

THE BLIZZARD

Craig Melville

"Then said Raphael, I know, Tobias, that thy father will open his eyes. Therefore anoint thou his eyes with the gall, and being pricked therewith, he shall rub, and the whiteness shall fall away, and he shall see thee."

Book of Tobit, Ch 11:7-8

_"I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen_   
_The wood of cuckoos at its foot,_  
 _The blue height of a thousand pines,_   
_Of_ wolves _, and roes, and elks."_

_Gaelic poem_

The Blizzard

Craig Melville

Copyright 2013 by Craig Melville

Smashwords Edition

BOOK ONE

SNOW
CHAPTER ONE

STRANG pressed his back against the cold tree bark and rubbed his eyes. The darkness remained.

He had been asleep in the snow. Dozing, dazed, not fully conscious, but somehow still aware of the trouble he was in. Now awake once more. Heavy lids slowly opened but were unable to find the light. A warm sludge was sliding down his cheek. A powerful surge of ammonia rose through his nostrils.

There was no light. Nothing at all.

He clutched at his face, numb fingers exploring the lifeless sockets, clumsily spreading the watery paste further across his brow. Grasping around, Strang filled his hands with fat clumps of snow, squashing it into his stinging eyes.

His skin tightened at it touched the frozen water, but still everything remained dull. There was no variation in colour, shape or hue: just uninterrupted darkness in every direction.

Strang concentrated as he tried to assess his surroundings with what senses remained. He wasn't entirely useless. Think! Think! The cold dampness of the snow around him, the cruel whisper of the breeze, the elastic flapping of wings. Birds nesting in the tree above, he realised. And – with the stinging sludge in his face, he made the mental leap – one of them has relieved itself in my face. Strang drew his sleeve over his face. It was clean now but his sight remained lost.

What now? Staying put was not an option as he would be caught for sure. The policemen could be just minutes away, the policemen and the Butlers for sure. For long minutes he sat, the shallow breaths spilling out of his lungs, the diaphragm wheezing like an old musical instrument.

Above, the shrill boasts continued. There was something else he had failed to notice, something different to the birds, a rhythmic clack so deep and sonorous it seemed to ring through his head, rising and falling through his very bones.

Beyond this, to his right perhaps, was the churn of running water. It could have been the stream at the bottom of the tree-lined valley but he couldn't swear by it. He'd been running for his life after all, crashing through the snow-covered pines with barely a thought to his direction. To navigate this frozen land in the middle of winter with warm furs and proper equipment would have been a challenge at best. But miles from anywhere, without a map or compass, without even the comfort of a jerkin, his chances of remaining alive were marginal at best.

The men were nearby. He could shout for help, but when they came they would only finish the job that the cold was already performing.

He felt once again to the soft skin around his lifeless eyes.

The burning sensation in his fingers and the itching on his nose must be the beginnings of frostbite. The clattering he had heard since waking was the sound of his own teeth shaking in the cold.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, the blind man began to laugh. He was going to die all for the lack of a coat. People had once hung upon his words his words, attendants made sure he wanted for nothing. But he was now a fugitive, who even the crows saw fit to toilet upon.

Snow fell, pine needles whispered their song. Strang could not feel his fingers but did not care. He was no longer cold, just very tired. It was the time to close his eyes; it was the time to sleep.

My boy – his last thought – I'm sorry...
CHAPTER TWO

JACK was dreaming when he got the call. His carriage was waiting for him and the horses were stamping the cobbles, impatient to begin their journey. But, although he knew the coachman would be under oath to deliver him to the Flughof in good time, Jack had no intention of ending his reverie.

It was a special type of dream. The kind only Nectar could bring. Drugs were of course strictly prohibited. There were at least a hundred banned substances – some performance-enhancers, others purely recreational – listed in the school regulations, along with corresponding punishments. But students broke the rules without fear.

Let the driver wait, he allowed the smallest part of his mind to resolve.

The rest of his brain was focussed on the subtle possibilities of imagination. It was here he remembered the smell of antiseptic as his mother cleaned his grazed leg. The pressed flowers she liked to collect were fragile like spider webs. Sober, he could not see her face or hear her voice. But with just the tiniest dose, charged particles fired the correct part of his brain, opening the door to a thousand different memories possibilities and ideas undreamt of. Forgotten daytrips, the little conquests of his childhood that would otherwise remain unaired were suddenly unpacked.

The airphone rang again.

He stared at it – viewing with two brains. On one hand, it was just a normal intercom. The solid brass handset, the solid rubber tubes which would carry the sound to the earpiece. But in his head, there were a hundred of phones, each with different shuttles, a million different conversations.

He picked up the receiver and pulled out the baton-shaped tube, just large enough to sit on his hand. He with drew the note inside, written in the neat and even hand of the school's master.

Master Jack, your carriage and driver have arrived and are waiting. Please make your way to the entrance.

Hastily, he scribbled out his reply, reversed the pressure and stuffed the note and container back into the tube again.

I will be there when I'm ready. Don't call again.

The cab was taking him to the air station, across the water to the grey austere city.

Taking him to his father.

He stared around his chambers, at the furniture, his wardrobe, and the chest which carried his belongings. There would be no need to back. His clothes would be sent to him fresh and laundered as usual. All he had to do was board the airship.

He wondered the reason behind his summons. Must he demonstrate how he had 'improved' over the last few months?

His confinement in this remote province – with Berlin two hours journey by carriage – was a punishment. It was a 'reform' school, where uncontrollable offspring of the wealthy were sent. Despite the weighty rulebook, teachers who crossed the wrong student with a sharp word or attempted too strenuously to curb their excesses would not last long.

For their part, parents did not seek evidence of the bold claims made in the school's pigskin brochures but simply paid their fees every term.

And thus, it was puzzling that Jack's father – who in part, recognised and encouraged his son's impatience with those around him – would summon him purely for a school report. It was another man, whose staunch views had convinced his father to send him to this hell hole. One man, who he hated above all others...

The Nectar had all but worn off as Jack slumped down the staircase of the dormitory, barely returning the bows of his classmates in the corridor. He sloped into the reception where a tall man in a grey suit was waiting for him along with the school principal wearing his usual cloying expression.

"Have you any bags?" The man nodded his head with just the right deference, no more than was required.

"No. I don't need anything." He barely nodded back.

But the principal – a jocund man in his sixties – made up for both their reserve, bowing obsequiously towards both. He gushed, "Tell your father that you can return whenever he sees fit. We will make up the work for you when you return."

Jack said nothing, his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. The man in the suit eyed him unwaveringly.

"We're running late sir."

The thin moustache and slick, gelled hair. Jack wondered if the man had been one of those involved in the last incident. His last school had reported him missing. The men had come from nowhere. He had howled as they dragged him through the streets.

But there was no hint of acknowledgement from the man who stood impassively by the doorway. All the men who worked for his father's company looked alike. The same starched black tails, the same tall hat, the same vacant stare.

Only there was something different to the way he held himself. Jack's eye drifted down to his left hand. A glog. Not uncommon these days to see people who had lost hands or feet.

Medicine became much more direct and visceral since the Shock. Doctors reverted to simpler, more old-fashioned practises. Better to lose a limb than risk blood poisoning. The glove clog was a common prosthetic. With practise, users could carry out most tasks as well as they could with two good hands.

Outside the carriage was waiting, its steel doors threaded with delicate webs of ebony. It rested on thick treaded tyres, best suited for the frosted roads. Four handsome mares hoofed the tarmac impatiently. Although many of the boys at Jack's school were rich, few families could afford such luxury. Thoroughbreds of such quality were hard to come by.

Younger boys stood gawping at the imposing creatures as they steamed the cold afternoon. A footman held open the door as Jack stumbled inside. The man looked dull, nowhere as alert as his colleague who greeted him, but was dressed in similar fashion in thick overcoat and wearing rider's gloves.

There was no conversation, over than a perfunctory question about the air conditioning, as they set off towards the city. It suited Jack as he tried to eke out the remaining effects of the tincture. Staring out of the window, he once again tried to delve into his memories. But the images were fleeting, mere shadows.

Fat drops of rain began to fall, running off the highway into the ditches. Through the thickened plexiglass, the song of the weather was muted. The road was quiet. The stream of carts carrying goods into Berlin had eased to trickle, their carriage easily outpaced the electric floats carrying milk, cheeses, or vegetables from nearby farms and hamlets.

Most goods were carried by train these days. The lines had been among the first to be re-electrified. No point taking the road these days if you were in a hurry, unless you had a strong animal. Nevertheless, those old enough to remember how things used to be would complain about the manure.

The old air station was a lifeless monument on the outskirts of the capital. It had since been replaced by the Flughof in the centre of the city. Of course, Jack was too young to have experienced the old 'jet' planes. Had they still been around, the journey to Edinburgh would have been just over an hour.

He caught his first glimpse of the red-lit towers of the city. At least airships could land and takeoff from the centre of the city. No need for a concrete strip to take off when you could just float into the sky.

Rain was falling harder. They were leaving the countryside, coming into the town. Soon they would be inside the city itself. People on the streets scattered for shelter, cyclists wearing thick plastic hoods sped through surface water. The slow, silent electric floats in the far lane trudged by. They were good for personal transport use in the city – but only a fool would try and take them further.

Bakeries and meat shops were still open, serving workers on their way home. People queued in a calm and collected manner. Bars were crowded with clerks distracted from their homeward journey. Vendors sat in their cubicles in front of towers of yellow newsprint. The orderliness of life continued to surprise him.

