing that hadn't been explained about the whole pitiful affair. "Earlier, you said you had no chance of winning the case. You know you're going to lose. Then why go ahead with it?"

Dylan seemed surprised. "Really? You still don't understand, do you? I'm doing this for the millions of people who can't do the same. Those out there, trapped in their jobs, who can't fight back. At least, it will console them to know that someone can."

"In which case you could have just delivered the gift and not gone on with the claim. That way you wouldn't lose," she advised him.

"No, I can see you don't get it." He looked at her with pity. "I'm rich, the cost of the case doesn't matter to me. But tell me, dear, what good does it serve to shit on the table of my old boss, wipe my arse and punch him, if nobody hears about it?"

The memory of previous unpleasant visits made Lance Norwood smell the hostile stench of the mortuary a lot earlier than it actually penetrated his nasal cavity. The atmosphere was always heavy and he felt dizzy as soon as he set foot in that foul site. He'd been there on numerous occasions on police matters, but had managed to keep it to a minimum, delegating the work to others. This time, too, he'd tried to get out of it, but Aidan had sworn that he wouldn't tell him anything about the investigation if he waited in the car. Curiosity had triumphed.

"Did you have to bring him?" Fletcher protested. "I only called you."

"Equally pleased to see you, Fletcher," Lance concurred.

They were in a large room full of metal stretchers with black body bags on top. Each one had a zipper and, to Lance's horror, they were all open. One of the ceiling lights was flickering overhead.

Lance had no idea how anyone could work as a pathologist. It had to be the reason for Fletcher's bad moods. He'd spent half his life in this horrid place sticking his nose into rotting flesh.

"He wouldn't let me come alone. He gets scared without me. Don't worry about him." Aidan Zack stopped looking Lance's way. "Lance, stop being stupid and take that off."

"Not on your life," Lance informed him, hanging on to the face mask that covered his face. "If I breathe any more of this filthy air, I'll finish up as twisted as your old friend here. Keep back!" he yelled as Aidan tried to pull it off.

"Idiot," Aidan said, "frightened by a few little black bags."

"You should've left him in your car," Fletcher suggested. "He'd be more likely to pick up an infection there. I'll try and pretend he's not here."

Fletcher couldn't stomach Lance and had no trouble letting him know it, which didn't surprise Lance too much. No one hated this place as much as he did. Just like no one loved it as much as Fletcher. For him it was a temple.

"Aidan, I've analysed James White's blood, as you asked me to, and compared it with William Black's. Surprising result to say the least," he said, zipping up Black's bag.

"Are they brothers? Or related?"

"More than that," the pathologist answered. "They're identical."

"You mean they're twins?"

"No. Absolutely identical. More than twins are. Their DNA is an exact copy."

"Maybe Aidan's a bit thick," Lance said, his voice muffled under the face mask. "But I know twins have the same DNA. They come from the same egg, don't they?"

Fletcher complimented him. "Very good, expert. Then, you'd know that twins aren't identical, wouldn't you? There are many factors involved in their development. And as adults there are several differences."

"But their DNA is still the same," Lance insisted.

"Not like you're imagining it to be. If you close the mouth under that mask, I'll explain it to you."

Aidan looked angrily at Lance.

Fletcher continued. "The DNA of twins is the same, just as Doctor Lance Norwood informed us. But their chemical characteristics are different. It's one of the reasons that, for example, the fingerprints of twins are different. But that's not the case here. Everything, I repeat everything, is exactly the same. I did the test twice just to make sure. Genetically, it's impossible to separate them."

Aidan was intrigued. "How is that possible?"

"I haven't got the least idea. It's without precedent and, as far as I know, impossible. They're totally identical to such a point that I can't even explain why the eyes and hair are a different colour. After studying William's head in detail, I was inclined to think that if this James is the true owner of the DNA that I've studied, he would have to exist in William's body. He must have dyed his hair and be wearing contact lenses."

"The hair didn't look dyed," Aidan recalled. "It looked natural enough, but then again I didn't pay that much attention to it. Let's go through this step by step. If I understand this correctly, these two dwarves are genetically identical. A fact which you maintain is impossible. Is that right?"

"Correct," Fletcher confirmed. "It's like they were two toys made by the same manufacturer."

"There must be an explanation," Aidan said. "Could they be clones?"

"We've got the same problem there," the pathologist explained. "If we take your DNA and clone you, we'd start from the same point. But the clone would grow up in a different environment. His genes would be the same, but there would be chemical distinctions. Never mind that when he gets to your age, you'd be ninety years old."

"Take your speculative marks. Ready, set..." Lance interrupted, not to be left out. "Has someone invented a method so that the clone would grow instantly to the same age as the man cloned?"

"Considering that argument," Fletcher said. "The clone's mind wouldn't develop. It wouldn't have experiences. It would be like creating someone with an amnesia that we've never seen before. He wouldn't be developed emotionally either. He wouldn't know how to talk."

"Then the only explanation that makes this work is that someone has copied another person in every aspect. Mentally, physically, emotionally," Aidan said. "Somebody has developed a method of making exact copies of a human being. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"It's completely absurd, but I can't find any other way of justifying the DNA results, unless you can think of anything better."

Silence consumed them, as they tried to assimilate the impossible conclusions involved.

Lance had nothing to offer, and neither did Aidan. It was hard enough to swallow that someone had invented a human photocopying machine, without them having their names changed so that they could start fighting. A simple look at the pathologist was enough to verify that he couldn't believe it either. But there was no other way of explaining it.

"Perhaps there's another explanation," Lance said, breaking the silence. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Fletcher, seeing as I haven't studied genetics, but could the samples be identical because you used the same sample twice?"

Fletcher's face twisted on hearing the comment. Lance went on. "No problem, we all make mistakes. I understand, old man. At your age, the neurons are fewer and further between, never mind this filthy air that you've been breathing in for more than twenty years. Really, it's lucky that–"

"Shut up, Lance!" Aidan yelled.

Fletcher exploded, spitting insults at Lance. It took Aidan several minutes to calm him down. Lance, on the other hand, looked satisfied. He'd touched the old man's nerve.

"I need to think," Aidan said. "There must be a logical explanation and I have yet to find it."

"To tell you the truth, I can't think of one," Lance advised him.

"We already know that, dumbo," Fletcher said. "I don't know how the delinquency rate hasn't gone up with you out there patrolling the streets."

"Enough," Aidan snapped, the telephone interrupting his fury. "Yes... We're there now. But we're working on a case... Give it to someone else... check with the Inspector. He'll confirm we're busy. Wait... wait a minute. Who is it...? His name doesn't mean anything. What's his surname? OK, we'll look into it," Aidan said, hanging up. The others looked at him. "We're going to the floor above. They've just brought Earl White's body in."

# CHAPTER 9

"This is a disgrace," James White cursed, kicking the traffic light, which he regretted straight away as a shot of pain ran up his leg. The kick had been too hard and he was angry with himself for not checking his fury. He began to curse some more and limped towards a shop window and slumped against it. The pedestrians gave the madman a wide berth as he sat down on the ground and ran his hand through his blond hair, staring across the street. Luck hadn't been on his side lately, and now it was interfering with one of his basic pleasures. He gave the problem some thought for a few seconds as the pain left his bruised foot and a solution came to him.

His blue eyes flashed. He got up and took a parking ticket off the windscreen of a car. He ripped a scrap off the printed paper and scribbled a few lines, then began studying the crowd of pedestrians filing down the street. He studied their faces, like a hunter would his prey, and soon saw someone who pleased him.

"Hey, you!" he called out, approaching a youth who looked like a student, waiting to cross at the lights. "I want to talk to you, man. Hey, don't look like that."

The student was confused. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I want to ask you a favour. Nothing complicated at this time of the day."

The young man frowned, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and turned round, ready to cross the street.

"It'll only take two minutes of your time and I'll pay you for it," James informed him.

The mention of money made him follow James a few paces along the pavement. "What is it?"

"It couldn't be any simpler. See that shop over there," James said, pointing across the street. "I want you to go–"

"I don't understand. What's this all about?"

"I can't go over there myself, that's all," James White said, thinking that he would've liked nothing more than to cross the street in person, instead of putting his trust in this hairy teenager. But what choice did he have? He was trapped in this new world and couldn't break free. He'd already had to give up the rendezvous with his dream nurse and couldn't brook any more disappointments, at least not today. But he couldn't explain that to the student, couldn't explain it to anyone, really. Quite frankly, he'd had enough.

"And why can't you cross over?" the youth asked, starting to find the whole thing ridiculous. "I can help you across if that's your problem."

"Very funny, friend. Listen, I want you to take this across," he explained, giving him the scrap of paper.

The youth read it and his eyebrows arched.

"I'll pay you well," James White told him, pulling a wad of notes out of his pocket.

"Do you need three? Isn't one enough?"

"Still, the jokes keep coming. OK, I like you," he said, taking a few of the notes out of the wad and putting them in the student's hand. "There's enough there to buy them. Bring them back here and I'll give you a good tip. If you hurry up, I might even give you a bonus."

"OK, weirdo. I'll be back to see how generous you really are."

"Good decision. I'll wait for you in that park there, on the bench seat."

As soon as the stretcher hit the ground, someone pushed it hard to one side. The ambulance driver spun around to confront the aggressor without having seen who had pushed it away. His jaw dropped when he saw the two metres of unfriendly bone and muscle in front of him.

"I'm DI Aidan Zack. I'm taking charge of the body," Aidan informed the ambulance driver, flashing his badge.

"I can't let you do that," the ambulance driver said. "Only authorized personnel from the mortuary–"

Aidan was looking at the zipper on the bag, not paying the slightest attention to what the driver was saying. His impatience to find out if Earl White looked the same as James and William was burning him up inside. The thought of a knife through the plastic had already shot through his head.

"I'll take over," Fletcher said, joining them with Lance Norwood in tow. Aidan had beaten them to the ambulance with his long strides. "Don't worry about them, they're police."

The driver gave them a dubious glance, but ceded to Fletcher's authority. He shrugged his shoulders and got back into the ambulance.

Lance was excited. "Well, is he the same?"

"I don't know. I can't unzip this bastard of a bag."

"Get out of the way," Fletcher ordered, pushing him aside. "The first thing is to get the body inside."

Aidan wasn't pleased about that.

"Just a quick look then."

Lance felt satisfied with that decision. He took off the oxygen mask. He preferred to examine the body there instead of going into that hell of a place again. Aidan and he bent over the stretcher. Fletcher opened the zip slowly and revealed the face of Earl White. Not knowing why, Lance felt slight disappointment when it became clear that the man under the black plastic didn't look like William at all. The face was much broader, the features were not the same, and the neck and part of the shoulder revealed that the man was much taller and ten times stronger than William. He must have done bodybuilding, a lot of it, Lance thought. He was wearing an elegant white suit.

All of a sudden, Aidan gasped with astonishment. Just when Fletcher was about to close the zip, Aidan stopped him and looked at the body anxiously. Lance looked at his partner, confused. He tried unsuccessfully to guess what had drawn Aidan's attention. He hated that sensation: Aidan knew something he didn't.

"I don't know what you are looking at," Lance said. "But you can be sure he doesn't look like William."

"I know him."

"Could you explain that?" Fletcher asked.

"Well, I don't know him personally." Aidan closed the zip. Fletcher waved his hand and two assistants took the body away. "This man's name is Earl White. OK, last night I met Earl Black."

"You're kidding me," Lance exclaimed. "You've forgotten to have your pills. Or you've mixed them up!"

"Listen, it's true. Carol can confirm it. She was with me when I met him..."

"That reminds me that you haven't told me yet what happened yesterday. I left you with this twenty-eight-year-old stunner. I did the right thing leaving you alone, didn't I?"

"Lance, stop kidding me," Aidan said in a grave tone. Lance grasped the meaning at once and nodded. "Yesterday I was with Carol in a bar. She went to the toilet and suddenly a man appeared there out of the blue. He was identical to the one we just saw, except for the colour of his eyes, hair and suit, which were black. His name was Earl Black. Carol can confirm that. She is a reporter, a friend of ours," he explained to Fletcher.

"The twenty-eight-year-old one?" the pathologist asked.

"What's wrong with the two of you?" Aidan replied in a bad mood. "God, I'm trying to work–"

"It's just hit me," Lance said, snapping his fingers. "This guy, Earl Black, is a goalkeeper. He disappeared from the stadium in the middle of a match, just when the other team was shooting a penalty, and appeared in the bar. I don't know if they lost the match because–"

Judging by the expression on Aidan's face, Fletcher could have bet Lance was in danger of an imminent attack.

"Lance!" Aidan seized his partner by the shoulder and shook him. "What did I tell you about that kind of joke?"

"No, listen to me. There is something important I have to tell you. The chat at the station this morning. John said a goalkeeper vanished in front of a stadium of people during a game yesterday. I made a few jokes about it at the time, but he insisted it really did happen, and just to make sure that I didn't keep up with the jokes, he pointed out that no one could make a story like that up. It was only a third-division match but I checked it out in the local newspaper. The goalkeeper's surname was Black. I'll bet it was the same bloke who appeared in the pub at thirteen minutes past ten."

Aidan considered Lance's strange story. He was capable of inventing almost anything in the name of his perverse humour but, judging by the look on his face, this was no joke. And it was backed up by a newspaper article. No doubt they could find it on the Internet too. It made a weird fit. And then there were the women in the ladies' to reckon with. If Lance was right they were talking about something like teletransportation here. Jesus, what a day.

"You're not going to believe this clown, are you?" Fletcher asked, looking at the doubt on Aidan's face.

"I don't know what to make of all of this," Aidan admitted. "I know when Lance is lying. I believe what he's just said. And as strange as it all is, it seems to fit. What else can we find out to make this a tad clearer? How exactly did the man in this bag die?"

"Another mystery to solve," Fletcher said, reading the report. "They found him on the ground, it says, with three black metal arrows in his body. I'm no archery expert, but I doubt they would've been metal. They'd have been too heavy. It doesn't make any sense."

"Just about as much sense as finding a man with his head severed by a medieval sword does. Unless I'm losing it, everything's connected," Aidan suggested, as his mobile phone rang. "Yes."

"It's Carol."

"Carol, we've got to meet," Aidan said.

"That's why I'm calling. I've just finished with Dylan Blair. We can visit James Black now."

"That'll have to wait," Aidan informed her. "Can you come down to the mortuary?"

"Sure, I'm close. Has anything happened?"

"You're not going to believe this. They've just brought in the body of a double of that giant you bumped into in the ladies' last night. And he's called Earl White."

"I'll see you in five."

"While Carol's on the way, let's check the story out about the football game you were talking about," Aidan suggested to Lance. "The more this business about Blacks and Whites goes on, the more confused I am."

Like a powerful magnet, the breadcrumbs that Peter scattered on the ground attracted two dozen pigeons. Coming here to the park and doing this was one of the few pleasures the eighty-five-year-old still had. He was carrying a bag full of dry bread and, after wandering through the trees and letting his old lungs work a bit, he sat down quietly on his favourite bench seat.

It was a pleasant afternoon, the sun warming the wooden bench and his cold bones, and while he continued lazily to toss bread the pigeons' way, he let his thoughts drift over the better moments of his life.

The peace and calm that had just enveloped him like a warm blanket was suddenly ripped away by a sudden intrusion into his world.

"Stupid idiot," Peter exclaimed. A pair of shoes flew past his nose into the birds. "You could've been more careful."

The old man stiffened, his old eyes wide open and wary as an abusive, smiling stranger sat down beside him.

"Don't take it serious, pops. They're just a few insignificant birds whose only purpose is to go around shitting all day long. Have you checked out the statue in the centre of the park, yet?"

Peter was far from impressed by this newcomer's behaviour. He didn't like seeing the pigeons frightened like that and, even though he knew it wasn't important, he felt his anger rising.

He took a long look at the other man on the seat. He was short, around thirty. His hair was very fair and the shade of his light blue eyes made them appear almost transparent. He was wearing old faded jeans and a pullover way too big for him. His expression was provocative and at the same time indifferent, the curious mix making him look vague. His voice was sure, and created the impression of someone who knows what he is talking about, or at least who thinks he does. Maybe he was just arrogant.

"I don't give a damn about the statue. Why don't you take a hike?"

"You're a grumpy old granddad, aren't you?" the stranger said, leaning back on the bench, seemingly pleased with himself. "Don't worry. I won't be here too long. I only have to wait for a student who's bought a few things."

"And you have to wait here? In this very spot? It's obviously not my day."

"Anything else, pop? How old are you? A hundred?"

"Less than that, you fool," he snapped, moving uncomfortably on the bench, the proximity of his own death not bothering him as much as being near this bum. "I'd like to see how you look when you're my age. I hope young people then won't treat you like you're treating me."

"That won't happen, pops. I'll never make it that far, luckily. I don't want to hang around that long in this stink pot of a world."

The comment made Peter curious to know why someone so young would talk that way.

"The point on which I can agree with you is that you shouldn't hang around here. Leave this place when you like."

"C'mon, pops. Don't be like that. I'm sure my company is breaking the monotony of your life up a bit. It's not every day you get to talk to a street bum like me. Isn't that true?"

The comment pushed the old man's thinking another way. He nodded without knowing why.

"My name's James. James White."

"And what's your problem?" Peter asked, bitten by curiosity. "You look like you've got a self-confidence problem."

"Who me? You've got it wrong, pops. I'm all right with myself. We could say I know too much. You just have to understand me, that's all. I've lived a long life. And finally found out that life stinks."

"Only a fool would think like that. Life's precious and my long experience has led me to–"

"Feed the doves," James White finished the phrase.

Before Peter could reply, a youth appeared. It had to be the student this James had mentioned before.

"I almost missed you," the student said to James. He threw a quick glance at Peter and added: "I didn't know your father was also here. Should I give them to you now?"

"This must be Idiot's Day in the park," Peter lamented.

"Don't worry about him. He's a charming old bastard who's convinced that life is wonderful," James advised the student, drawing a wad of notes out of his pocket. "Here's your bonus."

The student grabbed it, while James White, his eyes sparkling with excitement, took the bag the youth had bought and slowly pulled out, one after the other, three porno movies.

"What do you think about that, old man?" James asked, putting the movies in the form of a fan so that Peter could see all of them. "I can give you one if you wish, to thank you for the nice talk."

"You sent this boy to buy you porn movies?"

"That's correct. I have a problem, you see, I cannot cross this street." James stood up and looked at the other two men. "It was a pleasure, but I have to go now," he said, raising the movies high above his head.

Looking really happy, James walked away through the park. Passing by a flock of pigeons, he carefully went round them, trying not to frighten them away. Then he turned to the two men once again, and made a bow to Peter.

The old man looked at him till he disappeared and thought that the person he had just met was definitely a peculiar one.

# CHAPTER 10

"And you call this a dry-cleaner's?" Kodey yelled, banging on the counter. The owner took a step backwards. He had his share of problems with customers but there was something wild about this man. "I'd call this fuckin' place one big swindle."

"What a rude man, you are," a woman standing at the counter said, not worried about standing up against what she considered unacceptable behaviour. She'd been in this shop many times but had never seen anything like this. Her anger spilled over into a shove in the stranger's back. "You should be ashamed of yourself. In my days young people showed their elders respect. They were much more polite."

Kodey had come back into the dry-cleaner's only a few seconds after leaving it, and gone straight to the counter, cutting in front of the woman. He'd stormed back in, angry and impatient, and had no time to wait for the woman to collect a dress, or a curtain, or whatever.

Now, with the din of her abuse in his ears, he had to do something to shut her up, and concentrate on what had maddened him in the first place, and brought him back in.

"Don't get involved in this, granny," Kodey advised her, blocking another blow, then pushing her back from the counter towards a chair, with a look that meant business. "It's between me and the owner, so you keep out of it. Have you got that clear?"

She nodded, sitting down on the chair. He released the woman's wrist and approached the owner.

"Come here!" Kodey ordered, arriving at the counter.

"Is there a problem?" the owner asked meekly, inching forward.

"From where I stand, yes," the man roared, grabbing the dry cleaner by the scruff of the neck and forcing him to look down at the counter. "This is supposed to be a dry-cleaner's, isn't it?"

The owner watched him put a black suit on the counter, not certain what was coming next.

"Then what's this?" the customer demanded to know.

The two men stared down at a tiny yellow spot on the black suit.

"I... I don't know what to say, Mr Black," the owner stuttered, unable to lift his head because of the pressure the man was applying.

"Have you got any idea how important this suit is to me?" Kodey Black demanded, sinking his spare finger repeatedly into the suit jacket. "For you it's just another garment, another piece of material. But this means way more than that to me."

"I didn't know, Mr Black. I'm sorry," the dry cleaner offered, unable to think of anything else to stop the customer's tirade, which only seemed to be getting worse.

Kodey continued, "It's part of my identity and I won't accept it back like this. I paid you to clean it. And clean it you will. Have you got that clear, you old fool?"

"Of course," the dry cleaner replied, in little more than a whisper. "If you could bear with me a second, I'll show you something."

"Well, what is it you want to show me?"

Kodey Black frowned and watched the owner's trembling hand move the plastic bag the suit was wrapped in up and down, and the yellow spot with it. It was a humiliating discovery and even though the thought of apologizing entered Kodey's head, he found himself incapable of doing so. He'd acted like an imbecile and needed to set things straight but couldn't.

He suddenly changed tack, and now nothing else mattered other than his new objective. The dry cleaner and the woman, still on the seat, watched in amazement as Kodey began undressing. In mere seconds he stood before them nude, save for the socks on his feet. The old woman covered her eyes, repeating her previous assertion that people didn't do things like this in her time, while the dry cleaner was speechless.

With careful rapid movements, Kodey perforated the bag and took the elegant black suit out. He dressed quickly and left the shop without saying another word. Once outside, he stopped a little way along the pavement. The dry cleaner and the woman watched his strange movements from behind the shop window.

Kodey arched his back slowly backwards, stretching his right arm. And without seeing where he'd got it from, the dry cleaner saw Kodey produce an iron bar in the form of a V. It was very large and glittered in the sunlight.

The dry cleaner went outside, driven by curiosity, and watched Kodey come out of his strange position, launching himself into a throw that had the huge metal boomerang zoom down the street with astonishing speed. It reached the end of the block and swung right, disappearing into a junction a hundred yards away.

Kodey watched the strange object disappear, and then threw another one, with the same result. The enormous metallic V-shaped object flew through the air but slowed down with a slight variation in its trajectory, which saw it slam into a lamp post, cutting it in half, as it sped on without deviating. Half of the lamp post crashed down into a car, which then slammed into two others.

Kodey Black ran after the boomerangs in his mighty black suit, while the dry cleaner stood in front of the shop in shock, wondering if the lamp post had been the target of the mysterious boomerangs.

As soon as the man in black was out of sight, the dry cleaner went back in, collected Kodey's clothes and began hand washing them with the utmost care.

Lance Norwood went quiet suddenly. It wasn't just that he didn't want to speak, he didn't want to listen either. He needed to disconnect for a while and get a grip on the strange feeling that had invaded him. When he was in the middle of the fiery conversation that he'd just been part of, some part of his brain had been trying to imagine what a casual spectator would make of everything if he'd been listening to the goings on, especially since Carol's arrival. The observer would have concluded, Lance figured, that they were mad and called for an ambulance and had them committed. There was no way they could be sane, talking the way they had.

The theories that they'd been thrashing out had veered so far away from logic that Lance couldn't understand why they hadn't been discounted. He would never have thought that he could take part in a conversation like that without using the artillery of jokes stored away in the filing cabinet of his mind. Nevertheless, he had, and now he couldn't deny the conclusions they'd come to.

While he'd been waiting for Carol they'd checked out the disappearance of Earl Black on several sports websites. When it was clear that the times coincided, the subject of teletransportation began to dominate the conversation. They also considered clones with the same first name and surname, simulating instant changes of location. But accepting that possibility only created more puzzles and more questions without answers. How had the goalkeeper disappeared? How had Earl Black finished up in the ladies'? Lance's tortured mind opted for the easy choice of teletransportation as being the only possible explanation. But believing that posed one big question. How was it possible?

On the one hand, there was the recurring and passionate theme of the clones. Carol, excited and incredulous, had confirmed the dead body as being identical to Earl Black. They spent a long time going over that. Fletcher was convinced that someone had found a way to replicate human beings. He supported his theory with scientific jargon that Lance couldn't follow. Carol was a bundle of emotions on the edge. Everything excited her, which made Lance suspect that she could smell the glory and fame associated with a story like this, and with her being the one to break it. Lance, for his part, was tired of going round in circles and wanted someone to show him what the next step was. Aidan was driving him crazy. His partner was mysteriously serene, his face a study of reflection, as if he was going over all the information in his mind in silence, his eyes flashing determination.

"Well, what appears to be clear," Aidan summarized, "is that there are several of these clones with different surnames. I thought they were all going to be physically like William and James, but after seeing the bodybuilder it's clear I was mistaken."

"Maybe, there are more moulds?" Fletcher suggested. "I mean more people, different to James and Earl who have replicas with the opposite surname."

"It sounds reasonable," Carol agreed. "How many models do you think there are? And how many copies of each one?"

Lance checked her speculation.

"Not many, remember the list. Around thirty. Fifteen White, fifteen Black. And a lot of them are dead."

"Maybe they're making more copies," Fletcher said.

Aidan disagreed. "I don't think so. Even though I don't know the point of all of this, it can't be as easy as making a copy of someone and letting him run wild on the street. They've all got a history. William Black had a job, bank account, was on the payroll, had a house. He was married, which means there's a woman who can tell us at least part of his life. If we replicated another person, we wouldn't have those characteristics. If William Black had a life before he was decapitated, then I'm betting the others did too."

"Show me the list," Carol said. "I'll search the pasts of these clones, or whatever they are."

"So, what do we do now?" Lance wanted to know.

"We'll work it out," Aidan proclaimed. "We'll call on Earl Black. I want to have it out with him."

"What about James Black?" Carol asked.

"Not now. I'd prefer to go after Earl Black. I'd like to hear his version of how he got from the goalposts to the ladies' toilet."

Carol nodded. Lance was happy for any excuse to leave the mortuary. Fletcher had plenty of post-mortem work to keep him busy. He told them he would ring the results through as soon as he had them. He demanded that they kept him informed as well.

They called the station to get Earl Black's address and send a patrol car there to keep the house under surveillance until they got there.

"It's some sort of medieval thing," Lance suggested as Aidan drove away.

Carol was in the back seat watching houses flash past. She wanted to tell Aidan to slow down, but in the end said nothing.

"I'm talking about the weapons," Lance went on. "What's wrong with guns? They've got to be better than bows and arrows."

"It didn't occur to me before," Carol said. "It could be a group of collectors who venerate antique weapons."

"That's something we can ask our friend," Aidan said, changing lanes. "I plan on checking his house and if I find a sword I'm going to get him to explain a few things to us. He won't be going anywhere this time. There's no getting away a second time."

"You couldn't hold him, remember?" Lance chimed in, worried about the change in Aidan's mood. He sounded on the verge of snapping. "What are you going to do? Beat him a bit until he talks?"

Instead of an answer, Aidan watched the road ahead, and stayed out of the exchange of ideas between Lance and Carol. There was no end to the clone theories. Lance included aliens in the list of candidates, while Carol suggested they'd come from a planet where everyone looked the same. To Aidan's surprise and dismay, he couldn't discount any of that, as mad as it seemed. The next thing they'd be searching for flying saucers.

He kept sane behind the wheel, thinking about what he was going to ask Earl Black. He turned into a side street and ran straight into a traffic jam, which only added to his irritation. The new slow progress meant nothing to Carol and Lance, engrossed as they were in the world of infinite possibility.

A little further on the traffic cleared.

"What was that?" Lance asked, hearing a shrill whistle pass overhead.

"Don't know," Aidan said, sticking his head out of the window. "I think some metal object just flew overhead."

"Look!" Carol screamed, pointing ahead at something moving very fast towards them.

They ducked their heads, involuntarily, as the object sped past and scythed through a lamp post, like a knife through butter. Aidan had no time to react as half the post thundered into the bonnet of their car and they swerved into more vehicles parked on the kerb. Glass and twisted chunks of metal were flying everywhere.

Aidan undid the seatbelt, checked to see that the others were all right, and then got out, furious, trying to find out who or what had thrown the strange object. He couldn't see anything. Several bystanders were coming forward to offer help and in the distance he saw a man dressed in a black suit running away. It wasn't William or Earl, but it was one of the Blacks for sure. Everything matched, and he was the only one running in the opposite direction.

Aidan started after him as fast as could. The man in black had a good head start but Aidan wasn't going to let him escape. He concentrated on his legs, willing them to run faster, and as he did he wondered if the man ahead was one of the moulds as Fletcher had suggested and if there were others like him. There had to be a Mr White exactly the same somewhere out there.

He was cutting the distance between them with every stride, and even though there was still a long way to go, Aidan felt he could catch him. It was only a question of time. The man in black turned to the right and took a side street, a decision which pleased Aidan, because he knew there would be less pedestrian traffic there. But just as he turned the corner he slammed into someone coming the other way and lost his balance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man in black running away, as he took two long strides sideways and fell heavily on the pavement. The fall knocked the breath out of him and he took a few seconds to sit up. And when he did, he noticed that he was dizzy and his left knee was throbbing. He shook his head and got his bearings, then looked down the street at the distant figure of the man in black turning another corner. He stood up, and took a few tentative steps but couldn't run any more.

"Look where you're going, you fool," a voice yelled behind him. Aidan didn't pay it any attention. He'd lost the man in black and he could barely contain his fury. "And you haven't even said sorry. Hey! I'm talking to you, you fool."

The stranger kept on insulting him while Aidan looked up and down the street for a car to use.

"It seems the taller you are the more stupid you are." Aidan felt a punch in the back, then a shove, then a heavier punch. "Besides not giving a damn, you're a complete idiot to boot."

Enraged, Aidan spun around and stopped the next insult with a sharp punch in the stranger's eye. The man was driven back by the force of the blow and staggered like a drunk, but managed to stay on his feet. Aidan grabbed him by the neck and punched him in the stomach, which doubled him up, then cocked his fist again as someone jumped on his back, thrashing wildly. Aidan couldn't see who it was so he propelled himself backwards into a car.

"That's enough," Lance screamed out, recovering from the blow. "Leave this bloke alone. You've got to get a grip of yourself."

Aidan's glazed eyes returned to normal. His breathing slowed, and his muscles relaxed. But Lance held on to him a while longer just in case.

"Why don't you let him go, fat man?" a voice said. "You've stopped our little party here. Before you came along, your friend and I were having a good time."

Lance couldn't believe his eyes. The man Aidan had just punched was none other than Dylan Blair. And that wasn't all, he was coming at Aidan with fists clenched. Lance moved between them and stopped Dylan from getting an even bigger beating.

"Forget it, Aidan. It's Dylan Blair."

Aidan studied Dylan carefully. But his rage had passed. His nerves were steady.

"I can see that you know who I am," Dylan said, rubbing his bruised eye. His brow was cut and blood was trickling down his cheek. "Therefore, you'll know what I'm capable of. I'm going to spend a good deal of money on a good lawyer and we're going to crucify you, my lanky friend. You'll learn to regret what's happened here today."

"That won't be necessary," Lance interrupted. "There's been a mistake, that's all. Aidan will apologize."

"Shut up, fat man," Dylan snapped. "This has got nothing to do with you. And as you can see, there are a lot of witnesses. What do you reckon, big boy. Want to go on? C'mon, you piece of shit. I'm ready for you."

Dylan Blair lifted his fists and hunched his shoulders and stepped forward. His eye had swollen some more and now he could barely see out of it.

"I'll testify that you started it," Lance informed him. "Let's just let the whole thing drop."

"Now, I'm really scared," Dylan laughed. "Fatso here is going to give false testimony and sink my legal strategy. What are you two, lovers?"

Things were getting out of control, fast. The comment horrified Lance. It was only a question of time before Aidan snapped again.

"You're a cool customer, big boy. I haven't been able to draw you out. But this grease ball here is your weak point. I'll see the both of you again." Dylan staggered off.

Aidan and Lance went back to the car. Carol had recovered from the knock on the head and couldn't have run anywhere. After checking that she was all right, Aidan sat down on the ground and said nothing. Lance briefed Carol about what had happened with Dylan.

The patrol car called in to let them know that they were at Earl Black's house and no one was there. Lance told them to stay where they were and keep an eye on the house.

"We'll pick up where we finished tomorrow," Aidan said suddenly, getting up. "Anyway, it's nearly night time. I'm off."

"I'll go with you," Lance told him.

"No. You go home to your wife. And you, Carol, go wherever you want. I've got to be alone."

"I understand," Lance said, thinking about his wife. "It's been a hard day and I wouldn't think of leaving her alone all night on the anniversary of..."

"I said I want to be alone," Aidan snapped, as he began walking down the street. The other two watched him walk to the corner, and then disappear.

"As soon as we get home I'll fix it, sweetheart," Peter White assured his wife while he pushed the wheelchair along the street. He looked at the right wheel as they went, trying to see what was causing the irritating metallic creak that had been driving them both crazy. "If necessary, I'll put the whole chair in a barrel of oil to get rid of this noise."

"Don't worry. It's not bothering me as much as it was," Karen lied.

She was happy to be in the chair so he couldn't see her face. If Peter could see how low she was, he would only worry more. And that was the last thing she wanted at the moment. They'd just received some bad news at the fertility clinic and each had to face up to it as best they could.

"Forget about who we've been talking to?" Peter said. Karen knew her husband was forcing himself to sound positive. It was incredible that he could be so strong in a situation like this without breaking down. She couldn't help feeling that she was a load for him to carry, even allowing for his optimism. He never gave in and never complained. "You can't fool me," Peter repeated. "I know this noise is irritating you."

Not knowing what to say, Karen limited herself to a nod of the head. The street was busy, but the people made way for the wheelchair as it slipped along the pavement. Karen couldn't discern the faces of the pedestrians, they were just passing silhouettes. In the chair she was only at waist height to most of them and it required a great effort to look up. It was easier to look at their shoes.

More than three years had passed since the fatal accident that had caused her to lose the use of her legs. Two weeks before that fateful day she'd received the best news of her life: she was pregnant. And that had been something she and Peter had been trying to make happen for a long time. She had run to his office that day to tell him and would never forget the look on his face when he heard the news. He was the proudest man in the world and she the happiest woman. They hugged and kissed for more than an hour.

Her sister had been as happy for them as they were themselves. She'd known how difficult it had been for them. They deserved every bit of the happiness they were now enjoying. She'd wanted to be a part of that, wanted to buy her sister something to celebrate. A cot? Something for the new baby? They had gone shopping, laughing like they hadn't done for years as they got into the car. But they never did get to do that. Never made it to the shopping centre. Halfway there, a drunken driver sped through a red light and crashed into them. Karen's sister died, and she lost the baby and the use of her legs.

In the year following the accident she passed through a deep depression, adapting as best she could to her new life, her new reality in a wheelchair. She discovered another side to her husband which really only confirmed what she already knew, that he was the best man in the world. He'd made her feel that she was everything to him and gave almost everything up; hobbies, friends, sport, in the name of helping her recovery.

Another year passed before Karen tried to get pregnant again. The doctors had confirmed that it was possible and that she was still capable of having babies. Nevertheless, after passing another year without any success, they'd despaired and gone to another expert in artificial insemination. And the news that they'd just been given was more than discouraging. Having a baby was the only thing that kept Karen going. She felt closer to Peter when she thought of them having a baby together. There was a point to all of this. But now?

"I don't remember parking so far away," Peter said. "We should be there shortly. Then home. We can watch a film and have something special to eat. What do you think? You're not saying much. What's wrong, Karen?"

He stopped pushing the wheelchair in the middle of the pavement, and knelt down beside his wife.

"I'm fine," she told him. "It's just that I don't know if I feel like..."

"If it's really a problem, let's change the plan for now," he said, putting his hand in hers. "I can fill the bathtub and spend a heap on aromatic salts. Would you like that?"

"I don't know. I'd prefer to sleep a bit."

"Karen," he said, firmly but tenderly, "tell me what's happening. If you tell me I can work it out. But I can't do that if I'm kept in the dark." He paused. "It's the pregnancy, isn't it? We'll find a way. Don't worry."

"Yes, that's one thing. But I don't want you to leave your job."

Peter was stunned.

"What are you saying? We've already talked about that. You're the only thing that matters to me. Work and–"

But Karen had made up her mind. "It matters to me. If we move so we can get this treatment, you'll lose your job and I'm not going to let that happen."

"Look, don't worry about the money. I'll find another job. It won't be a problem," he assured her firmly. "I know you want a baby and I'm going to do everything possible to give it to you."

"It isn't the money," she swore. "That doesn't bother me. It's all about you. I don't want you to lose the only thing you've got that doesn't involve looking after me. You need something else, Peter. You can't give everything up because of something that was my fault."

"Your fault. What sort of nonsense is that?" Peter said, raising his voice. "It was hardly your fault that a drunk ran into you. So don't tell me that. We've talked about this a million times. None of that was your fault."

"But I feel like it was," she lamented, a tear running down her cheek. "I want you to have your own goal, your own direction. If not, you'll end up hating me."

"That's the most stupid thing you've ever said," he let her know, wiping the tear from her cheek. "Listen, and listen very carefully. You're my goal, my life. Nothing else matters. I didn't want to tell you before. But I've already resigned."

"What did you say?"

"I told my boss two days ago. I sent the letter this morning by fax."

"But why?"

"Because we're going to have this baby and nothing's going to stand in our way," he said, holding her face in his hands. Karen looked at him in amazement. He'd said that with such conviction that it seemed impossible that it wouldn't come true. "And now, if you don't mind," he said, feigning pain in his knees as he stood up, went round his wife and began pushing the wheelchair towards a zebra crossing, "we'll continue this at home. No more arguments. Mr White has just decided to give Mrs White a hot bath."

The thought came to Karen again that Peter was the best man in the world, and she extended her hand behind her to touch his.

Suddenly, something caught her attention and that of the people near her. She looked to the right, following the sound of a shrill whistle and saw something flying fast through the air. It was silver and moved strangely. Karen had the idea that it was revolving around itself as it sped through the sky. She felt suddenly afraid as she watched it deviate in their direction. It closed in on them with surprising speed and crashed into the car next to them, producing a rain of glass on impact. A V-shaped object was buried in the bonnet of the car.

Karen ignored the chaos around her and turned to look at her husband. She was stuck dumb when she saw Peter wearing an elegant white suit that she'd never seen before. The expression on his face had changed from a few minutes before and everybody was getting out of his way. When she saw the crowd's reaction she noticed the long sword in his hand. The white suit was one thing, but the sword? Where had he got that from?

She didn't get a chance to ask him as a new shrill whistle, the same as the first, hushed the crowd. A second boomerang was coming their way, coming her way. She was frozen with fear, but watched it zoom past, just missing her head. Who was throwing these strange metal bars?

A terrifying scream, the sensation of something hot and liquid on her back. She turned around as far as she could and saw her shoulders were covered with blood. Her heart stopped and terror raced through her as she watched her husband's head roll along the pavement.

Shrill trumpets rang in her ears, as the voices around her seemed suddenly distant. She was dizzy. Her senses spun wildly out of control, and all semblance of sanity disappeared as her mind plunged into a vortex of madness.

The last thing she saw with any clarity was a man dressed in an elegant black suit, appearing out of nowhere, retrieving the silver boomerang and then disappearing without saying a word.

# CHAPTER 11

There had already been enough problems for one day and he was perfectly conscious of the fact that the last thing he needed now was in his right hand. Nevertheless, Aidan Zack continued to admire the bottle of whisky.

He could taste the smooth spirit in his throat; a few sips and he'd sink slowly into a world where nothing would matter much. It was selfish and pathetic, but he was tired and perhaps it was better to get drunk alone and keep away from everyone else. The memory of the clash with Dylan Blair didn't make him feel any better. Dylan was full of himself and didn't deserve any respect, but that still didn't justify him snapping like he had. He couldn't hold it in, it had just all come pouring out, and the punches hadn't missed their mark. Where it all would have ended without Lance was anybody's guess. But even so, hours later, there was still some pleasure in reliving the beating he'd given the millionaire.

He wasn't too proud of having Lance pull him off Dylan either. He knew his partner was worried about him. No doubt, rightly so. He could have thanked him afterwards. But he didn't. Just like he could've said something nice to Carol before he'd walked off alone.

The cold of the night hugged him as he stared at a window thirty yards away. A familiar silhouette appeared every few minutes and every time it did he looked back at the bottle.

Letting Jane, his sister-in-law, down again hadn't been too smart. She had no doubt hoped that he would show up at the cemetery. Maybe everyone else knew he wouldn't, and he doubted his father-in-law had missed him. But she would have done. And he owed her a lot. He had felt how important he was to her during their brief meeting at the hospital. He should have gone with her to the cemetery. It was the first thing he should have done this morning, standing beside those who loved him, instead of involving himself in this Black and White hell.

He felt like some sort of social garbage and, as weird as it was, he could live with that dim opinion of himself. In part, because he knew it was true, but more because it steered him away from facing the emptiness that he'd felt since his wife's death. He'd never been able to fill that empty space and every day and every night the effort to rise above it had become more difficult. It was better thinking he was worthless than thinking he was someone living in a vacuum. He took the top off the whisky bottle and lifted it ready to pour into the paper cup in his hand, but stopped. Someone else had appeared at the window.

He put the bottle down and watched Jane hug one of her sons. How long had it been since he'd seen her children? He couldn't remember. They'd visited him practically every day after he'd come out of the coma. And later they'd helped him with his rehabilitation when everyone else thought he'd never walk again. They had always been at his side, urging him on, pushing him to do a little more, and never letting him down. He would probably still be in a wheelchair if it hadn't been for them.

Going over all that again, he threw the whisky bottle through the car window, as hard as he could, and got out and kicked the broken bottle into the gutter as he walked towards Jane's house. He had no idea how he was going to excuse his non-attendance at the cemetery, but at least he had to try.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the figure coming towards him, but the voice snapped him out of his own world.

"DI Aidan Zack?"

He'd just made one of his biggest decisions in the last few years and didn't need someone talking about work. "Who are you?"

"My boss wants to see you," the stranger said, coldly. "He's a very–"

"I couldn't care less who he is," Aidan said, shifting his weight towards the man and slamming a left into his stomach. Before the stranger had time to recover Aidan had him in an armlock. "Very well, clown," he hissed into the stranger's ear, "I want to know who you are. I don't feel very patient tonight."