Even the water cultists, cotton robes drenched and faces aimed skywards in contorted ecstasy, appeared more sedate than those back home.

A row of red lights faced them as they approached the airfield, but the driver swerved sharply around the floats and carriages – none as elegant as his – and turned into a side road. Two policemen were on guard. He could see from their insignia they were one of the many affiliates to UisgeCorp. Spotting the carriage's security markings, the men bowed briskly, quickly waving them on.

Halting the horse on the concourse, the carriage doors were open. The slick haired man gestured for him to hurry.

Now Jack was sober, there was something jarringly familiar about the attendant's rock-like features.

The man moved swiftly and efficiently, his feet instantly connecting with the floor, his ready poise as he held the door. He had been a Butler. Perhaps he had lost his hand in action.

Jack was not I. His father's company took on many of this sort. Their top people needed to feel safe and so did their families. The attendant fiddled with his wooden glove clog, while he waited impatiently. Rousing himself uneasily, Jack felt the last vestiges of the drug leave his system.

The driver took the horses to be fed as they walked though the terminal. Jack passed his bracelet over the reader. It would be a few minutes before his identity, flight details, and seat to be confirmed.

"Boarding in half an hour, sir. Please make your way through to the lounge."

"I will need to accompany him." Said the man, holding up the bracelet attached just below his bad hand.

As he went to touch the reading plate, the wooden fingers accidentally caught against the check-in desk almost jerking the prosthetic from its socket. Jack caught a glint of metal underneath.

As the man hurriedly reattached the glog, Jack tried to collect his thoughts. He stumbled down the corridor towards the nearest doorway.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Bathroom," he mumbled.

"Go once you've passed the security check."

"I need to go now."

"I will need to get you, if you take longer than two minutes."

Once inside, Jack had no other thought than escape.

He looked around. But there was no other doorway to take only the mirrors on the walls. Puffed and swollen cheeks and eyes wild with fear, but still looking younger than his sixteen years.

He started as the toilet flushed in the furthest cubicle.

A portly man with braces, a bushman's coat and broad-brimmed hat emerged. He nodded his ruddy face at Jack, the style of bow one gives to younger relatives. Without even thinking what he would say, Jack opened his mouth and began to make his desperate plea.

Time passed.

Curse the boy! The attendant was growing anxious. The ship would soon be leaving its launch. The boy most probably still incoherent from whatever he had taken. He would have to march him onto the plane.

Storming into the bathroom, the pale man yanked open the first cubicle. Empty.

The second, third, fourth, fifth. Nothing.

The sixth? The round frame of a portly traveller. His hand over his mouth, and his body shaking violently. Finally he let forth an explosion of laughter as he looked into the grey suit's hard expression. It took a few seconds longer to register that he was squeezed into the teenager's leather coat.

By this time, Jack was already throwing off the oversized oilskins. The smell of flight gas was overwhelming as he left the concourse. It was unusual for his requests to be rejected by teachers, peers or his father's lackeys.

In any case, the traveller was surprisingly happy to indulge him, happy to play along with the seeming practical joke. A fleeting shadow of concern passed through his mind. What would his one-handed guardian do when he discovered the German wearing his charge's jacket?

Leaving the concourse, Jack headed towards the lights and the city, running until the sound of the airship could no longer be heard. He shuddered as he remembered the wooden hand and the horror underneath.

He had seen the needles in his dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

THE neon signs provided the entertainment district near Kottbusser Tor with its own ghostly sunlight. Jack could hear no sounds of pursuit, only braying groups of businessmen. Rows of rowdy bars and seedy nightclubs created a garish palette on the wet concrete. They would be looking for him soon. But the throng of bodies – tourists, hedonists, suits – could disguise his presence.

He lurched down a steep set of stairs. A burly guard blocked the doorway. A bored-looking girl with kohl-lined eyes scanned the bracelets of oddball couples, giggling visitors and others standing in the line.

He offered his arm. The reader sang and whirred as it sang out its message to his father's bank, eventually spitting out a solitary blue ticket – the fee for his entrance. The dingy hall the air was thick with smoke. Cigarettes were hard to get hold of these days. It was a lot of credits to pay for just a few minutes of specialised heat. But the silhouetted figures could afford the luxury, holding the smoking sticks with studied carelessness.

A poster was fixed to the doorway showed a statuesque blonde figure, most likely a woman. She was clad in an iridescent gown, which appeared to send bolts of light in every direction. It read:

MARLENE BLITZEN

And her

RAINMENT OF RADIANCE

"Even diamonds cannot sparkle in the darkness – but these tasteful jewels, fuelled by the miracle of HydroPower, create a rainbow of light accentuating the striking beauty and voice of the world-famous entertainer."

It was a stupid thing to say. Of course the singer's lights were powered by Hydro. Everything was – the trains, the street lights, the factories, the floats outside – pretty much anything people had relied on before the crash had been resurrected by the clash of two sets of atoms. It was a miracle, they said. But it could no longer be considered a novelty, rather a fact of life.

The waiter bowed ungraciously at Jack, before gesturing towards a table with a distracted shrug. On an impossibly small stage, veiled on both sides by velvet curtain, a solo trombonist was tuning his instrument.

Faces suspended above shapeless bodies were clustered in couples or groups of three and four. Places like this were common. Give them champagne and a couple of bawdy songs and they'd leave happy.

When he had first arrived in the city, he and his classmates boldly took an unscheduled daytrip. None had puzzled at their ages; an ample supply of credit was enough to overlook their youth.

Mirrors lined every wall; a dozen versions of him stared back. Suddenly feeling exposed, he realised he was sitting alone without even a drink to occupy him. He was unused to such poor service but the harried waiter had disappeared.

The trombonist finally appeared satisfied with his instrument and blasted a piercing note, the intro to a popular showtune often used to introduce the players at chess matches.

"Hello, dear boy!" The blonde beehive and stiletto shoes ensured the man standing in front of him was easily eight feet tall. Attempts at make-up betrayed no signs of forethought. A foundation of clay-white paint had been applied with haste and his mouth was a torn gash of crimson lipstick.

Could he sit down?

The teenager pretended not to hear. So the man asked again.

Curious gazes were now being cast in their direction.

Jack was about to respond with an angry retort. But the figure plopped down beside him and began cooing in delight to the music.

The trombonist was now in full flow and drinkers broke off their conversations to listen. With each triumphant burst, there were short outpourings of applause and occasional cheers.

"..."

Jack couldn't make out what the man was saying, over the impassioned sound of brass.

He began to feel nervous. His guardian would by now have contacted others, who would be now searching the streets.

"..."

His unwelcome guest was now stomping his high heels in time to the music so that the flimsy small table shook with excitement. Despite the initial impression of towering height, the man's stomach was quite protruded, almost potbellied. A voluminous white cocktail dress hung shapelessly from his large frame.

There were other men in the club who had spent years perfecting their look – investing heavily in vintage garments and impossible-to-get accessories. In contrast, his companion looked like he'd been drawn on a child's sketchbook.

The jazz musician finished his set and marched off the stage unconcerned about collecting his applause. Conversation resumed and Jack turned to the man next to him.

"Now can you please get lost?"

"But you are sitting on your own, dear boy." The man was not German. Or at least he spoke with an English accent. "Don't you want to have a conversation?"

"I'm waiting for someone. You're in their seat.

"You won't mind if I stay until they arrive, then? Ahh! These shoes..."

The man began to adjust the stilettos, which were obviously causing distress to his swollen feet.

"Yes, I do mind. I've got important things to think about and you are distracting me."

The man seemed about to say something but then pursed his lips, causing the red wound across his mouth to suture.

In a blur of white cloth, he was on his feet. He leant forward at Jack, who could not stop himself from flinching, and spoke in a hushed but clear tone.

"Don't use your bracelet, dear boy. It's the easiest way to draw attention."

Jack blinked in astonishment.

But the blonde wig was already disappearing into the crowd and smoke. A singing nun and a man in a bear suit had now emerged from behind the curtain to begin a bawdy number.

Had he really heard those words right? It was loud and confusing in the bar. And even if he had, what did that man know anyway?

Feeling ill at ease, Jack attracted the waiter's attention and was rewarded with a potent and expensive liquid.

The longer he sat, the more he began to question his decision to run away. Something about the security man had triggered a primal fear within him. It had been something to do with the Nectar.

Perhaps he had only dreamt it – perhaps a side effect of the drug – but he could still see the horrible brass stubs, ending in wicked points. What intention could such a man have, other than evil? Thinking of the grotesque sight, Jack justified his flight.

Returning to school was not an option. The security would be waiting and the principal would be under clear instructions to alert them. There were people in Berlin, of course. Wealthy and bored offspring of other important parents – some had their own apartments – but he was not in the mood for conversation. The strange conversation with the blonde man had unsettled him.

He thought about the Brandenburg. The staff were particularly attentive but were also bound to make a fuss. No, he'd go to the Kaiser Wilhelm, it was nearby and discreet. He paid for his drinks by waving his left hand at the scanner. As he left, the crowd were demanding an encore.

A flock of one-man floats raced over the vinyl-covered pathways now sleek with rain – the drivers keeping dry within the bubble pods. The thick cloud suggested thunder would soon come but even the clogged air was still a refreshing contrast to the smoky basement.

Jack crossed the street and walked the next few blocks to the hotel, checking every few steps for signs of any pursuers. Rain continued to bounce off the plastic pavement. His thin shirt quickly became transparent, clinging to his chest.

The hotel door was opened with brisk efficiency and a deep bow from an impassive attendant in a heavy coat. Jack waited briefly at the desk, watching as a clerk explained the breakdown of charges to an elderly patron, before lazily proffering his arm to the attendant.

After the briefest of pauses, there was an effusive response. But of course, he could have a room, said the attendant in accentless English. Would he like any food just now? Drink?

"Not just now, thanks."

"Perhaps you could wait just a few minutes while we make your room ready sir."

He sank into an upholstered chair, swiftly becoming hypnotised by the ebb and flow of lobby guests and staff. There was a contest taking place in Paris – a big one – and a crowd of men had gathered in the lobby, where an operator had been paid to translate the teleprinter signals from inside the stadium. With electric expectation, they watched as he clutched the earpiece, faithfully jotting down the short and long signals that would reveal the next moves on the board. Groans or cheers would soon follow, depending on whether Volker, the champion from Dusseldorf, would retain his dominant position over Robur, the French grandmaster.

But through the group, two men approached, interrupting the miniature drama of the chess game so many hundred miles away.

One was short and middle-aged, rodent-faced with a trimmed, greying moustache. His younger companion was nearly twice the size with a neck as thick as Jack's thigh. Both wore dark blue trousers and blazer's bearing the hotel's eagle crest.

"Please could you come with us, sir?" The smaller man addressed Jack in a whiny, inflected voice.

They were here to collect him. He should have been more careful, waited longer in the nightclub, gone to a friend's apartment, travelled further out of the city. Any number of things would have thrown his pursuers off his scent.

He stood and followed the short man out of the bar and through the lobby, the larger companion walking behind. They marched through dining room where patrons sat in candlelight pools, past chefs yelling and cursing violently at kitchen boys in five different languages, and eventually into a back office. The small man gestured to a seat.

"You will wait here." Minutes later he reappeared with another man, clearly a manager by his fine-cut suit and elegant moustache.

He appraised Jack, staring hard at his face and examining his still dripping shoes. He then nodded at the hulking guard who in one swift move lunged at Jack, grabbing his wrist and tearing off the black plastic band he wore.

"You will find," said the manager, "that we do not treat thieves kindly here. We are not so stupid that we allow vermin to come off the street flaunting stolen identities."

"What are you talking about? Give me back my bracelet!"

"Your bracelet!? Really, well let's have a look... let me see what the reader has told us..." The man fitted a delicate pair of glasses on his nose as he read from a blue ticket in his hand – the distinctive colour from the Bracelet office. "Thomas Brolin. Place of birth: Vienna, Austria. Profession: medical surgeon (retired) and age: Sixty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days. It's your birthday tomorrow, Dr Brolin. Many happy returns. Cranial index seventy-seven. Finger prints: tented arches..."

"Look, there's been a mistake. Those aren't my details."

"I'm glad you agree."

"You've read the wrong card. Just try it again and you'll see."

"It could just be a coincidence that Herr Brolin was attacked and robbed of his bracelet just two days ago."

"It wasn't me. I've stayed here dozens of times with my father. You must recognise me. There's a problem with the bracelet system."

"Yes, that must be it. You are not a common street thief. There has to be a flaw with the magnetic code in your bracelet. Clearly there is a flaw in the identity system trusted by millions. You should save this story for when Herr Brolin's police guard arrives. He is still not quiet dead from the attack but I will be very surprised if the Elector of Mainz does not choose to put you in the steamchair."

Seeing Jack's horrified expression, the manager adjusted his glasses and continued serenely.

"The fact that you are only a guest in our country will compound the sentence. You may be comforted to know that Herr Brolin is represented by the Central Police Division, who I'm sure you are aware have a reputation for dealing with their clients concerns outside of the judicial system."

"No, wait. I'm very important and so is my father. John Brown. UisgeCorp. You must know him he's the one who helped start the – Look it's all because I've gone missing from school and they are trying to find me."

"Missing from school as well, oh! It gets better."

The security man above him clamped a huge hand on Jack shoulder and bellowed.

"The boss told you to be quiet!"

Jack did as he was told. Before the questions were over, the air phone sprang into life informing the group of the police's arrival. A squat, black-clad officer, podgy in the middle, marched into the room moments later, escorted by a porter.

He bowed briskly, turning towards Jack and fixing him with searching grey eyes. His close-trimmed moustache, which offset a surprisingly feminine face, bristled with contempt.

"You are the attacker," he said.

"This is all a mistake. If the hotel would just check my details – "

"Be quiet boy! Were you born yesterday? Are you so stupid that you don't realise you can't use other people's bracelets. It has your picture, your fingerscans, everything can be checked within minutes."

He picked up the punched blue ticket – and the torn bracelet from the manager, dangling it before the hapless prisoner.

"You are obviously not the owner of this."

Before he could respond, Jack was grabbed by the blazer-wearing steward. Again he became the focus of another strange procession – the manager this time leading the way out of the room and into the busy kitchen. Bellboys and guests stared as the retinue entered the main lobby into the street where a police carriage was waiting.

As he was bundled into the back, Jack realised that the last few hours – his dream, the escape from his father's men, running in desperation through the rain – had all been for nothing. We would have to face his father.

More worrying still, was the fact that his security men had some way of manipulating the identity database. Tracing his bracelet sign and changing his identity to resemble the German doctor's meant they had a level of access beyond most Parliaments.

Hijacking the bracelet system, if possible at all, would bring the death penalty.

Jack wanted to be surprised. But even he knew the rumours about how the Hydro company got its way, about how rival firms would fall foul of embarrassments, and unhelpful politicians suddenly withdraw their opposition.

The policeman was now vigorously shaking the hand of the managers and the hotel staff, no doubt looking forward to his bonus for finding such a dangerous criminal. A small crowd had gathered at the lobby as the portly policeman strode purposefully towards the car. It might have been Jack imagination but he appeared to be limping slightly.

Two chestnut brown mares were hitched to the cab. Switching on the electric lamps, the policeman gee-ed the animals into action. The vehicle pulled out off the road turned left and then left again, before stopping suddenly.

Removing his flat top hat, the officer leaned through the barred window. There was a ripping sound followed by a slight cry of pain.

A smiling hairless face beamed at Jack.

"Hello dear boy."
CHAPTER FOUR

IT was dark outside. The old man rose and walked to the kitchen, where the airphone was crying for attention. How long had he been asleep? The clock on the wall told three o'clock.

The dream had been so real, almost as if it had been true. Obviously it was anxiety over the letter he had written to Liddell's family. His eyes were dry and his head heavy but his mind too full. Curse the company! He didn't need their approval. It was his money to give away. They didn't need to know everything. Perhaps a shower would remove the guilty feeling at the back of his mind. And then: to his office, no point in wasting time with sleep.

The low wheeze continued from the machine on his desk. The sound of the air being pushed through the pipes, a shuttle with a message inside. Who could be calling him? Strang was one of only a thousand or so people in Edinburgh who were privileged enough to own such a device.

He pulled the shell out of the receiver and pulled out the parchment.

To his surprise it was a full message.

You don't know me. Who I am isn't important. You have limited time so you must listen very closely. You will be dead unless you leave your house this very instant. Your friend Brown is not your friend any longer. You have done something to anger him greatly.

Agitated, the old man looked around. The windows were as they should be. The curtains were drawn to keep out the cold air from the Firth. His servant always made sure to lock and bolt the door. There was no name, now initials, and no sign of who the sender had been. Just the set of smooth dotted markings on the side of the tubing, denoting a return destination which only the sorters could make sense of and the steady down strokes of an anonymous hand.

Taking a pen and parchment from the drawer underneath his desk, he wrote a reply in his own hand.

I don't know how you got my tube number and I do not intend to carry out a correspondence with you, but I will simply say you are mistaken. Brown is my close friend. There is nothing you can say that would convince me otherwise.

Packing the scrap back into its tubing, he fired it back through the relay. Depending on where his mystery correspondent was, it could be hours, maybe even a day before the answer came back.

Dark thoughts stirred in his mind. And he thought of Liddell, the dead man, and the terrible price he had paid.

Suddenly, the rattling whistle of the airphone. The pressurized air squeezing through the sides of the container which had now returned and was sitting at the lip of the receiving tube, emitting its distinctive wheeze.

It was impossible for anyone to write a response so quickly and to send it back through the sorters and their relays. Unless... unless... it had been sent from just a few streets away. But no, even still, it was impossible to send a message directly to another airphone without going through the sorting. Everyone knew that.

Strang seized the paper inside. Paper-white skin paled as the words sank in.

You will be dead in another hour unless you listen to me. Don't believe me? Why don't you look under your bed? Do it now! You have nothing to lose.

Bemused and still disturbed from his restless sleep, Strang found himself drifting towards his bedroom. With a sense of foreboding, feeling his life was about to take a turn for the worse, he sank to his hands and knees and peered into the unlit darkness. Just below the metal frame of the bed stead, inches from where his head had been, was a black plastic box neatly tapped underneath. Whatever it was, Strang guessed it wasn't for promoting his health.

By the time he had returned to the receiver, his mind was now decided on a course of action. He scrawled a two word response.

Go on.

The writer at the other end of the tube must have already guessed his response and began his latest message, for their return shuttle again shot back faster than Strang could have imaged.

We don't have much time. You may or may not have realized the panic you caused by your little gesture of kindness. All very noble but it shows an astonishing lack of awareness about the company, especially for a man of your supposed intellect.

I know you will say you are not naïve. You think you know about the people your company for putting other businesses companies under the microscope, finding their weak points.

I'm sure you will also tell me you are not ashamed of sending the money to that man's family. Make no mistake, Brown is your boss first and your friend second, if he ever was your friend. However, much it might pain him, you have some very sensitive in your head. Don't take it too personally Mr Strang; I'm sure he feels very bad about it.