"My name isn't important," the man said, showing no trace of fear. "It's my boss who–"

"You're right, you idiot. I don't want your first name, I just want your surname."

For a second, Aidan thought he was imagining what was going on. He wasn't at the station or at home. So the man must have been following him. But what unnerved him more than that was that the stranger showed no emotion. No fear. He was in the grip of a large and angry man and he was talking as if nothing had happened. That was strange, really strange. And there were too many things happening without an explanation. It was no good time to take risks.

"My name isn't Black or White, if that's what you want to know."

The answer took Aidan by surprise and underlined the fact that the man didn't have black or blond hair. It was red. What did that mean? There was a new group called Red? But there was no red suit. He was wearing jeans and a jacket.

Aidan heard a sound behind his back. A footstep. He spun round and sent a left crashing into another stranger's face. But two more stepped out of the shadows either side of him. He punched one and kicked the other until someone hit him from behind and he fell to the ground.

"I want to know what the point of paying you so much money is," Dylan Blair asked, holding an ice pack to his swollen right eye. "His name's Aidan Zack, he's a policeman, and he's seven foot tall. I guess that's enough to start with."

"Of... of course," Dylan's lawyer stuttered, surprised by this new demand to sue someone. "But what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to sue him," the millionaire explained, leaning back in his comfortable armchair, putting his feet up on the table. "Search through his past and see if you can come up with some dirt we can use."

"There are cheaper options," the lawyer suggested. "And more discreet. We could send a few boys around to see him and break his legs."

"No. That's not my style. I don't hide behind anonymous bullies. He has to know it's me. I like public disputes. I like using my money to my advantage. Investigate his past. You'll turn something up. Then, I'll put my personal touch on it. I want no physical stuff. Humiliation serves my purpose better."

The lawyer stood up, thinking it through. He charged Dylan a small fortune for his services but he knew that didn't bother the millionaire. All Dylan Blair wanted was that he was available twenty-four hours a day, at his beck and call. That was why he'd had to leave home in the middle of dinner to meet Dylan in his office. He knew his boss well and had followed his good judgement, using his lucrative salary to buy a house only three streets from where Dylan lived. The most important part of his job was to be on time.

The lawyer listened to the story carefully. He didn't have the least idea who the officer was who'd given Dylan the black eye. But he knew that whoever the poor bastard was, he'd made a big mistake. He felt sorry for this Aidan before the whole thing had even started.

"I'll get on to it straight away."

"Good. I've got a game of poker tomorrow and before that, I want to know how I'll handle it," the millionaire said, dismissing the lawyer with a wave of his hand.

The lawyer went to the door but moved aside as two strange individuals entered the room. One was a boy around ten years old, with a smooth, delicate complexion and violet eyes that shone with an incredible force. A great fire seemed to burn under his dark olive skin.

His companion was taller but bent over with age, using a black walking stick. He was very old, with deep wrinkles, but despite that it was difficult to judge his age. His long, grey hair was tied in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back, and his eyes were the same strange violet colour as the child's, but sparkled differently with a look that suggested that they had seen everything imaginable.

There was nothing normal about this pair. It was doubtful that two like beings existed anywhere else on the face of the earth. And apart from the eyes, they were nothing alike. What had brought them here together?

"The key is to take it calmly. After you, Tedd," the child said, holding the door open.

"Very kind of you, Todd," the old man thanked him, edging his way in with the aid of the stick.

The lawyer was so astonished by their appearance that he couldn't say anything. He shot a nervous glance at Dylan but the millionaire just nodded, as if everything was in order, and indicated that the lawyer should leave. His curiosity demanded that he stay, but he couldn't do that. He left the office and closed the door.

"We can spend a pleasant moment in this place, Tedd," Todd said, pulling a chair out for the old man to sit on. "There, you should be comfortable on that."

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Todd," Tedd thanked him, sitting down, resting the walking stick on his legs, looking around.

"What are you two doing here?" Dylan asked. "I believe you're a bit early, aren't you? Like thirty-six years, more or less."

"To see two old friends in his office should be a pleasure for him, one should think. I get the impression, however, that that's not the case, Tedd," Todd said. "Do you think he'll have a chat with us?"

"I imagine he will, Todd," Tedd replied calmly. "Even though our visit is unexpected, I doubt that he'll refuse to talk to us."

The old man smiled and leaned back in the chair while Todd studied the objects in the wall cabinets.

"I'll speak with you," Dylan said, visibly annoyed, "but this is indeed a surprise and I've got other things to attend to."

"The colour of the walls reveals good taste, Tedd," Todd observed. The boy was trying to reach the highest shelf, stretching his arm to the maximum, but couldn't achieve it. "Do you think he would offer us a drink if we asked him to?"

"Sure, Todd," Tedd said. "Our host is very attentive."

Dylan Blair cursed in a low voice. He threw the bag with ice in the wastepaper basket and went to the bar. He took out three glasses and a bottle of the best whisky that could be found in London, according to that crawler of his lawyer. He was starting to feel worried and a good drink might help.

"Would you tell me what is the reason of your visit?" Dylan asked, filling his glass to the brim. "If I remember right, this is one of your favourites."

"One of my favourites, no doubt. Try it, Tedd," Todd insisted, handing a glass to the old man. The boy had poured the prudent amount of two fingers and had tried his own. Dylan had already seen the boy drinking so he wasn't surprised. "An excellent drink deserves our gratitude."

"I agree with you, Todd," Tedd replied after moistening his wrinkled lips with whisky. "Such a drink deserves our gratitude."

"You are welcome," Dylan said, finishing his drink and filling his glass again. "Would the gentlemen like something else before getting to the point?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"Please tell me if I'm wrong, Tedd," Todd said, frowning, "but I have the feeling that you wouldn't like it if Dylan spoke to us with sarcasm."

"That's true. I wouldn't like it," Tedd confirmed. "You know me too well, Todd."

"I am sorry," Dylan complained. "It wasn't my intention to offend you and you know it, but I would really like to know what the purpose of your visit is."

"That's much better. Don't you think so, Tedd?" Todd asked very excited. "If you think it correct, I suggest we reveal the purpose of our visit."

"I don't see why not, Todd." Tedd cleared his throat and turned his walking stick around with his right hand. "I think you are the person who has to explain to our friend that we do not like his latest project."

"I think you are much cleverer with words than I am, Tedd," Todd said, looking at the old man who continued playing with the walking stick. "I think you'd better tell him we don't approve what he's planning to do with Aidan Zack."

"So it's all about that," Dylan said, more to himself that to his guests. He left the glass on the table and passed by Todd, who kept on looking at the old man and didn't make the slightest movement. As if he simply hadn't seen him. "But I don't understand it. Why do you care about what I do with Aidan?"

"You might be right, Todd," Tedd agreed stroking his grey beard and raising his violet eyes to his companion. "But what if he questions our motives when I tell them to him?"

"You must be joking, Tedd," Todd smiled. "Nobody would be so stupid as to demand explanations from you."

Dylan Blair looked nervous. "Excuse me for my impertinence. It won't happen again. You have your reasons for being here. I admit we have a deal. I can do what I want until that date. You asked me not to allow Aidan to catch Kodey and I did that. Now, I'm only looking for a little revenge, that's all. That's not in conflict with our agreement. If I'm not mistaken," he added, just in case there was a misunderstanding.

"The point's clear. And I know our kind host wouldn't like to hide behind the terms of our pact," Tedd said. "But the possibility exists that he has erroneously interpreted what doing what he likes really means. Am I wrong, Todd?"

"Interesting thought, Tedd," Todd said. "Nevertheless, only a fool would jump to the conclusion that he's free to do whatever he wants. That would put us in the position of having to remind him of the exact extent of our agreement."

"I can't believe this," Dylan complained. "Are you telling me that I can't get square with this son of a bitch? Fuck that. I can tell you, I don't like that at all. And on top of everything you're not telling me why."

"I've got the strange feeling, Todd," Tedd said, "that I can't leave until he understands properly."

"I can see you're referring to a confirmation," Todd observed. "What could we do to get one?"

"I understand you perfectly," Dylan said nervously. "I'll forget about Aidan. As far as I'm concerned, from this moment on, he doesn't exist. Is that confirmation enough?"

"I think we've completed our mission, Tedd," Todd said. "I've always trusted in your ability to get your point across."

"That's thanks to you, Todd," Tedd said. "I would like our friend here to know, however, that I feel bad about having interfered with his entertainment."

"Don't worry, Tedd," Todd replied. "He knows perfectly well that we feel aggrieved about spoiling his fun, however subtle our way of doing that has been. Our greatest wish is that he enjoys himself until our appointment many years from now."

"Thanks for that," Dylan said, beginning to doubt everything. Now, at last, they had clarified that it came down to something more exact. For some reason they wanted Aidan left alone, but everything else just went on as before. "I'm pleased that you're in favour of me enjoying myself."

"It's time to go, Todd," Tedd announced. The old man put all his weight on the walking stick and lifted himself up with Todd at his side helping him. "Thank you very much. You're the perfect companion. Will you bid farewell to our kind host?"

"Of course. What sort of a person do you think I am, Tedd?" Todd said, letting the old man spread his weight between the walking stick and his arm.

"It's been a pleasure," Dylan said. "We'll see each other."

The child and the old man walked out of the door. Dylan watched them go and slumped back in the armchair. He poured himself another drink while he considered the fact that neither of the strange pair had looked at him once, nor talked directly to him.

Aidan Zack woke with a splitting headache and half-opened his eyes, staring at a room full of strange and different shapes. His eyes weren't working as they should. He went to rub them but found his hands were tied behind his back.

It all started coming back slowly until he remembered the fight near Jane's house. Cold fury began welling up inside and he swore to himself that he would kill these bastards if they'd laid a finger on Jane or her children.

But first he had to find out where he was and how to escape. He couldn't hear anything and presumed he was alone. He started looking round again and even though he could put no detail into what he saw he knew he was in a very large room with a high ceiling. He tried to move but realized he was still weak and dizzy. He had no idea how long had passed since the blow on the head. But then he heard something coming from the other side of a door. Footsteps and what sounded like wheels, creaking. He closed his eyes and pretended he was still unconscious as the door opened.

"Put me near the wall," an old voice requested.

Aidan calculated there must be at least three people, one of them in a wheelchair.

"Wake him up," the same voice ordered. "I want to talk with him."

Footsteps approached.

"I'm awake," Aidan said, opening his eyes at the very moment a huge man was about to slap him.

"Untie him," the old man said.

Aidan observed that he wasn't in a wheelchair but a bed with wheels. The back was inclined and a bag of saline solution was hanging from an iron support. It dripped through a tube that entered the old man's left hand.

The individual who had been about to bring him round cut the ropes around his wrists, then threw them away and left the room with his companion. Aidan was alone with the mysterious old man.

He stood up and stretched his legs, while the old man studied him in silence. Aidan had no idea who he was, but he remembered being brought here by force. Thinking that made him exercise his arms and legs more. He'd need to be in good condition to escape from here.

He walked around a room that had to be close to sixty square yards while a plan slowly hatched in his head. Two glass doors led to a garden, but they were barred. He did another circuit of the room and studied the only other door. He could make it in two strides and the old weirdo wouldn't be able to raise a finger to stop him. He knew, however, that the two heavies were on the other side, along with how many more he didn't know.

He stopped in front of an enormous painting hanging on one of the walls, rubbing his wrists.

"It's a Picasso," the old man advised him. "It cost me a fortune."

"I hope you enjoy it," Aidan said, sarcastically.

"I can see you're not a lover of art."

"On the contrary," Aidan replied, "this painting has stirred my interest. How many millions would you lose if I walked off with it now?"

"A lot. Do it if it will make you feel any better. I guess that's only fair after the way you were brought here. Besides, you'd be in a better mood to understand what we have to talk about."

Aidan turned towards the old man.

"Are you joking? How would it make me feel any better to destroy a painting like this just to ruffle the feathers of the filthy rich, when there's so much poverty out there?"

"Because it would clear up an important point," the old man advised him. "That money is less important than this conversation. And you and I have to speak about things that are much more transcendental."

"The first of which would have to be why I was dragged here in the first place?" Aidan said, approaching the bed. "I'm dangerously close to you, old man, and I don't know if I can stop myself ripping this saline solution off and sticking it in your mouth before you can scream for help."

"We'll clear things up right now," the old man promised. "However, it's complicated. I would like to apologize first. I would have preferred to have had this chat under different circumstances. But time didn't permit that. I'd like to introduce myself. My name's Wilfred Gord, and I'm a rich man..."

"...Dying from cancer," Aidan finished the sentence.

The detective knew something about Gord. He'd read about his business empire, a self-made millionaire, a normal person who'd made good. There were no scandals in his past and he had been unaccustomed to being interviewed by the media. His illness had been reported, however, when it became known a few months before. If Aidan had it right, Wilfred was now in the terminal stage of the illness. What could he possibly want with him under the circumstances?

"Exactly," Wilfred confirmed. "I'm pleased that you know me. Therefore, there's no need to finish my personal introduction. I've had you brought here because I need your help."

"Has the cancer affected your brain?" Aidan asked, his curiosity aroused. "You kidnap me, and now you ask for my help? It doesn't stack up, grandad. You must have rocks in your brain to want to be alone with me. Very well then, what do you want?"

"I hope you can help free me of this cancer. It'll finish me if I don't do something quick. What else could I possibly want in this situation?"

"Naturally. What was I thinking? Don't worry. I'm here to save you. I'll just go and wash my hands and then I'll be straight back and put the touch of the Medicine Man on your shoulders."

Convinced that old Wilfred had lost the plot, Aidan began walking slowly to the door. Anything was possible in this house. Maybe there was no one on the other side of the door.

"I wouldn't go out that door if I was you," Wilfred warned him. "They won't do anything if you don't turn violent. But they won't let you go either."

"Do you mind telling me what you want," Aidan shouted. "I'm thinking of twisting your neck until your heavies let me leave."

"That's one option. I wouldn't lose anything by doing that. I'd die better than by cancer. I've left myself defenceless in this room with you because I'm going to die anyway."

"But what do you want me to do?" Aidan demanded, with a stab of desperation in his voice. It seemed he was locked up with an old madman who had mistaken him for a wizard with magical powers. "Do you seriously believe I can help you?"

"No, not on your own," Wilfred answered bluntly. "But you can find the way. I didn't expect you to be so sceptical after having lived the way you have."

This sentence reminded Aidan of something one of the heavies had said: _I'm not a Black or White_ , as if he had understood what that meant. And given that Wilfred was talking in the same enigmatic way, the only thing that occurred to him was that the old man had heard about James White's miraculous escape from the fatal accident, and that James and Aidan himself were the carriers of some secret cure.

"Give me something," Aidan said. "What is it about the way I've lived that makes you think I'm capable of beating terminal cancer?"

"Your accident," Wilfred said.

That wasn't exactly the answer Aidan was expecting. His muscles tensed involuntarily.

"I don't want to be rude. But I know today is the anniversary of your wife's death. I've been investigating the matter."

"Why?" Aidan asked him.

"Because it plays an essential role in all of this," Wilfred clarified. "Think about it. You survived the accident with your spine broken in three places. You had internal bleeding and many more complications. You not only survived but you've made a complete recovery without any setbacks. Your health's perfect now and no one can adequately explain it. Do you think all of that's because you have some mysterious genetic make-up that has regenerated your body on its own?"

Aidan was frozen by the old man's words. The sentences had rolled out in logical sequence. On listening to the story of his own amazing recovery, he felt dumb in not having arrived at the same conclusion. Nevertheless, it was absurd. He was a normal person, save for the fact that normal people don't recover from those horrific injuries. So what did that mean? Was this old dying man right? He quickly ran over his recovery after waking up from the coma in his mind.

Just his regaining consciousness at all had amazed the doctors. They had explained to him that comas are unpredictable, but at the same time they were convinced that his would last months longer. Then, he had to confront the reality of not being able to walk. But after regaining the use of his arms, and months of exercise, he felt movement in his left foot for the first time and the doctors were forced to apologize when he began walking three months later.

His recovery became the subject of much attention. Doctors from far and wide came to see him. And it was then that he had his first brush with society. Nobody could understand why he was still sad and depressed. According to everyone, he should have been happy to have the use of his legs again. But his wife was dead, nothing could change that, and he hadn't even gone to the funeral. He would have swapped his recovery for her still being alive.

His first clash with the media came during a rehabilitation session. He exploded and told everyone to go to hell. The doctors begged him to let others study his case in the hope that they could learn from his experience. He agreed to give them blood samples, tissue samples and anything else they wanted during a week but after that he didn't oblige them again. And, as far as he knew, nothing was ever discovered about why he had recovered.

It seemed incredible that what medicine hadn't been able to clarify for years had just been explained by Wilfred. There was no other explanation. Or was there? An idea entered his head. And he felt a stab of panic in the pit of his stomach.

"The Blacks and Whites," he said, suddenly, "what do you know about them?"

"What do you mean?" Wilfred asked.

"They're identical, as if they're clones."

"Yes, I see. I think you're starting to understand the reason for the worry I see on your face," Wilfred said, his face lighting up with surprise. "You can see your recovery wasn't just by chance."

"I want to know the truth," Aidan shouted, losing control. The conclusion that he'd arrived at was frightening. He'd never thought he could feel fear this way. It was critical to verify whether he'd guessed right. "I... I believe that I know how I survived and recovered. I'm a clone of the real Aidan Zack. Somehow I was replicated with a new spine. Am I right?"

# CHAPTER 12

"I sincerely believe we can discount the double personality without running any risk," Doctor Stark concluded, solemnly.

Tilting his head slightly, he studied the obvious concern on the face of the man in front of him. The doctor was having a bad year. He'd lost three patients so far, and that already equalled last year's losses. His small psychiatry practice was having a hard time and that made him mad. It was clear that there were still as many problems out there as there had been before, but it seemed people were working their problems out some other way, or simply had found another psychiatrist. Either way, he took every interview seriously these days.

"Are you sure, doctor?" the bundle of nerves in front of him asked. "I repeat, I'm not violent, even though I've killed several people."

"Calm down, Allan," Stark said, with a reassuring wave of the hand. "I've treated cases of double personality before and the first thing that I notice is that the patient isn't usually conscious of having two personalities."

The doctor leaned back in his comfortable armchair and smiled as if this explanation was enough to dismiss any doubt that Allan had about having a multiple personality disorder.

"This... this means I'm a killer then," Allan stammered, rubbing his hands together nervously. The sweat on his forehead was dripping down his face as his body rocked back and forward on the chair.

"None of that," the psychiatrist assured him, noting Allan's precarious state. "There are many options that we can consider. And this is what we are going to do."

In good years he wouldn't have received anyone at ten o'clock at night. He would have politely requested them to come back in the morning and make an appointment for later that week. But these days things were different. And he'd told Allan to come around, even though he would normally have been smoking a pipe and thinking about the meaning of life at this hour.

When Allan came through the door, Stark felt like he'd caught a barracuda, one that would keep him fed for the next few months. But after taking a closer look at him and listening to his first dozen sentences his hopes had plummeted. He just looked like any old normal person suffering from depression, nothing to get too excited about. But he soon found out that his second impression was wrong. What had he been doing doubting first impressions?

There was no doubt that Allan was a mad as a hatter. He could see long sessions stretched out over months treating his mental disorder.

"But I... I don't know. I promise you that some sort of... I don't know. Something... Something is possessing me."

"You told me that sometimes you have an impulse to change homes. Isn't that right?" the psychiatrist paused. "And that you've always participated in these violent encounters dressed in an elegant suit that you don't remember having bought."

Allan nodded as he listened to Stark recount the details. The psychiatrist had no idea what Allan was suffering from, but it was very original, whatever it was, and would require long treatment without any doubt.

"But you say that you don't hear voices in your head. Or have any type of hallucination."

"I'm not sure," Allan hesitated. "I've seen things that are difficult to believe. But I don't know if they're hallucinations. They seem too real."

"An example, please," Stark requested.

"On one occasion, a tall woman shot several arrows at me. Fortunately, they missed. A year and a half before that, a bloke who looked exactly like me except for his hair colour and eyes attacked me with a lance."

"And you killed him," Stark said. "You've already told me that part. Your attacker was wearing a black suit. And you one the same colour as your surname."

"Yes, that's it," Allan said, excitedly, his hands trembling, his voice fading away. "It was in self-defence. He was going to kill me. I hadn't done anything. I've never hurt anyone my whole life. God forgive me. I stuck a lance into his chest and he died there and then and I began to live in his house–"

"There, there. Everything's all right now," Stark comforted him, so that he wouldn't break down completely. He went to a small cabinet on the wall, took out a couple of tranquillizers and offered them to Allan with a glass of water. "We'll see how we can work this out together. Take these pills. They'll help you relax." He watched Allan swallow them. "Excellent. I've got a gap in my timetable tomorrow. Come and see me early and we'll start the therapy."

"But what if I kill someone else?" the new patient asked, walking with the psychiatrist to the door.

"Don't worry about that. The pills will help you sleep and tomorrow we'll start working on the problem. You've got to trust me."

"Thanks, doctor. Until tomorrow," Allan stammered, as he stumbled out into the dark.

"You don't have to thank me. Look after yourself," Stark called after him, thanking his good luck for having brought Allan White to him.

Wilfred Gord waited a few seconds before he reacted to Aidan's suggestion. He wasn't batting an eyelid, his hands weren't trembling. He was so still, in fact, that Aidan thought for an instant that he'd died there and then, in front of him, and that gave him a strange sensation. A short while before, when he'd come round and discovered his hands tied, he'd fancied the idea of killing the old invalid in his bed as payback for having him kidnapped. But now, after having talked with the old man, he wasn't just intrigued, he was desperate to hear everything that Wilfred knew about the Blacks and Whites and, more importantly, about him.

"No, you're mistaken," Wilfred said finally. "You're nobody's clone. There's only one Aidan Zack, and that's you."

Aidan Zack ignored his fear.

"Are you sure? It would explain my recovery well enough."

"It's a great flight of your imagination," Wilfred complimented him. "You must have a special type of intelligence to accept a conclusion like that. It could have served us very well, later on. But no, it's not the truth. Your name, for example, is Aidan. And none of the clones are anything like you."

"Who are they? You know, don't you?"

"Unfortunately not," Wilfred confessed. "I've carried out an investigation and although I haven't had much time, I've found out quite a lot."

"Why are they fighting? And why are they using these strange weapons?"

"I still haven't got those answers. I'm counting on your help to find that out. We know they're organized in two gangs and they're killing each other–"

"No kidding," Aidan said, cutting in. "I'll bet one of those gangs is called White and the other Black. Am I right? If that's all you've found out it doesn't surprise me that you need me."

"They use medieval weapons," Wilfred continued, unruffled, "and one of the most curious details in the whole affair is that none of them have any family."

"William Black was married," Aidan corrected him.

"Blood family, I mean. None of them had brothers or sisters. They're all orphans. They've got that in common, apart from the strange coincidence of their names."

"No children?"

"No. They're sterile. We've analysed the small amount of medical information available, and some of them have tried to have children in every way possible and got nowhere. Only one of them had a child, which surprised us, but when we analysed the DNA, we found that his wife had been cheating on him and got pregnant by a lover."

Aidan thought it through.

"That's weird. Trying to have children and not knowing they're sterile."

"They are. Believe me. But if that isn't enough, there's something to top it. Their lives are invented."

"What?"

"It's all false. I've spent a fortune on this investigation, not only of them, but of anyone connected to them. The results are staggering. Nobody has seen any one of them before five years ago. Their friends, wives, husbands, lovers, have all surfaced since then."

"You mean there's not a trace of them before then? Their studies, for example. And if they were orphans there'd be a heap of information about that. Adoption certificates, adoptive parents, etc. What have you found out about their bank accounts, financial transactions? There's always something."

"Nothing. Absolutely, zero. Nothing going back more than five years. If you talk to them, naturally they mention their childhood, their teenage years, as if everything was totally normal. But if you check it out, you come to realize that it's a whole lot of crap. My theory is that the memories are implanted. They really believe that they've lived those lives."

Aidan was getting more confused. He should have been getting somewhere with all of this, but to the contrary, he was going backwards. Even with the new facts, the possibility of a logical explanation seemed further away than ever.

But he felt a lot better about himself knowing that he really was Aidan Zack, and unlike this circus of clones, had a verifiable past and parents who loved him. He felt a sudden impulse to be with them now. He hadn't seen them for more than a year.

"Let's look for an explanation closer to reality, otherwise I'll go mad," he despaired. "Perhaps, they lived those lives and someone's deleted the records. It'd be easier to do that than implant false memories. As far as I know that's still not possible."

"It's obvious that we have to question what is and what isn't possible," Wilfred suggested, "with the facts as they stand."

"Tell me something. Do you know how many different models there are?" Aidan asked. "I've identified three, although I haven't seen replicas of one of them, a bloke who disappeared down a street after I crashed into someone else while I was chasing him."

"There are four men and a woman. They've all been copied, although their numbers differ. The most typical model is William Black. James White is like him. There are at least ten of these blokes running around. Or to put it better, there were ten."

"What about the bodybuilder?" Aidan enquired.

"There's four. You've already seen Earl White at the mortuary. Helen Black killed him after fleeing her wedding ceremony. There's only one more of that model left, Earl Black. Jack Black and Jack White were killed a few years back. You can get more on that down at the police station if you don't believe me."

It had been a while since Aidan had doubted what Wilfred said. It was possible that he could be mistaken, but it didn't come down to lies. He believed what he was saying. And maybe it was because of that, that Aidan felt everything seemed so absurd, so unreal.

Thinking about Earl Black was like taking a leap into the great unknown. He excited Aidan's curiosity more than most.

"Have you discovered anything to do with teletransportation?" Aidan asked, as if the question was normal.

"I beg your pardon? Did I hear you correctly?" Wilfred said, leaning forward as if to hear better. "No, nothing. But I'm intrigued. What made you bring that up?"

Aidan told him about Earl Black's sudden appearance in the ladies' toilet after failing to stop a penalty kick in a football game the other side of town. He told him about witnesses in both locations and then watched Wilfred go through the details like Fletcher had that morning, working his way back to nothing.

"It's very complicated, I'm afraid," Aidan complained. "It doesn't make sense."

"We've got to keep at it and not give up," Wilfred said defiantly. "It doesn't stack up as the sort of thing you could work out in a couple of hours of idle chat."

"You seem to be taking this all in your stride, Wilfred. Personally, it's driving me crazy. If I was any one of these clones, I'd keep my name to myself. I wouldn't just live a normal life, waiting for one of these bastards to cut my head off. The same goes the other way round. I can find them too easily."

"I've already thought the same thing," Wilfred admitted. "One theory I've got is that they act the way they do for one of two reasons. The fact is they don't know they're part of any gang."

"What? That's crazy. If someone's trying to kill me with a sword or shoot an arrow into my heart he has to know why he's doing it. And I'd have to know too."

Wilfred went on.

"I don't believe that they know that they've got a double out there, wearing another colour, running around killing people. It's like their past lives, they think they're normal. They simply don't know. That's why they want to have children. The whole deal changes when they run into one of the others and the penny drops."

"I must admit that explains why they are so careless, though it sounds a little incredible," Aidan said in a low voice. He was trying to assimilate all the information he had just received. He felt desperate about being unable to make conclusions on a logical basis. "You have overwhelmed me with mystery. I just need to know a couple of details more. Why did you get involved in all this? How did you get to know about me, and about the Blacks and the Whites?"

"My father told me," was the dry answer.

"Your father is alive?" Aidan asked. He would never have thought it could be possible, considering Wilfred's age.

"Alive and in a top form. He is twenty years old."

"It was silly of me to ask," Aidan complained, suppressing an impulse to make Wilfred repeat his last words. "Why don't we ask him what is the secret of his miraculous top form?"

"I understand your distrust," Wilfred assured him with the expression of a person who had had the same experience. "It was difficult for me to accept that my father is fifty years my junior, but it is true."

Wilfred told Aidan how he had met his father three months ago. The same day he had received confirmation that his life would soon be over and that his cancer was in an advanced state. Then Ethan Gord appeared out of the blue and told him what anyone who didn't know his father would love to hear. The news was difficult to accept. However, Ethan mentioned a great number of details about Wilfred's mother and past. Ethan had never known that this one-night-stand girl had had a child. When he came to know he had a son, he was already involved in the mystery they were talking about and he couldn't reveal details about it. He had taken the risk only in order to help Wilfred be cured.

Aidan listened carefully without missing a single detail. He couldn't stop his face revealing some distrust and anger. He was sure the old man was taking his own words as truth, and worst of all, he trusted him.

"If I understood it right," Aidan said, "your father found a method to cure any disease and remain young. He might have discovered the Holy Grail. And, since you are dying, he decided to help by putting you on the track of those Black and White guys who fight with medieval arms, and he told you to look for me. He didn't say anything more because he had to keep the secret, otherwise he's facing a great danger. Am I leaving something out?"

"I can understand that sarcasm might help you to accept it," Wilfred said in a serious voice. "Otherwise it is quite a decent summary. You should realize it isn't just an ordinary case like the ones you are used to."

"I am already thinking that I'll never understand it."

"That's a good start. I'd like you to free yourself from prejudice and open your mind. I haven't told you the worst yet."

"What else have you got?" Aidan asked, exhausted. "It can't be any crazier than what you've just told me."

"Your link to all of this. That's something I don't think you'll want to hear."

The comment broke his exhaustion. "Tell me."

"All of this had a beginning. Like I told you their lives before that moment were false, but from then on they're not. The curious thing is that everything we know about them begins from the exact same date."

"You've lost me. Which facts are you talking about and what's it all got to do with me?"

"Patience," Wilfred advised him. "Their first bank account, first home, that's what I mean by facts. All that stems from the same moment for all of them."

"That's weird."

"It's the same day Big Ben broke down. The chiming went crazy, the needles spun out of control. The clock stopped for a day. All of that was very strange. The clock still doesn't work like it used to, ever since that date, and no one knows why."

"It's strange. But not that strange."

"No? It happened exactly five years ago, on this same day. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Doesn't today mean something to you?"

Aidan clenched his fists. "It's the day of the accident," he said, remembering the car hitting the water. "Are you sure about this?"

"I wouldn't say it if I wasn't sure. I'm sorry."

"But this means my wife's death is involved in all of this. It can't be. Why?" he shouted, standing up and throwing the chair into the wall. The door swung open and the two bodyguards rushed in, their guns drawn, only to see Aidan smash the chair to splinters on the floor. Wilfred gestured for them to go back out. "I want to clear this up now."

"Listen," Wilfred said. "We're in the same boat. We've both got our reasons for getting to the bottom of this. We've got to work together."

"Why not? I could use your help."

"Sure," Wilfred agreed. "Whatever you need. You could do with a new car for starters. You'll have it when you leave. And I suggest you see James White first. I've got his address. I know you couldn't locate him this morning."

"How do you know where he is? Anyway I've got something else to do first."

"One of my men has been following James White since he left hospital. I insist that that's your next move. Leave your wife's death to later. Perhaps, it was you they wanted to kill in the first place."

"Or both," Aidan thought aloud. "Can I count on your support?"

"Of course. I've told you we both want the same thing."

"Ok, this is what we're going to do," Aidan said. "Tomorrow I'll go and see James White and find out what he knows. I want your men to follow Bradley Kenton. I want him followed from the moment he sets foot outside the jail, and I want to know when he's alone."

"That's not a good idea," Wilfred said.

"That's not negotiable," Aidan advised him. "If you want my help, that's what I want you to do. If not, go to hell."

# CHAPTER 13

What happened earlier that morning had confirmed Phillip's belief that marriage is archaic and unnatural and impossible to extract anything positive from.

"It seems that you like contradicting me," Ann protested, staring at her husband with hatred in her eyes. "You can't do anything for me without complaining."

Her husband, Colin, rubbed his forehead.

"What are you talking about? You're the one who always does what she wants. You're used to getting your own way. Whenever I give my opinion..."

The loving couple had revealed to Phillip every detail of a marriage that was barely three years old, and after several minutes he couldn't understand why they weren't already divorced. Their ability to convert the smallest issue in the marriage into a major dispute was extraordinary. They were the first clients of the day and he was hardly awake. He'd offered them his best smile when they'd walked through the door, but he hadn't even turned the computer on or had a cup of coffee. Now, he regretted not having sneaked out by the rear door and left the two of them alone to fight it out.

They continued arguing as if he wasn't there while he watched them fearfully. It wasn't easy to determine who was ahead on points. Maybe the wife. Her aggressive body language and the fire in her eyes, burning into her husband's reddening face, stamped her as the eventual winner. But there was still some fight left in Colin, at least for now.

"You've been on at me for three years," he argued, "making all the decisions. But I won't give in on this."

"So, it's my fault that you're incapable of making rational decisions. The only thing that interests you is watching football. And the only worry you've got is, _who's playing tonight?_ " she said, imitating his voice.

"That's got nothing to do with it. Leave football out of it. Loosen up a bit, because this bloke here must be sick of listening to you."

"Are you a complete fool? I've already explained that football's got nothing to do with this. When we go shopping for something connected with that damned sport, I let you do the buying. You should be grateful for that." She turned to look at Phillip pushing the papers with the two offers across the desk. "Can you give us a sincere answer and tell us what you really think? I think he'd appreciate you telling him that only someone without a brain could make a choice like his."

They both waited, expecting the salesman to tip the balance one way or the other. But he was scared of doing that, terrified almost of stepping into the melee. Her question had caught him by surprise.

"Well I... I..." he stuttered. "It's certain that the choice of a house is very personal. I could advise..."

"You've put him under pressure on purpose," Colin accused her. "And that doesn't surprise me too much, because having to face a tigress like you, this poor devil here won't dare say anything because he's scared you'll flatten him."

"Nothing of the sort, fool," Ann went to slap him but he ducked. Seeing that, Phillip imagined that the husband's reflexes had had plenty of practice. "If you'd let him finish maybe we'd know what he thinks."

"Mr and Mrs White, if you'd let me make a suggestion," Phillip said, beginning to realize that if he didn't intervene now, they would most likely spend the whole morning the same way. Besides, he worked on commission. "I think if we compare both offers thoroughly, we should be able to reach an agreement about which one is the best."

"I've got no problem with that as long as she doesn't open that big mouth of hers all the time," Colin said, dodging another slap.

"Well said, young man," she said turning back to the salesman. "I will try to ignore my husband for a couple of minutes while we study this better." She paused with the two papers in her hands, stopping any comment from Colin with a look that resembled a snarl. A little more of this and she'd have the situation under control. Things were shifting her way. "Which of the two apartments has more usable space? And which one comes with garage parking included?" She waited until the salesman had confirmed the same apartment. "What a coincidence. And which one of the two has a common garden and sports facilities? And which is in a residential neighbourhood?"

"That's enough," Colin interrupted. "You're repeating the obvious."

"Why are you such a hardhead? My apartment is much better. Yours is in a suburb that looks like a latrine. Why do you want to live there when they both cost the same? I don't understand you."

"It's close to work," Colin insisted. "That's what's important. I've already told you that."

"But it's our life. Our life! Can't you take a little more time getting to work so that we can live in a better place?"

Phillip's vast sales experience told him that the deal was all but finalised. Ann had used all her feminine guile to get this far. The soft voice she was now using, the sensitive look framed by the flutter of her eyelashes, the poor little animal look that made it impossible for Colin not to capitulate with a typical _for you I would do anything, sweetheart._

"No!" Colin replied, dryly. "I can't. I've never asked anything of you and I'd do anything within my power for you, but I have to buy the other house. It doesn't matter about the other offers. It has to be that one."

"But...why?" Ann asked, on the verge of tears. Phillip could see that Colin had had it clear in his mind from the moment they'd walked in. "I only want to understand why? What is driving you and making you so stubborn?"

"I can't explain that. Maybe it's crazy. But something tells me that I've got to live in that house. It can't be any other way."

"You're as mad as a hatter," Ann snapped, standing up. "You buy the damn house on your own. I can see you don't need me."

She turned and stormed out of the office. Colin didn't even watch her go. He waited until he'd heard the door close then gave Phillip the paper with the details of the house he wanted.

"Start the paperwork," he said. "I'm in a hurry."

Aidan Zack cursed as his foot smashed into the table leg.

"I'm coming," he said, sitting down on the sofa massaging his big toe instead of heading for the door. And it wasn't only the toe that was throbbing. He'd had more than his share of Glenfiddich the night before and his eyes were barely open, and the little light that was filtering into his brain only made things worse. There was more banging on the door.

"Why did you take so long to open the door?" Carol asked when she finally saw his bleary head and what he was wearing. "Now, now. Do you always receive visitors like this?"

"What do you want, Carol?" he said, standing there in his underwear, trying to work out how to get back to bed as soon as he could. "I'm not at my best this morning. Can we meet later?"

"Later? What's going on with you? Aren't you worried? The way you left yesterday without saying a word. You haven't done anything stupid, have you?" Carol asked, walking past him.

"I'm a big boy. The only thing I need now is for you to start behaving like Lance. Then I'll have two babysitters."

Aidan didn't even see it coming with his vision blurred the way it was.

"You're an idiot!" she screamed, belting him on the forearm. "All this talk about self-control and now you're on the booze again. Is that why you wanted to be alone? How disappointing."

"Stop hitting me and let me explain."

He waited until she had calmed down. He noted she had the evidence of the half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich in her hand. She looked wild.

"What are you going to do?" she despaired. "Give me an excuse that only drunks do. You needed help yesterday. Why did you prefer the bottle to me?"

She slammed it down so hard on the table that it fell from there onto the floor, but as she made for the door, he grabbed her by the arm.

"Wait, Carol," he insisted, as she tried to twist out of his vice-like grip. "I didn't get drunk. I've got a headache because I'm not used to drinking. But I'm fine. I didn't lose track of what I was doing for a second. I swear."

"You were drunk for almost a year," she said, stepping back from him to get a look at his eyes. "Don't forget, I did my homework on your past. And I wouldn't like to see you fall into that trap again."

"Don't worry. That's not going to happen."

And then he saw it. It was strange that he hadn't seen it before. Carol felt something for him. And maybe, he felt something for her too. At least, with her so close and his hand holding her arm, he felt what he should have felt being near a beautiful woman. But if it had been unconscious before, it certainly wasn't now. It was better to let go of her or she'd soon realize what was going on in his head. He released his grip, and for the first time since she'd entered the room, he was aware of his lack of clothing.

"Promise me it won't happen again."

"I promise." He paused. "But you haven't told me what you're doing here?"

"I've got some interesting information about the Blacks and Whites."

Aidan's eyes lit up on hearing that, and the conversation with Wilfred the night before came storming back. And along with that, the link between his wife's death and everything else.

"I'll tell you what I've got after you've had a shower. You look awful. I'll make some coffee in the meanwhile."

It seemed like a good idea. Some of his best thoughts came in the shower. He didn't have time to analyse his emotions, or hers. Something was going on between them, that was for sure, but the timing was out of sync. Leave it for later, seemed good advice. And what was more important was whether Wilfred's men had already rung him. Maybe he'd slept through the call? Carol had said it was late. He dried himself quickly and went looking for his mobile. He was surprised to find there'd been no call.

While he was getting dressed he decided not to tell Carol or Lance anything about his conversation with Wilfred. There'd only be a lot of uncomfortable questions and it was possible they'd guess what he was going to do, especially Lance, who knew him inside out. And he wouldn't agree with him. He knew that. Knew they would try and stop him carrying out his plan. And they were probably right. They'd be worried about the consequences, if he told them, worried about him. And even though the plan wasn't brilliant, it wasn't that bad either. It might work, then again it might not. It was better in the end, he reasoned, just to leave them in the dark.

After half a cup of coffee, Aidan Zack felt his old self again for the first time since he'd woken up. He stared through the window at the wind pushing hard into the rain, at the dark clouds threatening more from where that came from, and walkers shivering their way along the street. Staying where he was with Carol and a mug of hot coffee in his hand made more sense than being out there in that.

"What have you found out about our friends?" he asked her, doubting that she knew any more than Wilfred.

"Something very curious," she answered, "which might change your mind about who you should visit first."

Aidan turned back from the window. He'd wanted to locate Earl Black as quickly as he could, but Wilfred's advice was still ringing in his ears. And he had James White's address.

"When I got home yesterday I found an envelope waiting for me, with the addresses of all the Blacks and Whites. I spent the whole night going over it. And one thing I found very interesting was when they move house."

"Why would someone send a letter to you with that information in it?"

"No idea. I don't know who left it or where it came from. But it's pretty obvious that whoever sent it wanted me to find out what I'm telling you now."

"Go on," he told her.

"They're constantly on the move, more often than they were five years ago."

"I'd still like to see Earl Black first. We could check out this house-moving bit with him, if it'd make you feel any better."

"Let me finish," she snapped. "There's more. As weird as it sounds, their house moving is connected with Big Ben. There's information about that in the envelope, too. Every time one of them moves, the clock is affected."

"I've got an open mind these days, but this is over the top."

"It's just like I said. When they move, the clock chimes out of tune, and two of its faces stop working."

Aidan remembered Lance talking about something similar, and Wilfred had said the clock had gone haywire five years before.

"Let's suppose that's true," Aidan conjectured. "What's the next step? Investigate the clock?"

"I've already done that. I spoke to two maintenance men this morning. They've got no idea what's wrong with the clock. They just keep rewinding it."

"And your conclusion?"

"I haven't got any idea. But there's an interesting angle." She paused, watching Aidan scratch his head. "After they've killed someone, they start living in the victim's house."

"And their wives go along with that?"

"Most probably not, but they still do it. And if there are other family members they abandon their previous homes happily."

Aidan said nothing as strange theories worked their way through his head. He needed answers and the best way of getting them was to go direct to the source. But thinking of his line of questioning with Earl Black touched a nerve. What was he going to ask him? Do you teletransport? Do you know your twin who died with three arrows in his heart? Why are you trying to kill the White family? And the coup de grâce, what's wrong with Big Ben?

It was pure madness. Something to go crazy laughing about. But they were the questions, one way or another. And they were going to be asked because his desire to unravel the whole damn thing was overwhelming. The question about what his wife's death had to do with all of this was raging through his mind like a hurricane. It was driving him on like nothing had ever done before.

"It's time to get some answers," he said, standing up. "We've got to corner one of these clowns and drag the truth out of him one way or another."