But the problem is simple: you have gone against the groupthink and are no longer trustworthy. If you want to survive, you need to get out of your home, out of the city, out of the country if you can.

And then you will ask me 'Then what?'. But to that I can give you know answer. There is no way that you will be forgiven. They will always be looking for you.

It took several staggered moments for the full force of the words to hit home. His shaking hand finally carved out a reply, the ink sinking into the deep paper.

How do you know all this? Why are you helping me?

But before, he could reverse the airflow. Another thought leapt into his mind – and he hastily added to the note:

The boy – what will happen to him?

Minutes later, the dreaded whistle and the weary shuttle shot back into its slot. Strang wrenched the tube out of its receiver and, for one final time, emptied its contents.

It is best you don't try to contact the boy. You cannot stop him being picked up by the Butlers and taken to his father. The best protection you can offer him is by keeping away. He is simply a bystander in your indiscretion.

As to who I am? Haven't you worked it out Mr Strang? I hadn't thought you would be this slow.

I am the one who is going to kill you.
CHAPTER FIVE

GREY stone embankments erupted from the horizon. The sun had not yet risen but the Gothic crests of the city stood clear against the grey dark. As Strang's sore feet hurried out of his generous town house, past the handsome sweeping buildings of his neighbours, he realised there would be no return. How strange to be packing a life into such a small case; to decide in a matter of minutes what possessions would be left forever.

The early morning bustle was already brewing as he left the Georgian houses of the New Town and walked briskly across the square. In the distant north-west, the ever-present plumes of steam from the Forth were visible even in the half-light.

Coachmen on their nightshift wearily uncoupled their horses. Tea girls were opening café shutters preparing to serve the incoming workers. One man in a tailored business suit had arrived early, stepping outside his capsule-like float with some difficulty and plugging it into a charging point. The capital had become a different place after the riots in London.

The English King, his Parliament and Prime Minister were all given refuge in the new capital. Of course, the Scots had gloated that they had escaped the worst of the energy shortages. New gas pockets were to be thanked for this. The tiny nation had been better insulated from the crisis and for a short time, even made a profit from its increasingly-rare export. Of course, nothing lasts forever – but the relative stability had bought enough time for important research to take place. His research. And it was the research that James Brown and so many of his friends now wanted removed from his head.

Strung-up bundles were dropped outside the cafes on Princess Street by horse cart. Boys in sheepskin coats broke apart the papers to reveal the yellow-stained pamphlets containing the day's news.

A phalanx of officers marched past him. The grand buildings on either end of the street had been given over to the Royals. With the fleeing English dignitaries, two new forces arrived, adding to the already highly-competitive policing market.

Staggered water worshippers sprawled outside the station entrance, exhausted by their noisy exultation. Their matted hair and torn clothes told of busy hours of dancing in the rain, of which Auld Reekie was a plentiful provider. Some still murmured their visions, others rocked in silence.

Strang slipped through the crisscrossing bodies. The concourse near the station was now thronging with clerks, merchants, messengers in their black caps bringing dispatches and packages.

Had it not just been a few years ago that the great greenhouse of Waverley had been a derelict shell? Hydro stations had restored energy to the grid, moss and grass were cleared from the rails, and the lines resurrected. The trains that everyone had once thought were dead had now leapt back into life. Not everything was worth bringing back, Strang thought.

Take the departure court. Mains power had been restored, and was coursing through the electric bulbs, coursing through the tracks, making everything seem normal again.

But board which once displayed a dozen different announcements had not been re-connected. Instead a team of flunkies balancing on ladders hurriedly chalked and swept off the names of new and departed trains.

Strang scanned their work for several minutes, searching for inspiration. Perhaps because it had a name that he had always pondered, the train terminating in the far north town made sense.

Going north was risky. Re-electrification had happened first in the cities – and was still only just reaching the remotest areas. However there was security in the wilderness. The mountains were remote and barely populated; there were few, if any, bracelet readers. Physical currency had been withdrawn years ago but there were rumors of distant communities which still continued with bartering.

The lazy-eyed attendant, unable to stifle his yawns, was unphased by the unusual request.

"I'd like single tickets to every city in the country please?"

"Which cities would those be sir?"

Hastily, Strang reeled off the names of cities and towns he could remember, being sure to include his true destination. He paid the fee, several hundred credits, and pocketed the handful of tickets. Making his way gingerly through the concourse, he sat down at a café but rose almost instantly. The hasty tutorial from his would-be assassin. Buying drink, food, anything was now impossible.

Messages to friends or family were now being monitored. His horses had been drugged, the carriage sabotaged, its registration was flagged and would quickly picked up by road scanners. Airstations and harbours, where his bracelet would need to be read, were out of the question. Escape to England would be impossible. There was now way he could cross without identification.

He looked at the slips in his hand. The last – and final message – to come through the relay.

You have sent me no reply, Mr Strang. But in answer to the question you must be asking, I think you deserve a bit of a sporting chance. It's not as if I will get in trouble. I'm still going to kill you. Only it will be at some point down the line.

Why not sooner? Well, it's because I think there's a lot more learning that you need to do have over the next few weeks and I'll be damned if I deny you your growth experience.

I make no apology for my line of work. I kill for money and I'm good at it. That, as they say, is that. And how many have I killed, you ask? Oh hundreds but sometimes – and I'm almost ashamed to say this – I don't always do it very quickly. There's such an intense relationship between you the client – and me the executioner. You never want it to end.

One of the greatest inventions to come from the energy crash – your own discovery being a notable high point of course – was the steam chair. With so much unrest, the death penalty becomes necessary but no-one wants the barbarity of a public hanging. Electrocution is out of the question, of course, but steam, that noble, trusty technology, provides the solution. Harnessed properly it gives a quick, humane death. But with some just a few adjustments it can be ever so slowly.

I've not yet decided how slowly you'll die Mr Strang. I suppose it depends on what sport you offer me. That is your incentive.

I'll try and give you a bit of a head start today – I'm sure I can conjure up a rumour of your appearance somewhere else in the city – but do remember to stay inconspicuous, don't trust anyone and for heavens' sake don't use your bracelet. It will make it far too easy...

Liddell had been nobody; weak and pale like a ghost. Just like the man who had promised to kill him, the man who had entered his house and planted the small black box under his bed. Perhaps he was also the man who had silenced Liddell for good. Yes, Liddell had been weak in person but in print he had been a colossus. His pamphlets – in coffee shops and in pubs where students drank throughout the city became a conduit for the discontented, whistleblowers and those critics of how fast and far the Uisge Corporation had spread. The pamphleteer was no journalist, no investigator, but armed with such contacts, he made it his to published anything and everything, no matter how scurrilous or ill substantiated, about accidents at the gas bottling plants, lubrication payments to local planners, the accidents and disappearance of opponents of new power stations. Messenger boys would be seen reading the letters in their breaks; copies could even be spotted in the cases of judges and advocates.

Despite the threat of law suits and the unpleasant rumours surrounding the company's own private police force, Liddell remained immune to fears of reprisal. There had been no mention of Liddell's own untimely accidental death in mainstream papers. From the little Strang could glean, there had been a wife and a child.

It had been a small, almost meaningless gesture to pay for the protestor's funeral. It was a minor, trifling sum. But instinctively, Strang knew he had broken the groupthink. Word had reached the board. His punishment had come swiftly. His kindness to Liddell's family was seen as a sign of open revolt. Not only had Brown's advisor and friend gone behind his back but had, however tacitly, acknowledged the company's responsibility for the death.

The bell rang seven o'clock. Time was getting on. Strang boarded cautiously, scanning every face that passed. The usual mixture of administrators and engineers, wealthy students, a few successful merchants taking samples to the towns. The cables above sparked and spat as they met with the carriage's grateful contact frame. The carriage jerked into life – wheels rasping against the rusted track.

He had forgotten what an old-fashioned form of transport this was. Whatever their limitations in terms of distance and speed, the new electric floats were at least silent and sleek in their motion.

A young woman in the row of seats in front glanced up at him but quickly dipped down again. Other heads turned in his direction and he could hear whispers exchanged. The horrible realisation; they recognise me, Strang thought.

Nearly all of them travelling would be travelling on their way to Grangemouth; the very home of UisgeCorp, site of the first hydro reactor. Strang had never thought of himself as a celebrity – certainly his company was famous and, as a result his face and name featured in certain periodicals. Caring little for these things, he had previously viewed his achievements with a sense of detached amusement.

How long had it been since their army of engineers and mechanics had turned the waterside town into a sprawling city in its own right; everyone working with the one goal to keep the pulsing reactor ever-running; harnessing the explosive power of water's simplest ingredients: hydrogen and oxygen.

Sprawling suburbs flashed past the carriage window showing the neat fabricated structures which housed the families of the vast workforce. In the distance, four tall columns sent the water vapour high into the sky, joining with the main body of cloud above, like the legs of a giant animal.

There were too many buildings to make out the giant funnels, drawing the tens of thousands of gallons from the estuary into the dividing station, the turbines providing enough energy to split the hydrogen, compressing the gas ready to be transported to the reactor, where it would be dramatically re-united with its partner, oxygen. The by-product of this marriage – energy and steam – driving the turbines in a series of controlled explosions. The never-ending cycle dragging the world from the brink of a new dark age.

Feeling their eyes upon him, the old man knew it was only a matter of time before one of his fellow passengers would pluck up the courage to speak. Perhaps in the second class carriage he could sit unrecognised by the clerks and message boys. Eyes tracked him as he slipped down the aisle. He operated the stiff handle, closing it quickly behind.

The air stank of warm bodies, but the atmosphere was lighter. People joked, played cards and talked unguardedly among themselves. He closed his eyes. Every few minutes, there would be a yelp as hands were won and lost. It was the first opportunity to consider his situation. He had abandoned his home and was running for his life – but lack of sleep and the exhaustion of his ordeal overtook him.
CHAPTER SIX

THEY had been driving for almost an hour before Jack realised the carriage was stolen.

But when asked, his companion made a waving gesture and smiled as if he had been given a compliment, muttered about a 'fair exchange' in the cabaret club.

Without his cap and facial hair it was now very obvious that he was no policeman. Jack wondered why the hotel staff, and he also, had been taken in by so childish a disguise. Layers of fat gently cascaded down to his collar and blue eyes were set in smooth white cushions of flesh. The man had skin like peaches and long eyelashes like a girls, although with his tubby cheeks he looked more like a jolly Buddha or giant newborn.

With a serene expression which Jack found immensely irritating, the fake policeman carelessly switched the reigns of the carriage as though they had only a ceremonial function. They had talked little as they drove out of the city. The policeman grinned and nodded with mindless enthusiasm at each question put to him, saying things like "Oh, yes" or "Oh, I'm sure we will" or making meaningless remarks about the weather.

Trying to dismiss his anger, Jack looked up from the cab's array of switches and dials to the route up ahead. Carriages, traps and single horsemen travelled in a separate lane to the slow-moving floats and bicycles. Electric floats with their limited battery life were not permitted in the fast lane as their charge invariably ran flat, causing horrendous tailbacks.

Gazing back at the city, the shrinking buildings were foregrounded by the steam plumes from the hydroplant on the outskirts. Although he would not admit it, he felt the cold sweat of fear run down his chest.

Was this it? Was he finally being kidnapped? The events of the last few hours had been enough to shake him out of his stupor. He had fled the man who had been charged with bringing him home because of a childish reaction to his injured hand. His bracelet had been tampered with and he had come close to death at the hotel, maybe even execution... and now seemingly rescued by a fancy-dressed lunatic. The strange procession of events was like the worst of his Nectar dreams.

The horses grunted in relief as the autobahn began to slope downwards, giving the carriage its own impetus.

Jack tried to once more to interrogate the coachman but found his mouth dry. "Tell me again, why are we going to the port?"

"My dear boy, we have a very tight schedule to keep," the driver swung round to face him, not once looking back at the road while he spoke. "The vessel simply won't wait for us. We need to be there on time. The weather report is less than fair for the next day and the master will be keen to depart."

His voice was breezy and melodic, delivering the wrong emphasis to words as if not fully clasping their meaning. But the response raised more questions than it answers.

"Look here," Jack could feel the anger rising in his stomach, "You say we need to get out of Berlin. Now you say we're getting on a boat. I refuse to go anywhere until you tell me what is going on"

"Dear boy don't be obtuse. We need to get out of the country quick, quick, quick. Your thingamabob – your charm – your bracelet! You've been flashing it all over the city. It'll be the easiest thing for you to be found. In any case, it takes a long time to get to our destination so the sooner we set off the better."

"Who are you? Why are you doing this?"

"Didn't I say? Your father asked me to."

Jack gripped the handle next to him almost throwing himself off the carriage on to the road. This lunatic was working for his father and was right now delivering him into his hands. He had not escaped at all.

"You mean you've been with those men all that time. I'm not going to Edinburgh! I don't care what you do to me."

"Darling boy, what on earth is the matter?"

"You work for my father, just like those men!"

"No – well yes I suppose I do. Now listen, I see why you're upset. There has been a bit of a reorganisation at your father's offices."

"UisgeCorp," Jack was sceptical, "You're talking about the world's biggest companies. Why haven't I heard about it?"

"Your father and your uncle have fallen out. Quite a major falling out as it happens..."

"That's absolute rubbish. Anyway he's not my uncle. We just call him that 'cos dad's known him since they were kids or something."

"Well, there's definitely a problem."

"What's Strang done now?"

"Actually, it's your father who's to bla- Ahem, who appears to have instigated this dispute. Don't believe it," the coachman pointed to the moulded dashboard, "You know how to use this machine?"

Of course, he could use the teleprinter. Children leaned wepcode along with reading and writing. Jack could reel off the mantras he had learned at school: a dash is equal to three dots; the space between parts of a letter is equal to a dot; the space between two letters is equal to three... and so on.

Like most carriages, the police cab had a battery under its dashboard, which could be plugged into the grid while the horses fed. Although not powerful enough to drive the wheels, it could run the transmission equipment, operate night lights and sometimes even a rudimentary heating system. Jack twiddled the knobs turning into the station of the Greater Berlin Landpolizei, before tapping a message using the ebonised key.

Dash-dot/Dot/Dot-dash-dash/Dot-dot-dot.

A request to the station operator to send that day's bulletins. The response came within a minute. Slowly the printer began to squeeze out a narrow strip of paper. The stream of unbroken letters, which summarised in two or three word-phrases, the summaries of events from across those countries which were still known to the world. BERLINCRASHAVOID/HANNOVERSHIPPINGLANEOPEN/MOREUNRESTWASHTINGTON/AZIRMOVESUAE... the last story about the purchase of a promising chess player by a leading Middle Eastern emir. But something was wrong. Jack saw there was no mention of his father's company, no mention of hydro power at all. The official reports were always heavily censored. But no mention at all was bad news. It meant UsigeCorp advocates had been busy wiring and airphoning broadcasters, warning them to drop any reference to the corporation until the crisis had passed.

The lack of news was troubling. Even Jack with his sheltered, privileged upbringing knew it was only the publishers of pamphlets or those who got their hands on unlicensed Wep equipment that dared go against the groupthink on censorship.

Perhaps there was something in the coachman's claim? But it was still not conclusive. His companion spoke again, seemingly oblivious to Jack's internal conflict.

"Anyway, you can trust me. We're all part of the same family. I'm Cousin Brian's son. That makes us second cousins, once removed, I think."

"Cousin Brian's from Dumfries and I thought he married a black woman?

"Adopted, dear boy. Dear mother and pop – they took me in, clothed me, and gave me the best education money could buy. Bless them both. Anyway, your father asked me to keep an eye on you before he... became too busy. It was fortunate I ran into you."

Again his companion's hands loosened their grip on the reins. But the mares ahead seemed to be driving themselves, refusing to deviate from the painted lines on the road despite the limited assistance from the driver.

"Yeah, very fortunate," Jack said without conviction. "But what does that old man falling out with my father have to do with anything. And who were those men that came to the school if they weren't sent by my father?"

"No idea cousin. Imposters, maybe? But understand this, young Jack: your father is not a good person to be around at this present time. He has been distracted by this business and may not be thinking straight as he tries to track your uncle–"

"He's not my uncle. I never liked the guy – he was always on at me to study."

"He was concerned that you did well and succeeded at school. More than your father ever did, I believe."

"What the hell do you know about it?"

"You sound as if you wouldn't mind your uncle dead."

"I keep telling you he isn't my- Hang on, if you're Cousin Brian's son – how come you don't have a Scottish accent?"

"Oh, lots of travelling. Here, there and everywhere. Much like yourself dear boy. Now listen: I've been told keep an eye on you. Last thing he said was to 'Keep an eye out for my Jack. Make sure he stays safe and brushes his teeth!' Anyway we must chop, chop. Our first stop is to sort out a replacement for these-"

The coachman dropped the reigns entirely and tapped at the red plastic band around his own right wrist. Jack felt the absence of his own bracelet, worn since he was a child. Without it he was naked, exposed and, worse, without identity. How could he prove who he was, travel or pay for things? Even a simple task such as walking down the street would be impossible; the hip-level scanning gates in most civilised cities would quickly spot a "stray" without a bracelet. In some city shops, the doors wouldn't even open without checking first if you had credit enough to buy. Only criminals or the most destitute went without a bracelet.

The road was clear as they headed northwards. The horses maintained their straight line, despite the driver's seeming indifference. Everything seemed unclear and happening too quickly. After a long silence, a torrent of worry flooded from Jack's buzzing brain.

"Look if we're related – and I can't possibly believe we are – why didn't you say so earlier? It would have saved me getting felt up by the hotel security and nearly getting arrested for murder. And how did you find me at all? Not even those men could locate me. And why were you dressed as a woman earlier on?"

The coachman, who was now trying to untangle the loosened reins, emitted the smallest of sighs and then turned around to face the teenager.

"Before I answer you," he said, "I think I should point out that I am very mysterious. Yes, I don't hesitate to use the word. Although I appear to you as a normal, my real job is quite secretive. All very hush-hush, making sure important people are kept safe. Can't really disclose too much about my methods but should it reassure you, then out of all the people your father could have chosen, I was the top man for this job.

"I'd hoped to help you without being seen. When we met earlier I thought it best if I didn't travail you with too much information. You already seemed a bit tremulous –"

"Hey!"

"But after this hotel incident, I thought it proper I introduced myself."

"And why were you dressed as a woman before?"

"Pardon?"

"In the cabaret. Why were you wearing that dress and wig?"

"Oh that! One of my many disguises. Now listen to me, my dear cousin. Understand that it will do no good to chitchat about this and that. Your uncle's life is in danger and your father is at risk of committing a mortal wrong. Though he has charged me with your safekeeping, I believe it is our greater mission to saver you uncle and stop your father from the folly of his anger."