"Wait a minute. Have you taken in everything that I've told you?" she insisted on repeating. "When they kill, they move in to the victim's house."

He studied her expression and then got the idea.

"William Black! If your theory's right, then the killer's living there now."

"Exactly."

"Let's find out then. And if his surname's White, then he'd better start praying."

"Well, bless my soul," Lance Norwood said, coming through the door. His coat was wet around the shoulders, and his hair was all over the place. "I hope I haven't interrupted anything important."

"Lance! Put it on hold, dumbbell."

"There, there. I'm not as stupid as I look. Am I, Carol?"

"Nothing's happened here, Lance. Absolutely nothing."

Lance poured himself a coffee and stared at them.

"Seriously? That's even worse. You're over age. What are you waiting for?"

"How did you get in?" Aidan asked him bluntly.

"The door was open."

"OK. It's time to get a move on. We're off to William Black's..."

"That's not necessary. I heard what you were talking about on my way in," Lance said, sipping the coffee. "I know who the new owner of that house is. His name's Peter White. The only problem is that he's already dead. If you want to see him, you've only got to go down to the mortuary. I'm sure old Fletcher's digging though his guts now. And William Black's widow was right. He was a dead ringer for William, except for the colour of his eyes and hair."

"I'm impressed to say the least," Aidan said. "How did you find all this out?"

"It wasn't hard. After you left us last night I got a taxi for Carol then received a call that there'd been a murder round the corner from where I was. I called you, but you'd signed off for the day." He paused. "Seems a metal boomerang chopped Peter White's head off, the same boomerang that destroyed the lamp post before it crashed into our car."

"It must've been that bloke I was chasing. The one that that idiot Blair stopped me getting to," Aidan said.

"That's what I thought. But he looked different from the other boys in black."

"Yeah. But he's one of them, sure enough," Aidan said, firmly, avoiding telling them what Wilfred had told him about there being four male models and a woman. "Let's find out," Carol said. "I'll bet the new owner of William Black's old house is the boomerang man."

# CHAPTER 14

James White didn't feel even a glimmer of excitement. Four aces! He'd heard about poker players being dealt a hand like that. It should have been eating him up inside. Adrenalin should have been running every which way in his body, the pile of money in the middle of the table adding fuel to the fire.

But all he felt was extreme boredom. He looked at the four aces in his hand again, and when he was convinced that he was dead emotionally he put the cards back on the table, face down.

"You're pathetic," James White accused his playing partner. "Irritating, absolutely despicable. I curse the day we met each other."

Dylan Blair frowned with an expression of uncertainty and his permanent smile receded, but he managed to keep his dissatisfaction in check.

"What's upsetting you, James?" he said sincerely. "Is it that you're winning? And you'll keep on winning, although you're going to lose this hand. So why all the hostility, then?"

They'd been playing poker for two hours. Dylan had organized the game out of boredom, and also because he wanted to learn to play like a professional. And tonight, with nothing else on his plate, he figured was as good a time as any to learn. There were four at the table, James and him and two other well-dressed gamblers. One of them had been a finalist in a prestigious international tournament and the other was a croupier at the casino where Dylan had started the run of luck that had led to him building his fortune. The croupier and Dylan had been good friends ever since that night more than three years before, when Dylan had been asked to leave when it looked like he was going to break the casino.

"Exactly, that's the problem," James observed, airily. "You're taking all the fun out of this game."

"What's the point of winning?" Dylan asked. "You should be happy. Not the opposite."

"Because there's no pleasure in taking money off an amateur like you. You've lost a fortune in the last couple of hours and haven't won a single hand. There's no fun in that."

"What's the beef? I should be spitting chips, not you. Why don't you just cool it, James? We were having a good time before you started whingeing."

"Things were bad enough before," James went on. "I was bored out of my brain and now you've ruined one of the few things that amuses me."

"Let's take a break," Dylan said, dropping his hand on the table and moving his chair closer to James's while the other two went to the bathroom. No one was too concerned about leaving the hand unplayed. "You're looking at everything the wrong way round, my friend. I've got money, so you've got money too. Our health's fine. We can do whatever we want. All we have to add to that is to have a little fun."

"The punch you got in the face has affected your brain," James said, leaning back to study the bruising around Dylan's eye. "You should take a look at yourself. You look awful. And you haven't even told us who gave you the black eye."

"Forget my eye. We're talking about your lack of faith."

"Nice way of expressing yourself," James complimented him, looking around the room. "You haven't forgotten our special situation, have you? Yours is a bit better than mine, but not by much. And I reckon you'll botch it. I'll do my part well enough, always supposing that one of the Blacks doesn't get to me first."

"Maybe I'll botch it. But that doesn't concern me. What's important is the attitude. All of this is going to take a long time. I want to enjoy myself now," Dylan informed him, watching James White continue to look around the room. "Do you mind telling me what you're looking for? You're making me nervous."

"The drink," James answered. "I can't see the bottle."

"We finished it a while back. I warned you about having the game here. If we'd played at my house we would've had scantily clad waitresses serving us anything we wanted," Dylan Blair grumbled, thinking about how he'd tried to get out of coming to White's flat. But the short man was stubborn. He wouldn't budge, and they'd found themselves as guests in the atrocious mess that was James White's living room.

James lived on the sixth floor of an attractive block of flats. There was nothing luxurious about the flats but they were comfortable. The problem wasn't the flat but James White himself. He'd turned it into a pigsty in little more than a day. Dylan Blair knew his friend had no intention of settling down anywhere, and as a consequence, didn't look after any place he lived in, but the mess around Dylan now was too much. As soon as the millionaire had come in through the door, he'd made a mental note to come back a week later. If James was capable of getting it to look like this in one day what would it be like after seven? The only thing mildly acceptable about the whole deplorable place was the three porno movies on the table next to the television.

"You don't seem that stupid," James said. "Your house is out of my area. I can't travel that far and you know it. Why don't you buy a house near here?"

"Because you will move again and constant moving bores me."

"Whatever you say," James said. "Life stinks. I don't even know where I'm going to be tomorrow, let alone making a decision about the future."

"At least, you're conscious of your own truth. The rest don't even know who they are. Doesn't that make you happy? It makes you special."

"My friend," James White said, with a look of pity on his face, "you couldn't have said anything more stupid. We're absolutely incapable of controlling our own destiny. Our fate is determined by a strange individual sitting in a wheelchair. Do you think that should make me happy? At least, the rest live in a bubble, and that gives them some sort of hope. They think they can find some direction to their lives, living in the dark the way they do. I can only sit and wait."

"You're too negative," Dylan admonished him. "I don't propose to listen to your self-destructive rubbish anymore. You've got to pick the baton up. Enjoy life. Look at me."

"Nothing works. It's not that I haven't tried. You're like you are because you know that one day you'll be in one of those wheelchairs. What I don't get is that despite the great risk you're running, you don't seem worried. How do you manage that?"

"That's my secret," Dylan whispered. "But I'll tell you because you're a good bloke. It's very simple, really. In the first place, there's no point in worrying before you have to. My safety is guaranteed for almost forty years. And in the second place, the risk is only theoretical. We can't be sure what will happen."

"That is without any doubt the most ridiculous... most stupid reasoning I've ever heard. How can someone who knows what you know think like that?"

"By applying logic. Seeing is believing."

"I refuse to argue this with you," James informed him. "Your way of thinking is beyond me."

"You're not going to put your little white suit on, are you?"

"That's out of my hands, my friend."

"That's good, because I'm going to lift your spirits whether you like it or not," Dylan promised him.

"I doubt it. But try if you want."

"OK. But first, I'm going to win this hand," Dylan said, throwing the rest of his money on the table. "I'll see your bet."

"As you wish," James said, turning his cards over. "Four aces, loser."

"Impressive. But it's a pity, though," the millionaire said, turning his cards over one after the other until James White was astonished to see another set of four aces looking up at him.

Dylan Blair looked smug.

"You were right. I feel better," James said. "At last, you've learnt how to set a trap."

Lance Norwood's eyebrows arched to breaking point and his eyes shone in amazement. He couldn't believe what he was looking at. He was in a state of complete shock. And after what seemed an eternity he finally exclaimed, "You must've stolen it."

"No," Aidan Zack replied calmly.

"You've swapped something for it then."

"No, not that either."

"You drugged some poor individual then."

"Are you sick, Lance?"

"You've done something. Don't lie to me. How else could you get something like this?"

"It doesn't surprise me that you're reacting like this, but it belongs to me."

"Look how stupidly the two of you are carrying on," Carol sighed. "Men are so simple."

"Simple? Are you looking at the same thing I am?" Lance despaired, trying to understand how Carol could show such indifference standing in front of one of the greatest masterpieces of engineering of all time. "Women don't understand anything. I'm going to check this out right now."

He took his phone out of his pocket, rang the police station and got them to do a check on the number plate of the car parked in the street in front of them. He hung up after a minute and walked slowly towards the tall, smiling detective.

"I can't believe it. It's registered in your name."

"I've already told you that, dumbbell."

"Can I drive it?"

"No."

"Only a couple of blocks."

"No way."

"I'd give up following you around for a month."

"Stop lying."

"I'd wash your clothes and be your personal maid."

"I thought you were sick."

"I'd edit your reports."

"You already do that."

"But I'm talking about doing them well."

"You're pathetic," Carol interrupted them. "Show a little dignity, for God's sake. It's only a car after all."

"You're kidding, aren't you? That's not a car there. Maybe you can't see the difference. You're a great reporter and a beautiful woman, but listen to me when I tell you, don't get involved in a conversation about cars. This is a Ferrari. There's nothing more perfect in the world."

"I said it was just a car, didn't I?" she said, jumping in the back.

"I just can't understand how this finished up in the hands of Aidan here," Lance grumbled, sitting down in the front passenger seat.

"A friend gave it to me," Aidan informed him, studying the set of keys.

"That's hard to imagine. You don't have friends, remember. And if you did, they wouldn't be giving you one of these. Not after seeing you drive around London in that old rust-bucket of yours for the last few years."

# CHAPTER 15

Bent over with his head on his chest, Trevor Deemer dragged himself along the street towards the entrance of the building. He seemed infirm, the victim of some insidious disease, as he stumbled slowly to the door. He opened it slowly, as if it weighed a ton, and began trudging up the stairs to the first floor.

Only a few days before, he had been a happy man. His thirty-three years had been lived simply without any major problems. He'd passed through good times and bad like most, and had arrived at the point of fulfilling his greatest dream, when at the last moment, it had disappeared.

It had all happened too quickly. And, like a scene out of a movie, had seemed unreal. But it had happened, and Trevor had been incapable of doing anything to stop the thing he wanted most in this world from disappearing.

He knocked lightly on the first-floor door. "Open the door. It's Trevor."

He waited a moment without hearing anything the other side, then knocked again, harder this time. But there was no sign of life behind the door.

"I only want to talk," he said. "I know you're there, Helen. I'm not leaving here until I see you."

Nothing. He began punching the door, kicked it once, then leant his tired body against it, begging the woman to open it. Finally, he heard the key turn, and he stepped back, his heart beating faster. The door creaked open, revealing the tall figure of the woman he loved.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "You shouldn't have come."

She'd been crying, her eyes red, her cheeks swollen, but she was still the most beautiful woman that Trevor Deemer had ever seen. Nothing could take her beauty away. He held himself back from taking her in his arms and holding her as tight as he could with what little strength he had.

"I don't want to bother you," he said, taking in the seven feet of her spectacular body, and her face, a mask of pain and melancholy. "I just want to understand. I think I deserve an explanation."

Helen Black turned and left the entrance without looking at him. He followed her in silence, sat down in front of her, and paid attention to nothing else in the room but her.

"I spoke with your family," she began to say in a trembling voice. "I tried to explain that it wasn't your fault, that I was the only one responsible. I know how terrible all this has been for you."

"You just left me, Helen. You should have said something."

"I... I thought it would be easier if you didn't see me again," she explained, with a look of profound sadness on her face. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Why?" Trevor asked, desperate to know why she'd abandoned him in the middle of the wedding ceremony. "I need to know why."

"I had no choice. If I had been able to, I would have done it some other way."

"I believed in you, Helen. I thought you loved me."

"I was sincere in everything I said," she assured him with surprising firmness in her voice. "I love you, Trevor, more than anything in the world. But I can't marry you."

"If you love me like you say you do, how's that possible?"

"Because I can't marry anyone, Trevor. Not you or anybody else."

Trevor was getting more confused by the minute.

"You've got me beat. Why didn't you tell me that when I proposed?"

"I didn't know then. I didn't find out until I was about to say, _I do_." She took a deep breath. "It's difficult to explain."

"Try!" the word came out of his mouth like a spat seed. He was clutching at straws, hoping she could give him something, anything, to explain the mystery of her running down the church aisle and out of his life. But until now there'd been nothing, not even a clue.

"It's... it's because of my surname," she finally said. And that didn't appear to help him any the more. He'd come to hear the truth, to face up to the revelation of there being someone else, or any other painful explanation for her actions. But blaming the surname was cryptic. "I can't lose my name. And if we got married I'd have to give it up."

"What?" Trevor's face twisted into a series of grotesque grimaces. "You left me because you couldn't change your name?"

"I told you, you wouldn't understand. It's got nothing to do with your name. It's just that I can't change mine."

"Why not?" he asked, scratching his head.

"I can't explain why. And you wouldn't understand anyway. It just has to be Black."

Trevor took some time to digest the new facts. It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. So mad, in fact, that he had no idea what to say next. It crossed his mind that the whole thing was one great joke, or that Helen herself had flipped. And they seemed the most plausible of a dozen other crazy theories that were weaving their way through his head.

He looked at her again, at her precious black eyes, shining sadly, but as intelligently as ever. She was the same perfect woman that he'd wanted to spend the rest of his life with only a few days before.

"If the problem is the name," he said, resigned to understanding as much as he could, "we can fix that. Being married or not doesn't bother me. I only want to be with you, Helen. It's the same to me."

He was close to her, his hand holding hers. He could feel a glimmer of hope welling up in the pit of his stomach. But she unlocked her hand from his and stepped away. "I'm sorry, Trevor. I can't be with anyone. You'd be in great danger being with me."

"Danger? What are you talking about?"

"Remember the bow that I had when I left the church?"

He nodded his heavy head. He doubted he'd ever forget that scene for the rest of his life.

She went on. "After I left the church someone tried to kill me. I shot three arrows and killed him. I know it's difficult to believe. But I'm involved in something that I don't understand."

"I'll help you, Helen," he said, without having the least idea what the whole thing was about. All he wanted was her. "Whatever the problem is, we'll face it together."

"You can't, Trevor. I'm sorry. This is something that I've got to do alone. I couldn't bear to see anything happen to you because of me."

"You just said someone tried to kill you. We should go to the police. Do you know who it was?"

"No. I think I saw him once, two years ago, maybe in a dream or a nightmare. But it's too real to be either of those."

Helen began crumbling away before Trevor's eyes. She started to laugh strangely and breathe very quickly. The attack was gaining momentum. She was in the middle of some great nervous crisis. Trevor reached out for her, unsure about how to help her.

"You need help, sweetheart," he whispered sweetly. "We'll look for someone. I'll take care of–"

"Oh, no. Not again. Trevor, run!" she screamed, pulling away from him. "Hurry!"

Trevor was struck dumb by the sudden change in Helen. Her expression had changed yet again and her hands were no longer trembling. Her breathing was normal. It was as if she had been perfectly calm the whole time. And if that wasn't proof enough that something strange was happening, she stood up without saying a word and walked out of the room, undressing herself as she went, leaving her clothes scattered across the floor. Trevor couldn't move. He called after her as loudly as he could, but she was gone.

Seconds later, she darted back into the room dressed in the elegant black dress that she'd worn running down the church aisle. He nearly fell off the chair as he watched her run out of the flat.

He decided to chase her, to find out what this was all about. At least this time she wasn't carrying the bow.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Dylan Blair asked, looking up from the sad pair of sevens he was holding.

The doorbell had just rung and broken his concentration. The game hadn't changed much since the break. The supposed professional gambler and Dylan's croupier friend had neither won nor lost, while James White's fat fingers had been sliding back and forth across the velvet, collecting one pot after another. Dylan was paying a high price for his lesson.

"No, I'm not expecting anyone," James said indifferently.

"It's your house," Dylan reminded him. "Don't you propose to open the door?"

"To tell you the truth, no," James said, continuing to ignore the bell that was ringing insistently. "I'm too comfortable here. You open it."

Dylan Blair was getting impatient. He had a lot riding on this hand, pretending he had good cards. He was keen to find out if he could outwit James at least once. But the damn doorbell wouldn't stop ringing. He nodded to the croupier to go to the door.

"What do you want, brat?" they heard the croupier ask when he opened the door. "Are you deaf? You're interrupting us. What? Your grandfather?"

"You've finally arrived, Tedd," they heard a young voice say.

"My old bones need time, Todd," an old voice explained.

Dylan Blair and James White looked at each other. Where they'd just been curious a few moments before, now they were worried. The professional gambler was looking at them wondering what was happening.

"If I'm not mistaken, Todd, this miserable bloke here just called you brat," Tedd said.

"That's how it was, Tedd," Todd confirmed, "I don't believe he said it seriously. He doesn't even know us."

"That's possible, Todd," Tedd agreed. "Nevertheless, his manners have offended me. I think he needs a lesson."

"Who do you think you're going to give a lesson to, old man?" the croupier laughed. "I don't like picking on the aged or on little kids either, but I'll do it if you don't get out of here right away."

James was the first to react, racing to the door. Dylan wasn't far behind but fell over in his haste. The gambler stayed at the table, shocked. Something bizarre was happening in this room, judging by Dylan's and James's actions and the look of fear in their faces.

"Shut up," James told the croupier as he ran down the corridor, bumping into a wall as he turned the corner on his way to the door. "Don't say a word."

He stood between the croupier and the strange couple, catching his breath, while he summed the situation up. Todd, the boy, was a little closer to him, his violet eyes sparkling with interest. The old man was leaning on his bent arm.

Dylan arrived, pushing the croupier back.

"You heard what James said. Don't say anything."

The croupier nodded dumbly. He knew Dylan well enough to know that on the rare occasions when he spoke seriously, there was usually a good reason for it. He was a joker most of the time but when his mood darkened, like now, something terrible usually happened. But what was the problem here? There was only an old man and a child who appeared to be no more than ten years old.

"There's been a misunderstanding," James apologized. "I'm sure it's not worth giving this poor fellow a lesson for such a small indiscretion. I would be pleased if you would come into my house and make yourselves at home."

"I think James is right, Tedd," Todd reflected, looking at the old man tenderly. "As far as I'm concerned, we can let it stand. That's if you agree, naturally."

"Well, if it doesn't bother you, we can let it pass, Todd," Tedd said. "But I don't like anyone insulting you," he added with a smile. "On the other hand, we've come to talk with James and I would hate to turn such a correct invitation down. Help me, boy; my old bones are killing me."

Tedd walked in slowly, following Todd, hanging on to him all the while. Dylan and James stood back, their backs pressed to the wall, as they watched the strange couple pass.

"It seems like we've interrupted something, Tedd," Todd observed, as he walked down the corridor. "Perhaps James finds our visit inconvenient."

"Don't forget that he's our favourite, Todd," Tedd replied. "He's a very intelligent person who would certainly appreciate us coming here to have a chat with him."

"I'm honoured to receive you," James said. "Make yourselves comfortable, I'll be with you in a second." He frowned at Dylan.

"You don't have to say anything," Dylan advised the croupier, pushing him out the door. "We'll finish the game. Good luck, mate. I'll call you."

"Get out of here," James said. "I'll throw the other bloke out."

He got back to the room in time to see the confusion on the face of the gambler staring at the two oddballs. Before he had a chance to say anything, James grabbed him by the arm and half-pushed him out of the flat.

Young Todd helped the old man get comfortable on the sofa. Tedd picked the porno films off the table and tossed them disapprovingly onto the floor. "Strange way of entertaining himself, Todd," he frowned. "Maybe, he's not as ready as we thought he was."

"He's all right, Tedd," Todd said amiably. "He's special and he knows it."

"Do you mind telling me why you have come?" James White asked them.

"You see, Todd," Tedd complained, waving his walking stick in the air. "He's lost respect. Remember how worried he was about us a little while ago. But it would seem that now he's lost his patience."

"I'm alone now," James explained. "I don't have to worry about others sticking their noses in when they don't know who they're dealing with."

"You see, Tedd," Todd exclaimed approvingly. "How many of them have got the guts to confront us like this? That's why I like James. He's truly unique."

"Don't build him up too much, Todd," Tedd said. "I thought he didn't care about anything and life meant nothing to him. Why worry himself about a few little personality traits?"

"It's certain that life stinks," James proclaimed. "You two know that well enough. And you exploit that very fact. But that doesn't mean that I won't try and help a couple of poor bastards out of trouble if I can. And Dylan here's not one of them. I know he's made a deal with you. Poor devil."

"The obvious conclusion, my dear Todd," Tedd began to say, "is that James doesn't like us. I dare say he doesn't appreciate the value of our mission."

"That's not true, Tedd," Todd objected. "He's simply got a different view of the overall situation. He doesn't like it like I do. But he won't create problems when we ask him to do what we want."

"And what's that?" James enquired. "You forget that I don't belong to you. I'm Ashley's property. She's my boss, and boss of all the Whites. Besides, you know that not even you can meddle in the fight. No one can."

"I definitely don't like his attitude, Todd," Tedd snarled, grabbing his walking stick as if it were a sword and making an attempt to get up off the sofa. Todd went to his aid, but made sure he stayed seated. "I'm very sorry. But I'm going to have to act."

"I think it's better that I take care of this, Tedd," Todd suggested. The old man's face had turned red but the boy was still at his side. "Remember that when the fight's over he will become ours and then he'll regret treating you this way. It's obvious he hasn't looked at Big Ben lately, for if he had he would know that as each day goes by there's less time left. Two days, tops."

"That threat's only valid if I don't die at the hands of a Black," James reminded them. "If that bastard Otis, their leader, gives the order from his wheelchair, one of the Blacks will come here and try and turn me into pulp. Even so, it's not worth arguing about if you don't tell me what you expect of me."

"Now he's beginning to listen to us better, Tedd," Todd pointed out. "It's time to tell him that we're counting on his discretion when he sees Aidan Zack."

"The detective?" James asked, shaking his head thinking about the two-metre detective he'd met in the hospital. "I saw that giant a couple of days ago. We're not friends. What makes you think I'm going to see him again?"

"He's not as smart as you think, Todd," Tedd said. "You think too highly of him. He doesn't understand that we have a vision about his future meeting with Aidan."

That was a blatant lie and James White knew that perfectly. Tedd and Todd didn't operate that way. They only dealt with certainties. What they said could only mean that they knew that he was going to meet Aidan sooner or later. Even so, he was still in the dark about what they expected of him.

"I understand that I will see Aidan and must be discreet," he repeated, more for himself than for them. "Very good, but discreet about what? I already know I can't talk about the battle with the Blacks. You don't have to remind me about that. What else could this detective want to know? The only other thing that..." Then he understood. The truth flashed through his mind, stunning him. "He doesn't understand why he's involved. I can't believe it. Is it true?"

"A brilliant deduction. You see how smart he is, Tedd," Todd said. "He's understood our proposal on his own."

The boy moved away from the old man, who was calmer now, and went to the table where they'd been playing poker. He took a cigarette out of a packet and lit it, took a deep puff and exhaled, the smoke forming incredible figures. James ignored them. He'd seen him do it before on several occasions and it no longer shocked him. What did shock him, however, was looking at a ten-year-old smoking and drinking like a degenerate adult.

"Just in case you don't know," James murmured. "How strange. Aidan must believe that his body was cured of mortal wounds by a miracle. He didn't seem that stupid. Is that what this is all about?"

"You must have told him that Aidan has his suspicions, Todd," Tedd said with a wounded voice. "It seems your friend isn't smart enough to work this out alone."

"Yes, that's how it is, Tedd," Todd said. "Why would we ask him to not reveal anything if Aidan didn't suspect something? It wouldn't make sense."

"OK, you've got what you want," James confirmed. "I won't say anything. What bothers me, though, is your concern for this detective. You're manipulating him for some reason. There's no doubt about that. And why would that be? Well, I've got my rotten life to worry about. He can work it out for himself. Life stinks"

# CHAPTER 16

It was impossible that it was going to finish well. Lance Norwood didn't want to watch. He covered his eyes with his hands and concentrated on waiting until everything had finished, blaming himself for not having done anything to stop it.

"Stop playing the fool, Lance," Carol shouted. "We've already parked. Get out now!"

"Seriously?" he asked, opening his eyes, unable to believe it. He hadn't heard a bang, not even a scrape. "Thank God. For once in your life you've parked a car without slamming into someone else. If you'd only scratched this magnificent vehicle a little bit, I don't know what I would've done. I would've had to take time off work and stayed in bed for a week to get over the shock."

"Shut up or I'm off," Aidan Zack threatened him, resting his fist on the bonnet of the Ferrari.

"I hate this car," Carol grumbled, watching all the passers-by turn their heads to look at the Ferrari. Some even stopped to take a closer look. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I miss your old bomb."

Lance Norwood almost choked on hearing that. What was she talking about? He wanted to go through the comment step by step with her, but decided to say nothing when he noticed Aidan's furious face. He was very serious this morning and that wasn't a good sign.

Aidan Zack had sought refuge behind a shield of grumbles during the whole trip, trying to avoid Lance's withering interrogation. His partner had been trying to find out how he'd acquired the Ferrari, and who his mysterious benefactor was. But there'd been no way through Aidan's refusal to divulge details, which left Lance to his own wild speculations. Something was being covered up, that was for certain. But what? And if there was no reasonable explanation for the whole affair, might it be illegal?

Lance had considered sharing his fears with Carol when he had the opportunity. But they hadn't been alone once. He noted she was restless, her voice not as confident as it had been a few days before.

They walked into the building in front of the car, took the lift to the sixth floor, and followed Aidan along the hall until they came to an open door. Aidan went straight in. Soft-drink cans and an open pizza box rested on a small table inside the door, and a trail of tossed clothes, mostly underwear, littered the corridor floor. When they got to the living room, they discovered that what they'd seen up to then had only been an aperitif.

The simple furniture that seemed to have been pulled out of an office was covered with all sorts of objects: half-empty bottles, open packets of crisps, leftovers. Carol screwed up her face in disgust, looking at the three porno videos in the middle of the mess. On one of the tables there was a cloth and a pack of cards. And from one of the chairs around the table James White looked at them, smiling.

"I was expecting you, big fella. But who are your friends?"

"This is my partner, Lance," Aidan said. "And this is Carol. She's a reporter and is assisting us in our investigation."

"This is really living the good life," Lance said, looking around the room. "I'll bet you're not married. If I leave my socks on the bed, my wife kicks up a storm like you can't imagine. No sex for a month, at least."

"This is a pigsty," Carol grumbled. "I'm not sitting down in all of this."

"You've got a lot to tell me, my friend," Aidan said, changing the subject.

"I don't see it that way," James contradicted him calmly. "And what's more I don't think I've got anything to tell you at all."

The answer shocked Lance. It was a clear slap in the face, and it wasn't the best day to pick on Aidan. He observed James more closely, and the first thing he noticed was his strange physique. He was the same as the two dead bodies in the mortuary, William and Peter, both decapitated, one by a sword, the other by a boomerang. He found it strange to look at the same head, moving and talking. All his theories about clones and DNA replicas were gaining strength with each one of James White's words.

The other thing that struck Lance was how short James was. He was no more than five feet tall, and he looked even shorter than that beside Aidan.

"How did you know that I came here to see you?" Aidan asked him angrily.

"Just a hunch," James lied.

"You've got to tell us about this gang war that you're a part of," Carol interrupted them. "Why are they the same? Why..."

"Take it slow, beautiful. I'll tell you the only thing I can. It's bigger than you. It's something to avoid at all costs. Forget about it now while you still can."

"You can forget about us forgetting about it, shortie," Aidan said. "We've come here for answers. And you're going to give them to us one way or the other."

"Really?" James replied. "You know something, I don't like you much, big man. I've already told you that I can't tell you anything. But what's even more certain is I wouldn't even if I could."

"Maybe you'll change your mind with a few thumps on the head?" Aidan roared, steadying himself.

He reached out and grabbed James by the shoulder, but Lance intervened, pulling him off the little man. It took a while for Aidan to calm down, while James stayed on the chair hardly moving, with the same peaceful expression he'd had before.

"It would seem that you've got the idea in your head of trying to intimidate me," James said to Aidan. "That's a mistake. There's nothing that you could say or do that would threaten me. It's incredible how little you seem to know, considering who you are."

"What are you talking about? Tell me!" Aidan roared again, moving closer.

"It's amazing that you don't know, you goose," James answered him.

"I don't know if I could pull him off you this time," Lance warned him. "So be careful what you say."

"You seem more reasonable than him," James observed. "You look harmless. You and the girl can save yourselves if you want. Don't get involved in this. I repeat, it's something that you'd never understand. But as far as you go, big man, I don't think there's anyone else in the world running a bigger risk than you. Remember my words."

Aidan's phone rang. Lance thought he'd throw it against the wall, interrupting him as it was at that very moment, but to his surprise, after looking at the name of the caller on the screen, he answered it.

"You have him?... Good, let me know when he's alone... This is my affair. I'm not going to change my mind." Aidan paused. "He's right in front of my nose... Until now he's only made stupid threats... Don't worry. He'll talk."

Lance looked at Carol. Neither of them had any idea who Aidan was talking to.

"OK, I'm sick of your puzzles," Aidan said suddenly. "I want answers, not rubbish that doesn't make any sense. Start talking, dwarf."

"Don't do it, Aidan," Carol begged him, standing between them. "Leave him to me. I'll get him to talk."

"Oh no you won't," James corrected her. "You're starting to bore me. And I can see now that you're idiots. You don't understand anything. Remember – you have been warned."

Without waiting for an answer, James White took two quick strides and jumped through the glass window and disappeared into the void. The three of them raced to the window in time to see James crash into a car. The fall from the sixth floor had caused the car's roof to buckle and its windows to burst into a thousand pieces.

They watched James get up and jump down, then lift his head, unaware of the commotion he'd caused among the shocked pedestrians. James White raised his head and gave Aidan the finger and a smile, before trotting down the street as if nothing had happened.

"Did you see that?" Lance said, alarmed, after what seemed like minutes of stunned silence. "That madman nearly fell on your Ferrari!"

Ethan Gord picked his way through a group of foreigners spreading across the pavement then, with his hands buried deep in his pockets and his coat pulled high around his neck, he continued on towards the bridge. The day was cloudy, and the cold wind chilled his bones.

He reached the point where he had come so often before to weigh everything up, and turned, his eyes wide open, his head held high, the symbol of London standing proudly before him.

He studied the magnificent clock, and for an instant wished he could treat it like the tourists behind him were doing, their cameras immortalizing its splendour. But he hadn't looked at it that way for a long time. He sighed as a long limousine stopped in the middle of the bridge and one of the most despicable people he knew got out.

"It must be my lucky day," Dylan Blair said, walking towards him. The limousine drove on. "No one less than the champion himself. How are you, Ethan?"

"Suddenly intrigued. What exactly are you doing here? It's still early for you, if I'm not mistaken."

"I'm doing the same as you," Dylan said, turning to look at the clock. "I like to keep informed. How's your son, by the way? I heard he's got cancer. I'm sorry."

"Don't pretend you're sorry for me," Ethan warned him. "You're incapable of worrying about anyone other than yourself. Are you trying to tell me that the king of the party has come here because the final step worries him?"

"I'm worried about James White."

"More about yourself, I should think," Ethan replied. "It's Otis and Ashley that are putting everything on the line and you're worrying about James. When you're in one of those wheelchairs, I hope no one worries about your fortune."

"Take it easy. You seem very touchy today. I'm not your enemy, and it'll be a long while before I'm in one of those chairs. But when it happens, I hope it'll be Ashley's. I want to take charge of the Whites, at least, for as long as James is alive. Wasn't it like that when you were his boss?"

"I suppose what you mean is if he was conscious of what he really is. And the answer to that is yes. As far as I know, he always knew," Ethan paused. "Why do you like him so much?"

"He's an amusing chap. He's got a spark even when he's down. He doesn't stop saying that life stinks, though. It's his motto, but the truth is that he never bores me. Is he in danger? Is there a Black after him?"

"It's difficult to say," Ethan said, staring at Big Ben, "but I think it's more than likely."

"Come on. Tell me more. I don't know why it bugs you so much. I guess it's 'cause I don't understand anything. You're the expert. What's the problem in telling me? I could pay you. How about that? Ah, I forgot; money means nothing to you. Who doesn't like money? It's not natural."

"It's not so simple," Ethan replied.

There was something about Dylan that irritated him. He couldn't help it. What the capricious millionaire had said first was true, they weren't enemies. Dylan had never done anything to him. But nevertheless he felt a sort of repulsion towards him. What really annoyed him more than anything was the fact that his place was guaranteed in one of the chairs, but despite that, he didn't know how to interpret Big Ben.

"Since then, Otis has been in a desperate situation. The Blacks are going bad. I'd say that Ashley is going to win, and that's good news for James. But that doesn't mean that he can't die, even if the Whites win."

"There's nothing new in any of that," Dylan frowned. "Do you mind me asking what you've got against me?"

"What?" The question took Ethan by surprise. "I told you what I believe. It isn't easy to know what will happen. And you? There's nothing more serious and dangerous than this, and you treat it as if it's a game."

"That's because it is a game," Dylan advised him.

"On top of that," Ethan went on, "you're a selfish bastard. You got into this without having to. I've never seen anybody as materialistic as you."

Dylan Blair was thoughtful. "That's a reasonable point of view. But we're talking about my life here, which, I might add, has improved considerably thanks to this. I'm the one who has to judge if I'm happy or not, not you. I had no goals or objectives before. I was trapped in a sad life with no future. Who are you to question my values? You know perfectly well that I've hurt no one, except perhaps myself. Why do you feel it's necessary to condemn and insult me constantly?"

Ethan took a few seconds to reflect on that. He hadn't expected such a serious conversation with Dylan.

"Accept my apologies. It's certain that you're not looking to hurt anyone. I've been too hasty in criticizing you."

"But it seems you can't help hating me. I can hear it in your voice. You're holding yourself back. Don't do it. I'm old enough. Come on, let go. What is it? What's eating at you? It can't be my parties or any other rubbish like that. There's got to be something else."

"The fact is that... I don't understand how you did it. You risked everything in exchange for living forty years in a sort of endless orgy. I know that it's none of my business, but it seems thoroughly irresponsible."

"Very well. Do you feel better now?" Dylan asked him happily. Ethan did feel better, he had to recognize that. Relief flowed through him like a wave. "We've just discovered that you're a meddling bastard who sticks his head into other people's lives and appraises them without having any right to do so. Not only that, but you're also capable of professing eternal hatred for someone only because you don't like them."

"I'm already missing the serious part of this conversation," Ethan said.

"Eh, nothing's happening. It doesn't bother me. I swear. I like you. Come on, man. Admit that there aren't too many people you can talk to about this. Let's do something," Dylan proposed. "Find out where the next fight's taking place and we can go and look at the show while I put a proposal to you."

"I'm not sure I want to spend any more time with you," Ethan lied, knowing that he did want to spend more time with Dylan. What the millionaire had said was true. There weren't too many people around that he could talk to openly about the Blacks and Whites. But he didn't know if he should do that. James had hit the nail on the head. He couldn't help hating him. He'd got involved again in this affair to save his son from his battle with cancer and Dylan had popped up converting the whole thing into one big party. Everyone else was involved for some serious reason, and much of the time against their will, but Dylan was the exception, carrying on as if everything was taking place in an amusement park.

"If you accompany me I'll tell you something about Tedd and Todd," Dylan tempted him.

"You know something about them?"

"I saw them barely an hour ago."

"OK, then," Ethan said, lifting his head to look at Big Ben again. "I could be making a mistake but I think I know already where it will be. We've got to hurry. There's not much time. It's in a shopping centre."

"Don't worry, I've already called my limousine," Dylan said. "Now here's the deal. I want you to teach me."

"You're joking, aren't you?"

"Definitely not. You're the best. Who better than you to instruct me?"

"Don't even dream about that. If my plans work out well, you could find yourself facing my son."

"The seventy-year-old? You want him in this to free himself from cancer? How astute. Well, I guess you have to try it."

Something stirred in Ethan as he got into the limousine. For the first time, he had the disagreeable sensation that his idea to save his son wasn't so good. It was an automatic reaction to the approval of an undesirable like Dylan Blair. If he considered that it was a good idea then surely it was the exact opposite.

# CHAPTER 17

Aston Lowel had never sweated so much for a woman his whole life. He shook his head and twisted the corner of his lips in a clumsy attempt to make it appear that he could maintain the rhythm required. He shot a glance at the woman at his side and confirmed, begrudgingly, that she was showing no signs of slackening the pace. He shouldn't have got into this with her in the first place.

His criteria had failed him resoundingly when he'd entered the gymnasium on his lunch break and set his eyes on a beautiful woman running on a treadmill. Seeing the machine beside her was vacant, Aston took his chance to get up close and before he started running he made note of the speed that the beautiful stranger was running at. He smiled like a nervous teenager and made sure he had marked a higher speed than hers, with the certainty that he would be able to impress her favourably. He was completely mistaken.

Aston was one of the most ambitious lawyers in the city, but if he handled his cases the way he had this situation, he would have been out of a job a long time ago. He'd been building the spare tyre around his gut for the last few years, which didn't stack up as the right form to take this woman on. Besides, he'd only been coming to the gym for two days.

He'd just settled his second divorce and he figured it was time to trim the fat and get out there and look for a third wife. He slowed down and felt his shoulders slump when he looked at his watch and saw he'd only been running for seven minutes. The sweat was dripping off him and his breathing was beginning to tell him that the punishment was too great. His legs felt heavier as the minutes ticked by and he was praying to all the gods that he wouldn't start farting.

The woman continued at the same pace, staring at her reflection in the wall mirror in front of her, and at her brown ponytail bouncing from one side of her head to the other. She appeared to be younger than Aston, around forty, which he figured was the perfect age for him these days.

She was pretty, her figure showing the benefit of her fitness regime, but there was something serious in her expression, something sad in her light brown eyes.

"I think I've started too quick," Aston said, stopping the belt before his heart gave out. "A three-day flu has left me very weak," he lied, drying his wet forehead with a towel. The woman kept running, indifferent. "I'm... sorry to have interrupted your concentration."

"You're not bothering me," she told him. "It's just that if I stop, it takes me a great effort to get going again."

"Don't worry. I understand," he said, suddenly pleased to have made a connection. "I should do the same. Concentrate and keep my mouth shut, but I've got to confess this activity bores me."

"I know what you mean," she said slowing down herself. "You need discipline to keep at it and most of the time that's tedious."

"That doesn't seem to be your problem. You're in good shape," Aston said, taking in the line of her legs, flattering her carefully.

He forced himself not to say anything else. There was a lot there that wanted to come out. But he said nothing. Instead, he waited for her to pick the baton up, and slowly the faintest of smiles drew itself across her lips, which only underlined the sadness in her eyes more. He thought perhaps, despite her beauty, that hers was a face that rarely showed happiness.

"Thanks, I try to keep as fit as I can," she said in a whisper.

The sound of her voice lit a lamp in the lawyer's dark heart. His fascination for her was growing by the minute for no apparent reason. An overwhelming need to know more about her was eating him up inside. He was dying to find out if she was married or in a relationship. But that was only half of it. He wanted to know what she did, what she liked, everything about her. No detail would be too much. And right then he would have killed to share a meal with her. He waited while she gradually brought the machine to a slower pace, and then stepped off it.

"My name's Aston," he said casually, disguising his torment to know her name.

"I'm Ashley," she said, stretching her legs after the exercise.

"The effort has knocked me up more than I thought," Aston lied, thinking ahead to what they might do outside the gym. "I've got some time before I go back to work. Fancy having a bite to eat together?"

It seemed that time had come to a stop for Aston. He stood still where he was as if the lack of movement itself would reduce the chance that Ashley would say no. The lawyer went through his chances mentally, thinking about how he'd asked her. He'd been a bit forward, but polite nonetheless. He couldn't see any reason why she'd say no. Unless she had another commitment, that is, or didn't have time, or thought he was ugly, or was happily married, or...

"Sounds good," she said, firing a shot of excitement through the lawyer. "I'll have a shower and we can meet outside. What do you think?"

"Of course. I've got to have a shower too."

They collected their gear and began walking towards the changing rooms. Halfway there, Ashley stopped suddenly, looking around from one side to the other, frowning, as if she was searching for something important.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to accept your invitation," she said absently, while she continued to look for whatever it was she was after.

"What? Why not?" he asked, disappointed.

"Something's come up," she said flatly.

"Was it something I said?" he asked, barely covering his desperation.

"You've got to go," she warned him in a stern voice. "Get away from me."

Then something happened that would be forever engraved in Aston's memory. A strange wheelchair appeared on the left of the room. It was like no wheelchair that Aston had ever seen before. Its back was raised and formed by a curious mixture of wood and metal bathed in silver that reflected the surrounding light dazzlingly. The chair weaved its way through the exercise equipment scattered across the gym floor. It was moving of its own accord.

Ashley threw a towel on the floor and bent her knees and the chair came in behind her and she sat down. Then, without waiting a second, she wheeled her way towards the exit.

"You should have followed him," Lance Norwood complained, looking through the window. "Great cop you are. You've let him get away."

"This is not the time for jokes," Aidan grumbled.

He and Carol were seated in James White's living room, avoiding looking at each other. None of them could believe what had just happened.

"Someone has to say something," Lance insisted, with a note of hysteria in his voice. "If you keep this silence up, I'll go crazy."

"Calm down, Lance," Carol said, patting him on the shoulder. "It's obvious that no one here has any idea how our friend James just did what he did."

"It doesn't surprise me now that he survived that bus accident without a scratch," Aidan recalled. "The strange thing is, there was no white suit this time."

Lance was confused.

"And you find that strange?"

"I didn't think of that," Carol said. "But you're right. The white suit must mean something."

"You're as mad as two hatters," Lance lamented. "And now you're trying to suck me in."

"I've got to go," Aidan said, standing up suddenly. "We'll go through this again later."

"Where are you going?" Lance enquired.

"I've got something important to take care of, something personal."

And before they could blink, he was gone. They chased after him downstairs, and made the street just in time to see the yellow Ferrari drive off.