A thin layer of sweat cloaked the backs of the horses as they continued their orderly canter. Confused and stunned by what he had been told, Jack managed to speak one further question.

"Say, what's your name anyway?"

"Zarius, my dear boy. It's Zarius."
CHAPTER SEVEN

THE walls shook with a jolt. Strang awakened from his slumber. The carriage was empty. The bulk of the merchants, message boys and holidaymakers had whittled away at previous stops. The remaining few travelling to the terminus had already alighted. The growling engine whirred and pulsed before falling silent. Strang was hit square on the face by a wave of cold air as he scrambled onto the platform. His city coat was made from the finest wool yet the chill cut right through to his bones.

Two carriage drivers were at the entrance, talking in thick accents as they tended to their animals, charging the batteries of their cabs from the railway's power leads. Green and hazy purple mountains dominated the skyline in all direction and the air was clean of the city's sooty tang. But the streets were dreary and deserted compared with Edinburgh's busy hustle. A handful of housewives carried grocery bags, one or two teashops had boards placed outside but the majority of businesses on what clearly was the main street were shuttered, either due to weather or the lack of trade. The grey town seemed at odds with the dramatic hillscape which surrounded it.

At the front of the station stood a guard in a smart great coat, hands shoved firmly into the pockets, and pipe wedged just underneath his well-trimmed moustache. A small number of hotels and other establishments remained open at this time of year; he answered, and suggested one nearby named after a local landmark.

Minutes later, Strang marched into grim multi-storeyed block with unwelcoming small windows. He explained that he was travelling on business and needed to say in the town overnight but his bracelet appeared to be broken. Could he pay through some other means?

A young receptionist, barely out of school, gave an unpractised bow and said she would have to check with the manager. Moments later she returned, could she see the broken bracelet, it may just have been a faulty reading before. It dawned on Strang that he was really asking the impossible He had brought nothing else with him. He had no commodities, nothing to barter with.

But there was nothing to lose by playing their game.

The girl came back; her lifeless features now shaped surprise and curiosity. "The machine isn't accepting your bracelet, sir."

"Yes, as I explained it's broken."

"But we've managed to wire a message to your bank and they've cleared you for... well for a lot of credit. But there's something else. They say they are very concerned about your welfare. They'd like to send someone up from Edinburgh to assist you."

He was now in trouble. He should never have tried to use his identification. It was just as he had been warned. The wire message would tie him to this location.

Brown's men were efficient – and he knew they were – and would be closely watching his transactions. An airship could be dispatched within hours to collect them.

Bowing, he thanked the girl, saying he had made a mistake and had to press on with urgent business. The bracelets had been one of the first measures to control the unrest of the energy shock. They were supposed to make life easier. But without one – well, nothing was possible. Strang now had few options without his identity or access to credit. Hiring a carriage was out of the question. Could he steal one? He hadn't the faintest clue how to ride or direct a horse. Willie, his own driver had always been on hand.

Walking purposelessly, he stumbled with his canvas suitcase through the town. His clothes and his accent marking him out as a stranger. There was a worn uniformity to the townspeople's faces, the same, shared shade of wind beaten to their complexions. He followed the uninspiring parade of shops and cheerless pubs, towards a vast body of water where a few fishing and pleasure boats were resting in the harbour. Although independence and new pockets of gasfuel had brought temporary wealth to the country –little of it had trickled to this small town.

He realised that the cramp in his stomach was the result of hunger; he had not eaten for some time. Even the smell of stale fat drifting from the dingy harbour pubs seemed tempting. But his priority was finding shelter. If luck was against him then his hunters would soon reach the town. He scanned along the harbour. There were small villages, houses and factories, on the other side of the water.

Strang scrabbled down to the landing bays, each craft looked to be key-operated and, in some cases, were secured to the dock with hefty locks. Eventually he found a small rowing boat, upturned and sitting on a trailer. He would re-pay the owner when – well, if he resolved the problem. He looked around again. Deserted. No-one to bother about a missing vessel.

With some difficulty he managed to push it down the concrete ramp into the water. Feet and trousers were soaked in sea water, as he half-jumped into the stern and pushed away with the oars. Though there were no tides, the water and was strong and the vessel seemed frozen on the surface. But eventually after several thrashing strokes of the oars, it began slowly to plough from the shore. The sea air was even colder than the land. Droplets splashed on his coat and his arms but the action of rowing gave some protection against the chill.

The exertion following the terror of his flight were almost exhilarating. He had stolen this boat. It was like childhood trips to the lakes. Despite the passing years, his veined hands remembered the correct way to hold the paddles. His back and legs weren't as strong but by the time he reached the other side; he was managing longer and smoother strokes.

There was no harbour by the village. Just a pebbled beech with a few buoys and lobster nets tied to a mooring. Already wet, he jumped into the shallows, pulling the vessel with him towards the shore. His fine breeches were now almost entirely, darkened with wet.

There was no police bell sounding, nor fishermen giving pursuit. His theft had been undetected so far. Now he needed somewhere to hide, somewhere away from human contact. A spire stood out among the single-storey cottages, a tiny stone church. In such a remote community, each village in the area would not be regularly visited.

He tried the door. Locked. Walking around the building, there was a padlocked sidedoor. Adjacent to it, and at waist height, was a window. The glass had been removed and it was covered with a flimsy wooden board. Strang seized the opportunity and easily pushed away the hoarding and climbed inside.

The interior of the church was no cosier than the bleak exterior. He could tell the stone carvings had been elaborate in their conception but were left half-finished, abandoned possibly to cost. Dark wooden pews empty were bare, apart from hand-crocheted cushions bearing the names and faces of Christian saints. Hungry, exhausted and wet, Strang's glance fell to the three side doors from the main hall. He had only been in a church a few times in his life, mostly funerals. Two doors led to small cubicles adjoined by a metal grille, which he recognised as a confessional. The third door led into a second room which appeared part study, part-store room. A brief examination of the space yielded a pair of paint-splattered trousers and a cardigan. Both were ill-fitting but he felt an immediate surge of warmth after exchanging them for his own soaked garments. Further investigation uncovered a packet of boiled sweets and a half-eaten tube of biscuits.

His relief was matched by a pang of guilt as he ravenously tore into the rations. Was it sacrilegious to be here? Or was he seeking sanctuary in the old sense of the word? Although his mother attended the little synagogue in Ravelston every Friday, she had stopped insisting he came with her coming into adulthood. God, on the rare occasions he was mentioned, was presented as an elderly neighbour one had to be polite to. His had been an old religion – not like the water worshippers. The blackouts and shortages had shaken the deeply held beliefs, creating space for new cults, their spirituality enhanced by a new wave of mind-shifting drugs.

Strang wasn't even sure what the water cultists believed. They could be seen in every city and town – their heads aimed towards heaven during rainfall, allowing the droplets to trigger new sensations. He had heard rumours some of them even worshiped hydro-cell technology as part of their worship. Who knows whether they were even encouraged in this by UisgeCorp's truth department? Although the believers in this new faith spent days to their own private worlds, in many ways they embraced the rules of groupthink more closely than anyone else. Their chants and dances were repeated across the re-connected world.

Strang had finished the food but it did not kill the gnawing beast inside his stomach. Sitting himself at a busy desk, he recognised a device from his childhood. An old heater powered by pressurised butane gas. He toyed with the controls for a few moments, the battered blue canister hissed and spat faintly. Empty. Give it a few more million years and there might be some new gas fields to help fill it.

Dispirited and depressed, he looked around the jumbled room hoping to find a target for his anger. In an odd way it reminded him of his own house. Not the lifeless city townhouse where he had earlier made his flight but his old house – where his wife had lived, where Brown's son had joined them, spending his first few years of life in their house. His study had been like this priest's room – sets of tools, books on theoretical physics, plates both dirty and clean, all battling for position.

As Strang wondered if he should attempt a more comprehensive search of his surrounds, the wind blasted the frail glass behind him. Perhaps it was the silence that followed or the creeping echo of cold, but it seemed more sensible to move to a smaller space. He remembered the soft covered seat in the confessional outside and removed himself to the cubicle. I am building a tomb for myself, he said to himself despondently. Although still cold, the door was left slightly ajar allowing a wedge of light to fall into the darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT

THE harbour was ugly. But deliberately so, Jack thought. There would never be a problem with sailors staying longer than needed on land.

Even in the early morning, floats and heavy work horses dragged cargo over the grey concourse. Overhead an elaborate web of ropes and pulleys shuffled weighty wooden crates from shore to ship. Towering cranes rusted silently above the dock, like giant fossilised trees from a forgotten era. When the power had stopped, sailors had resorted to old fashioned methods and had decided to keep their pulleys even after electricity was restored. A single mare could carry a ten tonne container onto a vessel as though carrying a child on its back. A complex array of mechanical switching gears, allowed an operator to change the direction of the cargo, allowing two or three crew members to make the fine adjustments needed to fix the cargo in its exact spot in the hold. Rope, steel and muscle would not run dry, like the machines had, the sailors reasoned.

Jack wandered through the unwoken streets drinking in the fragrance of industry; the charged ozone discharge of water-cell engines and the sewage leaking from the container ships as they refuelled.

Zarius, the fake policeman. He was somewhere in the heart of these docks trying to find a ship that would take them on board. But Jack had his own inquiries to take care of. Even in this forsaken outpost, Nectar should not be too difficult to find.

A harbour steward had directed him to a street where most of the sailors drank. Closing time was an unknown concept. Although ferrous trawlers clung to the edge of the busy seaport like a drunken relative, barely acknowledged, hydro power was bringing new life back to Rostock.