Aidan Zack wasn't pleased that he'd left them hanging back in the street without an explanation, but he had no option. They wouldn't have approved of what he was about to do and there wasn't any time for arguments.

He dialled a number on his mobile at the first set of traffic lights.

"It's me. You won't have to try and convince me again. You were right."

"What are you talking about?" Wilfred's weak voice asked, trembling over the phone. "Don't speak in riddles, I've just had a session of chemotherapy and I'm in no mood for trivia."

"Cancer," Aidan proclaimed, "is only one of the things that the Blacks and Whites can survive."

"Did James tell you that?" Wilfred demanded.

"No, that bastard's just escaped after jumping out of a window and falling onto the roof of a car six floors below."

"Is that how you interrogate suspects? By throwing them out the window?"

"It was his idea. And if he could survive that and that inferno a week ago, I doubt there's anything else that can hurt him."

Wilfred Gord considered the strange news. "Sounds reasonable. Have you found out anything else?"

"Not much. But what I just told you is good news for you. James told us to keep our noses out of the whole thing. He said we were in danger, especially me."

"That's easy to say coming from someone who appears to be immortal. I'd like to see that dwarf pull back from all this if he only had three months to live. I'm still in. And you?"

"I need to know if they killed my wife. The rest doesn't bother me. But if I find out it was them who killed her. I'll kill all the Blacks and Whites."

Wilfred offered his support. "I'll help you as much as I can. We're a team."

"Prove it," Aidan said. "We had an agreement. Have you forgotten that?"

"I must try and dissuade you one last time. I don't believe it'll do you any good to do what you're thinking of doing."

"That's my problem. I'm done with playing games."

"Very well, I'll put my men on it. They'll tell you where you've got to go."

"Thanks. We'll talk again. And you can bet that next time I won't show up without answers."

Earl Black's muscular body stood out like a beacon among the seven men crossing the park towards the basketball court, ignoring the threat of rain in the sky overhead. The wind was whipping at their sports clothes as they argued about the game they were about to play. They were walking quickly, tossing the ball between them, heading straight for the court, and hardly noticed the short man coming towards them.

But they stopped abruptly when the stranger stopped in front of Earl Black. Nobody moved for what seemed more than a minute. Then each time Earl Black tried to step round the stranger, the little man did the same, blocking Earl's way. It was madness. The park was huge and a scene like this was impossible. And what made it even more absurd was the difference in size between the two men. The stranger was very short, with blond hair and light blue eyes. He was wearing a white suit and his legs were half as long as Earl's arms.

"Get out of my way, short arse," Earl said.

"You're the one who should get out of my way, but you can't, can you?"

"I'll give you one more chance before I flatten you."

"You don't even know who I am, do you?" the little man sighed. "My name's James White and I'm not getting out of your way, Earl Black."

"How do you know my name?" Earl asked, feeling a spasm in his stomach.

"Because I've got a brain, you bag of muscles. And I know a lot more than that. You can't let me pass. Watch!"

James ran suddenly to the right. And without being conscious of what he was doing Earl did the same. When James stopped, he did too.

"Now you're getting the message," James said, smiling.

Astonished, Earl shook his head. Something had changed. Now he was aware that he couldn't let the little man pass, just as he'd said. He had no idea why, but there was no doubt that this was priority number one, right now. When his friends reminded him they were late for the game he didn't even bother answering them, concentrating as he was now on this dwarf dressed in white.

"How did you know that I wouldn't let you pass?" Earl asked him, feeling a stab of hate for James White.

"Because I know who you are," James answered. "And I can see you're beginning to hate me as the minutes tick by. Am I wrong?" Earl didn't answer. He could feel the hatred building inside. "Don't torture yourself," James advised him. "You've felt something similar in the past but you don't remember now. Try and think back. Use your brain for once."

Then Earl remembered. The hatred he felt for White and the need to stop him passing were ideas and emotions that had left a wake in his mind. Some powerful force had annulled his will and he knew suddenly that he'd felt all this before. He remembered the goalposts, just before he disappeared, remembered reappearing in the ladies' toilet. He had no idea how all that had happened. But the feeling he'd had then was the same as now.

"Very well, dwarf. I admit you're right."

"Of course I am. I don't need you to confirm it, you fool."

Earl's friends were astonished to see the little man insulting big Earl like that. It seemed like a death wish. And they all thought Earl would reach out and grab him there and then. But he didn't do anything like that.

"Before my anger takes me over and I crush you like the little insect you are, I want to know how come you know so much about me."

"Don't be in such a hurry. Nothing's going to happen before it's supposed to. It's out of your hands and mine. A couple of imbeciles in two wheelchairs are deciding our fate. That's why this life repulses me so much."

"Are you telling me you know what's going to happen next?"

"I can't say what will happen in detail. I can only make suppositions based on what I know. For example, I'm not going to take a backward step. There's no doubt about that. And at the same time I can't attack you. So there aren't too many options. Either get out of my way, or real soon you'll be wearing an elegant black suit and you'll kill me. Simple, eh?"

# CHAPTER 18

Even though the rock face was in a gymnasium, and it was at most seven metres high, the decision to climb had been a mistake. He should have told his companion that five minutes earlier. And now that the other climber was near the top, the rope was taut and his safety depended on him, the tension had become unbearable. And that was the last thing Allan White needed today.

Allan was forcing himself to wait until his companion had finished before he told him that he'd prefer to try another activity that was less likely to provoke panic attacks. But that was still some minutes away, so he just fidgeted where he was, playing with the rope fixed to the harness around him, hoping the whole thing would be over as soon as possible.

He'd been to his therapist earlier that morning and listened to a variety of psychiatric theories that he hadn't understood very well. The only thing that was clear for him was that Dr Stark was firmly convinced that Allan wasn't suffering from split personality syndrome. And while that was a relief, it was also disconcerting not to know exactly what was wrong with him. Stark's words were ambiguous. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but hadn't given him any real direction. The only definite thing the psychiatrist had told him was that the treatment would be long.

The tranquillizers that Stark gave him had worked and given him a good night's sleep. But the psychiatrist didn't want him trusting too much in the pills. He'd suggested an increase in Allan's physical activity, and as he'd had no sport to turn to straight away, he decided to join the first gymnasium he could find and get some professional advice. After extolling the virtues of rock climbing, a trainer sold him all the equipment he'd ever need and here he was now receiving his first class on the climbing wall.

"Stretch your right arm as far as you can and you'll make the next hold," Allan called out to his companion.

What he wanted was for the other man to get to the top as quickly as he could and let Allan get the hell out of there. He was close to doing that now. A couple of metres and he'd be there. Allan was teasing rope out, just as the trainer had shown him, so the climber could ascend comfortably.

His heart stopped beating as he watched the climber stretching out for the hold, just as he'd suggested. His fingers were scrabbling to cover the last few inches. The more he studied the scene, the more he doubted his own advice. Maybe the hold was out of reach. He was about to tell him that when the climber reached out and missed the hold, lost his footing, and started to fall.

The rope tensed around the harness and stretched tight, stopping the dangling climber falling more than two feet.

"I've got you," Allan called out. "Pull yourself back..."

Something was wrong and it had nothing to do with Allan's nerves. A new sensation invaded his mind. He couldn't define what it was even though there was something familiar about it. He began to feel confused and a new desire overtook him. He had to get out of there straight away.

"Someone come and secure this rope," Allan yelled. "Hurry!"

"What's the problem?" the trainer asked from five metres away, showing another pupil how to put the harness on. "Just let the rope out slowly and let him come down. It's very simple."

"Just get someone over here now," Allan yelled, consumed by panic. The desire to leave was an order now. There was no way he couldn't go. And, as incredible as it seemed, he knew exactly where he was going. "Please, there's no time..."

The trainer, who had been moving towards him after hearing the desperation in his voice, froze when he saw Alan's rock-climbing outfit suddenly change into an elegant white suit. His expression had changed too and the trainer groaned when Allan let go of the rope and disappeared with a look of indifference.

The terrified climber fell to the floor, his leg twisted and broken. Allan didn't even blink, the climber's screams no more than whispers behind him.

London was just as he remembered it. Five years had passed since he'd walked its streets and immersed himself in an atmosphere that only a great historic city can produce. Bradley Kenton felt so happy to be back that he wasn't even aware of another one of London's bad-weather days.

The wind whipped across his car and blew in through the small side window that he'd left open. He wanted to smell the nostalgic aroma of the capital. Then, as he was driving across a bridge over the Thames, a car crashed into him from behind and his good mood evaporated in an instant.

He was only a few hours out of jail and now he was involved in an accident. He cursed and slammed the door closed and turned to face whoever had made the mistake of ruining his day. But on seeing the yellow Ferrari his fury was checked. Whoever was driving a car like that had to be crazy to have rammed into him.

"What's your problem, are you blind?" Bradley yelled, striding towards the Ferrari. "You should have taken the Underground. That would be a lot easier for an idiot–"

The driver of the Ferrari got out right then and Bradley froze. He recognized him immediately and it was the last person he wanted to see on his first day of freedom.

"Accept my apologies," Aidan Zack said, walking up to him. "There's no doubt it was my fault. Don't worry. We'll work this out straight away."

He should have been running now. Five years in prison had sharpened his sense of danger, and right now the alarm bells were ringing. The tension felt unbearable and his legs were paralysed. It couldn't be a coincidence that a few hours after his release the husband of the woman he'd killed in an accident five years before had run his car into his.

"I... I've paid my debt to society," Bradley stuttered. "It was an accident. I'm sorry."

"I don't give a fuck about society," Aidan informed him as he grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. Bradley could feel the strength and intent coming out of the detective. This wasn't going to finish well. "Now you're going to answer my questions."

"Yes, yes. Of course."

Around them, chaos was increasing. The crash had blocked one of the lanes and the building jam of cars were blowing their horns. A group had formed around them, expecting a fight.

Aidan dragged Bradley to the edge of the bridge, pushing him half over the side.

"Who are these Black and White bastards who are going around the city killing each other?"

"What? I don't have the least idea what–" Aidan's punch snapped the wind out of him and he doubled over, but Aidan held him up. "I don't know anything about that. I swear."

"You're not giving me much," Aidan warned him. "Don't test my patience."

"I'm not lying. I've been behind bars for five years," Bradley reminded him. "I don't know anything about what's going on out here."

"You've got a big problem, my friend, and that is simply that I don't believe you."

The crowd looked worried and some of them asked Aidan to let Bradley go. Aidan ignored them.

"The Blacks and Whites began all this the day you crashed into us on this very bridge. It can't be a coincidence. Talk!"

"Listen to me," Bradley begged him. "I read the news in jail. I know that your wife died in the river. But it was an accident. And I don't know anything about these people you're talking about."

"Are you trying to tell me that you lost control of your car? That excuse helped you in the trial but it doesn't carry much weight with me. You pushed us into the river. And I know it had nothing to do with drinking. You did it on purpose. But we're not in a courtroom now. I'm warning you, don't lie to me."

Aidan tightened the pressure around his neck. Bradley began to see that lying wasn't going to get him anywhere. Aidan's eyes were wild and Bradley could see that he wasn't going to respect any law, or anything else for that matter. He just wanted the truth. And the only way out seemed to be to open up or pray that more police would come and deliver him from this madness. The way things were going, he'd be dead in a couple of minutes if he didn't tell the detective what he knew.

"You're right. I didn't lose control. I planned it." The pressure around his neck relaxed. "I didn't mean to kill your wife, though. I didn't even know she was in the car with you."

"So?"

"I wanted to kill you! I didn't have anything against you. It was a deal. I was paid."

"Who? And why?"

"My contact didn't tell me. But I found out it was a drug dealer that you were harassing at the time. You were making things tough for him and he wanted you out of the way."

Aidan crashed a right into Bradley's face, splitting his lips. His fist was covered in blood.

"You killed my wife, you bastard," the detective screamed, kneeing him in the ribs.

He was on the ground now and Aidan kicked him in the head. Bradley gave out a groan and was about to receive another kick when two men restrained Aidan.

"Give it up, man. You'll kill him if you go on like this."

"Let me go. I'm a policeman!" Aidan yelled, twisting out of their grip and showing them his badge. "And this is none of your business."

Everybody stepped back. Some started running. Aidan cut a terrifying figure at that moment. The wild look on his face, and his size, kept those who were still there quiet.

"You remember this place, don't you ?" Aidan asked Bradley, lifting him up and pointing his head towards the river.

"I'm sorr– I'm sorry. I didn't mean–"

"Shut up and stop lying," Aidan paused, looking down at the water. "What's going to happen now is justice. But not court justice. And if your family's lucky they might find your body."

With the speed of a bolt of lightning Aidan lifted Bradley up by the arms and, before anybody could do anything, he threw him into the turbid waters of the Thames.

The waiter walked through the tables under the angry looks of the queue of diners waiting to be seated. The shopping centre was full of people and the restaurant was full to overflowing. In the next two hours the waiter wasn't going to have a second to himself.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said, with a note of urgency in his voice. "You can't occupy two tables alone."

"Our friends will be here soon," Ethan Gord said. "And they're the ones who leave good tips."

"That doesn't concern me," the waiter replied. "You've been occupying these two tables for the last half hour and there are people waiting. We're here to make money."

"But these tables were reserved by telephone."

"You can wait at the bar and keep on drinking," he told them. "But two people can't occupy the space meant for twelve, especially when you're not eating."

"You've tried," Dylan Blair said. "Now, let me take care of this."

"That seems fair," Ethan said, "You're the one who wanted us to sit here in the first place."

"Very well argued, young man," Dylan complimented the waiter. "My sorry friend here hasn't even been able to persuade you to bring us a glass of water. We're going to settle this like men."

"Sir, there's no argument here," the waiter corrected Dylan politely. "My boss has asked me to explain to you why you can't stay here. I'm just the messenger. I can't accept explanations."

"I'm sure you'll accept this, though," Dylan said, tossing him a wad of notes.

The waiter caught it in the air. "There's another one like that if you bring us a bottle of Johnnie Walker quick," he said, winking at the waiter.

The waiter looked at the wad of notes and quickly realized that there was more than a month's wages there. He stuttered his thanks and raced back for the whisky. Dylan looked content and Ethan horrified.

"That's your way of fixing everything, isn't it?"

Dylan shrugged his shoulders. "If it works, why not?" He paused. "Anyway, relax. We're comfortably installed in the best place possible."

The waiter returned with the whisky and waited until Dylan pulled another wad of notes out and gave it to him. After pouring out a generous measure for Ethan, the millionaire poured a little into his own glass and sniffed it approvingly.

Ethan took a sip of his drink. "We could have found something just as good without bothering the owners of this restaurant and without taking up all this space," he complained, once more trying to reject Dylan's values as much as he could.

"I don't look at it like that. We need two tables. We'd lose the view if we didn't have the second. Besides, I doubt that the owners are still bothered after seeing how generous I was with their employee. I don't know what your beef is."

"Who's coming here that we need this place and the whisky for?"

"Interesting observation. I confess I didn't give it much thought. You're a smart young bloke. I could compensate them as well if it would make you feel any better?"

Ethan gave up. It was clear that Dylan always saw money as the solution to everything. It wasn't his problem. And the truth was they were at a strategic point in the shopping centre where they could see everything. Their tables were facing the large central area in the middle of the immense conglomerate of shops and entertainment facilities. With one turn of the head they could see everything from where they were.

Ethan emptied his glass and looked at his watch. Then he continued to observe everything, trying to temper his impatience about having to wait so long.

"You know something?" the millionaire said casually. "I never liked Big Ben. I must be a bit strange. But since I got involved in all of this I can't walk past it without stopping and looking at it."

"Just the opposite happened to me," Ethan said, pleased at being different from Dylan. "I used to love that clock, but now I try to keep away from it as much as I can."

"Interesting. It just shows you how different we are. And I notice how much you like that. Tell me something that I'm dying to know. When you met Tedd and Todd did either of them look at you directly in the eyes?"

"No. They've never done that."

"And the time that you won, they were staring at you then, weren't they?"

"No. I've never seen them separated, nor looking at anyone, nor talking directly with anybody other than each other."

"I will always feel curiosity for your case," Dylan said. "You're a great person, somebody who everyone considers to be intelligent and good. I don't understand how you got involved in all of this. I'm human scum, but you?"

"Some people change," Ethan explained, his voice suddenly sad and nostalgic. "I wasn't always like this and it's clear that I wasn't as intelligent before, or we wouldn't be talking now. Everyone does something stupid. Because of that, I find it difficult to understand how you got into this. You're the only one who's in this voluntarily."

"It's really very simple," Dylan informed him. "Now I can smoke as much as I want without having to worry about the consequences. Don't you think that's incredible? Within a few years I'll be sitting in a beautiful wheelchair fighting against someone, but until then..."

"That is one of the things that really puts me off," Ethan snarled. "I'm sitting here trying to talk seriously with you, and you're talking crap."

"Come on, don't get angry. It was only a joke. Although, I'm afraid, it wasn't that far away from the truth." He paused. "Do you mind telling me why you are looking at your watch so often? You've mistaken the place, is that it?"

"It's possible. But it would surprise me," Ethan said, sweeping the shopping centre with his eyes. "And by the way, don't complain too much. You could also have looked at Big Ben and tried to work out where to go. Everything will finish tomorrow, so that means we need to see something now."

"Maybe that's the answer," Dylan said, waving his hand in the air. "Let the show start."

# CHAPTER 19

Trevor Deemer knew that he would never understand it. In fact, he was sure that if he tried to he would go crazy. If a friend had told him something even vaguely similar, he would have made an appointment for him with a psychiatrist straight away.

He should have been on a beach in the Caribbean with his wife, enjoying the sun and the good life. But he wasn't there; he was on a motorbike, amazed at Helen's skill behind the wheel. They were travelling at top speed, Trevor holding on tight, his eyes closed. The speed wasn't softening the pain that he still felt about her leaving him in the church. Half a second more and it would have ended in a, _Yes, I do_. And her explanation was hard to believe, this business about always having to stay a Black. It made no sense at all. The other story about someone trying to kill her was just as hard to digest.

When she got on the motorbike after running out of her flat, he'd simply jumped on after her. He had no intention of letting her out of his sight this time. But it had shocked him, just the same, to see her break the safety chain attached to the bike as if it were nothing more than a piece of string.

And here they were now, speeding to God knows where, the bow appearing out of nowhere again. It was surprising that she'd let him come along. But she hadn't said anything then, and was still silent now. And there was nothing he could do to get her to stop and talk it over. She was hell-bent on getting to wherever she was heading as fast as possible. They'd crossed the city from one side to the other and they hadn't had one red light yet.

She finally brought the bike to a halt in front of a shopping centre, got off and raced inside, with Trevor not far behind her.

Unable to get the incredible episode in the gymnasium out of his mind, Aston Lowel entered the police station. He returned to his office and his assistant gave him some of the best news he'd had in a long while. In fact, the news was so good that he forgot the beautiful woman he'd just seen disappearing in a wheelchair.

He was delighted to find out about the case that had just fallen into his hands. They'd locked up a character that he'd bumped into in the past and who had been a thorn in his side ever since. It was the sort of thing that you never forgot. But a miracle had happened and the man in question had committed another crime and was here now, behind bars. It was one of those things that made being a lawyer worthwhile. Like he was being paid for taking revenge. It was great news. Perfect.

He went to the cells and told the duty guard not to let anyone else speak to the prisoner until he'd interrogated him. Then he made his way along the passageway to the interview room, smiling at the prospect of what was to come.

"Well, now, " he said once Aidan was seated in the chair across the table. "God rewards the patient. It was only a question of time before you broke the law again and fell into my hands."

"I have to agree with that, Aston," Aidan Zack said. "Getting the most incompetent lawyer in the city must be divine justice."

"You can't possibly imagine how much I've wanted to get my own back on you. And now my position demands that I charge you with attempted murder. You're lucky that your victim was rescued from the river."

"Enjoy yourself as much as you want, but keep away from me or I'll break another two of your teeth. One more charge for battery won't make any difference now."

Aston ran his tongue across his teeth. He remembered only too well what had happened the last time the two of them had met six months earlier. He'd turned up a lot of dirt on the detective then, and Aidan had finally snapped outside the courthouse. Everyone has their breaking point, but they didn't find Aidan's out until after the case was won.

"You're still a violent hardhead, it would seem. It's a cut and dried case, my wild friend. Husband tries to kill the man who killed his wife in an accident. I doubt that any jury would deliberate too long over that. I don't even see the need to bring in the crowd of witnesses."

"Congratulations, you'll win a case at last. It's a pity you didn't use as much energy six months ago and do your job properly."

"No one's going to believe a drunk suffering from depression with a tendency to violence. On top of that, you had insufficient proof."

"I did my job and pulled a dangerous criminal off the street. I risked my life. All you ever risk is your reputation. You should have helped to put that bastard in prison, but you didn't. And you're going to take pleasure from putting me in now. You've got the whole thing the wrong way round."

"Perhaps you're not aware of it, but you're a criminal in the eyes of British law. How else could you describe a person who has just done what you did?"

"Have you finished?"

"For now. We'll see each other again pretty soon. Get used to your cell," Aston said, as he walked away, smiling.

"If this isn't love, I don't know what is. I still can't believe that we've bought this enormous toilet. I hope you appreciate what I've done for you in coming here," Ann said, frowning at the terrible condition of the doorway to their new house.

"A bit of work and it'll scrub up OK," Colin said, walking past paint cans and brushes. "The work'll keep us from arguing all day long."

Ann gave him a playful slap on the neck and went back to the car for more of their suitcases while her husband continued on to the living room.

Since they'd left the estate agent's, they hadn't stopped arguing about their new home. Ann was still bitter about the whole deal. She couldn't believe how stubborn he'd been. Nor could she understand his obsession with buying this particular place. And now they were here, she realized it wasn't as bad as she'd first thought. But she wasn't going to let him know that.

She closed the front door angrily after bringing in the last suitcase and went to check if Colin was watching football. Fortunately, he wasn't. He was mixing paint with a broomstick. She told him she'd hang the clothes in the wardrobes, before preparing something to eat.

Half an hour later she came back into the living room carrying a couple of sandwiches on a tray and was struck dumb by what greeted her eyes.

"Do you mind telling me what you're doing?" she yelled. "Isn't there one thing that you can do well?"

"Now what's up? Another premenstrual attack?"

"You don't even realize what you've done," Ann said, putting the tray down. "If you'd paid a little attention to what we were talking about this wouldn't have happened."

Colin still hadn't caught on. "I don't know what you're talking about. Would you like to try and explain yourself without screaming hysterically?"

"It's all your fault, you fool. What colour did we say we were going to paint the room?"

"Salmon, because it's warm and doesn't tone the light down," he said, imitating his wife's voice.

"Exactly. And does that look like salmon to you?" she demanded.

Colin took his eye off her and looked at the wall. He looked at it from every angle for a while, and then turned back to his wife, shrugging his shoulders. "I haven't got the least idea. I know eight, maybe ten, colours. Red, blue, yellow... Salmon is the colour of a fish, isn't it?"

"You're an ass, and you always will be," she said, slapping him again. "All this has happened because you're not interested in anything other than football."

"You're not starting again, are you? Don't blame everything on football. I don't think there are too many men who know the difference between a pale orange rose and pale..."

Ann was about to use this sudden turn in the conversation to her advantage. She'd become an expert in domestic arguments since she'd been with Colin, but she had lost one already today and wasn't going to lose another.

But she didn't say a word. Her husband's expression had changed along with his clothes, and instead of the overalls he'd been wearing seconds before, he now had on an elegant white suit.

She watched him walk out of the living room and out of the house without saying a word or closing the front door. She was left alone in the house, shocked and speechless.

"Hey, don't push, you bloody idiot," the man yelled, without turning around to see who was behind him.

It was a pity he hadn't, because when he did lay eyes on the pusher, he found he was looking at the biggest man he'd ever seen. His arms were so thick that the black suit he was wearing was at breaking point. He had a strange glint in his black eyes and was carrying an enormous mallet in his huge hands. It was like a giant hammer, around five feet long with a black metal head the size of a suitcase. The crowd around them had separated, some had run away, while others stood still in the distance, curious to know what was going to happen next.

Earl Black kept walking, unperturbed, towards his objective. A short while earlier in the park, he'd been at the point of nearly pulling James White's head off with his bare hands. But, as the little man had predicted, he'd walked off, and a new goal had formed suddenly in his mind that had brought him here now. Rocking the formidable weapon he was carrying from one side to the other, Earl rounded the high fountain in the middle of the shopping centre, seeking his prey.

"Maybe that's the answer," he heard a man call out, standing up and waving his hand. "Let the show start."

Earl didn't pay him any attention. He had no idea what he was talking about, but when he saw the man sitting beside the caller, he couldn't take his eyes off him. He wasn't the one he was looking for but there was something familiar about the young man sitting there.

"You," Earl called out. "Do I know you?"

"What?" said the other man, the one who'd waved his hand at Earl. "I thought it was impossible to interfere. But of course you've already run into the–"

"Shut up, Dylan," Ethan said, before he turned and looked at Earl Black. "You've got something to do. You must do it and forget me. Don't get distracted. "

"Tedd and Todd aren't going to like this interruption very much," Dylan Blair observed, looking at the mallet Earl was carrying. "You could stop a tank with that little toy, big fella."

"I know who you are," Earl said, tightening his grip on the weapon, memories of an earlier fight sparking out of his brain. "You're Ethan Gord. We fought some time ago. I almost–"

"Forget that!" Ethan yelled. "Do what you've come to do."

"Son of a bitch," Dylan exclaimed, stepping back without taking his eyes off Earl. "Stop shouting at him! By the way, is it true that you fought against him? I don't believe you could survive with that scrawny body of yours. A belch from this guy could blow you into pieces."

"It's true what you're saying, Ethan," Earl said, his expression suddenly serious. "I've got to kill someone."

# CHAPTER 20

Some hours later, when he was once more led to the interview room, Aidan was surprised to see not only Lance, but Carol. "How did you get in here? " he asked Lance as he sat down opposite his two friends.

"The duty sergeant owes me one," was Lance's cryptic reply. "But we don't have long, so listen carefully."

There was no doubt that everybody was worried. But what they failed to understand was that a man who throws somebody else into the Thames, in the middle of the day, in front of a crowd of witnesses, doesn't care about the consequences of his actions. No one, Wilfred included, could understand why Aidan had done what he did. And the only thing that Aidan remembered now from his conversation with his millionaire ally was an "I warned you", and that he'd get him out of jail as soon as he could.

"We came as soon as we could," Carol said.

Aidan looked into Carol's warm eyes. Seeing him the way he was, they probably thought he'd lost his mind. At least, that was what everyone else seemed to think.

Carol looked at him with an overwhelming feeling of tenderness. The conversation with her wasn't going to be easy. This morning he'd become aware of his feelings for her for the first time. He was surprised about her feelings for him because he didn't represent anything more than a stack of problems for another human being. But feelings have got little to do with logic.

"Lance has been arguing with the duty officer," Carol said. "He doesn't want you treated like a common criminal."

"But that's what I am," he said flatly. "The sooner you accept it, the better."

"Don't talk like that, Aidan," she begged him. "You don't deserve to go to jail. It's not fair."

"Listen, Carol," Aidan said, taking one of her hands in his, aware that the police guard at the door was watching his every move. "I've discovered that I feel something for you. Or rather, I could if I wasn't dead inside. I almost killed a man today and I don't feel even the slightest remorse. And what's more, I'd do it again. That doesn't make me a decent human being. I'm only going to hurt you if you stay close to me. I deserve to go to jail."

"Don't say that," she sobbed. "You're speaking like someone who's already given up. Where's that willpower of yours gone to? Until the jury condemns you, you're not guilty of anything."

She continued talking for a while. Sometimes she criticized him; at other moments she encouraged him to keep fighting. Aidan Zack let her talk herself out any way she wanted, and without realizing it, they finished up in each other's arms across the table. For the first time since he'd thrown Bradley into the Thames he began to feel remorse, seeing the pain he'd caused her.

"You should have told me what you planned to do," Lance Norwood reproached him.

Aidan and Carol let each other go as Lance put a restraining hand on Aidan's shoulder. He didn't look much better than Carol.

"Thanks for your support, mate," Aidan said. "But I'm not up to any more chats about what's happened."

"I would've helped you," Lance said. "But I would've found another way. I've always said that you're useless without me around and this time you've demonstrated it."

Lance's effort to lighten the mood didn't escape Aidan, in spite of the fact that his voice wasn't as sharp as normal and his expression wasn't the same. Aidan appreciated seeing him there. He'd always been his best back-up man.

"Tell me something," Lance asked. "I suppose you interrogated him before he took a dip in the river. Did Bradley have anything to do with the Blacks and Whites?"

Aidan was amazed. "How'd you arrive at that?"

"After you left, Carol and I kept at it. And we turned up some interesting stuff about their houses. All their homes were bought the same day your wife died. That didn't happen by chance."

"Exactly. Nothing's fortuitous in all of this, although I still don't get the connection. Bradley didn't know anything. He was just in it for the money."

"Then we'll stick with the plan. We'll get hold of one of these Blacks or Whites and get some answers."

Aidan studied him. He could see his partner wasn't playing games. "Forget it. The whole thing's too dangerous. Remember what James White told us."

"If you think I'm going to let you rot here, you'd better think again," Lance said, standing up and moving toward the door.

"Damn it, Lance. Don't do anything!" Aidan screamed after him, getting to his feet. "You've got a wife. Don't get involved. Carol, talk to him for God's sake."

"Don't worry. I'll keep him in sight."

Back in his cell, he realized that they'd come to find out what he'd got from Bradley. They'd already made up their minds to keep after the Blacks and Whites.

"Carol, don't do it!" he screamed. But there was no one there.

Ethan Gord sighed after Earl Black walked off. The big man was still searching for his mark, the huge mallet swaying at his side.

"Maybe we should keep out of this," Ethan suggested, grabbing Dylan by the arm as he took off after Earl. "We were about to get involved and we can't do that. Leave the big bloke alone."

"You're joking, aren't you? Speak for yourself, my friend. You're the one who can distract him. Not me. Besides, this is what we're here for. Don't pretend that you don't want to know what will happen."

"We shouldn't have come," Ethan lamented.

"Rubbish. We're not breaking any law," Dylan Blair informed him. "Stop worrying about it. Let's go. We're going to miss all the action."

The millionaire went after Earl, with Ethan following behind. Once again he couldn't fault Dylan's arguments, and he was curious to see everything for himself. He mixed in with a crowd that was following the black-suited giant.

"I hope this animal doesn't finish James off," Dylan said.

"We'll soon find out."

Earl stopped and put the mallet down on the floor, staring at a bar in the middle of a ring of shops that surrounded the fountain. After a while he started walking again, but just before he got to the bar he stopped again, as a woman in a wheelchair came down a side passage beside the bar. He lifted the mallet up in both hands as she wheeled her way towards him.

"Christ," Dylan exclaimed. "Is that who I think it is?"

"I'm afraid so," Ethan replied. "It's Ashley."

Earl threw the mallet through the air. It spun straight towards Ashley's head, but she ducked at the last moment, and it crashed into the floor with Earl just behind. He picked it up and hurled it at her again with all his might.

The knock was devastating. The mallet stopped on the back of the wheelchair, producing a deafening thunder. Ashley was thrown out of the chair and fell heavily several yards away. The wheelchair turned around its axis several times, bounced and knocked down three young men who were looking in the opposite direction.

"I don't get it," Dylan said. "I thought Otis was losing. Seems I was wrong."

"I can assure you when I checked it with Big Ben that Otis was doing real badly."

"But look for yourself. It's Ashley who's on the floor. Otis could win right now and it would be all over."

"She's not beaten yet."

They watched Earl approach the woman on the floor. He stood over her, one massive foot either side, lifting the mallet over his head. It seemed like the whole shopping centre was screaming.

"Well, I'm no expert but this looks like the end," Dylan said.

And with a terrifying roar Earl tensed his muscles and delivered the final blow, as Ashley turned just in time to see the giant mallet crashing down upon her head.

Aidan Zack walked back and forth in his cell, desperately trying to calm down. Everything had changed since Carol's visit. Until she'd come he'd been resigned to whatever fate was coming his way. He was facing the consequences of his actions stoically, but Carol and Lance had changed all that. He wasn't the loner he liked to think he was. There were people who cared about him in spite of his defects. But he was worried about them now. And he didn't doubt James White's words. They were in great danger.

But he couldn't do anything from his cell. He felt completely impotent.

"Are you all right, Tedd?" a child's voice asked. "I don't think there'll be anywhere for you to sit down here."

Aidan Zack looked up and saw a child around ten years old on the other side of the cell. He had the strangest violet eyes that Aidan had ever seen. What was a kid doing here? And as he rubbed his eyes, an even stranger individual appeared, an old man of indeterminate age, leaning his weight on a walking stick with his sparse grey hair tied in a ponytail that hung down his back.

"Don't worry, Todd. My legs don't feel as tired today."

"I want to believe you, Tedd," Todd said, worried. "If you feel tired just lean on my shoulder."

"Where did you two come from?" Aidan asked.

He felt strange in a cell in front of these two. An old man and a child who could easily be his great grandchild, here in the police station? How was it that nobody had stopped them coming in?

"Thanks for your offer, Todd," Tedd said, smiling, "I think we had better explain a few things to our friend here."

"I think it's better that you do that, Tedd," Todd suggested. "After all, you're his lawyer."

"My lawyer?" Aidan said, incredulous. "Is this a joke?"

"It seems that he doesn't want my help, Todd," Tedd said. "He's one of those who judges people by their appearance."

"I'd be happy if it was only that," Aidan said. "You look like you're a thousand years old so I guess your experience must be vast. But why are you always looking away? If you were my lawyer you'd be looking me straight in the eyes."

"Maybe you are right, Tedd," Todd agreed. "Nevertheless, I think it's a case of simple ignorance. Our dear prisoner here doesn't know what you're capable of."

"And you're not looking at me either, kid," Aidan said, beginning to get irritated. "Strange lawyers you are. I'd like to see you interrogating witnesses and putting your case before the court the way you're talking to me now."

There had to be a hidden camera somewhere. The whole thing seemed like a set-up. A pair of individuals like this wouldn't be able to go anywhere without being noticed. Even their names caused confusion. And the violet eyes had to be contact lenses. There was no way he could imagine these two within ten miles of a courtroom.

"I don't like his tone, Todd," Tedd said, "It's obvious he doesn't care much for my abilities."

"He'll change his mind, Tedd," Todd promised him. "As soon as he finds out this excellent news you've brought him, he'll have to apologize."

"OK, I'll fall into the trap," Aidan said.

He couldn't avoid feeling intrigued by the strange pair. Besides there was nothing much he could do but listen, locked up as he was. But what were they talking about? What news could they possibly have that would interest him?

"Ah, no. There's no way I'm going to tell him unless he apologizes first, Todd," Tedd grumbled, lifting his walking stick above his head and turning it a couple of times for effect.

"I dedicate my life to looking after you, Tedd," Todd reminded him. "But you've got to help out. Let the stick do what it's supposed to and stop getting all worked up."

"I understand. Accept my sincere apologies, Tedd," Aidan said, getting used to their strange way of talking. "Would you be so kind as to inform me of this news that you've brought?"

"My intuition was correct, Tedd," Todd observed. "You see how he's changed."

"Much better that way, Todd," Tedd said, "I wouldn't like to think we're getting an impolite person out of jail."

"What? I can't get..." Aidan stuttered. "You can get me out of here?"

"He's doubting me again, Todd," Tedd reiterated. "We're going to get him out of here within the hour once the paperwork's in order. And he still doesn't believe me."

"It's a question of good faith. He'll have to see it, Tedd," Todd said. "He's obviously so impressed with your good work that he doesn't know what to think."

"Who hired you?" Aidan asked suddenly.

"Surely, you are right, Todd," Tedd said. "Anyhow, we've completed our mission and now I feel tired."

The child offered his arm to the old man and they began to go back to wherever they'd come from.

"We can't go without letting him know that it was Wilfred who hired us, Tedd," Todd said as they disappeared.

"Thanks for everything," Aidan's voice echoed in the empty cell.

He threw himself on the bed and went over the incredible conversation that had just finished. No matter what happened from here on in, one thing was certain, he'd never forget Tedd and Todd.

He'd have to wait an hour to check and see if what they'd said was true.

# CHAPTER 21

Although his serious expression didn't reflect it, Allan White felt so happy that even the prospect of having to kill someone couldn't darken his mood. He was walking around a large shopping centre, inspecting every detail around him, carrying a steel spear in his right hand that was longer than he was tall. His white suit shone under the overhead lighting in all its splendour.

The reason for his good mood was that he'd just discovered his therapist was right. He wasn't suffering from split personality syndrome. The simple fact of having released the harness in the gym to go after a new objective was proof enough that his personality wasn't fractured. He was conscious of what he was doing. He still didn't have the whole affair crystal clear in his mind, but he knew someone or something was influencing him to such an extent that he had new goals and desires to fulfil. That explained why he had come here and let the poor fellow drop to the floor back in the gym.

Anyway, none of that mattered now, what did was him being himself. Several people got out of his way as he walked down the passageway; he could see fear and apprehension in their eyes, but paid no attention. He was on a mission.

A child, around six years old, approached him and stretched his hand out to touch the spear, but Allan just lifted it higher and continued on his way, unaware of the mother running behind the child, grabbing the kid and dragging him away, with a look of panic written across her face.

Further ahead, the passage led to an open mall. Allan tensed the muscles on his arm and glared at three boys who were staring at him.

One of them pointed his way. "Look at that. What's this beanpole doing here with a spear in his hand?"

Allan tried to ignore them. He knew he looked different. He was six foot six tall and weighed only ten stone which made him look even taller. And dressed in a white suit carrying a seven-foot spear, it was unlikely he'd be missed wherever he went.

"Check out the suit he's wearing," the one who had pointed at him laughed. "It's not his style."

A great crash echoed in the distance and Allan saw an enormous object moving behind the trio of laughing boys. A silver wheelchair bounced off a column and crashed into the three teenagers, knocking them over.

The moment had arrived. Allan began running and jumped over the stunned teenagers. He left the corridor and headed for a large fountain spitting water high into the air in the centre of the mall. He found what he was looking for straight away.

Without wasting a second, he extended his right arm behind his body and threw the spear with all his strength. The projectile sped through the air as straight as a dart and pierced the back of a huge man dressed in black, just as the giant was about to bring a huge mallet down upon a woman lying prostrate on the floor beneath him. The spear went through his chest and the man in black fell heavily to one side of the woman as his mallet thudded down against the marble floor.

The woman pulled herself off the floor without any sign of having been afraid or even of having been bothered. She contemplated the dead body with a look of satisfaction.

"Great throw," a male voice called out.

Allan looked out of the corner of his eye and recognized his admirer straight away. He couldn't remember his name, but he'd seen him on television several times in all sorts of public disputes. He was an eccentric millionaire, if Allan wasn't mistaken, and was accompanied by a youth who also struck Allan as being familiar. He was suddenly curious. How did he know this young man? He couldn't guess how, but he was certain that he'd met him at some time in the past.

A shrill whistle cut through the air. Allan felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder and fell to the floor with hot blood streaming out, his white suit sleeve stained red. The head of a black arrow had pierced his shoulder and two more whistles announced the arrival of another two arrows that slammed into the marble between his legs.

"Lance, back off a bit," Carol begged him. "I want to get Aidan out of this hole as much as you do, but that won't happen if we have an accident."

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't realize."

A little while later they arrived at their destination and Lance Norwood left the car on the pavement as there was nowhere else to park. Carol couldn't get the idea out of her head that Lance was imitating Aidan's behaviour, even if he wasn't aware of it. His car was going to finish up the same as Aidan's if he kept going like this.

"They still haven't fixed it," he said, looking at the sign hanging over the lift door.

The young journalist followed Lance up the stairs in silence, thinking about their conversation earlier that morning in Aidan's flat. They'd put all the information they had about the Blacks and Whites on the table and, after studying the way in which they'd changed houses, she'd said how sure she was that it was one of the Blacks that had escaped from Aidan when he ran into Dylan Blair a few days before. And that meant he should be living here now.

They'd confirmed that when a Black or White killed one from the other gang, the killer would take up residence in the victim's house. And, as if to confirm the event, Big Ben registered it by stopping. The clues had begun with William Black. Somebody had cut his head off with a sword and, following the strange logic involved, another person had gone to live in his house. That someone happened to be Peter White, who in turn was killed by a boomerang. Carol was convinced that a Black killed Peter and should have occupied this flat at that time. They'd soon find out if that was true.

Carol continued walking in silence. She would die of embarrassment if she had to repeat aloud the strange logic that she'd employed in dragging them to this place. At first they'd decided to go after James White but they soon gave that idea up. James had made it clear in no uncertain manner that he had no intention of telling them anything. So it was better to try and find an easier mark.

"I don't want to run any risks with this," Lance said, in front of the flat door. "If it's him, we'll keep him away from the window."

Carol nodded. Lance knocked on the door and they heard footsteps approaching. The door opened and a frowning individual with black eyes and hair stood before them. He didn't look like either James or Earl. He was around five foot ten with a normal complexion. There was nothing unusual about him. Lance wasn't sure if he was the man Aidan had been chasing or not. He'd only seen him from a distance. But he did have dark skin and black eyes.

"Do you mind telling me what you want?" he asked grumpily.

"Mr Black?" Lance asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm DS Lance Norwood. And your name?"

"Kodey Black. Is there a problem?"

"Stand back!" Lance said. The man looked stunned, but obeyed Lance's order. "You're under arrest. Turn around."

"This is absurd," he protested. "What am I accused of?"

"Killing Peter White," Carol explained.

Lance pushed him into the room and forced him to sit down. Two days before he and Aidan had been here looking at William Black's decapitated head.

"I haven't got the foggiest what this is all about," Kodey said coldly.

"We know that you killed him with a boomerang," Carol said. "You cut his head off in the street after cutting a street lamp in two."

"Seriously? That's an interesting story," Kodey laughed. "Have you got any proof? Perhaps you've got the murder weapon?"

"We've got witnesses," Lance told him. "You're going to pay for that, unless you tell us everything. You know what I'm referring to. "

"No. No, I don't. And the whole thing means nothing to me at all. I wouldn't tell you anything even if I did know something. So go ahead, use these witnesses you're talking about. I'm scared to death." He laughed again.

"That's enough jokes for now. I know you killed that man. You're one of the Black gang and you're going to tell me about your war with the Whites."

"Now I see it," Kodey said, changing his tone. "Maybe I've judged you wrong. Do you want to know where I get the black suit from and all that stuff? I used to pick it up from the dry-cleaners regularly. Listen well, because I'm not going to repeat it. I don't know how I did all those strange things, and it doesn't bother me if you believe me or not. Have you got that clear? I haven't got the least idea about any of this."

"I'm asking you for a favour. Give us something," Carol said. "One of our friends is in trouble. He's in jail and we can't get him out if we don't get to the bottom of this first."

"You're breaking my heart, beautiful," Kodey said. "I've already told you I don't know anything."

"Bloody fool," Lance snarled. "I'm going to make sure they put you away for that murder."

"Good luck. Tedd and Todd are my lawyers and they're excellent. I can assure you of that. They got me out of a similar situation three years ago."

"We'll continue this chat down at the police station," Lance said. "Being locked up might loosen your tongue. Get up!"

Kodey didn't offer any resistance as they left the house and went down the stairs. He didn't say anything until they got to the street.

"I can't go to the station," he said nervously.

"You're already on your way. Get in the car," Lance ordered him, shoving him in the back.

Lance Norwood was on the point of losing it. His partner was locked up in jail like a common criminal and this curious individual in front of him hadn't offered even a scrap of information that could help. Lance suddenly felt as if he wasn't a good detective. Aidan would have got Black to talk one way or the other. But with him in charge, nothing had happened.

During his years with Aidan, Lance had left the interrogating to his partner. His height had always intimidated suspects, or at least that was what Lance used to think. But it was more than just physical. The big man had a knack of getting information out of anyone. It was a pity he wasn't here now.

Carol opened the back door and got in.

"It's not what you think," Kodey explained. "But I can't leave here."

"Shut up!" Lance screamed, pushing him in.

A minute later they were thick in the traffic with Carol still trying to work out a way to get some answers out of Kodey Black. But he didn't say anything, and just stared out of the window all the way. Carol gave up halfway to the station, thinking about her feelings for Aidan now that he was behind bars. It had been amazing how quickly her feelings had changed. And she didn't want to see him go from the station to prison. She was going to do everything in her power to stop that happening.

They were driving at a steady speed down a wide two-lane road when Kodey suddenly came to life. Carol studied the road ahead but couldn't see anything that might have provoked Kodey's reaction.

"Stop the car. I can't go any further," Kodey yelled.

"Shut up!" Lance told him.

"This is going to be painful."

Carol was about to ask Kodey what the problem was when his face became distorted as if he'd crashed into an invisible sheet of glass. The car flew in the air, glass and pieces of metal flying everywhere. Kodey's body was suspended in the air, completely immobile. The rear part of the car had split in two, cut down the middle by the unexpected obstacle.

Lance lost control and the car was veering wildly from one side of the road to the other. The rear had collapsed and the broken chassis was being dragged along the tarmac, sparks flying. They crashed into a parked car and bounced off into a tree. Carol scrambled out and saw Kodey a few yards behind, surrounded by broken glass and metal.

"I warned you about going any further," he said, before turning and running down the street.

She went to chase after him but suddenly remembered that she hadn't checked to see if Lance was injured.

A crowd had formed around the car and she forced her way through it. She opened the door and suddenly her legs lost all their strength. A sharp pain shot through her head. Something weird was happening. Her body was shaking uncontrollably and two men were holding her and others helped put her on a stretcher. As she was carried away she had one last look at Lance in the front seat with a tree branch buried in his neck.

# CHAPTER 22

Helen Black was used to being looked at. She was a beautiful woman with a good figure, but the key to what made heads turn was her height. It was unusual to see a woman seven foot tall and wherever she went everyone, men, women and children, looked at her.

Today, however, they weren't only looking at her, but at how she was dressed and at what she was carrying. As she went through the shopping centre, everyone elbowed their friends, or dragged them by the shoulder to turn and see the spectacular woman dressed in an exquisite black dress with a black bow hanging off her back.

Trevor Deemer followed her with difficulty, pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers, with Helen's hair bouncing high above the rest marking his way. He had no idea what she was doing here. He suspected something was going to happen, given that they'd stolen a motorbike and crossed the city like two bats out of hell.

Turning the next corner he ran into a big group of people arguing, and fell over. By the time he got to his feet, there was no sign of Helen anywhere. He cursed and started running as fast as he could in the direction she'd been heading a few moments before. He came out into a circular mall with a fountain in the middle.

"Great throw," he heard someone call out to his right.

Staring in the direction of the caller as he recovered his breath, he recognized Dylan Blair. The millionaire had called out to a tall thin individual dressed in a white suit who was walking towards a huge black-suited man with a spear in his back slumped on the floor of the mall. A brown-haired woman stood near the dead body, and behind her a wheelchair was doing circles under its own power. Then, as if the woman had a remote control or something similar, the chair came at her beckoning, and she sat down.

Trevor didn't have time to try and work out the mystery because at that moment he saw Helen taking aim again. He bolted towards her but didn't make it in time and watched in horror as the arrow found its mark in the man's right shoulder. She shot two more at him that missed.

"Stop, Helen!" he screamed, grabbing her by the arm. He couldn't believe what had just happened. She'd fired an arrow into a perfect stranger in cold blood. "What are you doing? You're going to kill that man."

In one fast and brutal movement, she hit him with a backhander that knocked him to the floor. His head was spinning from the force of the blow as he watched her take another arrow out of her quiver. And before he could do anything, someone grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him back.

"Don't get involved in this," the young man who had been sitting with Dylan Blair warned him.

"And that goes for you too, Ethan," Dylan said, coming up to them. "You're losing it."

Without understanding anything, Trevor followed Dylan's eyes and saw the man with the arrow in his shoulder get up from the floor, pick the spear out of the chest of the fallen giant and spin round and throw it at Helen. He hardly had time to scream as the spear sped through the temperature-regulated air straight at the woman he loved. She ducked at the last second and the spear flew over her head.

"You'll be killed if you get into this," Ethan warned him again. "There's nothing you can do for her."

"She's my bride," Trevor screamed. "And they're trying to kill her. I've got to help."

"You can't," Dylan said flatly. "And she's not your bride. It's better that you accept that as soon as possible. You need a drink. I'd be happy to buy you one if you tell me a little about your girlfriend."

Trevor gave some thought to that but was aghast at seeing Helen firing another arrow in the man's direction. It missed again.

"I'm doing it for your own good," Ethan said. "Helen knows how to look after herself. You can't do anything for her anyway."

"It sounds like you know her? How's that?"

"She's a great woman," Dylan said. "Although the truth is, you should've seen the White woman..."

Trevor was getting angrier by the minute. "What are you talking about?"

"Naturally, she was the same as your Helen, only blonde and blue-eyed," Dylan went on. "It's a question of taste, I suppose. But I preferred Helen White."

Well before he could distinguish the face of the driver, Fletcher already knew who it was. As soon as the police car came speeding into the car park and came to an abrupt halt on the pavement a few yards from the entrance, leaving the area with the smell of burning rubber, the old pathologist knew that his friend had heard the sad news.

"Aidan, wait!" Fletcher called out.

Aidan Zack stopped in his tracks. He'd got out of the car so fast he'd left the keys dangling in the ignition. "Fletcher, where's Lance? What's happened?"

"They've just brought him," Fletcher said sadly. "Carol's inside. She was with him–"

Aidan ran into the mortuary. The pathologist rushed after him as fast as he could. He had no idea how Aidan had got out of jail. But that was a question that would have to wait until later. The big problem now was how to keep Aidan from going over the top. The sight of his friend in a body bag wasn't going to help.

As far as Fletcher was concerned, Lance Norwood had been a poor detective, little more than a lackey for Aidan in the professional sense. It was an open secret that Fletcher and Lance hadn't got on, but he'd been well aware that Lance had given Aidan his unconditional support and had really been his only true friend. His death was going to be a hard load for the big man to carry.

The pathologist entered the room where Lance's lifeless body lay. His head jutted out of the half-open body bag. Aidan was beside the dead body with Carol buried in his arms. Fletcher zipped the bag up as quietly as he could, then pushed the stretcher away and called a companion to remove it.

"They have to take the body to the examination room," Fletcher explained. "His wife's requested that."

Aidan nodded, his face distorted with rage. "You've got to explain how this happened, Carol, I need to know."

Carol somehow found the energy to tell him what had happened. She stuttered her way through the strange sequence of events that had led to Lance's death. Aidan listened stoically, without interrupting her once. He hardly blinked.

Carol's voice seemed to come from a great distance, as if in a way the speaker wasn't her but someone else inhabiting her body. Her words disappeared in her mind, without leaving a trace, or even the softest echo. And when she was finished, all Aidan knew was that Lance had died and that his killer had a name: Kodey Black. He was going to find this bastard as soon as he could and he hoped that he was as resistant to death as James White had been, so that he could kill him over and over again.

Aidan didn't give a damn about what might happen to him now. He only knew that he was passing through a succession of events that had no explanation, and that had cost the life of his wife and now his best friend. Things couldn't get much worse. He had two reasons now to seek revenge. If he went back to jail it was more than likely that the dynamic violet-eyed duo would get him out again. That's how mad everything had become. Everything was absurd, surreal. Nothing made any sense except revenge.

Then something changed. A wave of heat flooded his body, immersing him in a strangely pleasant and comforting glow. He'd been in the depths of despair but something had brought him back. Little by little, he became conscious of his own body again, the sounds around him storming back, his blood circulating normally again. He half-opened his eyes and found his arms wrapped around Carol and her mouth on his.

They stopped kissing, and she stepped back and stared into his eyes. He kissed her again. He needed the reassurance of her body wrapped in his, the liquid warmth of her mouth. It was all he had to stave madness off.

Fletcher had already left them alone.

"It can't be true," Dylan Blair exclaimed, his face losing all its colour as he stared at a short, blond-haired, blue-eyed man in a white suit that seemed to all intents and purposes to be James White. "Ashley's called James. The damn woman. I wish Earl had flattened her with his hammer."

"Calm down," Ethan said. "It's not him. It's the other one. Colin White."

Ethan's explanation confused Dylan.

"Are you sure? I don't know how you can tell the difference. It looks like James down to the mole on his neck."

"They were under my orders, don't forget. The one who's in the chair can tell the difference. I guess I've still got it. You'll find out soon enough."

"What the hell are you two talking about?" Trevor Deemer demanded to know.

The dumped bridegroom had finally come to accept that Helen was involved in something that was beyond his comprehension. He'd watched her fire arrows at a man throwing spears at her. And these two men beside him had restrained him, and were now talking in riddles. But what bothered him more than anything else was how cold and calculating Helen had been. This woman with the bow and arrow was like no woman he had ever met.

"You can't understand it. And that's better for you. Forget all this, my friend."

The three men fell silent along with the rest of the throng in the mall. The shopping centre was a battle zone. People had either run off or were watching the action from a good distance away.

Ashley was still seated in the strange wheelchair a few yards behind Allan. She appeared to have no intention of getting involved.

The only thing Trevor could make out was that it came down to a battle between Whites and Blacks, which made Helen's insistence on keeping her name more interesting. And now another man in white had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. A new enemy hell-bent on killing Helen.

"That's Colin," Ethan said.

Colin White was shorter than Allan and not as thin. The colour of his skin, eyes and hair was identical. Trevor thought he would throw himself at Helen straight away, seeing she was about to finish Allan off. But after pulling his sword out he did no more than stare at Helen coldly, studying the bow aimed at Allan. But she didn't shoot. She stood perfectly still, looking at her new adversary.

Seconds passed, which turned into minutes without anything happening. It was as if time itself had stopped and turned the foes into black and white statues.

Then suddenly they all moved at the same time. Helen dropped her arm and spun around while Colin sheathed his sword and disappeared from where he had come. Ashley withdrew and Allan pulled the two arrows embedded in his body out without showing any sign of pain or even groaning, before he ran off in another direction.

"Good, it seems like the show's over," Dylan said. "It wasn't too bad. Cheer up, young fella. Your girl's still in one piece."

"And this seems a joke to you, doesn't it?" Trevor observed, still coming to terms with what had just happened. The suits, the weapons, the sudden ceasefire, nothing made any sense.

"Don't worry about it," Ethan advised Trevor. "Let's go, Dylan. Nothing more's going to happen here. Tomorrow it'll all come to an end."

"I'll catch up with James," Dylan said. "I've got a bet outstanding with that dwarf."

# CHAPTER 23

Nine out of ten people would be shocked if they saw a priest's sermon interrupted by a rock group. And all the more so if that happened at a funeral.

Nevertheless, Aidan Zack only felt a wave of fury when the priest lifted his head from the bible and the whole congregation turned to stare angrily at the offender and the wild tone on the mobile phone he was taking out of his coat pocket. Ramsey mumbled a weak apology as he hurried off through the cemetery gardens.

Aidan had seen him only a couple of times before, always wearing that strange wide-brimmed hat and carrying the black walking stick. He didn't know what his connection to Lance had been, but he was thinking about going after him now and making him swallow his mobile phone. A soft tug on his left hand turned him back to the sad ceremony that had brought him to the cemetery: Lance Norwood's funeral.

It was a cold morning with clouds as grey as lead that threatened rain any minute. A bad day to be buried.

Aidan Zack's eyes had almost disappeared behind the large black rings that bore testimony to the little sleep he'd had the night before. He and Carol had been with Lance's family at the mortuary until late in the night and had stayed the night with them at Lance's house. Aidan had tossed and turned his way through the longest night he could remember, and if it hadn't been for Carol he would have drunk a bottle of whisky to try and forget what had happened.

Standing here now, in front of the coffin, Aidan was conscious for the first time of the great wound that had opened in his soul. The stories and experiences he'd shared with his dead partner were numerous. But that was the past now. He'd never hear Lance's jokes again or see him laugh or even have one of their many arguments. He held Carol tighter with the thought.

When the priest finished, the wailing of Lance's wife scratched the air, and made Aidan look away along the line of policemen who had come. There were many. And that was just because it was Lance Norwood. He'd touched everyone who had ever met him.

The coffin was lowered into the grave and earth was shovelled slowly onto the polished oakwood. Some threw flowers in and murmured prayers and Aidan and Carol expressed their grief once more to the widow, and then walked slowly away.

And as they did, further ahead, they met Ramsay again. He was paralysed at the side of the street, staring at the sky with an expression of panic painted across his face as if an aeroplane was about to come crashing down upon him. Aidan presumed he was just a poor fool and gave him a wide berth. He heard the chiming of bells somewhere in the distance.

"What are you thinking of doing?" Carol asked, breaking the silence. "And don't lie. I need to know."

"Legally, I can't do much. I'm suspended until the charges against me are resolved. But that's not going to stop me finding this Kodey Black and thanking him in my own special way for what's happened."

"You can't get any deeper into this, Aidan. If you're caught harassing someone again they won't be able to get you out of jail the next time. Promise me you won't do anything stupid," she said, standing in front of him.

"I'll control myself as well as I can," he answered, looking away.

"Let's hope you keep your word. What did your lawyer tell you about losing your job?"

"Nothing I can remember. He's a strange old man. He was accompanied by a kid who carried on like an adult. They didn't seem to be related. But who knows? Somehow, they got me out. I'll have to thank them for that the next time I see them. I'll buy a new walking stick for Tedd, the old bloke."

Carol looked confused. She'd stopped in the middle of the road. Aidan was about to ask her what was wrong when his phone rang. It was Fletcher.

The pathologist sounded excited. "You've got to come back to the mortuary. There's something you've got to see."

"Is it urgent? I've got to take Carol back to the newspaper."

"More Blacks and Whites have come in. Some haven't been identified but the similarity is unmistakable. It could be that the bodies have been mixed up and nobody will ever find out."

"OK. I'll be there as soon as I can. I've got a few things to do first."

"I'm sure those things can wait. I've got Earl Black in front of my nose and Kodey Black's body just came in."

"OK, I'm coming," Aidan said, hanging up. "They've just received Kodey Black's body down at the morgue. I've got to go there now."

"Don't worry, I'll get a taxi. But tell me something first. This lawyer of yours, you said his name was Tedd. Is the other one Todd?"

"How'd you know that?" Aidan asked surprised.

"Where did you get these two from?"

"Wilfred. He got them for me, along with the Ferrari," Aidan paused. "How did you know the kid's name?"

"Kodey Black," Carol was almost breathless. "Yesterday, when we detained him, Lance threatened to lock him up. And Kodey just laughed, saying that he'd been in situations like that before and that his lawyers had always got him out. He mentioned their names then. Tedd and Todd."

"But... then," Aidan stammered. "This means..."

"Check it all out first before you do anything stupid. Remember what you promised me. Find out what Fletcher's got while I keep at it. As soon as I find anything out I'll call you."

"They've played with me for the last time. Wilfred's behind all of this and he's lied to me. When I catch up with him he'll wish the cancer had got him first."

The practice of being a lawyer was exhausting, especially if you put your heart and soul into it like Aston Lowel. And the way he was going he would be remembered as one of the best lawyers that London had ever had.

He burnt the midnight oil most days in the belief that his work was of supreme importance. Locking up criminals was fulfilling a social duty and he was proud of carrying it out. Of course he was also driven by personal ambition and was often pleased to see his photo in the paper. There was nothing wrong with that. In fact, in his opinion, it was the only way to go about his work. Talent can only carry you so far. Ambition is what takes you all the way.

Aston was intelligent and it didn't bother him to be putting everything into his work. But what did bother him was finding someone in his office first thing in the morning. He liked to start the day with a cup of coffee alone at his desk.

"Can't it wait?" Aston asked his assistant, hanging up his coat in an effort to disguise his irritation.

He didn't like to start the day like this. He went back to his desk and for the first time studied the bundle of nerves before him.

"I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible," his assistant said.

"I presume it's not good news then," Aston said more to himself than the other man.

"They let Aidan Zack out on bail yesterday."

"That's impossible. I was talking with him yesterday afternoon," Aston said, thinking it through.

If it was true it was bad news indeed. The legal situation was still the same, but it still bothered him that it had happened so quickly. After being insulted by him in the police station it annoyed him to think that Aidan was free again.

"I still don't understand it properly, but Judge Emmel authorized the bail."

"Why wasn't I advised?"

"I'd already gone home when he was released. It was almost night time."

It had to be a mistake. Emmel was a judge who did everything correctly. It was impossible that he'd grant bail to a man accused of throwing another off a bridge in the full light of day in front of a crowd of witnesses. It was too dangerous to release someone like that until the case had at least been heard. Anyway, a person accused of what Aidan had done would have to stay at least twenty-four hours under guard and Aidan hadn't been half that time behind bars. It didn't make sense.

"Check everything to do with the affair," Aston ordered, putting his coat on again. "Get the release order and all the relevant bail documents."

"I'll get on to it right away."

"I want it on my desk when I get back. I'm going to talk right now with Judge Emmel about his duties as a judge in this city."

Aston was determined to overturn the order. He wanted Aidan back in jail with the same speed that he'd been released. He'd take the case to another judge if necessary to put this danger to the public behind bars.

On leaving the building, he started weaving his way through the metal bases of scaffolding that covered the entire facade of the building. They were restoring the exterior and the pavement had been invaded by a huge spindly skeleton of overhead platforms. Aston was going to cross to the opposite pavement to avoid the construction work, but something unexpected stopped him.

"You've got to get up, granddad," a young boy sobbed.

The boy was ten yards ahead trying to lift his grandfather up off the ground. The kid couldn't have been more than ten years old, and the effort of lifting the old man up seemed beyond him.

Aston covered his head instinctively as he walked under the metal posts, avoiding a black rod that was lying on the ground. He bent down beside the old man and the boy.

"Don't worry, young fella. I'll help you."

The old man moved his arms and legs clumsily, unable to get up. The image of a turtle on its back flew through the lawyer's mind. Aston stopped for a second to look at his violet eyes.

"Did you hear that, Tedd?" the boy said. "This gentleman is going to help us."

Aston nodded, grabbing the old man and trying to pull him up. But he couldn't budge him. The lawyer stopped again to look at a second pair of violet eyes.

"I could get up on my own, Todd," Tedd grumbled, shaking his arm so that Aston would let it go. "I only need my walking stick."

The lawyer smiled approvingly at the show of the old man's pride. He looked around them for the walking stick but couldn't see any. But then he remembered the black rod that he'd almost stepped on when he was approaching them.

"I'll bring you the walking stick now," Aston said. "Don't move."

He turned around and saw the black stick a few yards away. He picked it off the ground and turned to bring it back to the strange pair. But they'd gone. They had simply vanished. He'd only turned his back on them for three or four seconds, five at the most. And now there was nobody in sight. Not on the footpath or as far as he could see around him. They couldn't have disappeared that quickly. But there was no one to be seen. Was he going mad? Or could it be...

A great roar above his head made him look up. But he didn't even have time to scream as the whole structure of scaffolding crashed down upon him.

The peculiar smell of the post-mortem examination room that Lance had detested so much invaded Aidan's nostrils as he walked into the room. Fletcher lifted his head up from a corpse and began to take his gloves off as soon as he saw the detective.

Aidan Zack looked around the room at the assortment of bodies, his eyes settling on the biggest body there, a body and a face that he would recognize anywhere.

"That's Earl Black," the pathologist said. "We don't need a post mortem to determine the cause of death. A spear went right through him."

Aidan nodded in silence. At this stage of the strangest game in town, nothing surprised him. A spear fit perfectly with the collection of medieval weapons that the Blacks and Whites preferred to use.

Aidan remembered that Wilfred had told him that four identical replicas of Earl existed, two Blacks and two Whites, of which Earl had been the only one still alive.

"This is the last of his type. Have you discovered anything else?"

"Nothing that justified his apparent immortality nor their DNA similarities," Fletcher lamented. "I've got a hunch that science won't be able to explain it."

"They're not immortal or we wouldn't be standing in a morgue talking about them."

"But you told me that James White survived a blaze and threw himself from a sixth floor window without scratching himself."

"That's true. But everything would seem to change when a Black's involved. Where's Kodey?"

"Here," Fletcher said, pointing to a concrete slab. Aidan walked over and studied the corpse, and to his surprise there was nothing unusual about him. Fletcher went on. "It would appear he was killed with something that was very sharp. A long-bladed knife, for example."

"It wasn't a knife," Aidan said, observing the cut across the chest. "It was a boomerang. And now that I've seen this model, there are only two more to find. Another man and a woman."

"I've got them right here," the pathologist confirmed. "This is Allan White. As you can see, he's very tall and very thin. They killed him with a sword. And this is Helen Black."

Aidan froze when he saw the size of the woman. Stretched out on the bench she looked taller than him. But on closer examination, he put her at about the same height as himself. He walked around the corpse, memorizing every detail, just as he had done with Kodey. Fletcher told him what he knew about their deaths, but there were plenty of gaps in the details. The only thing that was more or less clear was that there'd been a battle of sorts in a shopping centre the previous afternoon, and that the fight had continued in different parts of the city.

"They're cutting through their ranks pretty quick now," Aidan said. "There can't be too many of the original thirty left. I'd better catch up with James White before we find him here alongside these stiffs."

"Apparently the woman used a bow and arrow," Fletcher informed him. "Remember, three days ago when they brought Earl White in, he had three arrows in his body. I guess it was she who did that."

"And now another White has put paid to her and we haven't got a clue why? It's a strange business this, with its own rules," Aidan said, running the whole thing through his head one more time. "It seems like there are special moments to fight. Time–"

"What do you mean by time?"

"As weird as it might seem to you, there's a connection with Big Ben. And that's just one more scene in the theatre of the absurd. Whites killing Blacks and vice versa and the Big Clock missing a beat each time."

"There's something else," Fletcher remembered. "The witnesses said there was another woman on a strange wheelchair. According to them, the woman spent half her time walking, with the chair waiting for her next order. Apparently, Earl attacked her with a giant mallet and this beanpole here, Allan, helped out by hurling a spear through Earl's back."

"Did the woman look like Helen?"

"No, and what's more, she had brown hair. She wasn't one of them."

"Are you sure? The fight's getting bigger if that's the case."

"I'm as sure as I can be about any of this. There were plenty of witnesses there. And that's what they said."

"I've got to find out who she is," Aidan said, taking his mobile out.

He called the station and asked for the policeman on duty at the shopping centre the previous day. He found out it was a man he knew, but despite that, he couldn't find out much.

"Do you know who she is?" Fletcher asked when he'd hung up.

"No, but he said there were twenty witnesses who confirmed what you told me."

"Let's hope we find out who she is soon."

"That's not going to be easy either. All the security cameras stopped working mysteriously during the brawl. We can presume that that was no coincidence."

"Maybe someone took a photo with their mobile, or even someone with a camera. It's a big place. It's possible."

Aidan's mobile rang. It was Carol.

"I've got some news about Tedd."

"That quickly? You'd make a good detective."

"That I'm not. When I got back to the newspaper, there was an envelope on my desk with a stack of information about Tedd and Todd."

"What? Do you know who sent it?"

"No. I asked around and nobody knows who put it on my desk. Someone wants to help out. Don't ask me why."

"Nothing surprises me at this stage of the game," Aidan reflected. "Tell me what information you've got."

"What Kodey told Lance and me was correct. Three years ago, Kodey was accused of the murder of William White. There was a witness, but Kodey walked free. The lawyer was Tedd."

"I've got no doubt he was guilty."

"Wait. There's a lot more," Carol said impatiently. "The witness was Dylan Blair."

"What role has that bastard got in all of this? His name's wrong in the first place."

"I don't know, but the detail surprised me so I made a few enquiries. Dylan was Mr Nobody when he gave his statement about what happened. Three weeks after that he started his winning streak at the casino."

"Interesting. This only adds weight to what I was already feeling about him." Aidan paused. "I don't get the connection, though. If I'd known he was involved in all of this that day when I had a fight with him I would have hit him twice as hard. Have you got anything new on Tedd?"

"Yes. There are strange things that don't have any explanation. He works for a firm in which he's the only lawyer. He was involved, among other things, in all these changes of houses between Blacks and Whites. One day it's in the name of a Black and the next in the name of a White. You can't sell properties that quickly. The paperwork takes time. Nevertheless, it's there for all to see. Everything appears to be legal."

"Would you say Tedd somehow covers up all this Black–White stuff from everybody else?"

"That's more or less what I thought," Carol agreed. "From what I've seen, all the transactions should have taken a hundred years to be completed. I simply don't understand how no relevant authority hasn't been made aware of all this. And on top of that, I might add Tedd's business was established in 1858, the same year that Big Ben chimed for the first time."

Aidan shook his head.

"It just keeps getting worse."

"Most of his clients are either Blacks or Whites but now and again someone else shows up on the records."

"Have you got the list there?"

"Yes."

"Have a look and see if there's an Ethan there. It would have to be a while ago. Like around fifty years."

"Let me have a look. Yes. He's here. There are some entries under the name Ethan Gord about sixty-seven years ago, more or less."

"That's him, Wilfred's father. Is there any information about what service Tedd offered him?"

"It's possible that I could find out. But I'll need more time. There's a lot of information here."

"Do it, please."

"I want to be with you. I don't want you to be alone."

"I'm fine. Look, Carol, this information is very important. Ethan came to some agreement with Tedd and Todd nearly seventy years ago that makes him immortal, judging by his appearance. I know you probably think I've lost it. But logic doesn't help us in this case. You yourself said," Aidan said to a laughing Fletcher by his side, "that science alone can't explain these clones or how James White can apparently survive anything. And, Carol, can you explain what Big Ben's got to do with all of this or what Tedd's got to do with Big Ben? Or how come Tedd's been doing all this for a hundred and fifty years? To all intents and purposes, Ethan looks about twenty years old, so this fountain of youth must have something to do with all of this. And what about Dylan Blair? How did he become a millionaire overnight? Just think about all of that and realize that in their strange world anything is possible. Do you get it?"

No one said anything for a while. Then Fletcher nodded.

"OK, Aidan," Carol said. I'll find out what I can about Ethan and Tedd."

"And I'll go and visit Wilfred," Aidan said. "We need to have a long chat. If he's kept something from me he's going to regret it."

"Promise me you'll keep yourself under control," Carol begged him. "Besides, I'm worried. It's obvious Tedd and Todd want you free for some reason."

"Don't worry. After seeing what happened with Ethan and Dylan, you can see that anybody connected with them comes out of it well."

# CHAPTER 24

"Where's my little stud?" Ann said playfully. She was looking for her husband under the tangle of sheets and blankets on the bed and in one sharp movement she pulled the lot off and finally discovered the nude body of her husband Colin. "At last I've found you."

"You're a shameless hussy," Colin joked, pretending to be embarrassed, covering his genitals with a towel. "A decent woman doesn't harass a man like this."

"Shut up!" she ordered, throwing herself upon him. But Colin dodged her quickly and gained the upper hand, holding her down beneath him. Ann couldn't stop laughing. "For once you're behaving like you should–"

She didn't get to finish her sentence as Colin bit her on the neck and started down her back, leaving a trail of kisses, licks and nibbles that sent shivers of pleasure racing up her spine. She purred through the foreplay, letting herself be carried away by her husband's expert hands.

This was the morning after a wild night and they were still at it. It seemed they couldn't get enough of each other, twice through the night and again now was proof enough of that. When they'd finished, they lay in bed smoking, staring up at the ceiling absently.

This was the third time that Collin had invited her to a hotel in the last two years. And the third time she'd been amazed by him breaking all the rules that he so carefully adhered to at home. On the first occasion he'd called her and invited her to come to a hotel in the centre of London. She was very nervous when she arrived and had no idea what this change in their routine meant. She found the room bathed in candlelight when she went upstairs, and her husband soaking in a bubble bath, waiting for her. There had never been a night like that before, neither the first time they'd made love or the wedding night itself, or on any other occasion could she remember anything to compare with that night in the hotel. It was almost as if Colin had done a course in Kama Sutra and had passed with honours and wanted to share his new-found knowledge.

While Ann relived this scene in her memory, she remembered how surprising his behaviour had been for her. He had been completely different, dominant, aggressive, almost brutal. But what stunned her even more after that night in the hotel was that he went back to being the same man that he'd always been the next day. The fights returned and life got back to being the same boring grind as before. She never forgot what had happened in the hotel, but never dared to ask him why just the same.

The second time had occurred four months earlier. It had been a different hotel but the purpose was the same. Her heart had skipped a beat when she received his message on her mobile phone. She'd thought it would never happen again and that even the first time had been a product of her imagination. She went to a hairdresser, put on the sexiest dress she had and got to the room ready to relive the first experience. There were variations to the original script, peppered with improvisations and twists that didn't disappoint her in the least. But the next day the same thing as before happened and they withdrew into their customary shells.

This was now the third time and Ann had no doubt about what was coming when she received the name of the hotel and the room number. Surprisingly, it was one of London's most expensive hotels and she was curious to know what the price was, but decided that that was a question she could leave for later.

"That's why you left yesterday without saying anything when we were painting?" Ann asked, suddenly putting the cigarette out.

"Yes. Yes. You've got it," Colin answered her more quickly than normal. "I had to check that everything was in order. It's a special occasion and I didn't want anything to ruin it."

"What I don't understand is how you changed clothes so quickly. One minute you were in overalls and the very next you were in an elegant white suit."

"That's a secret. One has to maintain a veil of mystery, don't you think? If you knew everything there'd be no surprises like this one."

"That's true," she said, snuggling into his chest. "What I don't understand is why we argue so much at home when everything's perfect here."

"Living together's not easy. This is like going on holiday." He paused. "Hey, wait a moment. We agreed not to talk about this. You don't want the magic to disappear, do you?"

"You're right, darling. It's only a little detail, but the colour of the room... You'll change that, won't you?" she asked, thinking back to the argument the day before. "I was really looking forward to having salmon-coloured walls."

"As you wish." Colin kissed her and left the bed. "But promise me you'll remind me when we get home. You know how forgetful I am."

"OK. Are you going now? It's always the same story, isn't it? It'd be nice to stay one more day. Please."

Colin sighed. "I wish we could. But you know I have to go early. Don't complain. After all, I've brought you to one of London's finest hotels."

"Of course not. It's only that I'm sad that it's all over. We spend all our time arguing at home. It's not fair that this can't last longer."

"We can't change it," her husband said, buttoning up his shirt. "What can we do? Life stinks."

Aidan Zack hurried along the corridors of Wilfred's mansion as if he was on a mission. He was furious with the old man and had to keep repeating his promise to Carol to avoid the pleasant vision of his hands around Wilfred's neck, strangling him slowly. The old bastard had pretended he was going to help him, but failed to mention knowing Tedd and Todd, who it appeared were key players in the whole deal with the Blacks and Whites. Maybe the old blighter didn't have cancer? Aidan simply couldn't understand why Wilfred had concealed his knowing them from him.

"Stop!" the bodyguard at the entrance to Wilfred's room said. "You can't enter."

Aidan twisted the hand that was pointing at him, forced the guard to the floor and then kneed him in the head, leaving him unconscious on the floor. Then he kicked the door open and closed it behind him.

Wilfred Gord stirred in the bed on seeing him. "Aidan! I was just about to call you. You're not going to believe it."

"I'm not interested in anything you've got to say," Aidan said, striding to the bed and leaning over the frail old man. "I want to know right now why you didn't tell me about Tedd and Todd."

"What are you talking about?" the old man said, trying to sit up straighter in the bed. "Who are they?"

"Mind what you say, old man. Your life depends on your next few sentences. I think you know what I'm capable of doing."

"Aidan, I promise you, I don't know what you're talking about." Wilfred was clearly frightened. His eyes had a glint of panic in them. It was obvious that he took Aidan's threat seriously. Knowing that Aidan had thrown Bradley in the river, it seemed he was capable of doing anything. "I've never heard those names in my whole life. What would I gain by lying to you? Think about it. I'm condemned to stay in this damn bed. I need you. Why would I hide something from you if you're the key to everything?"

Wilfred's argument calmed Aidan down. He sounded sincere. His tone of voice and body language suggested he was telling the truth. And if he was, where did that leave Aidan? The thought flashed through his mind that it was Tedd and Todd who had lied when they said Wilfred had sent them. He'd jumped to one conclusion too many, and too fast, by the look of it. He'd been an inch away from throttling old Wilfred. Lance's death had clouded his judgement. He had to calm down, and fast.

"You honestly don't know anything about them?" he asked incredulously.

It was the type of question that could only be answered one way. Even in the case that Wilfred knew something, he was going to deny it, especially lying in a bed with a mad policeman threatening to kill him.

"I know absolutely nothing about them," Wilfred repeated. "In fact, now I've got an indescribable curiosity to know who they are and what made you think that I knew them. Have I given you any reason to doubt me up to now? I'm going to die, Aidan. Nobody wants to solve all of this more than I do."

"I... I'm sorry. Lance's death has knocked me for six."

"I understand. I'm sorry about your friend. And I don't want to pressure you, but we've got to get a move on. Big Ben has stopped working. It's been breaking down so often lately that they've given up trying to fix it. Those responsible for its maintenance haven't got the least idea what the cause of the problem is. Time's stopped. Tell me what you know about these two individuals."

Aidan nodded and pulled a chair up close to the bed. He told Wilfred what Carol had found out about Tedd and Todd. The fact that their business was founded the day Big Ben started chiming, along with all the other curious facts. And while he was talking, he noticed the deterioration in Wilfred. The cancer was doing its work quickly. His eyes were sunken and there was hardly a trace of life in them. His hands moved slowly as he listened to Aidan's summing up.

"We've found them, then," Wilfred said triumphantly. "They're the ones responsible for everything. Listen, Aidan, I don't know why, but they want something from you. They got you out of jail. That is what I was going to tell you when you arrived. Aston Lowel, the lawyer who was going to process your case, died this morning. The scaffolding collapsed in front of the building in which he worked, trapping him underneath. And Bradley Kenton escaped from the hospital and has disappeared. The witnesses who were going to testify against you have changed their minds. The three main witnesses have received large sums of money in their accounts. I'm investigating the whole deal, but it looks to me like Tedd and Todd are protecting you."

"Why? What do they want from me?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is you couldn't have done it locked up in jail."

"Damn. I've got no idea what it could be," Aidan snarled, punching the chair. "But I think that your father wanted you to meet them. Dylan Blair had some sort of deal with them that's made him rich. Your father did too. And it looks like he's been drinking from the fountain of youth. If I was looking for a cure for cancer I'd check it out with them first."

"You're right," Wilfred agreed. "And that's why Ethan said that you were the key. But there are still a lot of things that don't make sense. All this business with the Blacks and Whites, for a start, along with this mysterious woman in the wheelchair."

"I think I can clear everything up as soon as I get hold of Tedd and Todd."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"I still don't know, but something will turn up. I'll go to the station and start a fracas with a couple of sergeants that I don't like."

"And that's going to help?"

"If I'm that important to Tedd and Todd, they'll get me out again."

"You never cease to surprise me," Wilfred said. "If I'd met you before all of this, I would've put you in charge of one of my businesses. I like your idea. But I'd keep it as Plan B."

"So how do you propose I get hold of Tedd and Todd?"

"Through James White. I'm sure he knows where they are. I've still got him under surveillance. He spent the night in a hotel with the wife of one of the other Whites. One who's identical to him. If I'm not mistaken, he pretended he was her husband."

Aidan seemed surprised. "He's not as dumb as I thought."

"When he left the hotel, Dylan Blair was waiting for him. I'm sure James knows all there is to know about everything," Wilfred pointed out. "There are two problems with your plan. One is that it needs too much time. And I don't believe we've got that. The other is that Tedd and Todd could get you out of jail without needing to talk to you. I'd go with James first, but if it fails, you can always go back to your plan."

"I guess you're right. Besides, there are still a few things I need to clear up with him," Aidan paused. "But I'll need another car, something a little less flashy."

"No problem."

"Thanks, Wilfred. I don't know how all of this is going to work out, but without your help..."

"Don't worry about that. Remember, I didn't do all of this out of altruism. Both of us have got our own interests at heart. If, by some sort of miracle, I get to beat cancer, then you can ask me for anything you want."

Aidan shook Wilfred's weak, wrinkled hand and, looking into his eyes, asked himself how their relationship might have been under different circumstances. Surely a detective and a multimillionaire wouldn't have had much in common. But despite that, he didn't feel more attached to any other person in the world than Wilfred. Carol was close, but the intensity was different with Wilfred. It came down to a question of living or dying. And that made their relationship special. Aidan just hoped the fairytale would come true and Wilfred would get his health back again.

His phone interrupted his thoughts.

"Aidan, I've got something to tell you." Carol sounded excited. "Where are you?"

"With Wilfred."

"Has he told you about Tedd and Todd?"

"No, they don't work for him. I made a mistake. Have you found anything out?"

"Something that I don't think you're going to take very well," she said. "I want to be with you when you hear, but at the same time I want to tell you as soon as possible in case you meet Tedd and Todd."

"What is it, Carol? You're making me nervous."

"I studied the services that Tedd offered to Ethan as his lawyer, just like you asked me to. For five years he helped him with the buying and selling of houses, just as he does with the Blacks and Whites now."

"Are you trying to say that Ethan killed clones?"

"Something like that. I've put the pieces together during the period we're talking about and I think he killed two Blacks. Or, at least he lived in their houses."

"Very interesting. If I can get Ethan to tell me about that then maybe James will open up more when I talk with him."

"I've gone over all the records during the last fifty years and it would seem that there are houses being bought and sold and exchanged between Blacks and Whites and also between other individuals with different surnames."

"We'll have to check and see if these other types are still doing this today. My guess is that the woman in the wheelchair is one of the others. I bet each one of these other people is linked to each of the gangs. Ethan was with the Whites, maybe he was their leader?"

"I've already checked whether it's still going on," Carol said. "Tedd has two clients who aren't Black or White. One is called Otis Cade."

"That doesn't tell me anything. Wait! Does the name Otis Cade mean anything to you?" Aidan asked Wilfred, who responded by shaking his head. "No, we don't know him. And the other? It has to be the woman."

"Are you sitting down?"

"Who is it, Carol. Tell me!"

"Aidan, please..."

"I have to know, now!"

"She's got your surname," Carol paused. "It's your wife, Ashley Zack."

# CHAPTER 25

"I've got to admit you've impressed me," Dylan Blair said as James White walked through the hotel door. "Have you managed to do that with all the wives of the other Whites?"

"You're a degenerate," James said, laughing at him. "I don't propose to tell you how the wives of my beloved brothers are in bed."

"You're a bastard. I wish I had seven twins like you do and could borrow their wives from time to time. It'd be perfect. I would get out of all the hassle of living with them and get the benefit whenever I felt like it. You're a genius, dwarf," Dylan said patting him on the back. "Are you sure they don't know the difference?"

"We're identical in every aspect, including the voice. Anyway, you knew that. Why's it so surprising for you?"

"I don't know. It's hard to believe," he said, shaking his head. "And you've slept with the lot?"

"Save two. Larry died first and he hardly had time to get a girlfriend. And Karen, Peter's wife, finished up paralysed in a wheelchair after a traffic accident."

"Poor thing," Dylan said. "Was it really an accident?"

"I'm not sure it wasn't. She was pregnant. And that was impossible, given that we're all sterile. But strange things happen. Me, for example, I'm the only one who's aware of our condition. The rest think they're normal. Maybe Peter got Karen pregnant, but Tedd and Todd corrected the mistake. It would fit with what I know about Peter. He gave everything up for his wife; his friends, and his job. He was completely devoted to her until that bastard Kodey Black decapitated him with a boomerang."

"And you think he felt guilty," Dylan paused. "It's a sad and interesting theory you've got there."

"Maybe it was love," James reflected. "We'll never know. Karen's case got to me. I was even going to visit her and try and ease her pain somehow. But that's out of the question now. She's in a mental home and I doubt she'll ever come out."

"This stuff depresses me," Dylan complained. "We were talking about sex and look how it's changed. Get back to the point and give me some details. I lost my bet but I deserve some satisfaction. After all, I'm the one who paid for the hotel."

"No way. I wouldn't tell a rat like you about anything that happened up there," he said, stopping in front of Dylan's limousine. "In the end you're going to do it? Isn't that true?"

"Of course," Dylan answered him, frowning. "Don't look at me like that. If I don't do it, somebody else will. It's not that much effort and I'll gain points with the boss."

"That's the correct point of view. There's no doubt about that. It's only that on this occasion it seems too cruel. That poor bastard doesn't even know who he is."