The bulky water cell generators that were now installed on all boats over a certain size were bringing goods back from across the world. There was no reason for a landlord to close his doors. Beer flowed, money was spent, sometimes there was violence – but generally everyone was happy.

The saline-sewage smell was stronger as Jack approached the nearest doorway, where an inebriated sailor was emptying his stomach.

"You! Lost are you, my lad?"

The man looked up from the floor, speaking in halting German and staring woozily into the boy's face.

"Where can you get Nectar tablets?" There was no point in hiding his intentions, certainly with this peasant.

The sailor pressed his cracked teeth together into a smile. His unsteady finger pointed to a doorway further down the street, where the din of voices could be heard. Although it was early in the morning, a small but dedicated band of porters, dockmen, and crew were intent on drinking their fill. Jack followed the sound, finding the indistinct conversation was only overshadowed by bellowing laughter or a loud curse.

A matronly woman stood behind the bar. Her shapeless face with sagging features contrasted with powerful, muscled arms. The few drinks on offer were selected for their potency. Jack caught sight of himself in a cracked mirror as he waited to place his order. His grey eyes stared out of a handsome face topped with thick black hair. He was surprising broad-chested for someone who did little exercise.

When it was his turn, he began to speak but remembered the bare, pale patch of skin on his wrist where his bracelet had once been. The painful pinch of fear rose in his stomach, as he began to collect unfriendly glances from the men standing around. But what did he have to fear from these dirty, uneducated sailors. Even without money, he was their superior.

Thinking back to the airport, he remembered the laughing traveller with the hunter's hat who swapped jackets with minimum argument. Surely something like that could work again. Searching his pockets, Jack made a quick list of what could be traded: shade glasses worth thousands of credits; the antique timepiece which his mother had given, even the oversized jacket on his shoulders was worth considerably more than a tablet of Nectar.

Casually as he could, Jack moved to the nearest table and enquired where such things could be found. The response was a shrug of the shoulders but the second man pointed towards a table in the far corner of the room.

He could feel eyes burning his back as he approached the knot of drinkers as they read out a chess game being relayed over a Wep printer. Moscow versus Turin: Nabokov, the fiery Russian, was demolishing the pensive American Dewey recently signed to the Italian city. It was the early stages of the match and Dewey was playing the Caro-Kann defence.

The men were in an advanced state of inebriation – empty bottles of liquor stood vacant on the table but showed no hint of slowing. Two women, dressed inappropriately for that time of the morning, were tired and smiled only distantly at the rowdy banter.

Jack walked towards the nearest man, giving a quick and hasty bow. A red birthmark shaded the left side of his face. Despite the angry stain, he appeared mellowed by drink.

But before Jack could even finish his question, he was thrown to the floor. Fists and legs stomped and flailed, raining upon Jack arms and his chest as he lay curled on the floor. Voices were raised. But he dared not look up. Chairs scraped. There was the sound of glass breaking and voices loudly raised.

In the ringing silence of that moment he felt deliciously detached. He left the violence and the dockside; back in the police carriage, reliving the conversation of just a few hours ago.

The state of Media.

Distant and remote. Only just within the range of the biggest airships and hydro vessels. The man who now claimed to be his cousin – said they had to seek out a man indebted to the man he loathed: James Strang.

"I don't see why we had to bother," Jack had argued. "I don't owe that old goat anything. He was always telling me what to do."

" _The man we seek. Is the only one capable of solving the fight between your father and his friend."_

" _What makes you think I don't want my father to kill the old man? Whatever he did, he probably deserves whatever's coming to him."_

But he felt the words stick in his mouth, realising he didn't actually like his father that much or even know him. Rarely did the two meet face-to-face – what significance was Jack to the world's energy problems. He had to endure a weekly phone call.

Neither had any news to convey to each other, although the older man made weak attempts at conversation.

If anything it was the flatulent Strang who took a much more active interest in his colleague's only son. He questioned Jack in detail about his school work, admonishing him for his lack of effort, exhorting him to think about the role he could play in the UisgeCorp hierarchy if only he studied.

Was he really concerned about the old man's disappearance? No. Did he want to rescue him? Of course, not.

But Zarius who consulting a black leather notebook wasn't listening – or at least seemed distracted by the contents of his black notebook.

"We will need to go through past Alexandria, through the Red Sea... Ah, yes I remember now. It's all coming back."

" _There's absolutely no way I'm leaving the country! And certainly not with you."_

"Well you can't stay hidden forever, dear boy. If you really want to stay out of school for a while, you'll need a new bracelet, won't you?"

"And how do you propose to do that?"

It was impossible to copy a bracelet. They were issued at childhood. You would need to work for a government office before you could even get hold of a blank, unlicensed one, never mind the equipment to encode one.

"Oh well, we'll get one in Media," his companions said blithely, "Don't you worry about that. Unfortunately our more pressing problem is getting their. Airships are out, without identification. But they aren't as picky at the ports..."

His body still floating, but Jack could now hear distant voices. The ceiling above was covered in mould. Suddenly there were hands around his collar.

One of the men – a rough but with an honest face – grabbed him from the floor. Jack could see his attacker being pushed into a stool by two companions. The other man hauled Jack's numb body towards the doorway.

"Out!" He yelled in German, "Quickly before he comes back for you!"

There was a cold wetness in his hair. He could taste the trickling blood on his cheek. He could walk only slowly, but there was no pain. That would come later. It wasn't the first time he had been beaten. It was the ritual of his many previous schools – a cruel initiation visited on new pupils by older boys, tolerated and quietly encouraged by teachers.

He was now in the heart of the docklands. Stacked rows of containers and pallets created alleys and avenues – a maritime city populated with dockmen and sailors of all colours and nationalities – dark African sailors, Bengalis, Poles, Frenchmen, and Chinese. Some wore smart dark blue overalls and clipped hair, others were in torn T-shirts, vests, and shorts smeared with food, grease and oil. All of them bore a hardened gleam in their eyes, hinting at a readiness for action.

But the dockmen ignored the boy with the puffed left eye, walking around him with their crates and their tools as if he wasn't there.

Suddenly Zarius was in front of him, his buxom features beaming in contentment. Gone was his policeman's galoshes and instead he wore dark flannel trousers with a long knee-length quarter adorned with brass buttons and gold-flecked epaulettes. He held one arm stiffly by his side; his other hand was planted firmly inside his jacket. With the police helmet removed, a gleaming hairless head was revealed. But on it he now wore a triangular, black serge hat.

It was a dreadful parody of an ancient armada captain.

"Greetings, dear cousin!" His head almost brushed the floor as he gave the lowest of bows, normally only reserved for the most important Electors or corporation chairmen. "You'll be pleased to hear matters have been resolved to everyone's satisfaction. The captain is an incredibly accommodating chap. Once I'd explained our situation he was all to willing to take us on board. The quarters we have are serviceable –it won't be the luxury you are used to unfortunately. I'm afraid we'll be sharing a cabin. We should make Alexandria in only three weeks. From there we can get another vessel to Media."

Jack was only half-listening. He barely had the strength to remain on his feet. Finally noticing the youth's defeated countenance, Zarius seemed only mildly concerned.

"Been making friends cousin? How lovely! But you look so tired. You shouldn't be exerting yourself so soon before the journey. At least not before we acquire the supplies we need before we embark. Come on!"

Jack wanted nothing better than to collapse. Somehow he found strength to follow the rotund figure through the maze of stacked crates. They emerged at the edge of the water near a tired looking pier.

A large, fortified wall from another era protected the harbour from long-dead foes. Built into the turrets of broken stone was a ramshackle building, with a sign outside. Jack squinted with his unbruised eye.

ROSTOCK NAVAL MUSEUM.

Inside was a lifeless collection of outdated machinery, useless in a world without the old fuel. Brass implements, faded newspaper clippings, indecipherable certificates, and yellowing shipping charts cluttered the walls. Light oozed into the room through a dozen sunken windows, catching the dust particles which hung in the air.

Zarius seemed unnaturally gleeful. His right hand still firmly wedged in his inner breast pocket; he held his diary in his other arm, examining its pages as he marched from display to display.

After a few minutes he let out a squeal of delight as he spotted a large iron sphere on a low platform – more than a metre in diameter and covered with blunt metal studs. To Jack, it looked like a hugely oversized iron chestnut, still sheaved in his spiky covering.

"What on earth is it?"

"An artefact," Zarius rubbed his hands, "It will be exceptionally useful to our task. Under normal circumstances, I'd ask the curator if we could kindly borrow it. He would say 'yes' and everyone would be happy. However, I don't believe we'll actually be in a position to return it."

Pointing a chubby finger to the sleepy, grey figure at the information desk, he continued: "Jack, my dear boy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to remove this item while I ask these gentlemen some detailed questions about the history of this charming town? Just a few minutes, you understand."

"Why don't you take it?"

"Oh, I can't steal things. Not allowed to you see. But you dear boy, for you it should be no problem."

Too lost for debate, the teenager did as was requested.

The fact that Zarius was unable to take the item was not that surprising. Most people were unable to break the groupthink when it came to any sort of crime. The desire to stick to the rules was too strong.

But Jack knew he had fewer qualms than most of his peers when it came to breaking the rules.

The elderly attendant was unaccustomed to visitors and welcomed the chance to practise his English on the eccentrically-dressed Zarius. Some minutes later, Jack had staggered out of the shop and was rejoined by his companion. With some difficulty, they manoeuvred the object to where The Peregrine was docked. The crew on the shore greeted them courteously and helped them load their captured cargo into the hold. Jack wondered how Zarius had achieved the feat of getting the captain to take them to the Suez, seemingly free of charge.