Dylan Blair seemed surprised. "Since when did you start worrying about anybody else? That's not your style, _Mr Life Stinks_ , worrying about a policeman he doesn't even know."

"It's a question of curiosity, nothing more. I wanted to know what Tedd and Todd are up to with Aidan. I regret having found out. I would have preferred that you hadn't told me. I can't imagine anything worse than what's in store for that poor soul."

"You're looking at this from the wrong angle. What's going to happen is hardly our fault. That's for certain. And can we stop it? The answer is clearly no. Nor should we. If you want to talk about that point, we'll be arguing and philosophizing all day long. Forget it. I only want to get some benefit out of the inevitable."

"At last, my end is getting close, my friend. I'll miss you," James White said, changing the theme and extending his hand.

"Don't say that. Maybe you'll survive," Dylan said, shaking his hand. "Who am I going to have fun with other than you?"

"You've seen Big Ben. I'm the key to victory. Otis won't let me live much longer and if he does, Ashley will sacrifice me just the same. Either way, I'm fucked. As I say, life stinks!"

Aidan Zack turned the phone off and drove too fast around the curve. Carol had been calling him constantly and the melody of the telephone was ringing in his head. He couldn't think clearly.

He knew Carol was trying to maintain some control over what he was doing. No doubt she had the best of intentions, but that didn't matter. He was dangerously close to going mad and the only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought of finding out what was going on. The latest news had almost blown him away, as if a bolt of lightning had struck him on the head.

His wife, Ashley, she was alive! There had to be some other explanation of why she was on Tedd and Todd's list. Somebody had assumed her surname, for example. But deep down he felt that wasn't true. He'd been finding out well enough in the last few weeks that there were plenty of people out there who could laugh death in the face. Maybe it was true that Ashley was alive and that was the reason she hadn't been found in the Thames five years before. But thinking that released a surge of adrenalin through his body that threatened to blow his heart into a thousand pieces if he didn't control it. And that was exactly what he had to do right now, control it.

But he couldn't. There were a million questions raging through his mind at the same time. If Ashley was alive and was involved in this war between the Blacks and Whites, why hadn't she contacted him in the last five years? Why had she let him think that she was dead? He desperately needed to find that out, and he figured Tedd and Todd had the answer. He had to find them at any cost.

Aidan parked the car and got out quickly. He wasn't aware of Carol running behind him.

"Aidan, wait for me. I only want to help you."

"How did you find me?"

"Wilfred told me where you were going. Don't worry. I understand how important this is for you. It's part of you."

Aidan nodded, glad that she had come, and suddenly another problem appeared in his mind. His feelings for Carol hadn't disappeared. Seeing her there, beside him, calmed him. But if Ashley was alive? He held Carol in his arms, as he thought about finding Ashley. If this kept up on top of everything else, he was going to go crazy for sure.

The person he was looking for appeared in the distance and he felt grateful that something else helped him focus his thoughts.

"James, wait!"

Dressed in an elegant white suit, James White had just come out of the main door of his building and was walking quickly away from them. They ran after him.

"Be careful, Aidan. He's wearing the white suit," Carol advised him.

"James, I need to talk to you. It'll only take a minute."

"Beat it, detective," James said without even looking at him. "I haven't got time to talk."

Aidan couldn't let him get away again. He had to talk with him at any price. He grabbed him by the shoulder.

"You can't do that. I only want to–"

With incredible ease, James shook off the giant holding him, and with what seemed like a simple shove, sent Aidan crashing into a parked car. Carol stopped in her tracks, watching James continue on his way at the same pace.

"Don't touch me," James warned Aidan again as he came storming back. "It's for your own good. I can't stop. I've already told you that."

"What if we walk together? I only need information."

"Have you forgotten our last meeting? Don't you understand why I jumped through the window?"

"It was a message," Carol said. "You did it to show that we're facing something that we can't understand. You couldn't tell us or that was your way of getting the message across."

"Smart girl. You should take a few classes from her."

"Who are you, James? The Blacks and Whites aren't normal people," Carol asked.

"I've already warned you that I can't tell you. Actually, I'd like to help out. Especially you, detective. I told you that you're running a great danger, but you don't pay any attention to what I say."

"The danger is yours. One of the Blacks killed my friend."

"That's wrong," James said dryly.

"How can you be so sure? Were you there?"

"No, but we can't kill, just like we can't die. In almost all respects, we're on the edge of life."

"Is that why you're sterile?"

"Yes, we can't create life. We're here to fulfil a specific function that you would never understand."

"What function is that? Explain it to us," Carol begged him.

"I'm sorry, I can't. The only thing that I can tell you is that you can't interfere with it. Nobody can. Not even me. My will is irrelevant. I'm only a pawn, condemned to obey the orders of someone else."

Aidan and Carol kept walking on either side of James. They maintained a steady pace along the street. James didn't stop or speed up. The lights were always green when they got to the pedestrian crossings and nobody got in their way. James didn't take his eyes off the street ahead.

"My wife gives you orders. Isn't that right?" Aidan asked.

"You're finally beginning to understand. Yes, Ashley is the owner of my destiny."

"Where is she? I've got to see her, James. She's my wife."

"I don't know. She knows where I am at every moment, but not the other way round. I don't have the least idea where she is."

"And Tedd and Todd? You could tell me a little about them."

"Do you know them?" James asked with amazement evident in his voice. It was the first time he'd shown any emotion since they'd met. "It's not a good idea to make any deals with them."

"I'll decide that," Aidan let him know.

"You're not listening to me, my friend. You're in danger. All the loose ends haven't been tied yet. Think it through a little, numskull. I can't give you any more clues."

"The key has to be Ashley," Carol said. "Or your relationship with her. Ashley's involved in all of this, and they've got you out of jail because you're her husband. Something's going to happen. James, please, tell us where all this is heading. Big Ben, your surnames, and everything else."

"Spit it out, dwarf," Aidan snarled, his patience wearing thin. "Tell me or I swear you'll regret it."

"Do you still believe you can scare me?" James asked. "I just told you I'm only a pawn here. There doesn't exist anyone else in the world more conscious of my own uselessness. And you think you can frighten me. I've got to think that you're still as thick as you are because of your friend's death. You're the most important piece in all of this. I've warned you about the danger. I've told you all I can. You know that your wife is part of this. And you're a detective. Use your powers of deduction that go with your job. Time is up."

They stopped speaking, while Aidan racked his brains, trying to put the pieces together in the most difficult puzzle that he'd ever seen. As they walked on, he ran every fact he knew through as many angles as his mind could imagine.

"I've arrived," James said, stopping in front of a building. "What you're about to see is the last clue I can give you."

"Why?" Carol asked. "You can do a lot more for us. I'm sure you can."

"Not now. Ashley wants to seal my destiny. When I enter this building I'll disappear forever," he said sadly. "Up there I'm going to finish in the most painful way. Life stinks."

The thin figure of Otis Cade paced nervously around his dark wheelchair as he gesticulated with his hands, running all the possibilities through his fearful mind. He was pushing himself to the limit looking for alternatives. There was always a way out, however complicated the situation was. The day before, he'd been able to give Ashley a good fright even though nothing had happened in the end. And now he couldn't permit himself any loose thinking. Time was about to finish and he needed to find a way to kill his adversary. It was a question of strategy.

A sound at the door broke his concentration and the options he was analysing crumbled away. He looked at the entrance in irritation and saw the silhouette of Ethan entering the room.

"Sorry to interrupt you," the youth excused himself on seeing the expression on Otis's face. "I wanted to say goodbye, friend."

"That's a detail," Otis replied. "I don't know if I would've resisted so much if it hadn't been for you."

"Of course you would've," Ethan said. "I was in your situation and I know how alone one can feel, especially at the end."

"And you beat that," Otis said, barely covering the fear that was tormenting him. "I'm going to lose and it makes me happy to be able to talk with someone before this finishes."

"That still hasn't been decided, Otis. Don't lose hope until the end."

"The end's already here, Ethan," Otis said, continuing to pace around the wheelchair. "I don't even know what to ask for my last wish."

Great sadness flowed out of Ethan Gord. He had no idea how to console Otis. For a second he regretted having come to see him. There was nothing he could do for him, and they both knew that defeat meant paying the ultimate price. Now he understood the Calvary that his opponent had had to go through, sixty-five years before, when he'd defeated him. Ethan had been so euphoric in victory that he hadn't given a thought to what price the defeated had to pay. Afterwards, he didn't want to know anything about the subsequent battles. He'd resolved to keep himself removed from the Blacks and Whites, until his son got sick and he decided to find a way to help him. Getting involved again, he'd met Otis and Ashley, the new adversaries, and discovered to his great surprise, that he could talk with someone about something that he'd always kept to himself. Ashley, as much as Otis, was grateful for his company in their lonely destiny. Ethan shared time with both, but it was with Otis that he'd formed a special friendship.

Now, only a few hours were left before the end, and although it was something he'd known from the very beginning, he felt great pity for whichever of the two was going to lose. The one he would never be able to talk with again.

In all likelihood that would be Otis. And he promised himself that he would never get as involved again with whoever occupied the wheelchairs. From now on, they could kill themselves peacefully and it wouldn't mean anything to him.

"Good luck, my friend." Ethan embraced him. "Concentrate on what's to come."

"I'll never forget you," Otis said sadly. "I already know what I would like."

"If it is in my hands..."

"You're going to say goodbye to her, aren't you?"

"Yes, I thought I'd go and see her," Ethan replied, not understanding what his friend had intended to say.

"Tell Ashley that she's been a great rival. And that down deep it would make me happy to see her win. Having listened to what you've told me, she sounds like a great woman. She deserves victory. I deserve what's going to happen to me."

"Don't talk like that," Ethan said. "Nobody can know..."

"I know you'll tell her what I've just told you," Otis said, sitting down in the wheelchair.

"I will," Ethan promised.

# CHAPTER 26

James White opened the front door and entered the building calmly. Behind him, Aidan and Carol followed grimly, their muscles tense, looking around them for any sign of a Black waiting to kill James, given the fact that the man in white had announced his impending and painful death back in the street.

Aidan Zack had been inclined to go in first, but remembered that he couldn't interfere in the ongoing mayhem. Anyway, James had already shown that he could look after himself. The little man had told them plenty in their walk along the street together, and the last thing they wanted now was for James to disappear forever.

"If you know you're going to die in this place, why enter in the first place?" Aidan asked as they stopped in front of a door. "We'll help you."

"Do you think I don't know what would happen if I didn't enter?" James asked sarcastically. "I'm heading towards my own death and I don't know that I can save myself by not entering. What sort of a fool do you take me for?"

Aidan declined to answer the duplicate James White. It wasn't surprising that he was acting like he hated everything around him, because he was close to the end of his own life. His will had vanished along with everything else it carried. They'd ordered him to enter this house and he had to do it, whether he wanted to or not. Aidan felt sorry for him and couldn't stop thinking that it was Ashley, his wife, who'd ordered James here.

This last point dismayed him more than anything else. As far as he could see, Ashley was the leader of the Whites and Otis led the others. James, therefore, was a sort of soldier who belonged to Aidan's wife's army. It didn't make any sense that she wanted to see him dead. Surely that was something that went against her own interests.

James opened the door and entered a tastelessly furnished apartment where the air was stuffy. The doors and windows had been closed for a long time. It was unoccupied.

Aidan made Carol walk behind him while he checked all the rooms. James had already told them that they couldn't kill normal people, but it was very clear that when you were in the middle of a battle there was always the likelihood of accidents happening. And unfortunately that had been the case with Lance.

"There's nobody here," he said to Carol as they went back to the living room and found James standing as still as a statue in the middle of the room.

"Whatever, happens, don't even think of touching me," he said in a serious voice. "It's for your own good. Goodbye, Aidan, remember what I warned you."

And suddenly it began.

Aidan and Carol knew that this short man dressed in a white suit had walked away from an accident that had killed dozens of people and they'd seen him jump through a sixth-storey window with their own eyes. They should have been prepared for anything, but when it started that did not help.

James proffered a chilling scream and arched his back to the point of breaking. Aidan's first impression was that someone had stabbed him with a spear, but that was an error of judgement. There was no one else there. James bent himself forward and fell to the floor, throwing terrible punches with his bare knuckles into the carpet below, screaming desperately.

Carol held on to Aidan, who watched horrified at whatever was tormenting James. He must have been poisoned or something like that, Aidan thought. There was no sign of anyone else in the room. Whatever was happening appeared to be his own internal battle.

The screams were getting louder. James was exchanging one impossible painful position for the next, his small body shaking violently. Then suddenly he lifted himself onto his knees, with suffering written across his face. He was putting unbelievable pressure on his jaw. He extended his left arm and realized that it wasn't his, then it fractured on its own. Aidan and Carol heard the crack ring through the room and watched horrified as the arm stretched further. It grew a few centimetres, losing hair as it did.

James rolled on the carpet as more bones cracked inside him. He was no longer screaming; exhausted groans limped out of his mouth when he had enough strength. His legs had suffered the same fate as his arms. They had been broken from the inside, then stretched and begun to set again. They'd outgrown the length of his trousers. The hair had also disappeared and in the end his white suit began to rip on not being able to support the new body within. Between pants and atrocious convulsions, James took off his shoes and threw them away. The hair on his head had grown, and was now hanging halfway down his back.

"My God!" Carol exclaimed gripping Aidan's hand for dear life. "What's happening? We've got to help him."

"He warned us to stay out of it," Aidan reminded her. "We can't do anything for him."

He hugged Carol against his chest, trying to keep her from watching the unfolding horror.

James's body continued deforming itself before rebuilding. His head was partially covered by a blond mane, his lips were fleshier, his nose flatter and as with the rest of his body, he had less hair. His eyebrows were no longer bushy, his voice, expressed in groans and sobs, was sharper, the tone different, there was little doubt that his throat had undergone the same changes. Aidan stared at his chest and understood suddenly that he was transforming into a woman.

A very tall woman.

Silence filled the room. The two witnesses didn't dare breathe, as they continued to watch the transformation on the carpet. A few minutes had passed since James White had moved. Then the body moved slowly, and stood up, looking around the room, frowning.

In front of the amazed eyes of the couple, a nude woman, as tall as Aidan, turned around and looked at them. Instinctively she crouched, collected the ripped pieces of the white suit on the floor and covered herself as best she could.

"Who are you?" she asked, frightened.

"Don't you know us?" Carol asked.

"Don't worry about us," Aidan said trying to reassure her. "Here, cover yourself with this."

He gave her his coat and she grabbed it quickly and covered herself. Aidan recognized her face as soon as he saw it, and the idea that was forming in his head began to make more sense. She was the same as Helen Black, except for the colour of her hair and her eyes. Those belonged to the Whites.

"I'm a policeman. My name's Aidan. What's your name?"

"Helen, Helen White," she answered without deliberating.

And then everything made sense to Aidan. The truth stormed through his mind with frightening speed. He went over the details that he knew and they all started fitting together. Just as James White had told them, his transformation into Helen White had been a clue. The other had been a sentence, when James had explained that his will didn't matter because he was only Ashley's pawn. Then, Aidan couldn't have imagined that James had been talking literally.

"You aren't James White?" Carol wanted to know, still in the dark as to what had happened.

"No," Aidan answered walking up to Helen. "James has gone forever, just like he said he would."

"How can he be a woman now? I don't get it."

"Listen carefully, Carol. He isn't a woman. This is a lady, or better said, a queen."

Carol sounded more confused. "A queen? What are you talking about?"

"She is a white queen," Aidan explained patiently. "James was a pawn. It's incredible, but we have been watching a game of chess."

"Anyone who paid that amount of money for this piece of rubbish needs a shrink," Dylan Blair said to no one in particular. "And on top of that, paying a price like this says on the label the buyer should be shot."

The people around him were shocked by the millionaire's comments, as he studied the painting hanging before him, unaware of the ruckus he was causing with his sharp criticism.

"Your problem is that you don't know how to appreciate art," an angry woman standing near him said. "But that doesn't surprise me given the little education you've had."

"As far as education's concerned you're probably right, but I can assure you that I appreciate art," Dylan said without taking his eyes off the painting. "I'll give you an example. Some people steal, while others work... and so on. Without going any deeper, I made a deal in order to make my fortune, which makes me deserving of figuring in the lowest strata of humanity. But someone capable of finishing a painting in such a grotesque way, of drawing absurd scribble like this, and getting people to pay millions for it is a canon artist of the highest level. That person without any doubt is a master of a special art, swindling."

The woman was furious and battling to control more than just her words. "I find your opinion uneducated and expressed in a very offensive way."

"You're not paying any attention to me, madam," Dylan said, waving his hands in the air. "I'm somewhat more unbearable than usual when I feel frustrated. Do you understand? I've sold my soul to the devil to be where I am today, and now it turns out that this subject has been able to do the same vomiting over a canvas. At last, I'm going to do that to him. There's no going back."

"To tell the truth I don't like the painting either," a small man wearing glasses that were too large for him said. "This impolite individual is right. It seems nothing more than diarrhoea on canvas."

Dylan clapped him. "Well said, friend."

Others, obviously infected by the comments of the two men, began to talk about the painting, and, attracted by the ruckus that was beginning to take place, more visitors to the gallery came over to the improvised group of art critics.

The tone of the argument was getting worse. There were now more than thirty there and personal criticisms were gaining momentum. The woman who had been arguing with Dylan from the outset expended a lot of energy and reaffirmed, without realizing it, that she'd become the spokeswoman for those who defended the painting. A task that was increasingly difficult since the detractors now outnumbered supporters. Never before had the talent of the painter been questioned with such fervour.

The director of the gallery arrived, accompanied by two security guards and managed to impose order after a few difficult minutes. His grave voice rose above the general clamour and, backed up by the burly guards, he got the group to stop arguing and disperse.

"I thought that this was the best place to give one's opinion about art," Dylan said stubbornly. "We were only giving our impressions."

"That's enough!" the director bellowed, seeing that someone else was about to agree with Dylan and start the whole process over again. He got close to him and in the lowest voice possible, murmured, "I beg you not to keep upsetting the visitors, Mr Blair."

"Naturally," Dylan responded, pleased that he'd been recognized. "Really, my intention was to speak with you in private, if that's all right with you, of course."

The director understood straight away what this sudden shift away from the near riot meant. Dylan Blair was famous for his public outbursts. He was capable of employing an impressive dose of imagination, sustained by his fortune, to obtain what he wanted, without worrying in the slightest that his reputation would suffer even more. And now he was warning him that he would have to attend to him or risk seeing the plan that he'd conceived ruin his day.

"How can I help you?" the director asked, leading Dylan to his office.

"It's something simple. I've got to celebrate an important meeting and I need a place with style. Your gallery would be perfect, except for that miserable painting of course. I'd like to rent the gallery for a day."

"I regret I can't help you there. We don't offer that sort of service. If it was in my hands..."

The director was left speechless when he saw Dylan open the briefcase he was carrying and reveal its contents. It was loaded with cash, an incalculable amount. More than the director had ever seen in one place in his entire life.

"I need an immediate answer," Dylan said smiling. "Nobody will want the gallery today. Close it and leave it at my disposition until tomorrow morning. Or would you prefer me to walk off with this obscene quantity of money?"

He didn't take a second to think it over. The director took the briefcase out of Dylan's hands and, holding it as if his life depended on it, he called his employees together and gave them the day off.

In less than an hour, Dylan Blair stood alone in the gallery. Everyone had gone. The millionaire walked around the gallery and stopped in front of the painting that had caused so much argument. He grabbed a fire extinguisher that was on the wall beside it and emptied its contents all over the painting.

"I still believe that something as ugly as this can't make a man rich," he said to an empty gallery.

"I still don't understand it, Aidan," Carol said. "Chess? That can't be it. It's impossible."

"It's no more impossible than any of the other things that we've witnessed in the last few days."

They'd left Helen White and returned to the car, retracing the steps they'd shared with James White a little earlier. Aidan Zack was convinced of what he was telling Carol, but he knew it was hard to believe. If he hadn't seen so many episodes between the Blacks and the Whites with his own eyes he would never have believed it himself. He knew only too well that if someone told him that a five-foot-something man grew into a seven-foot woman he'd be checked for drugs on the spot. And trying to explain it to Carol was a good test of whether he was just completely mad or that someone else could accept it.

"The first thing to take into account are the surnames. They're either Black or White, the colours of chess. Then the pawns are identical. James like William, the one he beheaded."

"All those were pawns then?"

"The short ones, yes," Aidan said. "Visualize chess pieces standing on a board. The pawns are always the smallest pieces. And which are the biggest?"

"The queen and the king?" Carol answered straight away.

"Let's leave the king out of it for the time being. The tallest is the queen. Helen at seven feet."

"Then the bodybuilder, Earl, must've been a castle."

"Exactly. And following the scale of heights, Kodey was a knight, which fits to a certain extent with the weapon he used. The boomerang spun through the air, which goes with the movement of a knight, that is in the form of an L. The tall thin clone was a bishop."

"It's hard to believe."

"Their numbers coincide. Remember there were thirty, fifteen in each gang, which only leaves the kings."

"Your wife and Otis!"

"Yes. If I'm right they're players and kings at the same time. Remember you found out that among Tedd and Todd's clients there are always two people with another surname. They're players. Don't ask me how, but I believe that Tedd and Todd have been playing chess for one hundred and fifty years using London as a board."

Carol let out an hysterical chuckle. "OK, let's say I go with that, but why one hundred and fifty years?"

"You found that out. The firm was established the same year Big Ben began marking time."

"What's Big Ben got to do with chess?"

"Haven't you ever seen two professionals play? Every time they make a move they hit the clock to mark the time before the next move. In this case the movements of the pieces coincide with a change of address. You found that out too. Each time they moved house, the clock was affected. Big Ben's a chess clock!"

"That's over the top, bizarre. Do you really believe that?"

"It fits, and there's no other explanation that makes sense. Let's stay with it for a while longer. When one of them kills another, they move house. Visualize one chess piece taking another. When they do it they drive the other piece from the board and they occupy the other's square, or in this case, the home. What happened to Kodey when you had that accident that killed Lance? He said he couldn't go any further. Without realizing it, you'd arrived at the edge of his square. That's why he couldn't go on."

"Then, James's transformation..."

"Pawns can be exchanged for any other piece once they get to the last square. Normally, they are swapped for queens, which are the strongest pieces."

"What about Earl and his talent for teletransporting himself?"

"That's the part that's been the hardest to understand for me," Aidan admitted. "I still don't have that too clear, but I'm not worrying too much about it. The castle is the only piece that can make a special movement together with the king. It's called castling. And it can only be done once in a game."

Carol looked dumbfounded with this attempted explanation. She needed a moment to digest what she had just heard. She paced around the room in silence for a while. She couldn't find any logical way to deny Aidan's explanations, except that... it was impossible! There was no such thing as live chess. So why did she feel that it was right? Why was this strange feeling of knowing doing the rounds inside her as she walked in circles around the room?

"I admit that there are some weak points to the theory, but in particular, what has immortality got to do with the game? Why can't they simply die?"

"So that the game's not ruined. If James had died in the fire then Ashley would have been left without a pawn for reasons that had nothing to do with the game. For example, she could contract a killer who could take care of the Blacks and then she would win without having to play the game. That's why they're immortal. They can't die unless at the hand of another piece."

"But according to what we've seen, Ethan killed two of them a long time ago."

"Then he was a player. He was the white king and as a consequence he was a piece. The pieces have to stay where they are until they're taken by another piece. If you want to guarantee that the game will continue you can't kill a Black or a White. That's the part that James mentioned about having to fulfil. The poor bastard knew he was a pawn and that his destiny was in the hands of the white king, who couldn't give a damn about him. It must be horrible to live like that, knowing that you're going to die when and how someone else decides."

"It's shocking," Carol said. "It doesn't surprise me that it took us so long to work it out."

"There's still more to find out. Who set the whole chess concept up in the first place, for example? And why these particular people are playing?"

He didn't say it aloud, but Aidan had to find out why his wife was involved in all of this. And why she was standing against a certain Otis. The reason had to be pretty good to keep it hidden from her husband for five years.

He accompanied Carol to her car.

"It has to be Tedd and Todd," she said. "There must be some important secret connected with chess. It seemed that James was forbidden to speak about it."

"Carol, you've got to help me. See if you can find out who Otis is."

"Of course I'll help you. But wouldn't it be better to find Tedd and Todd?"

"I'll look after that. You find out what you can about this bloke who's fighting against my wife. There's got to be some good reason why he wants to kill her."

Ashley Zack got up from the wheelchair, leaving her calculations to finish Otis to one side, as she looked intrigued at the young man who had just arrived.

"I didn't expect to see you now. But I'm glad."

"I've come to say goodbye," Ethan said.

"That can't be easy. I know that Otis is your friend and I'm just about to finish him."

The vision of Ashley near her imminent victory brought back memories of old times to Ethan. He'd been in the same situation before. It was a pleasure to be so close to victory that you could smell it. It was a critical moment. He remembered the brutal tension that he'd had to bear when it was his turn to checkmate his rival. It meant the end of the game and his coronation as victor.

It was an intense but happy moment. But he didn't see the same in Ashley's eyes. She looked worried.

"Someone has to lose. That's the game. He asked me to congratulate you. You've done very well, Ashley."

"Thanks, Ethan. I'd like to ask you a favour. Tedd and Todd are up to something with my husband. I need you to get him out of all of this."

Ethan saw what was torturing Ashley. Not even the game of chess, with the danger that defeat implied, could make her forget Aidan. It had been five years since she'd been able to talk with him, resigned to watch him rebuild his life as best he could. There was little doubt that he'd gone through a terrible time, particularly when he'd been with other women. And she was still around, until the last moment.

Ethan felt like nothing beside this living example of love that stood before him. It hurt him more than he could have imagined to refuse to help her.

"You know that I can't intervene."

"Ethan, please. He's my husband, the only reason for me to be here now."

"I'd do anything to help you, but I cannot."

Ashley's eyes shone suddenly.

"Of course you can, but it is easier not to do it. You only care about your son. Thanks anyway. Now go away and hide wherever you like. I see you don't understand my situation."

Ethan opened his mouth and then closed it again. He took a deep breath and made an effort to control himself.

"I know how you feel about it, but you are wrong. Do you remember Sarah?"

Ashley was not expecting this question and it took her by surprise. She tried to remember.

"You spoke about her once... She was your girlfriend, wasn't she?"

It was difficult for her to concentrate on her memories while Aidan was in danger.

"Not exactly," Ethan said. "I have never loved a woman as much as I loved her. I agreed to play the chess match for her."

"You never told me that," Ashley protested, still not understanding what Ethan was trying to say.

"I agreed to play and I won," Ethan repeated with glassy eyes and a thoughtful expression. "I became the great champion and all that."

"You should be happy about it; you are the only one who has ever achieved it. I don't understand you."

"It is easy to understand, bearing in mind that my opponent was she, my dearest love, Sarah."

"Good Heavens..."

"I didn't know it when I agreed to play..." Ethan was not looking at her. His eyes were out of focus and he was talking to himself. "I should have let her win... but I didn't. And I hate myself for it... I was weak. Never again..."

Ashley remained silent for a while. Ethan's story had impressed her deeply. She could understand now that air of sadness, which would probably accompany him throughout all his eternal life. It was a burden she wouldn't have been able to carry.

"I tried to commit suicide many times," Ethan confessed while he was leaving, looking down. "But I cannot die, and it is better this way. Now I understand it, I must pay for my mistake, that's just..."

Ashley observed him while he walked away, not knowing what to say. She tried to assimilate his story and to draw some conclusions that could be applied to her situation. But the only thing she knew for sure was that nobody would help her.

"Goodbye, Ethan," she said in a whisper.

Ethan had gone. She was alone.

# CHAPTER 27

Aidan Zack had no idea where he was going to find Tedd and Todd, but find them he had to. He was convinced they were the ones responsible for this unbelievable game of chess. He ran all the angles through his mind as he was driving, and despite explaining almost everything that had gone on, he felt a natural rejection towards the theory. It was almost impossible to believe that London was a great board upon which live chess was being played.

He'd spoken with Fletcher about it, testing the theory on a second pair of ears. And while he was as suspicious about Aidan's sanity in the first ten minutes as Carol had been, he eventually came to see the glimmer of truth in the preposterous idea. He finally agreed that it was the best hypothesis that anybody had put on the table up to now. Aidan concluded in the end that if Fletcher was convinced then that had to be because the theory was correct.

With James dead, disappeared or converted into Helen, which to all intents and purposes was the same thing, all that occupied Aidan's thinking was getting hold of Tedd and Todd. Ethan was the key to that. He'd been a player, so that meant he must know where the odd couple was. He drove towards Wilfred's mansion with the idea of telling him what he'd found out and asking for his help in locating his father. It was the only idea he had apart from getting himself locked up again and having them bail him out.

The flow of his thoughts was interrupted suddenly by a frightening sight. A short distance in front of him, a child was crossing the road with his back to him and had crouched down to retrieve something from the ground. Aidan slammed his foot on the brakes, but the child showed no reaction to the car skidding towards him. Aidan's heart was in his mouth, hoping for dear life that he would stop in time. The tyres were screeching, leaving a layer of rubber on the tarmac, the car veering to one side of the road, but not enough to slide out of the lane and avoid hitting the child. Aidan pulled on the handbrake and stamped on the brake pedal. The car came to a screeching halt and the child disappeared under the bonnet. Aidan charged out of the car, fearing the worst.

"I've got your walking stick, Tedd," he heard a young voice say.

Aidan froze on seeing Todd pick up a walking stick from the street and continue walking towards the pavement as if nothing had happened.

"I don't know what I'd do without your help, Todd," the old man said, waiting for his young companion to give him the stick.

"You scared the life out of me," Aidan shouted furiously. "I feel like giving the pair of you a thumping."

"Are you sure he wants to see us, Tedd?" Todd asked, giving the stick back to him. "He doesn't seem too happy to have found us."

"Perhaps, I was mistaken, Todd," Tedd said. "If he's not going to show us the respect we deserve, then perhaps it's better that we go."

The old man grabbed the stick and started walking off, supported by Todd. Aidan watched them go, stunned. They were the strangest pair of individuals he'd ever seen. He made an effort to remember how they'd talked to each other back in the police station and he remembered the emphasis they'd placed on being shown respect. He'd have to find some from somewhere, because he needed to know the truth.

"Wait! I definitely wanted to see you. We have to talk. Who are you?"

"Are you sure that you can maintain this rhythm while we talk, Tedd?" Todd asked. "I don't want you to miss your daily walk."

"Of course, Todd," Tedd said, "But his question bothers me. It shows that he doesn't know that we're his best friends. He asks who we are, when up to now no one has helped him as much as we have."

"Are you talking about getting me out of jail?" Aidan enquired. "You did that for some motive that I still don't understand. And you lied to me when you said that Wilfred sent you. Why should I trust you if I can't believe a word you say?"

"I have to admit he's got a point there, Tedd," Todd said. "I guess our little lie doesn't make us deserving of his trust. Nevertheless, it was necessary at the time, given that he wasn't ready to know the truth. He didn't know then that he'd need time to assimilate everything that's going on. And saying that Wilfred had sent us was the best way of getting him to accept us without asking inconvenient questions."

"That's true, but we've done a lot more for him than get him out of jail, Todd," the old man said, sitting down on a bench seat with Todd at his side. "We've been protecting him for years. He still hasn't asked who he is."

"I don't understand," Aidan said. "Of course I know who I am. What have you been protecting me from?"

"Did you hear that, Tedd?" Todd asked. "He seems very sure. We could test him. Ask him if he knows how he recovered from a triple break of his spine without complications."

"Surely he doesn't think that his body possesses some special recuperative quality, Todd," Tedd said. "I hope we're not mistaken and that he's prepared now to accept the truth."

"W–Was it you?" Aidan stammered a question. "Did you save my life?"

He'd been through his recovery in his mind so many times. It had been surprising for him and everybody else. But there had always been a little doubt at the back of his mind that something out of the ordinary had taken place. And here he was now, looking at these strange violet-eyed people, with the old doubt in his mind rising to the surface. If they'd done that for him, they could also do it for Wilfred. The urgency of finding out who this strange couple was invaded his mind again.

"He's grasped the first one, Todd," Tedd seemed satisfied.

"I... I'd like to thank you," Aidan stuttered again. "Did my recovery have anything to do with chess?"

"You see how thankful he is, Tedd," Todd said. "I knew he'd learn to appreciate two great friends like us."

"That means he deserves to hear a little about the game, Todd," Tedd said. "Tell him what a majestic game it is. A king's game. He's going to find it very interesting to know that we got sick of playing between ourselves so we decided to create a better game in order to invite others to play."

"I needed to play against someone different, Tedd," Todd remembered. "Winning all the time took the interest out of our last few games."

Tedd waved his walking stick. "That's not true and you know it, Todd," he replied. "I always beat you. In fact, I taught you all you know about chess."

"Did you also save my wife?" Aidan asked, endeavouring as quickly as he could to tie up all the loose ends. "You rescued her from the river, didn't you?"

"Now we'll clear up who beat who, Todd," Tedd said. "Our friend is asking about our dear Ashley."

"That's normal, Tedd," Todd said. "He needs to know what happened to his wife. He didn't know that she survived the accident. At no point did she require our art for herself. But she did ask help for her husband."

"For me? She asked you to save my life? I should have died." A new idea flashed through Aidan's mind.

Ethan had become immortal; Dylan a millionaire; Ashley had been able to get her husband saved. All of that, as strange as it was, was fair enough. But what did Tedd and Todd get out of that? There were still plenty of doubts to clear up.

"Do you remember the beautiful Ashley when she first came to us, Todd?" Tedd asked. "She was so scared."

"It was a pleasure to help her, Tedd," Todd said. "There should be more women like her, so charming, so in love. She's a delight. She wanted to thank us by playing a game of our chess. It was an honour for us to accept her request."

It seemed that this was how the whole thing worked. Tedd and Todd did something for someone and that person played a game of live chess in return. There were still some missing links, but it had to be something like that. Aidan wasn't that surprised. There had to be some reason to explain how people had got involved in all of this. But what was more important than anything else was the fact that Ashley was alive and so was he. He decided to ask the question that scared him the most.

"Why hasn't Ashley said anything about all of this to me? Why couldn't she have let me know that she was alive?"

"You shouldn't answer that, Todd," Tedd warned him. "We're not the people to involve ourselves in matters of true love."

"What type of friends would we be if we were to do that, Tedd?" Todd said. "I would never do something like that. Our duty is to respect the wish of our beloved Ashley, so that she can explain it herself in person. It's certainly a decision I applaud."

"Ashley will tell me?" Aidan begged to know. Just the thought of seeing her again was driving him crazy. "Where can I find her? I wouldn't know how to thank you enough if you helped me with that."

"It's a pleasure dealing with such polite people, Todd," Tedd said. "Tell him where he can find his wife. He wants to see her before she goes."

"You're right, Tedd," Todd agreed. A flyer fell onto the bench as he was taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. "I wouldn't like him to arrive late because we kept him here too long. After all, his wife can't wait for him much longer there."

Aidan grabbed the pamphlet that Todd had dropped. He was so happy to think he would meet his wife again that he didn't notice that Tedd and Todd weren't even looking at him as they continued to talk to each other.

He said goodbye as politely as he could and dashed to his car. As he drove off, he glanced at the flyer beside him on the front seat. It advertised an art gallery. He memorized the address and sped there as fast as he could.

Helen White still didn't understand what had happened. She had woken up nude in the living room, in front of strangers, a seven-foot-tall policeman and a beautiful young woman.

The man had at least had the decency to offer her a coat to cover herself, but neither of the two explained what they were doing there. They'd asked her about someone called James, a man with the same surname as hers, and she had been surprised to find she didn't know who they were talking about. Helen felt disorientated. The attitude of the couple had been strange. And what were they doing there in her house?

She had asked them to leave when they started talking about chess. Why would they have talked about a board game under those strange circumstances? All the more so when the policeman had suggested she was the new white queen. Just as she was about to demand an explanation for the whole mystery of their presence and strange comments, they disappeared.

Now that they were gone and she was alone and she could forget about the whole thing. Helen went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of orange juice, one after the other. In her bedroom she took off the coat the policeman had given her, opened the wardrobe and began to study her clothes. It took her more than fifteen minutes to decide. Finally she chose a comfortable casual suit that she liked.

She was just finishing getting dressed in front of a full-length mirror on the back of one of the wardrobe doors when her clothes disappeared before her eyes, replaced just as quickly by an elegant white dress. She left the room and went to the front door. She had to go straight to a person named Otis, whose whereabouts she knew without having the least idea how.

When Helen White walked out into the street she was carrying an enormous bow in her right hand.

Aidan Zack's car came to a screeching halt across the street from the art gallery advertised on Tedd and Todd's flyer. He crossed over quickly and entered the gallery.

"Ashley!" he called out.

No one answered. The place was deserted.

A wave of nerves surged through his body as he went from one room to the next calling out his wife's name. The works of art hanging on all the walls were no more than frames with vague representations within them as he did a complete circuit of the building.

He realized a few minutes after walking in that she wasn't there and panic welled up in his veins. He screamed her name once more and with a wild kick knocked a sculpture crashing to the floor. Even the thought of ruining a work of art didn't bother him as he did another round of the building. He couldn't give up. Aidan went up a flight of stairs to the first floor where a series of closed doors no doubt led to luxurious offices. If there'd been anyone there they would've been alerted to his presence by the commotion he'd unleashed downstairs. But there was no sound. The first floor was as silent as the ground floor had been.

He continued up the stairs to the second floor, opening all the doors as he went along the corridor. Only one was locked, but he knocked it down in his fury. But there was no one there, just another empty office.

While he was thinking it through, he became aware of the smell of smoke coming from somewhere in the building. Aidan flew down the stairs. Before he reached the gallery he could hear the unmistakeable roar of a fire. The flames were devouring the works of art on one of the walls greedily, spewing black smoke everywhere. Without stopping to think how the fire had started, he made for the exit as fast as he could but found another surprise there.

The metal security door had slammed down for some unknown reason, barring the exit. A few minutes before it had been open, but now it was shut tight. It was obvious that someone had activated the door while he was upstairs. The fire was fiercer here, so he backpedalled, edging his way back along the wall, his lungs heavy with smoke. Passing a painting that was as yet untouched, he pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall, and tried to use it against the flames, but found it empty. He cursed and threw it away and continued his desperate search for a way out.

The ceiling was covered with sprinklers, but none were working. Whoever had made sure that the front door was locked had also ensured that no water was going to come down from above. Someone wanted to fry him alive within these walls.

The heat was unbearable. Sweat was pouring off him and his coughing was getting worse. He took his sweater off and ripped a piece off to cover his nose and mouth. The smoke was going to suffocate him in minutes if he didn't find a way out right now. But with his vision blurred, he could barely see the wall of flames almost upon him.

After five years of intense combat, the end game had arrived. Otis Cade knew that well enough. Checkmate was inevitable. Ashley was on the verge of winning and it didn't even surprise him when three white arrows hit the ground a few feet from his king's throne. It was Helen White and he knew that the adjacent square was threatened by her. Three arrows near the wheelchair were testimony to that. There was only one vacant square where he could go, but, as the next move would leave him exposed to checkmate, he wanted to postpone the moment for as long as possible and use what little time he had left to good purpose.

He was up against the white queen now instead of James White, and Helen's next move would bring the game to its end. He imagined Ashley studying the board. She must be expectant, excited at the prospect of finishing everything once and for all. He couldn't blame her. One had to win and one to lose. That's what it was all about.

He didn't like to admit it but the situation hadn't looked good for some time. Looking back, he figured that he had played the opening game well. They had been close during the first two years. There had been a moment, too, when he'd made a tactical sacrifice that had given him the chance of victory. Tedd and Todd had told him that later. Unfortunately, he couldn't see it at the time and now it was too late to change the outcome.

Resigned to his destiny, Otis turned around and went in the direction of the only square that he could occupy to wait for his end.

Helen White arrived at the right place, on the roof of a building, and leant over and glanced around the street. She confirmed that it was the area she wanted to cover and once she was satisfied she took aim with the bow and drew the string back. A white arrow was in place waiting to fly true. She stayed like that for nearly a half an hour. If anyone had seen her from below they would have thought there was a statue on top of the building.

She looked along the street, certain that at that moment there was nothing more important in the world that guarding this street. Time passed slowly until her target finally appeared, a black wheelchair moving along under its own steam. She knew Otis was sitting in the chair and a wave of hate and repulsion consumed her. She felt a sudden desire to shoot straight away, to shoot a million arrows into his heart. But that wasn't her mission and she couldn't fail. Her fine fingers released the arrow and it flew straight towards its target. It hit the ground three feet from Otis. The throne stopped its advance along the street and she fired two more arrows beside the first to make sure he got the message.

She put a fourth arrow in the bow and took aim. She could see Otis sitting on the throne. She watched him carefully until he turned and went away.

Her next objective didn't take long to materialize in her mind.

A giant game of chess with living pieces, London the board and Big Ben the clock. How extraordinary! If someone got the exclusive on the story would anyone believe it?

Carol couldn't think clearly. She tapped her pen on the table like a drummer trying to perfect a rhythm. She had to investigate Otis Cade, find out what his beef with Ashley was. She'd promised Aidan she'd do that; promised the man she loved that she'd help him. The widower's wife had been born again. The woman he'd cried over for five years was back, alive and kicking, and that was bad luck for Carol.

She felt bad thinking about it. Aidan had suffered so much and the news of his wife being alive should have pleased everyone. But it was difficult for Carol to join the party. She knew she was being selfish, even pathetic, but she couldn't help it.

Carol decided to go over everything that she'd found out up to that point, to see if it could help. It was a good enough exercise to concentrate on something else other than the sad twist of fate that had put her future with Aidan in doubt. She turned her computer on and ignored the constant murmur of the office around her and started to compile a list of the events on a blank page. She typed all the names she could remember, together with dates and incidents that had occurred in the last few days. The number of things that had happened in such a short time was surprising. The saddest thing of all had been Lance's death.

After she was satisfied that she'd put everything of importance down, she reread it and pressed 'save'. Her head was spinning with information. She got up and walked to the cafeteria before coming back and delving deeper into Otis's life.

The corridors were full of reporters and editors, contributing to the usual sense of urgency that characterized the newspaper. All the offices were occupied and when she got to the cafeteria she found it full.

Carol waited for a while, ordered a latte, sat down at a recently vacated table and looked around. What caught her attention straight away was a small child of around ten years old who was carrying a cup in his hand. He had the sweetest expression and the strangest violet eyes Carol had ever seen. She wondered, as he walked to a table near her, what a child was doing drinking coffee. He stopped at a table where an old man with a walking stick resting on his legs was sitting. The boy put the cup down on the table in front of the old man.

"Here's your coffee, Tedd," Carol heard him say.

"Thanks very much, Todd."

Carol almost fell off her chair when she heard their names. She remembered Aidan's description of them and it was a perfect fit. But what were they doing here?

"She's already seen us, Todd," Tedd said. "She's a very observant woman."

"That's good, Tedd," Todd said, "because we've come to see her."

"Are you talking about me?" Carol asked, standing up and walking over to their table.

"Remember that we're in a hurry, Todd," Tedd said. "Tell our dear reporter here that we're not satisfied with her intention to publish details of our activities."

"First, we have to thank her for her collaboration, Tedd," Todd replied. "Tell her how pleased we are that she found a use for the information we sent her. She passed it on to Aidan exactly as it was given to her."

The conversation surprised Carol. Aidan hadn't mentioned anything about their strange way of talking. The worst thing she'd found out so far was that it had been them who'd sent the envelopes. That meant that Tedd and Todd had wanted their legal activities to be discovered, and for the information to be passed to Aidan.

She suddenly felt a stab of fear in the pit of her stomach.

"You don't want anything published about you? Is that correct?" she asked, sure that this was the reason for their presence in the cafeteria.

"At least she's understood part of the message, Tedd," Todd said.

"But that's not enough, is it, Todd?" Tedd frowned. "Not publishing anything is only the beginning. Now everything has to go back to where it was before."

"Which means we have to take measures, dissuasive measures, Tedd."

"Exactly, Todd."

"Is there a parade of models somewhere around here?" a fireman asked, unwinding the hose.

"Worry about the fire and leave your fantasies for later," his companion said.

Another fire engine arrived and the firemen spread out along the street. The captain studied the burning facade of the art gallery carefully, evaluating the best way of controlling the fire. A crowd of onlookers observed the flames surging into the upper floors of the building.

"They're not fantasies, idiot. Look!"

The firemen stopped what they were doing and stared in amazement at the striking image that had surged out of the crowd. A beautiful woman around seven foot tall, dressed in an elegant white dress, was striding towards the gallery. Everyone rubbed their eyes in disbelief when she walked into the flames as a section of metal grating collapsed. A fireman tried to stop her but he was driven back by the heat of the flames.

Helen White crossed the inferno and found a tall man propped against the back wall, holding a piece of material over his face, coughing uncontrollably. Helen helped him to his feet, leading him along the wall to a large metal door that was closed. She kicked it down effortlessly and helped the man into another room. She was dragging him more than helping him walk now. They stopped at another door, which she kicked down just as easily, and then they were back in the street.

Outside, she had a better look at the man whose life she had just saved and gasped in surprise. It was the same policeman who had been in her house that morning. It was obvious that he knew who she was too, judging by the expression on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Aidan asked, as he greedily gulped the cleaner air.

"It looks like I came to rescue you," she said unconvincingly.

Aidan didn't understand anything. She was the white queen; she shouldn't be here unless someone had changed squares.

"How did you know I was about to be fried in there?"

"I don't know. My new house is in that building on the fourth floor. I felt like I had to enter and..."

Helen stopped in the middle of the sentence, frowned, and spun around just in time to avoid the thrust of an enormous sword. The giant blade cut through the space where she had been an instant before. It was an impressive weapon, at least five foot long, and the man holding it, a thin man with sparse brown hair, didn't look capable of lifting a sword as big as that.

The attacker made another thrust which Helen barely dodged. The steel blade cut a car in two with amazing ease.

Aidan Zack could do little more than look on. He was still dizzy from the smoke and in the back of his mind he remembered the warning about not getting involved. A few seconds later, he was stunned to see the sword go right through the centre of Helen's breast. She died a few yards from him and now he couldn't hold his fury back. His mind tried to convince him that Helen had only been a white queen but his emotions told him something else. A woman he knew had been killed in front of his eyes, and he hadn't lifted a finger to help. He stared into her killer's eyes and for an instant panic invaded him.

The man wasn't a Black. He was brown haired and didn't seem like any of the rest. What was happening? If this man wasn't a piece then his chess theory had to be flawed. But Tedd and Todd had confirmed its existence. Then he knew who the man was.

"You're Otis, aren't you? The black king."

"Do you know how the match is going?" Otis asked, hardly believing what he was hearing. "Who are you?"

"My name is Aidan. Aidan Zack."

"Ashley's husband... But what are you doing in the middle of all this? Nobody can interfere with the match. Unless..."

"Why do you want to kill Ashley?" Aidan grumbled, rising to his feet. "Because that's what will happen if you win, isn't it?"

"Excuse me? Don't you know what losing the match means?"

Aidan suddenly realized he hadn't the slightest idea about the meaning of this strange chess match. It was obvious that it was very profitable for someone. He himself was still alive thanks to the fact that Ashley had agreed to play. But the consequences of losing the match were unknown to him.

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

"I cannot tell you that. It's better for you not to know. Don't get mixed up in it if you can avoid it."

"I'm already mixed up," Aidan replied. "I want to bring my wife back, that's all. You know where she is now. A chess player knows the exact positions of all the pieces at any moment. Tell me!"

"For God's sake, now I understand it all. Did Ashley know where you were at that moment?"

Aidan shrugged his shoulders.

"That's the only explanation for her moving the white queen: to rescue you from the fire."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been living on the fourth floor, I'm a chess piece, remember? And I've been in this square before. I know the place and, judging by your appearance, I am sure you have just escaped from the fire in the art gallery. I can see no other reason for Ashley to make such an absurd move. She brought the white queen here to rescue you."

"That's why you captured her." Aidan saw the trap clearly. The hand that had manipulated the extinguishers had not aimed to kill him, but to put his life in danger and force his wife to make a concrete move for an unknown reason. That was why Tedd and Todd took him out of prison. To use him for their own purpose and influence the chess match. "Had it not been for me, you wouldn't have captured the white queen. Why?"

"I am not sure yet, but somebody saved me," Otis said with a thoughtful expression. "Ashley could have put me in checkmate with one more move. I didn't understand why she hadn't done it yet, until now."

"Where is Ashley? You know. Please tell me where my wife is."

"I am sorry, I cannot," Otis said with a painful grimace. A black wheelchair, made of metal and wood and with a very high back, approached him, moving on its own. "The match is over."

He sat in the chair and disappeared, leaving Aidan alone with Helen's body.

# CHAPTER 28

The nurse stepped back from the bed, frightened. In the last few months that she had been working for Wilfred, since he'd been diagnosed with cancer, she'd never seen him as bad as he was now.

"I told you, today there's no treatment!" Wilfred Gord shouted, pulling the drip off his arm.

"I... I'm only following the doctor's orders," the nurse stammered.

"I don't give a damn about the doctor. Everyone out of my room now, except you," he said to one of the men there. Wilfred's anger continued even with only one man in the room. "I pay you an indecent amount of money to be my personal private detective. Explain, if you can, what went wrong."

"He was on a bench seat in a park talking to a kid and an old man. But he just got up and charged off without any warning. I wasn't expecting that to happen."

"You know Aidan's impulsive at the moment. You should have been prepared for any contingency."

"I shot back to my car and I was on his tail for a few blocks. I'm a good driver, but I can tell you no one could have kept up with him. You would've had to have been a cross between a Formula 1 driver and a kamikaze pilot to keep up. He didn't respect a single sign, he went through traffic lights and stop signs, and on top of that he drove on the pavement for half a block. Check the hospitals – he must have caused a pile-up somewhere along the way."

Wilfred was impatient. "This is not helping me. I pay you to get results. You were supposed to be protecting him. And where is he now? Alone and out of control."

The sound of the door opening interrupted Wilfred's tirade. He had a perfect threat prepared for the detective who'd failed to fulfil his duty, but he didn't get to say a word as he stared at the strange boy entering the room. The child had violet eyes and was studying everything there was to see in the room. He'd left the door ajar as if somebody else was about to enter.

The muffled sound of feet being dragged along the corridor outside and the tapping sound of a walking stick suggested an old man. And when the figure appeared at the door Wilfred was surprised to see the same violet eyes in a much older face.

"Do you mind telling me who you are?" Wilfred demanded.

"It's them," the detective said. "The kid and the old man who were talking to Aidan when he took off."

"Thanks for waiting for me, Todd," the old man said, holding on to the child's arm.

"You know I'm here to help you, Tedd."

Their names! Wilfred heard them well. This strange pair was Tedd and Todd. He'd been looking for them for so long and now they'd just walked in of their own accord. Wilfred studied them carefully. But they were different to what he'd imagined.

"Leave us," he told the detective. "I want to be alone with them."

The detective was about to object, but noted the seriousness in the order and left.

"He's anticipated our wishes, Tedd," Todd said. "It's better to talk about certain things in private."

"He's done that because he's obviously intelligent, Todd," Tedd replied. "And someone we can do a lot for, given his condition."

"That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about," Wilfred said excitedly. "I'm suffering from–"

"He seems a little impatient, Todd," Tedd observed. "He has to calm down first."

"I'll ask him to do that, Tedd," Todd said. "But first he has to understand how our service works. We don't want someone to make a commitment without understanding the implications."

"Naturally, Todd," Tedd nodded. "You're always right. I suggest you start by asking him what chess means to him."

Aidan Zack made his way through the mass of journalists that filled the room, winding through their tables with no one paying any attention to his presence, until he came to Carol's desk. She was typing something very quickly and apparently hadn't seen him cross the room.

"Carol, we've got to go. I lost my phone and I couldn't ring you, so I decided to come and fetch you."

She frowned. "Do I know you? How do you know my name?"

"What are you talking about? Come on. Let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Is this some sort of joke?"

For the first time, Aidan studied her expression. She genuinely seemed not to recognize him. She was looking at him as if he were a perfect stranger. She wasn't feigning not knowing him. Why would she? It didn't make any sense.

"Listen Carol, I don't know what's happening, but we've got to go now. I've found Tedd and Todd and–"

"Nothing's happening to me," Carol raised her voice. "I don't know who you are or who you are referring to, but I'd like you to go now and leave me alone."

A small group had formed nearby on hearing Carol's nervous tone. Aidan didn't know what to do. Why was she carrying on like this? He couldn't think of one valid reason. She was staring daggers at him now. She was obviously angry and his presence wasn't helping. It was so weird that he felt completely confused.

"Carol, please. Stop pretending that you don't know me."

"Listen, I don't know if you're making fun of me or if you've got some sort of mental problem. Either way, it's the same to me. Leave now or I'll call security."

"That won't be necessary, miss," someone said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him away from Carol, at the same time whispering, "I'll explain. Now, let's get out of here."

Aidan Zack let himself be dragged away from Carol mostly because he didn't know what to do if he stayed. He looked at the stranger in search of answers and recognized Dylan Blair's unpleasant smile straight away.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you. And to explain what's happened to your girlfriend, of course."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes. Tell me!"

"Not here. Let's find somewhere quieter and I'll clear everything up."

The promise of an explanation calmed Aidan down for the time being. At least, until they'd left the building and got into Dylan's limousine. Once seated inside, Dylan activated the window that separated the driver from the rear-seat passengers and opened the door to the bar. A stiff drink seemed like a good idea to Aidan, given the circumstances. He pointed to a bottle, remembering as he did so the good straight right he'd given Dylan in their last encounter. He was pleased to see that there was still some bruising around the eye.

"That's behind us," Dylan said, reading Aidan's thoughts. "I'm not here because of that. Although, I have to admit, you pack a good punch."

Aidan watched him pour a good shot of whisky.

"I'm pleased that you've forgotten that. I didn't mean to get into a punch-up that day."

"You sure did," Dylan said. "You were interrupted. Tedd and Todd didn't want you to catch up with Kodey Black."

"What? You bumped into me on purpose? Well, my friend, that's the last straw. Tell me what you were going to tell me about Carol and, while you're at it, tell me where we're going."

"Take it easy. I'm here to bring you up to date and take you to Tedd and Todd. They're the ones who are responsible for all of this. They told me to stop you getting to Kodey so that you wouldn't find out about the chess game too soon. You had to understand the whole deal at the right moment."

"To get me into that trap at the art gallery?"

"That's right. If you hadn't discovered that it was a game of chess they would've had to tell you. But they couldn't let you know any earlier."

"And Carol?"

"Well, the explanation for that must be obvious. Have you ever stopped to think why it is that the battle between the pieces hasn't become public knowledge, while they're killing people in front of everybody in broad daylight?"

Aidan saw a little of what Dylan was trying to tell him. The deal in the shopping centre had involved a few pieces at the same time. The whole thing was set up in a public place and one person, Earl Black, died. That should have come out in the papers and on television much more than it had. Aidan remembered that he'd wanted to look at the security videos but they weren't available. It seemed that Tedd and Todd had somehow covered the whole thing up.

"Do you mean to say that–"

"They've wiped out a piece of Carol's memory," Dylan informed him. "She'd fulfilled her function passing information on for them, but they couldn't permit her to publish anything about the game. That's happened to other people too, I'm afraid."

Anger surged through Aidan. He imagined that another one of these people could be Fletcher. The pathologist knew too much and Tedd and Todd wouldn't want him putting his theories down in a report that others could read.

"Are they going to do the same to me?"

For a second it didn't seem like such a bad idea. They could wipe out everything that had happened in the last few days. He could forget about Carol forgetting about him, for example. But despite that wild thought, he still wanted to know why they were manipulating him, maybe even against his own wife. Ashley was still alive. He had to find her at any cost.

"I don't think they'll do that to you," Dylan said. "Your case is different. They'll explain that to you soon."

"And what's your role in all of this? Are you working for them?"

"Not really. I'm helping them out with some minor points. And in a few years I'll be playing. So it suits me to get on well with the bosses."

"Haven't you already played?" Aidan asked. Ashley had got Tedd and Todd to save his life and in exchange she was playing. So following that reasoning through, Dylan must have obtained his fortune through an agreement with Tedd and Todd. "They've made you rich without having to get involved?"

"Something like that," Dylan said. "In my case we've reached an agreement that I will play in a few years. When I'm eighty, to be exact."

"But my wife had to play immediately when she got my–"

"Miraculous salvation. I know. Depending on the people and the circumstances, the deal changes. You were dying, Ashley didn't have a lot of time to deliberate over that and she couldn't have reached a better deal than the one she got. I guess they made her an offer that meant her playing straight away and also involved her not getting into contact with you. It would seem she accepted that in exchange for saving your life."

A better deal? Those words reminded Aidan that he still didn't know what happened to the loser in this game of chess. Nor who Tedd and Todd really were and how they were capable of doing what they did.

"You're saying she cut a deal with them just like you did?"

"That's right. I'm living the good life loaded with money because of that."

"The loser dies, doesn't he?" Aidan asked, with his heart on his sleeve. Otis had said that the game had already finished, but the winner wasn't clear. And to make things worse, his escape from the fire had allowed Otis to take the queen. "If no one died then everybody would want to play and get the benefit out of it, just like you've done."

"You still don't know what the price of playing is, do you? It's worse than death, at least in theory. Tedd and Todd describe themselves as collectors."

"Collectors of what?"

"Of souls," Dylan answered. "That's the price."

"You're telling me you have to deliver your soul just to live another forty years?"

"Well, that's not exactly right. I haven't delivered my soul. I've agreed to play for it. If I win I don't have to pay. And I can stay."

"It... it's something..." Aidan didn't know what to say. If all this was true, his wife had played with her own soul to save his life and that meant she could lose because she'd saved him from the fire. Could she have done something as mad as that? But he could see a certain logic in all of it. If someone wanted immortality or wealth or to save the life of a loved one, then the price would have to be high

"Take your time," Dylan advised him. "It's hard at first. It was that way for me. I saw Kodey kill a piece and was going to testify against him. I almost shit myself the first time I saw them when they came to wipe my memory out. I didn't think they were going to offer me anything, but they must have guessed straight away about my miserable personal life and my absolute lack of scruples and self-confidence. When they talked to me about the possibility of improving my life, it didn't take them too long to convince me. They're very persuasive."

"And losing your soul doesn't bother you?"

"Would it bother you? If it did, that would mean that you know what having a soul means. If you do, would you mind telling me?"

"You're confusing me. The soul is... well, it's, you know, immortal."

"Really? If we're good we go to heaven and hang out with the angels in a paradise in the clouds. Is that how it works?"

"It seems like you don't believe in that, but at the same time you're playing."

"I don't know about you, but I've never seen a soul. I'm not conscious of having one and I'm not going to believe it just because the odd couple tells me I've got one. There are many things we can't explain in this world. This chess game is only one of them. I'll worry about having a soul or not when I die. In the meantime, I'll do whatever I think will help to improve my rotten life."

"But you've seen what Tedd and Todd can do. It's not just a question of belief."

"You're right. I've seen them do many things. For example, trick people like you. I'm the only one playing this game who won't be cheated. I don't know what happens when we die and there's nothing we can do in this life to find out. They're taking advantage of our fears. Mention the word soul, and we start thinking about eternity, among a dozen other things. Why? It's very simple, we can't know what Tedd and Todd are referring to until we're stiff."

"I see. So you'll risk what might happen after death because you haven't got any idea what it is."

"One thing I'm not going to do is accept what the soul is because an old man and a kid tell me it is. Besides, I might win. There's only one loser. It's a good deal for Todd and Tedd. They guarantee souls and we have a fifty percent chance of winning."

"It's a ridiculous idea. Ashley did it to save my life. That I can understand. I'd do it for her. But to risk your soul for money is pathetic."

"That's a reasonable point of view. Everyone's got their own scale of values. I don't judge others because they don't share my view of things. Don't worry, you'll get a chance to see how strong your convictions are."

"Are you suggesting they're going to tempt me? Is that why you're taking me to them?"

"I don't know what they want. But you're cannon fodder, my friend. You're one of those who believes whatever these two say. If they say the soul's the most precious thing in the world, you'd swallow it, because how could they do what they've already done? How could this game of chess be real?"

"I'd pay more attention to them than you do. That's one thing I'm sure of."

"I told you, you're cannon fodder. At least they're not going to cheat me. I make decisions trusting in my instinct instead of letting their words sway me."

"We've already seen that," Aidan paused. "Who are they really?"

"What more can I give you? The problem is the same as the soul. Are you going to believe what they tell you? If that's the case they could be anyone. If they said they were the devil trading souls, would you believe them? It'd be better that they were aliens controlling human life."

"I don't know," Aidan said.

"Take your time. They won't tell you that. I've already told you that they consider themselves to be collectors. It's the only explanation I've heard them give. In any case I would dare to guess that they will tell you whatever suits them in order to seduce you. Strangely though, they don't usually lie."

"I've got to admit the way you treat all of this impresses me. Aren't you curious to know the truth?"

"Like everybody. Is there anybody who doesn't want to know what's after death?"

"Then?"

"Then, nothing," Dylan answered. "There's no way of knowing and that's it. That's the only truth. You're free to believe what Tedd and Todd say if it'll make you feel any better. Personally, after seeing what they get up to, I would prefer to not take what they say seriously. My serenity is based on the fact that I'm sure there are questions that will always remain unanswered."

"Let's leave it for now, because I can see you're capable of convincing me too. But just the same, I feel like strangling you for your involvement in all of this." That was a much stronger temptation than Aidan would have believed. Without any doubt, Dylan was living a happier life than Aidan. His way of thinking allowed him to live a less complicated existence. And Aidan envied him for that. His own life was a mess. He'd just lost Carol, Lance's death was still fresh in his mind, and he had no idea what was going to happen to Ashley. As Dylan had said, he was cannon fodder.

It wasn't a good moment to philosophize. At that moment, it was all the same to him. He was what he was, for good or bad, and wasn't going to change. He'd confront whatever was coming his way the same way he'd handled everything else in his life.

The limousine stopped.

"We've arrived," Dylan advised him.

"Thanks for telling me all this," Aidan said, shaking his hand. "I still don't like you, Dylan. But at least I've been able to share your point of view."

"Take care of yourself, friend," Dylan said. "Maybe we'll see each other again. I don't know how your story's going to finish, but if you come and visit me, I'll buy you a drink."

# CHAPTER 29

As soon as Aidan Zack had put two feet on the pavement Dylan Blair's limousine drove off and disappeared down the street into the traffic. Aidan looked up and down the pavement and realized suddenly that he had no idea where he was supposed to go. He was in the middle of the city, nowhere in particular. He wasn't in front of his house, the police station, or anywhere else that meant anything to him. Pedestrians passed by as they had been doing a few minutes before, the shadows lengthening, as the sun lowered itself slowly on the horizon.

He lit a cigarette, with nothing better to do, and wondered if Dylan had made a mistake in dropping him here. He was supposed to be meeting Tedd and Todd, but there was no sign of them, and nothing was happening. He was getting impatient. He still hadn't been able to see his wife and...

"Careful with the step, Tedd," he heard Todd's voice advising Tedd somewhere in the distance.

He spun round and saw the inseparable couple approaching the entrance to the Underground. The old man and his walking stick, and the child at his side supervising every one of his steps.

These two never said hello like everyone else that Aidan knew. But that didn't matter. Dylan had left him in the right place after all. He threw the cigarette in the gutter and zigzagged his way towards them through the crowd of pedestrians.

"Hey, you. I believe you were looking for me," Aidan said as he got closer. "Or at least that's what your butler Dylan Blair told me."

"Our dear friend has arrived, Tedd," Todd said. "And he seems to be in a good mood judging by this little joke that he just made about Dylan."

"The time's come, Todd," Tedd pointed out without raising his head. "The moment's arrived to finish all of this."

"Before you do anything, I want you to tell me why you say you're my friends when you tried to kill me in the art gallery," Aidan asked, gritting his teeth, fighting against the mad desire to strangle the two of them there and then on the pavement.

He kept on telling himself they weren't normal and he needed answers. It was the only thing that was holding him back. He needed to know where Ashley was and what had happened in the game.

They went down the stairs to the station and Todd held the glass door at the bottom open for the old man. Aidan hardly noted the silence that reigned in the place, his curiosity and impatience dulling other instincts.

"He's doubting us again, Todd," Tedd said. "After all we've done for him."

"Maybe, that's because he didn't understand it very well, Tedd," Todd said. "He seems confused. Something's made him think that we've tried to kill him."

"I'm not confused," Aidan informed them. "You sent me to that gallery by telling me that my wife was waiting for me there, and I finished up trapped inside in the middle of an inferno."

"That's what I'm referring to, Tedd," Todd said. "You see how mistaken he is? He thinks we sent him to the art gallery."

"An unbelievable mistake, Todd," Tedd said. "You're completely right. It must be because of the flyer that fell out of your pocket. He must have assumed Ashley was there. Anyway, it doesn't matter. If he goes over the conversation we had, he'll find that we never said that his wife was in that place. He jumped to conclusions and went off so quickly that we couldn't ask him where he was going."

On the way to the platforms, Aidan went over the conversation he'd had with them in the park and realized that the old man wasn't lying. Neither of them had said explicitly that Ashley would be there. He'd just jumped the gun as they'd said he had. And while he couldn't dispute their version of the story, he somehow felt that they'd manipulated him just the same.

Dylan had warned him that Tedd and Todd never lied. Now he understood what he meant. They confused people into doing things. And not looking at anyone directly in the eye helped them in their deceit.

Todd pointed his finger at the turnstiles and they opened without him needing to insert a ticket. It was only when that happened that Aidan realized that the station was deserted. There was no one there except them. No employees, no commuters. It was very strange. Tedd followed the boy and Aidan followed him. They went down an escalator.

"Where are you taking me? I want to see my wife?"

"He isn't showing us any respect, Todd," Tedd lamented. "I can hear it in the tone of his voice."

"He'll get that back straight away, Tedd," Todd said, "As soon as we take him to his wife. Then he will realize what great friends we are."

"I hope that's the case, Todd," Tedd said. "We wouldn't take everyone to see the conclusion of a game. He should understand that it's a show of how much we appreciate him."

Aidan didn't know what to say. He had no idea what the end of the game meant. But either way, it didn't matter. The only thing that did was finding Ashley. They went down several passageways without seeing anyone. It was as if the Underground had been specially closed for them.

"It'd be a good idea to explain the rules, Todd," Tedd said. "For his own safety. We don't want anything bad to happen to anybody."

"There won't be any problems, Tedd," Todd replied. "He's a sensible man. He's already got a reasonable idea about the reach of our influence, and he knows that we would be obliged to act against Ashley if he doesn't obey the basic rules. I'll tell him that he can't cross the railway line under any circumstance, and that it would please us that he expresses himself properly."

"It's better to ensure that he's understood, Todd," Tedd said. "We can't let him see Ashley without being sure that he's going to behave well. It may be terribly hard, but we can't permit any change of attitude here."

"I understand perfectly," Aidan promised them, taking the warning seriously. "I won't cross the railway line and I won't do anything out of the ordinary."

Tedd and Todd seemed pleased with his words and they continued on to the platform.

There was no one waiting for the next train. The track was covered by a light fog that restricted vision across to the other side. They walked along the platform slowly, until they were more or less in the centre. The electronic board that indicated the time of the next train wasn't working. And the name of the station that should have been visible in several places was nowhere to be seen. The tunnel entrances at each end of the short platform were two impenetrable black circles.

Aidan Zack began to feel nervous as he studied the desolate scene. It was deathly quiet, the tapping of Tedd's walking stick on the platform the only sound. Todd kept turning his head in both directions, expectantly.

There was no need to explain that this place didn't figure in any current map of the London Underground because it was quite obvious that Aidan wouldn't be able to return to where he'd come from without Tedd and Todd's help. The sense of the bizarre made Aidan feel tiny and insignificant. He shifted his weight restlessly on the platform until he made out two shapes through the fog on the other side of the track.

They were the silhouettes of a man and a woman. Aidan hadn't heard them arrive. He continued to stare at them as the fog slowly thinned, and in a matter of seconds he recognized Otis and Ashley. Now he understood why he'd been banned from crossing the track. They wanted to keep him out of it.

The fog lifted completely and his eyes found Ashley's. A hurricane of emotions was unleashed inside him. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and he wanted to throw himself across the track and take her in his arms. He still couldn't believe that she was alive after five years of believing the opposite, after five years of therapy to cope with her presumed death. Now she was in front of him, only a few yards away, but he couldn't lay a hand on her.

She looked back at him sadly, her face a reflection of what she was feeling. Their looks welded into one, and Aidan felt absolutely incapable of looking away.

"I... I'm sorry," Aidan stammered, trying to excuse himself for making the queen lose in exchange for his life. "I didn't know."

"I know," Ashley answered understandingly. "Throughout these last few years I could see you, and I knew what had happened. You don't have to apologize. It wasn't your fault. I'm the one who got into all of this. Please God, forgive me. I couldn't... I couldn't let you die."

A tear ran down Aidan's cheek and he had to summon all his strength to stop himself from crossing the track.

"I would've done the same for you. My soul is nothing compared with your life."

"Don't say that, Aidan," she shouted, visibly alarmed. "Promise me that you'll forget that idea. That's what they want."

"As much as it hurts us, Todd," Tedd said. "I believe it's the moment to interrupt this conversation. We've still got to evaluate the result of the game."

Ashley fell suddenly and strangely quiet as soon as the old man began to speak. Aidan forgot for a second who they were and stared at them with hatred. Tedd and Todd showed no sign of being aware of the shift in his mood.

"You're right as always, Tedd," Todd agreed. "It's time to collect what's coming to us."

"You can't collect anything," Otis called out. The game has finished in a draw. No one has lost. Therefore we don't owe you anything."

A draw. They'd forced a draw? If it hadn't been for that, Ashley would have won. Why had Ted and Todd allowed a draw to be forced?

"My dear Todd," Tedd said, "Inform this poor fellow that his interpretation of our pact is incorrect. It's our duty to ensure that he understands it perfectly."

"Of course, Tedd," Todd said. "Don't worry. He won't fail to fulfil the obligations that he assumed of his own free will, once he's understood."

Aidan was distracted by the conversation and looked nervously at his wife in search of an answer. Ashley didn't say anything but he could read in her expression that she was in as much doubt as Otis was.

"The deal was that we play a game and only give up our soul if we lose," Otis reminded them. "That was very clear at the time. And in this game, no one's lost."

"No doubt there's fine print," Ashley said. "They set traps to get a draw."

"They haven't understood anything, Todd" Tedd said. "Ashley thinks we set traps. She doesn't understand that that's impossible. No one can interfere in the game."

"That's a lie," Ashley protested. "You put my husband in danger to force me to move the queen to that square."

"With a little patience they'll understand, Tedd," Todd promised. "Ashley has to understand that we didn't oblige Aidan to go that place, which he himself can confirm. And besides, Aidan isn't a piece anyway. She was free to move wherever she wanted to. It was her decision and nobody else's."

"You manipulated everything," Ashley insisted. "You chose that site because I couldn't move there. I could only send Helen and she was beside Otis, ready to make the final move, but after that, she couldn't. I got into this to save Aidan's life. I couldn't let him die."

"It's important that Ashley understands that we will take responsibility for her problem, Todd," Tedd said. "It is extremely difficult to combine the chess match with real life. Of course, what one gets in return is extremely difficult too, or even impossible. Or does she think it's easy to save the life of a man in the state in which we found her husband when she sought our help? We explained all the implications that our duty demands, and we acted in accordance with her request. You can't ask for a miracle and then go back on your agreement."

"She's not like that, Tedd," Todd said. "She knows we only did what she asked us to do. Our work is to help the rest, although it's clear that our services are so special that they must come with an agreed price. That's logical and easy to understand. It's not possible that we can force someone to play. And, on the other hand, it's impossible to change the game. It's that simple."

"It's not so simple when the deal doesn't say anything about a draw," Otis objected. "I just went over that."

"How does he dare, Todd?" Tedd asked. "Our contract couldn't be any clearer. There's no fine print. Ask him to repeat it and we'll tell him what is stipulated in the event of a draw."

"Very well. I'll repeat it. The player that obtains victory doesn't have to surrender his soul and will be able to–"

"I don't see how something so simple can confuse anyone, Tedd," Todd said. "It's as clear as water. Just as Otis has repeated it, the one who wins is free to go without any obligations attached."

Aidan grasped it then. And judging by the look of panic on the faces of Ashley and Otis, they did too. The one who wins doesn't have to surrender his soul, but nobody had won. That was the trick and didn't require any fine print. It was unfortunately very clear. Tedd and Todd had forced a draw to finish up with two souls instead of one. They got at least one soul from each game. All the better if it was two.

"It seems there is no doubt, Todd," Tedd said satisfied. "It hasn't been that complicated after all."

The old man hit the ground with his walking stick and the fog began to rise out of the blackness of the railway line. Aidan unleashed an inhuman scream when he saw Ashley and Otis begin to be shrouded by a grey cloud. First Lance, and now, just after having met her again, his wife. It was more than he could bear and now he had absolutely no reason to hold back. If, as he understood it, Tedd and Todd were the owners of his wife's soul, he wasn't going to let them carry her wherever they wanted. He forgot everything and ran towards her determined to cross the line and get her out of the fog.

When he was two steps from the edge, he came to a dead stop. It wasn't that he'd changed his mind, it was just that instinct made him freeze, as he saw a train out of the corner of his eye, hurtling out of the tunnel at full throttle. If he hadn't stopped when he did he would have been carried away by the train.

But worse was to come, when the train had passed, and once the fog had lifted across the track, there wasn't a trace of Ashley and Otis to be seen.

"You've taken my wife away and now I'm going to give you what you've had coming for a long time," Aidan screamed, turning to face Tedd and Todd. He was as wild as he'd ever been and nothing mattered to him now other than running this miserable old bastard through with his own walking stick. He'd do the kid next. "I don't give a fuck who you are. You'll pay for this."

"I don't know if you realize it, Tedd," Todd said. "But he doesn't seem to know what he's saying."

"I can see that, Todd," Tedd observed. "But that's not the way to repair things. If he doesn't get a hold of himself, we've got a little procedure that might surprise him. He has to calm down, and then I'll help him."

Aidan could hardly hear them. Their voices sounded distant, muffled by the beating of his heart. He strode towards them, beside himself with fury. Tedd and Todd were talking to each other, and as usual were not even looking at him. Better that way.

When he was three yards from the boy, with his arms outstretched to grab him by the neck, Aidan felt a heavy blow on his side. Something hit him from behind and he crashed to the ground, hitting his head on the platform. For a few seconds his head spun and he battled to stay conscious. Aidan had to wait until everything around him stopped spinning. After sitting on the ground for a while, he realized his hearing was working normally again.

"I have to excuse myself straight away for this regrettable accident, Todd," Tedd said. "I'd never cause him the slightest harm. You know that."

"Sure, I understand, Tedd," Todd said. "You only wanted to find a solution to his problems. It's been bad luck, nothing more than that."

Aidan turned around and stared strangely at the solution that they were talking about, that had supposedly crashed into him accidentally. The wheelchair was stationary now.

"What solution are you talking about?" he asked angrily. "You want to make me handicapped?"

"I already warned you that the design is very bad, Tedd," Todd said. "Everybody will confuse it with a real wheelchair. It should look different. But you've only included the clock. It's always the same with the new chairs. Everything has to be explained. You do it, I'm bored."

"It's a great design, Todd," Tedd replied, "Stylish and original. The trouble is young people don't understand anything. Why don't you make it! You hardly helped me in creating the chess game. And now you're still complaining. If they can't see what it really is, just tell them it's a throne and nothing more."

Confusion had taken over from anger on Aidan's face.

"A throne?" He suddenly got it. It was Ashley's throne. It was the same as Otis's but a lighter colour, with silver trim. It was the throne of the White king. "I'm not going to join the game."

"That's a strange thing he just said, Todd," Tedd said. "If I'm not mistaken, only a short while ago, he told his wife that his soul was nothing compared with her life. Why does he have so much doubt now?"

"I don't know, Tedd," Todd said. "I don't think he was lying to his wife, although it's possible. I always thought that true love deserved any sacrifice. At least that's what Ashley said once. Remember? It was just after she put her own soul on the line to save his life."

"Bloody manipulators!" Aidan shouted. "I'd do anything for her. Will you bring her back if I play?"

"Finally we've arrived at the interesting part, Todd," Tedd smiled. "Before we reach an agreement with him we have to reveal every detail of the terms of the contact. We don't want any more of these misunderstandings that we've seen recently."

"That's true, Tedd," Todd agreed. "I don't like being labelled a liar when our proposals are as clear as daylight and without any double meanings."

"I understand everything," Aidan said. "I want to see it in writing that my wife won't undergo any suffering."

"There, everything is ready, Tedd," Todd said. "But our friend is impatient. He wants to go straight to the contract stage, jumping over the most important step."

"We can't agree to that, Todd," Tedd said, "First things first. He has to meet his adversary before he's in a position to accept the contract. Everything has to be done correctly."

A light metallic sound could be heard on the platform. Aidan could see a shape coming towards them behind Tedd and Todd. The old man and the boy stepped apart and Otis's chair, the throne of the Black king, wheeled up and stopped a few yards from him. The person who was seated got up when the chair stopped and looked at Aidan with a vague expression drawn on his face. It took Aidan half a second to recognize him.

"Are you going to play against me?"

"I'm sorry about your wife, Aidan," the Black king said sincerely.

"I know, Wilfred. I can see you cut a deal. Your father was right after all. It was possible to beat terminal cancer." Wilfred got up and walked freely. His eyes were no longer sunken and lifeless. It was obvious that they'd offered him their services. Now, nothing could kill him, except checkmate. "I don't want to go up against you, Wilfred."

"Nor do I. But there's no option. I'll miss you."

Aidan resisted the idea. "There must be another way to save Ashley without getting involved in this atrocious game."

Aidan stood back, looking at the platform, trying to find an exit. He did a full circle and considered his options. A frightening silence returned. It was as if Tedd and Todd and Wilfred were avoiding the slightest sound to let him think the whole thing through. He lost the whole notion of time, but finally looked at them once more.

Wilfred stared at him understandingly. Tedd and Todd waited either side of the white throne, running their hands over it, cleaning it.

Suddenly they raised their violet eyes and looked straight into Aidan's. Smiling, inviting, they extended their hands for him to take the throne.

Their invitation coincided with the moment in which Aidan Zack realized that he had never had another option.

# EPILOGUE

Bruce Webster, at the age of thirty-two, had managed to do a lot of stupid things in his life. Perhaps not as many as others, but a lot just the same. And here he was now, dangerously close to committing the biggest mistake of his life. Just thinking about it made him break out in a cold sweat.

Bruce put his hand around the wad of notes. It was all the money he had in the world after emptying his bank account. His debts and his mortgage were things he hadn't taken into account. He would worry about them later if he lost. He pushed the money slowly towards the centre of the table.

"I'll see you and raise you," he said, trying to sound confident.

The other three gamblers at the table looked at him, and two of them folded their hands and pulled out of the game. Bruce studied the only man left, the one who would decide if Bruce would make a pile of cash or finish up being nothing more than a stupid fool who'd lost everything he had on one hand of cards.

"Did you know that this place was an art gallery at one time?" his adversary informed him. "There, on that wall, the ugliest painting you can imagine used to hang."

"So, how did it finish up being a gaming room?" one of the others asked.

"Because the gallery was burnt down two and a half years ago."

"Why didn't they rebuild it and reopen the gallery?" Bruce asked, trying to sound relaxed, although he was far from it. In fact, the only thing he wanted to know was what was in the other man's hand. "Maybe they were insured and didn't lose too much."

"They were insured," his opponent agreed. "But it's difficult putting a value on works of art. There are always people who take advantage of situations like that. The simple fact is they found my offer better than the insurance company's, and I became the owner. I decided to put it to better use."

"You're Dylan Blair?" one of the others said amazed. "The millionaire?"

Bruce wasn't as impressed as the others. He knew who Dylan was. In fact, he'd been coming to the gaming room for a few weeks with the express desire of playing against him. Since he'd decided to give up his life sitting in front of a computer screen, working for others, he'd been looking for an opportunity like this. He'd discovered that Dylan was one of the regular players in the room and lost heaps playing poker without even batting an eyelid. Sometimes he won. Lately, though, his luck seemed to have improved, but Bruce trusted in his own ability and had waited patiently until the millionaire was ripe for the kill.

"Exactly. That's me," Dylan said. "I can see my fame precedes me."

"I heard that you got your start by breaking a casino," one of the others said. "Well, that's the official version," Dylan explained. "The truth is that I sold my soul to the devil so I could live a degenerate and superficial existence."

The two gamblers who'd tossed their hands in chuckled to themselves.

"Bah! The rich never reveal their secrets," one said to the other.

Bruce had run out of patience. "If it's all the same to you, can we continue the game?"

"Of course," Dylan said politely. "It was only an anecdote, to break the tension a little bit. Let's see. I believe I'm going to see your bet."

Dylan Blair took out a pile of notes and threw them on top of the rest in the middle of the table. Bruce thanked God at that moment. He'd made a few slick moves during the game and had manipulated the cards to finish up with four aces. He'd been sweating on Dylan seeing his bet, and now it was time to collect. It had all been done perfectly and no one could doubt that his hand had been dealt to him. He was a professional. The four aces had been spread through the pack and had come from the discards. It would have been suspicious if he'd got four aces in the first deal.

It was perfect. Bruce turned his cards over and fanned them across the felt, a look of total satisfaction covering his face.

"Four aces," he said triumphantly.

"Excellent hand. No doubt about that," Dylan said poker-faced. His expression never changed whether he won or lost. "But my royal flush is better."

The world came to a stop then for Bruce. All his dreams shattered in his heart. The other pair at the table were amazed by what had just happened and began to praise Dylan. Other gamblers from nearby tables came over to see what had happened and soon a crowd surrounded the table.

"I... I can't believe it," Bruce stammered. "It was all the money I had. You've ruined me."

"Gambling's like that," Dylan said impassively. "Don't get too upset. You'll see that your problems–"

"Wait a moment!" Bruce exclaimed, jumping across the table and rummaging through the discards.

Something had just become very clear in his mind. The royal flush was formed from two of his own discards. It was impossible that they could be in Dylan's hand now if they'd been on the table. The bastard had cheated.

"That's the reason I told you the story," Dylan said, realizing by the look on Bruce's face that he knew. "I needed to distract your attention. A great friend of mine showed me how to do it a few years back. The whole thing's been a lot of fun."

Because he'd lost everything at least he could thank this rich arrogant bastard by giving him a good beating. Bruce got up and started to round the table. But as he did so a great thundering noise reverberated around the room. The front wall closest to the street came apart and everybody started running every which way they could in panic. The table with all the money on top turned over and knocked Bruce and Dylan to the ground underneath. They pushed the heavy table up but something crashed onto it, pinning them where they were.

They struggled clumsily underneath but couldn't budge it. People were screaming throughout the room as they ran for the exits. Bruce hadn't seen what had crashed onto the table and that made him furious. Then suddenly he felt the weight above them disappear, and this time, with Dylan's help, he managed to push it off them. When they did, the biggest man Bruce had ever seen was standing before them. He wasn't that tall, but he was massive. He wore a black suit and held a giant mace with both hands.

"Stay still," Dylan warned him with a smile. "Sit down and enjoy the show. If you stay here nothing will happen to you."

Bruce didn't know what to say or do. He just stared dumbfounded at the bodybuilder in the black suit.

Then, someone else even stranger arrived. The huge man threw the mace in a perfect arc towards a wheelchair that moved unaided. It missed its mark by inches. And a man, around seven feet tall, got up from the wheelchair. He was carrying a sword almost as tall as he was and looked cold and hard and very serious. He walked across to the man in black and ran him through with the sword.

An incredible panic invaded Bruce. This recently arrived giant was going to kill everyone still in the room and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"A little early for a check, don't you think?" Dylan said, approaching the swordsman.

"I suppose you're right. Are you still living a perpetual orgy, Dylan?"

"Trying to," Dylan answered. "Look after yourself, friend."

"That's what I'm trying to do," the swordsman answered sadly, as he shook Dylan's hand.

Then, without giving the dead body on the floor a second glance, he disappeared. Bruce watched him go in disbelief.

"Do you know him?"

"He was a policeman. The first time I ran in to him he punched me so hard I nearly lost an eye. He's a good bloke, but a bit boring at the same time."

"Good bloke? He just killed this man mountain here and whacked you. And you say he's a good bloke," Bruce said, baffled.

"Hmm. Yes, he is a good person," Dylan said after a pause. "One of the best, depending on how you judge people, of course. Which reminds me, this money problem of yours. You know, being ruined for life and all that. I know an old man and a boy who love to help out people in just the sort of jam you're in. They speak a bit strangely, but you'll get used to it. Anyway, you'll find out..."

# BLACK ROCK PRISON (the continuing saga of TEDD AND TODD'S SECRET)

(Sample)

Kevin dropped the eyes on the floor. One of them bounced off his leg and came to a stop under a table; the other one landed in front of him and there was no way he could avoid stepping on it.

"Shit," he exclaimed, completely annoyed. He inhaled slowly and deeply, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, then exhaled forcefully.

Kevin Peyton was a meticulous man. He paid attention to details and was convinced that it was precisely because of this that he enjoyed such a good reputation in his profession. Clients recognized his fastidious personal touch and respected him for it.

"He was perfect," a woman had told him on one occasion after admiring the results of his labor with fascination. "Even better than before the accident."

Kevin had limited himself to nodding respectfully and had abstained from commenting. He certainly hadn't had the faintest idea of how to reply to that kind of remark. It was the only time that he remembered ever hearing anything like it. And it had come from a regular client, which was something rare in his profession.

This time no one would be congratulating him. He could have kicked himself for having been so clumsy as he took off the mask and picked the eyes up off the floor. It was no easy task to get the one from under the table but he finally managed to grab it. He threw the eyes in the trash and looked the body over carefully, searching for a solution for this unfortunate mishap. He remembered that once a long time ago he had had a similar problem with an eye donor. The body had to be presentable, so he had resorted to stuffing some cotton balls under the eyelids to keep them from sinking down into the eye sockets.

For a fleeting moment he considered presenting the cadaver with sunglasses. It was a totally involuntary and random thought, undoubtedly brought on by nerves. He quickly dismissed it tucked it in the back of his mind as a last resort. The cotton balls would no doubt work perfectly and provided a considerably more elegant recourse.

Fortunately, everything turned out exquisitely and two hours later the deceased was in impeccable condition for the family's showing: a good suit, a little makeup, and the yellow handkerchief that his wife had so vehemently insisted be placed around his neck. It wasn't necessarily an unusual request; Kevin had dressed corpses in every way imaginable. Just the same, as he finished preparing the body he couldn't help turning over in his mind the possible significance of that particular accessory—but didn't arrive at any interesting conclusion.

He finished up with an hour to spare before the funeral home would open. The family of the deceased wouldn't arrive until ten a.m. and his colleague would be there by then. Now seemed like a suitable time to go out for breakfast.

Norman's bar was the best bet given that it was across from the funeral home and Kevin didn't like to have to take the car; in fact he hardly ever strayed too far from the Far Southeast Side. The Chicago cold grabbed him as soon as he stepped out onto the street. Kevin was used to low temperatures so his thick wool sweater was more than sufficient to keep him warm.

At this early hour, the bar would be closed, but Norman would no doubt already be there getting everything set for breakfast and maybe even be in the mood for a little company. And anyway, Kevin wanted to see his friend alone.

Norman Smith was a nice man with a certain magnetism about him. You couldn't help but laugh at his witty remarks delivered with that cheerful Irish accent. His sharp tongue was always at the ready with entertaining observations for any and every situation and it was extremely unusual to see him angry or gloomy. Kevin had known him for more than ten years, since the time when the funeral home had opened. After his ridiculously difficult first day straightening things up in order to be able to carry out his new duties, Kevin had crossed the street and gone into the Irish bar directly opposite the funeral home to have a drink to relax a bit. Norman had struck up a conversation with him. Later, as he walked back out the door, he had already decided where he'd go the next morning to have breakfast.

They got along well. A strong friendship developed between them over the next eight years, and then Kevin discovered Norman's secret: gambling. Poker, roulette, betting . . . anything and everything. Then a year and a half ago, Norman suffered an "unexpected" slump and lost everything. Consequently, he almost lost the bar as well. Kevin took pity on him and loaned him money. A considerable sum of money. It meant a serious sacrifice on his part since his wife had walked out three years before that without a single word, leaving him on his own with his now eighteen-year-old daughter—the most important person in his life.

Now the tables had turned. His precious Stacy's imminent entry into the university along with a rough patch at the funeral home had put him in a rather delicate economic situation. His daughter's future was at stake, leaving Kevin desperately needing to get his money back, or at least part of it. The problem was asking Norman for it. Of course, it was legitimately his and the time period in which his friend should have returned it had long since passed. Just the same, Norman hadn't even ever mentioned the matter; it was as if it had never happened. Kevin was infuriated. In his opinion, as a good friend, Norman should have taken the initiative and returned the money to him without forcing him to ask for it. Or, at the very least, he should have explained the reason why he still hadn't kept his end of the agreement and indicated when he might be able to. Nevertheless, it seemed that Norman didn't see it that way so Kevin would have to bring it up even though it wouldn't be easy for him. Figuring that it would also put Norman in an uncomfortable position made Kevin uneasy, and he got annoyed with himself for feeling like that. He was only taking back what belonged to him—nothing wrong with that—and besides, it was for his daughter's benefit. But

still . . .

Maybe this time Norman would say something to him. The best case scenario would be to show up at the bar and chat a bit, just the two of them, and to act as relaxed as possible so Norman would have no idea of the grudge that he was carrying over the whole thing. The worse case would be to somehow have to manipulate the conversation so it turned to the topic of debts, and then Norman would hopefully take the hint. No, surely he wouldn't have to do anything like that.

Kevin took long strides across the street, moving to the other side with great agility. He was tall—six feet, three inches—and he was in great shape. His body showed all the signs of regular exercise and was wonderfully sculpted. Virtually all of his muscles were well defined, but at the same time he didn't look like someone who never left the gym. And he was handsome; people had always told him so. Kevin was uncomfortable hearing compliments—they made him blush—but he knew they were true. He couldn't deny it. His unmistakable garnet eyes and his straight ginger-red hair were the main reasons for his natural good looks.

Kevin entered the bar but didn't see anyone. He was just about to call out to Norman, thinking that he was somewhere in there, but then saw the silhouette of a man at the far end of the bar. Instantly he realized that something wasn't right. This guy was not the typical Irish client that frequented Norman's place. Kevin cleared his mind and focused his attention. He heard a muffled sobbing that was apparently coming from the unidentified man. He then remembered that the door to the establishment had been unlocked, that he had only had to give it a push to open it. And he noticed something else—a strange . . . odor.

"Hello," he greeted the stranger. "Have you seen the waiter?"

The man did not turn around but kept his back to him. Kevin wondered for a brief moment what he should do. The stranger was seated on a stool and had one elbow leaning on the bar. He was dark-haired, medium height, and he seemed thin, though it was really hard to know for sure because a black raincoat enveloped him. Kevin approached slowly, making noise as he moved so as not to startle the man. Something out of the ordinary was definitely going on here. The man moved. His shoulders rose and fell quickly and Kevin heard him moaning weakly.

"Are you okay, man?" Kevin reached out slowly toward the stranger's shoulder. He realized that his hand was shaking though he didn't know why. "I don't mean to bother you." Kevin gently tapped him and the man slowly turned around. "Don't be alarmed. I only want . . ."

Kevin instinctively took a step back. He tripped over a stool and fell clumsily to the floor. He sprung back up, his heart pounding uncontrollably as a rush of adrenaline burst through his body. He stared at the man and then dropped his eyes to the man's left hand.

He was clutching an enormous pistol.

"G-Get away," said the man in a voice choked with emotion.

"Calm down, friend," said Kevin, struggling to control himself. "I'm nobody . . . I just came to . . ."

"I don't care who you are. I just want one last drink."

And in that moment Kevin understood it all, or he thought he did. The man wasn't pointing the pistol, it was more like he was just mindlessly holding it. Two tears rolled down his cheeks onto his chin. His eyes were very strange. They seemed unfocused, like he wasn't looking directly at anything. His face was thin and pale, vaguely reminiscent of someone who had been attractive in his younger years. It was obvious that he had been rubbing his eyes judging by the look of his eyelids. Kevin's fear that the guy would shoot him quickly evaporated. That was definitely not this guy's intention, nor had he come to hold up the bar. The only real explanation filled Kevin with a sick feeling like he had never felt before. Unless he was pitifully mistaken, the man was about to kill himself.

"I can serve you whatever you want. The bar belongs to a friend of mine."

"That would be fine." The man dragged his hand under his nose and wiped his face. "A whiskey would be great."

Kevin nodded and carefully jumped over the bar. His hands were still trembling.

"Any special kind?"

"It's all the same to me, even rum would do. . ."

"No, no, whiskey is fine." Kevin found a bottle, put two glasses on the bar and filled them. "To your health."

The stranger reached for the glass but accidentally knocked it off with the back of his hand. Once again he burst into tears when the glass smashed on the floor, scattering shards of glass in all directions. Kevin hurried to put another one out and quickly filled it with alcohol.

"Come on now, relax. It's not a problem."

It took the man some time to regain his composure. His uneven breathing kept him from speaking. With quite a bit of effort, he finally managed to pick up the glass and downed it all in one swallow. Kevin did the same.

"Okay, I think it's time . . ." said the man, somewhat calmer.

"No! Let's have another." Kevin cut him off. "I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty. It would be a shame to waste this bottle."

"For all I care you can drink up everything in the bar. I'm going to . . ."

"Don't do it!" The words rushed out of their own accord. Kevin had no idea why this guy even mattered to him, but he couldn't let him commit suicide without at least trying to stop him. It just wasn't right. "I don't know what your problem is, man, but I'm sure there's a solution . . ."

"And what would you know?" the man screamed, gesticulating wildly. The gun was waving up and down, making circles in the air. "You think know me or something? You have no idea about my problems!"

"That's true," Kevin said hastily in the most conciliatory tone that he could manage. "I don't know you, but I am sure that you're an intelligent man . . . ." Kevin really had no idea about that, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. The tension of the moment was overwhelming. "I see it in your eyes, in your expression. It's clear that you've got a good heart."

The man stopped moving and seemed to calm down a bit.

"N-No I'm not . . . or I wouldn't be about to blast a hole in my head."

"Yes, you are. It's just that you must be going through a rough time. It happens to all of us." Kevin thought he might not be doing too badly since the man's expression softened just a bit. "No one can survive in this cruel world on their own. I'm sure that someone in your family . . ."

"I don't have anyone."

Mentioning family was a mistake and Kevin silently reprimanded himself even though he couldn't possibly have known. He was doing the best he could, never having experienced such a delicate situation.

"That's tough. But I'm sure that you matter to someone."

"It hurts so much . . . No one cares about me and no one will miss me. Everything will go on just as it always had when I'm gone. It's better to end the pain . . . I'm tired of suffering."

The stranger put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and closed his eyes so tightly that his eyelids turned white. Two new tears crept out from beneath them.

Again Kevin's heart pounded violently.

"Don't do it, I beg you! You matter to me!" The man was breathing rapidly. "I wouldn't be here with you if I didn't care. I could have walked out of here but I stayed by your side. You have to believe me!"

An excruciating moment of uncertainty hung on for several interminable seconds. Kevin truly believed that at any instant he'd be seeing the pathetic, miserable man's brains blasting through the air, just a few feet away from him.

Then the man opened his eyes. He didn't take the barrel out of his mouth, but his breathing slowed somewhat. It was a powerful image. Kevin had no idea how to react. This man in front of him was trembling, gasping with each exhalation as if he'd just run a mile. The barrel of the gun was soaked with saliva that was starting to trickle down his chin, mixing with the tears that were spilling from his eyes. Such strange eyes. Kevin studied them closely for the first time. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, something with which he was quite familiar. What struck him was that he had dealt with cadavers whose eyes reflected more life than the ones in front of him now. They were a grayish color—a very unusual shade—and lacked any flicker of life; they were completely dull. And Kevin would have sworn that they hadn't looked directly at him even once.

He concentrated on the next hurdle that was facing him.

"Give me the gun, please. You don't want to do it; you know it's not the answer. You can tell me what it is you need; I'll help you and between us we'll come up with a solution." The man shook his head and continued to look away from Kevin. His trembling slowed, as did the rhythm of his breathing. Kevin took a deep breath. "Listen to me; talking to me can't hurt anything. If you truly want to commit suicide you can do it later, or tomorrow, but you lose nothing by just having a conversation. And to talk, you have to take the gun out of your mouth."

That last comment brought about a change. The strange individual finally reacted by taking the barrel out of his mouth. He did it slowly, carefully.

"Maybe . . . maybe you're right."

"Of course I am. Talking never hurt anyone. Will you talk to me?"

"Maybe," stammered the man insecurely. "But I don't think you'll like my topic of conversation."

"Not a problem, but you have to give me the gun. It scares me just looking at a gun. Hand it to me. I'll give it back to you later, I promise."

Kevin extended his arm toward him with his hand opened. At first the man widened his eyes, as if he were afraid of the idea of handing it over, but finally he relaxed, and with a trembling hand held out the gun to Kevin. He stopped just before giving it up.

"Are you lying to me? People always lie to me."

"I won't," promised Kevin in a firm tone. "You can trust me."

Finally he gave him the gun. Kevin let out a lengthy sigh.

He held the pistol fearfully, as if he were handling a bomb. He dealt with death every day in his job, but it did not appeal to him in the least to be holding an instrument that, ironically, provided him with so many clients. Never before had he had a gun in his hands in spite of the fact that they were easy to come by in Chicago. The majority of his friends kept some kind of weapon in their house, but not him. Kevin despised weapons. In the funeral home he had so often been entrusted with hiding bullet holes in the cadavers that were brought in that simply seeing the barrel of a gun upset him.

He held the weapon with both hands, trying not to shake. It had to have a safety on it somewhere, but he had no idea where to find it; he understood nothing about weapons. The metal felt cold and that seemed strange to him. It should have been warm from the tight grip with which the man had been clenching it.

"I don't think I want it," said the stranger, his voice suddenly normal.

Kevin observed him curiously. Even though his eyes still appeared sad, he thought he saw a slight twinkle of happiness on his face; for an instant his lips curved into a timid smile. Maybe it was because it had felt good to him to get rid of the weapon.

"That's for the best," said Kevin, finally slightly more relaxed. "I'll keep it to avoid any accidents."

"Yes, yes, you keep it," repeated the stranger, dazed. "For God's sake . . . I was just about to do it. I'm terribly sorry . . . You must think . . ."

"Don't feel bad. You just have problems and are feeling alone."

"That's no excuse. I'm nothing more than a pathetic loser. A piece of trash . . ."

"The important thing is that you didn't do it. You have a chance to change things."

"Yeah, right . . . I . . . I don't feel well." The man got off the stool and staggered toward the exit. He was swaying from side to side and supported himself on the bar to stay on his feet. "I think I'll go see a doctor. Thank you for everything," he added absentmindedly.

"But . . . Hey, wait!" shouted Kevin.

He couldn't believe it. After the most intense moments of his entire life, it was unthinkable that it would end like this. Completely stunned, he had no idea what to say.

Not believing his own eyes, he watched the strange character leave the bar. He looked at the weapon that he was still holding and told himself that at least everything had turned out well enough. Only a few moments ago he had been convinced that he would witness a suicide, and just before that he had feared for his own life. A bit much to start the day. He was about to get himself another glass of whiskey, and he would have, but a thunderous noise stopped him in his tracks.

"Put down the weapon! Hands over your head!" they shouted at him.

He slowly turned around. Two uniformed policemen were pointing their guns at him. The door of the bar was in pieces; they had knocked it down to get in.

"What are you saying?" stammered Kevin, completely stunned.

The two policemen had their eyes pinned on him. They weren't even blinking.

"I said put down the weapon," insisted one of them.

Kevin looked at his right hand. He was surprised to see the pistol that he was still clenching. For a split second he had forgotten what had happened just moments before from the shock of seeing the Chicago police pointing guns at him.

"Of course," he said immediately. He hurriedly put the weapon down on the bar. "It's not mine, it belongs to a guy who . . ."

He was not able to finish the sentence. As soon as he let go of the gun, one of the policemen swiftly approached him and smashed his face against the surface of the bar.

"Hands behind your back!" he ordered.

"What is this? I haven't done anything."

The officer handcuffed him without the least consideration of his protests.

"You have the right to remain silent . . ."

"This is absurd!"

The policeman gave a strong yank on the handcuffs and finished reading him his rights. Kevin was absolutely dumbstruck. He understood nothing of what was happening.

"Do you understand your rights?"

"Perfectly, but I haven't done anything. You've got the wrong person."

"I doubt that very much. At any rate, a jury will decide."

A jury? It was all making less and less sense. More policemen arrived; one of them picked up the pistol with gloves and put it in a plastic bag. He glared at Kevin.

"That gun isn't mine."

"Sure, sure," replied the policeman who had cuffed him. "That's why you had it in your hands when we arrived."

It was obvious that they wouldn't believe him. The truth would sound absurd.

"Can I at least know what you're accusing me of?" asked Kevin.

"Murder."

"What? That can't be. I haven't so much as killed a fly in my entire life. And besides, where is the body?"

Then he saw it. Two people were coming out of the back of the bar carrying a stretcher. There was a body on it with a bullet hole between the eyes.

He almost fainted when he recognized him. It was the owner of the bar. His friend Norman Smith.

# WAR OF THE HEAVENS

(Sample)

Nine out of ten people would feel some remorse about interrupting a priest's sermon with a screeching rock song whose words were, at the very least, inappropriate for the occasion. And this would be an absolute certainty if the event that was so rudely and insensitively disrupted happened to be a funeral.

But Ramsey felt nothing but a wave of happiness when the priest looked up from his Bible and all those in attendance turned their heads to glare at him indignantly. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled his cell phone out as quickly as he could, all the while mumbling apologies as he swiftly moved away from the group and went out to the cemetery grounds.

Since he was only able to speak with his wife once a month due to her being more or less incommunicado on the other side of the planet, silencing her call was the last thing he'd ever think of doing. Just the same, Ramsey made a mental note to change the ringtone of his new cell phone.

"Hello, darling," he greeted her as he continued walking among the trees, supporting himself with his black cane. He had to stop a moment to pull down the wide-brimmed hat he always wore so it wouldn't be carried away by the wind. "I've missed you. How is everything down there?"

Ramsey shuddered just thinking of his wife being in Antarctica. Each time he imagined what it must be like, shivers ran up and down his spine.

"I miss you too, sweetheart," answered his wife's voice. "Everything here is going as planned. The visit with Congressman Collins and his bureaucratic cronies set us back a bit, but we managed to convince them to get us economic support from Congress. How's everything at home?" she asked, unable to mask her homesickness.

Ramsey chose to leave out any mention of his little _faux pas_ in the church; it somehow didn't seem to hold the same weight as Congressman Collins or the millions budgeted for scientific research. Instead, he summed up for her the highlights of his life since they'd spoken last month, though there unfortunately weren't as many as he would have liked. His business wasn't exactly sailing along, and he didn't want to cloud their monthly conversation with unpleasant news. His wife, on the other hand, shared all her news about the progress they were making in the studies they were carrying out at the South Pole. Jane was using scientific jargon that to Ramsey, the manager of a cigarette factory, was nearly incomprehensible. But she was speaking with so much passion that he never felt the slightest inclination to cut her off. It must have been because they'd been married for such a short time, he thought somewhat cynically. Well, at least during their wedding ceremony the guests had thankfully had more sense than he did and had turned off their cell phones.

"So, how long before you finish up your work and come back home?" asked Ramsey.

"If everything keeps going like it is, we'll finish in two months," she said, sounding pleased.

It didn't seem like such good news to Ramsey. Even though her time away wouldn't be extended, he'd held out the hope that she'd be back sooner. He refrained from saying anything about that.

"Oh, honey!" His wife's voice sounded emotional on the other end of the line. "It's incredible! I'm looking at the aurora australis! What an extraordinary light show this is. If only you could be here now to see it with me."

Ramsey imagined his wife with the phone up to her ear, looking at the sky at the South Pole. Without even realizing it, he let himself be carried away by the illusion of being at her side, and gazed at the sky as if she were pointing out for him where to look. What he saw left him flabbergasted . . . and speechless.

"Ramsey, are you still there?" his wife asked. "I can't hear you. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you . . . I'm sorry, it's just that . . . I could swear . . . I see it, too."

"What do you see?" she asked, not understanding.

"The aurora. I see lights in the sky making a kind of trail of colors," Ramsey stammered.

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, playfully scolding him. "Don't start with your teasing."

"I swear to you. I'm looking at an aurora right here above me," he insisted. "It's like the one we saw in Alaska last year. Is the one you're seeing green with purple streaks?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice clearly changing. "But that can't be. You'd have to be much farther north to be able to see an aurora borealis. And it can't be the same one I'm seeing. Listen, if this is another of your practical jokes I swear I'll stay down here another year—"

"It's not a joke!" Ramsey interrupted. "I'm seeing it with my own two eyes. I'm going to take a picture of it with my cell phone and send it to you so you can see for yourself I'm not lying."

Feeling swept up by the unexpected excitement, Ramsey walked out from under the trees so he could see better. As he was walking toward one side of the cemetery, he saw that other people had stopped and were also looking up. At that moment, a silent but spectacular flash completely filled the sky. Ramsey instinctively covered his eyes and, when he took his hand away, he marveled at the sky, now adorned with many different colors. First it was tinged with red; a few seconds later the color changed, going from yellow to indigo.

"Ramsey?" his wife was now shouting into the phone. "Something has happened here. The aurora has disappeared in a kind of explosion of light." His wife's voice sounded fearful. "The sky is changing color . . ."

He couldn't believe what she was saying to him. It was simply impossible. She was telling him in great detail exactly what he was witnessing, in spite of the fact that they were thousands of miles apart.

"Now is it yellow?" he asked.

"Yes. How did you know that?" she answered. "Is the same thing happening there?" The scientist's voice sounded both tense and excited.

Just then, they were cut off. Ramsey hadn't heard anything that would have led him to believe that the signal was getting weak or that the called would be dropped; the phone simply went silent. Ramsey looked at it and saw it was off. Beginning to feel nervous, he tried in vain to turn it on again. Even though he'd completely charged the battery that morning, the phone would not come back on. Ramsey walked back toward the funeral intending to ask to borrow someone else's cell phone, but something told him that everyone else's had also stopped working.

He'd taken only two steps on the sidewalk when he stopped in his tracks; in front of him was a sight so strange his brain could barely process it. A child was trying to get his mother's attention, but she was gazing at the sky in astonishment. The boy was tugging insistently on the leash of a dog that was as still as a porcelain statue. Two of its paws were planted firmly on the ground, while the other two were hanging unnaturally in the air, defying the laws of balance. Ramsey just stared, not knowing what to do. The dog was frozen stiff, as if someone had taken a photograph of it as it was walking behind its owner. The little boy broke into tears and his mother finally turned toward him.

As he was struggling to understand what was happening, something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Ramsey turned, and what he saw astounded him even more. A squirrel had frozen in midair as it was jumping among the branches of two trees. This could not be. Ramsey rubbed his eyes and looked again in the hope that it had all been a hallucination . . . but no; the squirrel was still there, hanging weightlessly in the air, totally unaffected by the pull of gravity. An unpleasant tingling nipped at the back of his neck.

The sky continued to change color. Completely bewildered, Ramsey's only thought was about how the mysterious flash had paralyzed the animals. Oddly, he wondered if his wife might be seeing petrified penguins. He tried to pull himself together and do something. "Come on, this is what you're good at," he thought. He turned toward the road intending to go back into the church and ask for help, but he couldn't move his feet from the ground. The command to move his foot had left his brain and headed toward his foot—of that he had no doubt—but his foot was not responding.

Without knowing how or when, he had totally lost control of his ability to move. He was still conscious of what was happening around him but he could not even move his eyes. His vision was fixed on the road and he was no longer able to feel his own body. He saw everything as if it were a movie with the camera stuck in one place, unable to interact at all with his surroundings. Though it was precious little consolation, he felt slightly calmer seeing that the other people around him were also paralyzed. The mother and her son, leaning over their dog. A couple on the other side of the street, looking at the sky. And a group of six children in the midst of a crosswalk.

If it hadn't been for the beating of his heart and the rustling of a light morning breeze, Ramsey would have thought that time was standing still. But that couldn't be what it was. Leaves were falling from the trees, and a plastic bag danced in circles in the air, pushed along by the wind. Apparently only animals and people were affected.

Ramsey heard the sound of a vehicle approaching on his left, but he could not turn his head. In front of him, the schoolchildren remained motionless in the middle of the street. A shudder of terror shook him as he anticipated the imminent tragedy. His mind screamed out with all its might, but his lips disobediently remained tightly closed. The front end of a street-sweeper truck appeared before his eyes. It was moving slowly, but continuously. The driver's face, visible through the windshield, was as still as everyone else's. Ramsey, powerless, stared in horror as the street-sweeper ran over the children. Their bodies were crushed by the heavy truck that had veered only slightly off course as a result of the impact. The crunching sound of broken limbs flooded his ears, but Ramsey barely had time to process the horror he felt over what had happened to the children. A rapid chain of events was cascading all around him.

It began with a loud crackling, accompanied by a small flash in his right hand. Ramsey knew instinctively that the phone he'd been holding had exploded, releasing a small spiral of smoke. At least, he thought, he didn't feel pain; he didn't really even feel his hand. He took some solace in this, hoping against all hope that the children hadn't felt the truck rolling over them. Almost immediately, he could make out small explosions inside of the vehicles that were near him. He guessed it might be the radios. Seconds later, the engine of a truck that was driving away from them blew up, its hood hurling into the front windshield. But that didn't stop it; it kept on its course down the avenue as the engines of the vehicles it was passing burst in sequence. Several cars caught fire and Ramsey knew that many of them were occupied. They no doubt had drivers and passengers who were completely paralyzed as they watched the flames consuming their bodies. Never before had Ramsey felt so relieved that his son, Michael, had a motorcycle.

He heard violent explosions in the distance, and shortly thereafter saw columns of twisting smoke rising far off, over the city. If in a place as remote as this cemetery several people had already died, he didn't even want to imagine what might be happening in an area so full of vehicles and electricity.

And then, with no warning, Ramsey regained control over his body and was able to move. He dropped his cell phone, which was burning his hand, and then joined in the shouting coming from all around him, a spontaneous expression of the terror and dread afflicting them all. Ramsey saw a truck crash into a tree and watched as the driver got out, his arm enveloped in flames. People were terrified; they were running in all directions and screaming hysterically.

Something thundered over their heads. Ramsey looked up, and distinctly heard an ear-shattering metallic screeching. His eyes met with an enormous mass of steel, falling straight toward him. He could make out the British Airways logo painted on the side of the airplane as it plunged toward them. He didn't even try to get away. His last thought, just before being crushed to death, was of his family. He asked God to protect them.

The inexplicable phenomenon that would come to be known as the Wave had the disconcerting effect of planting the same questions in the terror-stricken mind of every survivor. What had caused that vortex of destruction? And more importantly, why had it happened?

# THE LAST GAME

(Sample)

The small electric saw stopped rotating when the sternum snapped. The saw´s teeth, painted red, kept spinning for a few seconds longer, before slowing down gradually until it came to a complete stop.

Alvaro put the saw down and separated the ribs. The red mass came into view, palpitating at a constant rhythm.

"It´s a very big heart." The nurse said

"You're not wrong there. But it has to come out." Alvaro said in a bored voice.

He´d already done several heart transplants and this one didn´t feel anything remotely like a challenge. It was nothing more than routine procedure. The patient would get a new heart and would spend the rest of his time trying to prolong his life as much as he could. He would meekly comply with an endless amount of rules, that would require him to give up a great quantity of vices and activities that the vast majority of people consider pleasant, and would fight to cling to this awful world as long as possible.

Alvaro envied him.

"Ok, let´s do it." He said to the team around him. "I don´t want a single . . ."

The door opened suddenly, cutting the conversation abruptly. Alvaro stared at the intruder and thought about taking his mask off to speak. He wanted to make sure that this person heard all the insults that he was about to throw his way. Nobody walked into an operating theatre during an operation.

The intruder wasn´t even wearing a surgical gown. He was wearing street clothes and had walked in here as if it were nothing more than a shop on the blocks outside the hospital.

Alvaro put the saw down on the table and approached the newcomer. His companion and the two nurses were so surprised that they hadn´t had time to react. The stranger offered Alvaro a black envelope with white edges that the surgeon grabbed out of his hand. He had a fair idea what its contents were. The messenger didn´t wait to watch Alvaro read it; he just turned and left the room without saying a word.

Without any doubt it was a court order. Somebody wanted the operation stopped. Alvaro hadn´t paid sufficient attention to the details of his patient's personal history. He vaguely remembered that there had been two women fighting over what the right course of action should be. One had been in favor of the transplant, his wife, if his memory didn´t fail him, and the other, possibly the patient´s sister, was against it. But maybe he was confusing who was who.

In any case the medical report didn´t seem to have carried sufficient weight to guarantee that the poor individual, who wasn´t in any condition to decide his own fate, would receive a healthy, new heart. Part of the blame for that lay with Alvaro; he hadn't offered his professional medical opinion. He'd checked the physical condition of the patient, and recommended the transplant and then forgotten about it while the two hags tore themselves apart in their fight to show who loved the patient more, and who therefore had more right to decide the outcome.

He was sure that the loser had resorted to legal means to get her way. Some foolish judge somewhere, someone who didn´t understand anything about medicine had decided to stop the operation in its tracks. The doctors would have to attend a hearing and explain the need for the operation over and over again until the judge understood what it was all about. There was no doubt that this was what the letter was all about.

Alvaro knew about a similar case a few years before. It had been an operation to amputate a leg, but the court order had arrived late and the leg was no longer attached to the body. On this occasion the patient only had his chest completely open. Things were looking up.

"What is it?" His companion asked.

Alvaro sighed dispiritedly.

"I can imagine." He said while he scratched the envelope with his blood stained gloves. "It's a pity it didn´t arrive a couple of hours before. We wouldn´t have had to open the patient up. He´s going to have a beautiful scar and all for nothing. That happens when . . . "

Alvaro fell silent and swallowed the rest of the sentence. The letter inside the envelope wasn´t a court order. It wasn´t even an official letter. The paper was folded twice. He opened it quickly, and was immediately surprised by what he saw. He´d never seen anything like it. It was very elegantly handwritten, in stylized words with long flourishes that gave it a certain antiquated air. A little overdone perhaps. It was written in red ink and appeared heavier on some lines than others. Alvaro couldn´t imagine a fountain pen or biro capable of doing that and no computer or typewriter had been used either. No, it was handwritten, but by whom and how remained unknown.

He was hooked before he started reading, and surprised that his latex gloves hadn´t left blood stains on the letter paper as they had on the envelope that contained it.

The words formed in his mind with surprising ease, flowing smoothly, compelling him to read on. For a second, he forgot where he was and what he had been doing only a few minutes before.

When he finished reading, Alvaro understood everything perfectly.

He threw the letter on the ground and walked to the door, taking his face mask and gloves off as he went.

"Where are you going?" The nurse asked.

"Eh! We´ve got a man with his chest opened up here on the operating table!" The other surgeon shouted at him, amazed by what was happening.

Alvaro didn´t pay any attention to either of them. He took his surgical gown off just before he got to the door, letting it drop to the floor as he left the room without saying a word. Nobody there knew what to say or do. The two nurses and the surgeon stared at each other dumbfounded.

"It must have been bad news. " One of the nurses said bending down to pick up the letter. "Maybe a close relative had an accident?"

The doctor didn´t believe that. Alvaro had run out of the room without giving any explanation whatsoever. That wasn´t like him, he was methodical and even in the event of a serious accident he would have said something to explain his leaving. No, it wasn´t that.

"He should have given us a good excuse to leave us in the lurch like this. Damn him! Fool!" The surgeon shouted after him before turning back to the others. "Well, what does the letter say then?"

The nurse said nothing. But her trembling hands told the doctor that something was wrong .He lost his patience and snatched the sheet of paper from her and looked for the explanation himself.

But there was none to find. The page was blank.

Judith was depressed when she got home. She hung her coat up but didn't see the angelic face that everybody said she had in her reflection in the hall mirror. Instead, she imagined herself as a twenty year old despite the fact that she was now thirty, and a sad looking thirty year old at that. If she´d seen her true self she would've given herself a slap to snap her out of her bad mood.

On the kitchen table she found a pile of letters that her helper had left there after collecting the mail. Judith went through them quickly. Just junk mail. But she stopped flicking through them when she came to a black envelope with white edges that looked different from the rest. There was nothing written on it so she concluded that it wasn´t important. She tossed it into the fireplace with the others, put two logs on top and started a fire.

The smell of burning wood relaxed her, and as the fire built she became lost in thought, the concept of time receding.

She stayed like that for a while until the sound of her favorite song, John Lennon's Imagine, vibrated out of her mobile phone.

"Yes?" She said picking the phone up off the table.

"Took your time!" Nestor said, on the other end of the line. "I just want to talk."

Judith cursed herself for having taken the call without checking to see who was calling.

"Not now, Nestor. I don´t feel very well."

"Then, when? I deserve an explanation." He said without trying to cover his anger up. "You asked for time and I think I´ve been more than reasonable. I've been waiting four months!"

"I know and I thank you for that. But nothing´s going to happen if you wait a while longer."

"This has finished." Nestor yelled. "I can do anything for you but at least give me a reason. I haven´t swallowed the excuse you gave for leaving. You were happy with me, Judith. I could tell."

She knew it as well and relaxed for a moment as an avalanche of happy memories invaded her mind. She could see herself with Nestor six months before, lying in bed under the sheets after they´d just made love.

Judith shook her head .It was a mistake to go back over all of that again. She had to concentrate on where she was now.

"I can´t tell you again, Nestor." She said with a lump forming in her throat. "I need a little more time."

Nestor took a while to answer. "I can´t go on like this, Judith. I´m sorry. I´ve been waiting too long, going round in circles, without any explanation from you. I´m going crazy. You have to make your mind up. Or tell me what´s going on. If not, this has to come to an end now."

"Don´t put any pressure on me, Nestor. I only need a little more time. I´m doing it for you. Don´t force me to choose now."

"I can´t take anymore." He said his voice breaking. "Let me back into your life or you´ll lose me forever."

"Very well then."

Judith hung up and threw the telephone against the wall, smashing it to pieces. She stayed where she was sitting on the chair staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace for a long time until her anger slowly subsided.

She began to feel tired, the tension leaving her body. She lay down on the sofa and covered herself with a blanket and the world and its problems disappeared as she began to sleep.

She woke up with a start a while later. A strange feeling of alarm, racing through her body. Maybe she´d had a nightmare? She half sat up and rubbed her eyes. It was still day, so she couldn't have slept too long. But the fire was all but out. Only a couple of embers still burning among the ashes. The logs had been consumed. There was nothing left. But was that possible? She rubbed her eyes again, thinking she should have stayed asleep, because what she was looking at now didn´t make any sense.

Judith kneeled down next to the fireplace and took the black envelope with the white borders out that was partially buried under the ashes. It shouldn't still be there !

She opened the envelope quickly, excitedly, and extracted a simple sheet of paper and looked at its clear handwriting. Then read the letter carefully.

When she had finished, she dropped the letter on the floor, went to her bedroom and changed clothes then left the house.

The first thing Hector did was go to the bank to find out how much he could borrow. It was a pretty disappointing sum.

It didn´t surprise him to find out how little his life was worth. He had offered everything he had of value to ask for a loan for the largest amount possible.

"If you have a guarantee we could increase the amount." The efficient bank employee that attended him in the bank said. "Perhaps some family member could help."

"No! " Hector yelled. "I want the maximum that I can borrow on my own, without involving anyone else."

His house was the only thing that the bank considered valuable. And that wasn´t worth that much either. The sad apartment in which he lived was barely forty square meters and was his thanks to an inheritance. That was all he´d managed to put together in forty-three years.

He took the relevant documentation to the bank and spent a week at home, waiting. He went out twice, once to buy some food, and on the other occasion to go to the doctor. His psychiatrist always asked him the same old questions. Hector answered them with his mind on something else, then went to the pharmacy with the prescriptions and bought tranquillizers and anti-depressants.

He got the loan in the end, ten days after delivering the documentation and formalizing the application. Hector transferred the whole amount to another bank account in a different bank and only left one euro in his account.

"It´s a big sum of money." The cashier said raising her eyebrows. "The commission for this will be very high."

"It doesn´t matter." Hector replied.

Then he went to the other bank and asked if he could withdraw all the money in cash. Again eyebrows were raised. The teller asked him to wait while he spoke to another bank employee. Hector imagined he was speaking to the manager.

"The money will be ready in three days." The cashier informed him.

Hector went home and waited patiently. Three days later he returned to the bank, dressed in the same clothes, and withdrew the money. It was all very simple. He had imagined that many papers would have had to be signed and that he would have had to answer questions. But that hadn´t happened. They gave him the money and asked him to count it.

"That's not necessary. I trust you." Hector said.

He signed the payment receipt and left the bank with the money in an orange backpack that looked like it belonged to a schoolboy.

He took a taxi that took him to his destination in twenty minutes, paid the taxi driver, and then sat down in front of the stairs to an office building, holding the backpack against his chest with both arms. On two occasions passers-by dropped coins on the footpath in front of him. But Hector didn´t bother to pick them up.

He stayed there for two hours until he saw his objective on the other side of the street. A very thin, blond woman, accompanied by a little boy with a limp. The boy appeared to be around ten years old and had a prosthesis that had replaced his right leg.

Hector stood up as soon as he saw them and crossed the street without looking. A car jammed its brakes on to avoid hitting him.

"Your mother was a slut!" The driver yelled out the window. "Watch where you´re going, madman."

The blond woman turned around attracted by the ruckus and saw Hector walking towards her.

"Don´t be afraid." He said, trying to sound relaxed. "I´ve only come here to give you this." He said, offering her the backpack.

The woman looked at it strangely. An indescribable mix of emotions drawn on her face. Hector was worried that she was going to run off. Maybe she would have, if her son hadn´t been with her.

"Who is this man, mummy?" The boy asked. "He´s very dirty and his clothes are torn."

The mother didn´t answer. She was frozen with fear and anger, doing her best not to show it. But Hector could see through that.

"I could only put this amount together. That´s all I have in this bag." He said seriously. "I couldn´t get anymore. There´s around seventy-two thousand Euros here." He said pushing the backpack towards her.

The woman didn´t move.

"I don´t know why you´re doing this." She managed to say with difficulty.

"It´s the right thing to do. Even if it´s only for your son you´ve got to accept it." He left it on the ground and stepped back. The boy limped over to his mother and bent down to pick up the backpack. Hector looked at his false leg and added. "I wish I could have done more."

He walked off without saying another word, returned to his house and waited. Two days later he received the letter. He found it in the morning when he woke up, on the floor, as if someone had slipped it under the door. It was a black envelope with white edges. Hector read it, then left the house.

He didn´t bother to close the door.

Dante´s neck was always covered by an impeccable shirt and a tie with a perfect Windsor knot. That was why it was so surprising to see him enter his office with the button of his shirt undone and the tie loose, without its usual pin, bouncing against his chest as he walked.

Dante took a thirteen page financial report out of a drawer and put it in an empty folder and left his office. He went down the corridor to the meeting unaware of the looks that his employees were giving him.

He hardly had a hair on his head and the few locks that still resisted the ravages of time were totally white. His face was furrowed by a sea of wrinkles. An enormous stomach, a wide back and two dark eyes were the first things one noticed about him. Dante was sixty-three years old and his retirement in two years was foremost in his thoughts.

In the meeting room his lawyer and only friend waited for him with his main financial assessor.

"Have you checked the information that I sent you?" The advisor asked.

"I´ve got it right here." Dante said waving the folder in front of him. He sat down and then took the report out. "Is this the report you´re referring to?"

The financial advisor confirmed with a quick glance that it was the complex analysis that his team had put together during the last two weeks.

"That´s it. As you can see the numbers are correct and they reveal that . . ."

"Everything's in order. I agree with everything I´ve read."

"Then it would appear that we're all of the same opinion." The lawyer said.

The financial advisor could barely contain his happiness.

"It´s a safe property deal. In five years, when the land is revalued, the value will increase tenfold. You won´t regret it."

"Definitely not." Dante replied. "Because we´re not going to do this deal."

An uncomfortable silence followed his words.

"I don´t understand." The advisor said. "If you agree with the report, what´s the problem? We´ve bribed all the key people. There´s no risk."

"Can´t you see it?" The lawyer asked confused. "It´s your type of operation. You´ve done thousands like this."

"That´s true. I know that well enough." Dante agreed. "But I´m not getting involved with this one. I want to sell."

"What? That doesn´t make any sense." The advisor said. "We´ve only got to wait five years and we´ll make a packet. You can´t pass that up."

"Yes, I can." Dante rebuked him. "I´m not interested in investing in this. I just want to sell."

"But that's absurd."

The advisor said nothing more. He was aware that he´d just exploded in front of his boss. Even so it wasn´t easy to contain himself. The rejection of an opportunity like this was almost impossible for an ambitious man like him to accept.

The lawyer interrupted the two of them before things got any further out of hand, convincing the financial advisor to leave the room before it was too late.

"You have to admit he was right." The lawyer said to Dante after the advisor had left. "It was a great deal. Besides, thousands of families will be without a home if we pull out."

"That´s not my problem," Dante informed him. "Someone else will go ahead with the project. I´ve got other priorities."

"I´ve seen a change in you in the last few months." The lawyer reflected. "What´s happened here today doesn´t seem like you at all."

"That´s my business."

Dante picked the report up off the table and opened the folder to put the report back inside but didn't get that far. His hand remained in the air.

"Is something wrong?" The lawyer asked, looking at Dante´s hand suspended in the air.

Dante didn´t answer him. He kept on looking at a letter that was sitting inside the folder and that he was sure he hadn´t put there. He put the report down and took the envelope out. It was black with white edges, without any address. He opened it and took a sheet of paper with a note written in red ink out. He was amazed at the exceptional handwriting. He began to read it carefully.

"What are you reading?" The lawyer asked out of curiosity. "It´s a blank sheet."

Dante finished reading and dropped the sheet of paper on the table. He crossed the meeting room without looking back at the lawyer and disappeared.

Two minutes later, he left through the front door of the building with his coat on.

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