But injuries, hunger and lack of sleep had finally caught up with him. Compliantly he boarded the vessel. As he was shown the way to his cabin, the steward politely but firmly reminded him he was onboard a working ship. He would stay out of the crew's way and restrict himself to his quarters during bad weather. Meals would be taken with the crew. There would be no special treatment for passengers.

Barrels and boxes of fresh food were being brought onto the store, containers were being secured to their moorings, port officials and men with checkboards prowled the decks inspecting gauges and ticking off pieces of cargo. This place was to be their home for several weeks if not months. Jack knew there was little he could do but sleep.

***

When he awoke in the small hold, Zarius's bulky frame was heaving in the bunk next to him. The undulation of the room and the wild how of the wind exclaimed they were now at sea. Jack lay back and tried to recount his movements since leaving the school. For some reason, he felt a pang of regret for the elderly curator of the pitiful, dusty museum – his despair at the loss of his prize exhibit.

Suddenly there was a sharp cry from the cot. His cousin's eyes were open but stared blankly at the ceiling.

"What's the matter?"

"Yes, I know the rules" the bulky man spoke as if addressing someone not in the room. Jack heard an unfamiliar tone in his companion's voice. Was it fear?

"No, no, not dishonest, Sir. Don't want to overload the boy, that's all. No food will touch my lips, Sir. Furthermore, I shall drink nothing but ink until we get there."

Slowly, the rotund face resumed its infant-like composure and turned towards the startled Jack.

In a clearer voice, he said: "I'm sorry my dear boy, what were you saying? Was talking in my sleep? A terrible habit which I will try to cure myself of during our voyage."

Jack crept beneath the gorse-like covers of his cot with some trepidation. Zarius lapsed back into sleep. The sounds of water crashing and falling, the cry of the wind was omnipresent. He remembered what he wanted to ask.

"Zarius?"

"Yes."

"Why can't we buy new bracelets somewhere closer than Media? There must be somewhere else we can get them."

"The ones you can get in Media are the best, dear boy. Now go to sleep."

But Jack's brain was too busy. His bruised skin felt raw against the thick covers. Easing himself to the floor, he pulled on his shoes and walked onto the deck.

The banks of cloud had lifted, revealing the crescent moon and stars he had never known existed. The silvery light reflected on the shifting water like a hundred thousand little mirrors. The chill of the wind cut through his shirt like paper but Jack was too distracted by the beauty of the scene to pull himself away. He watched the white trail of foam the doughty ship left in its absence.

Along the deck, a solitary figure could be seen on the observation platform. He held a pair of viewing glasses to his face, scanning the waters they would soon be passing through. Curiosity brought Jack closer. He leant over the railing and after a few moments held out his hand, silently requesting the use of the field glasses. The sailor smiled as he complied with the request. In the starlight Jack could just make out the port wine stain on his face.

CHAPTER NINE

LEAVE the business side of things to others; that's what he had been told. Strang did not pretend to understand the boardroom politics or the currents of the markets.

Brown, on the other hand, knew about the ways of the world. He had been one of those charlatans who claimed electricity was still under man's control. The sort who used cheap parlour tricks to thrill over-stuffed businessmen and their wives at New Town dinner parties. Approaching his craft more like a showman, than a proper scientist, he demonstrated the basic principles of the Van de Graff machine, the electric beatification that would crown an unwilling participant in hazy blue, the salty wash inside the Lyeden Jar – the tricks that every charlatan had at their disposal to shock, spark, and amaze a gullible audience. But his questing mind soon set upon the challenge of finding proper power. The sort that would light a city, put a plane in the air, or sends freight across the world.

Groupthink supported hydropower.

At first groupthink had been sufficient to stem criticism of the monopoly, which was to last for a limited period only, while the corporation rolled out the technology across the world. But slowly, opposition began to grow over the company's influence. Rumours started to spread in newsprint and in coffee shop gossip. Brown's response was simple and direct as ever but he was no longer the wealthy, bored friend he had met at university.

Hadn't they found a solution to the world's pressing energy problems? Brown used his family's own money to develop their theory, building a prototype water cell and commersialise the technology they were told would never work on a large scale?

It had not taken much to convince the jobless workforce at Grangemouth to move from one form of fuel to the other. The Forth now fed the world's first water cell reactor round the clock. The distinctive steam plume was visible for miles around.

Dozens of new plants had been built. Hundreds more were planned; the company's gift to the world. All it asked for was that to work unimpeded by those who did not understand the technology while it built and installed the stations.

To say Strang turned a blind eye to some of the less savoury things that took place would not be entirely accurate. He was not blind to the aggressive takeovers, unsavoury business practises, union busting, and bribery, but again the groupthink was such things were necessary evils.

What was the alternative? Blackouts? No trains? No shipping? No Wep?

Strang drew the line at killing. But before he walked away, a penance for Liddell's death was required for his blind loyalty.

He was unsure how long he had been sitting in the cubicle, when light flooded his enclosure.

The man was about Strang's own age. His iron-grey hair, neatly trimmed and receding from the front backwards. From the black shirt and white Roman collar, Strang surmised the man had more of right to be in the church than him.

Both stared each other, Strang acutely aware he must be wearing the other man's clothing, having divested himself of the clothes soaked in the water. He tried to break the silence but could not find his voice.

"Sorry. I realise this doesn't seem usual..."

"What are you doing?" The clergyman's voice was without anger as if Strang were merely standing on his doorstep rather than an intruder in his church.

"I had an accident in the water and needed to get dry. I'm terribly sorry for coming in without permission. I'll pay for any damage. I'm lost you see – and not from here."

The priest looked him up and down and then stared at the sodden clothes on the floor.

"You seem to have had a rough time of it? But there's a pub just down the road. Morag would have given you a towel and let you dry off. You're not in trouble of any sort?"

Strang pondered the question. His ordeal would not seem real until he had put it into words. Without almost any hesitation, the explanation came tumbling out of him; who he was, the warning messages in the tube and flight from his home and how he came to be cowering in a confessional box.

Hidden in the shadows of the cubicle, he spoke with surprising ease, with privilege. The priest said nothing but nodded occasionally as he listened to the narrative. Finally he spoke: "Well that's certainly a story. I think you'd best come with me. No sense in you freezing to death in here."

Seeing no alternatives, Strang nodded. Picking up his sodden bundle, they left through the font door. A dilapidated motorbike was parked outside. As it coughed and smoked into life, the smell of stale fat was overpowering.

"Fish oil," the priest explained as he pulled on a pair of goggles. Strang grasped tight as he took the passenger position, trying not to gag at the thick cloud.

"Bill in town has converted a few of these old bikes. The fish oil is the only thing left around here which burns – although it has its own distinctive aroma. Re-electrification has been slow in coming to many of the outlying areas. Horses are hard to come by these days and expensive. Most get sent to the cities, people round here use bikes to get around or burner engines like mine if they can."

As they travelled the priest spoke breezily to his passenger, as if chauffeuring inventors was an everyday event. He named the hills they passed, pointing out ruined landmarks, and the home of his more eccentric parishioners.

Slowly they covered the narrow road, following the contour of the shore before turning into the hills. Strang could see frost-dusted mountain ranges in the horizon.

Eventually, they pulled up at a modern low-level structure; a very different type of church, all exposed glass and bare metal, like a giant conservatory glaring in the snow. In the distance, thick pine trees scaled the mountains, growing at surprisingly acute angles.

"Make yourself at home." The priest pointed to the house nearest to the church and said simply: "I'll try and help you as best I can."

After a shower and a change of clothes, Strang felt much more his normal self and was able to make a more reasoned summary of his situation during a simple dinner of bread and cheese. His host looked sympathetic and told him not to be so hasty when Strang vowed to leave first thing in the morning.

"It seeks like you have nowhere to go. Why not stay here for a while?"

Strang could not disagree but felt unhappy about imposing on a stranger, resolving to spend no more than a few days under his host's roof. He was shown to a small but comfortable room on the top floor, clearly a store cupboard when there were no visitors. In the centre of the room, an elaborate old-fashioned tabletop train set. The railway, like the ones Strang remember from his childhood, was complete with tiny passengers, trees and signal boxes. There was even a miniature church, with a priest and congregants standing outside.

The vacuum tube messages had he received were still crumpled in his pocket. He had taken them out of his sodden clothes. He read them again as he sat on the low mattress. He was being hunted. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

There was a crack. Crack, once more. It seemed to come from the outside draughty window. Once more, the pane rattled causing him to flinch against his will. He got out of bed and walked to the window. A tiny robin was perched on the peeling window frame. It pulled its head back and drove its beak once more into the frail pane. Strang opened the latch and made to shoo the bird. But then, there was the creaking betrayal of rickety floorboards, followed by shuffling footsteps. He heard the crackle of a Wep receiver being tuned. A few moments later, the distinctive tap. Dot-dash-dash-dot/Dash-dash-dash/Dot-dash-dot-dot. The police code.

Strang had not been trained in the code from an early age. He was born in an era of telephones when there was enough power to keep the lines constantly charged. Only later had it become necessary to send messages in short, energy-saving busts. He could not immediately translate the clicks and beeps but quickly grabbed a pencil and scrawled down the sounds as they were spelled out.

...BREAKIN AT ST MARYS STOP SAYS HES SCIENTIST STOP THINK ITS MAN IN PAPERS ON RUN FROM EDINBURGH STOP RECOGNISE PICTURE STOP GOT HIM IN THE HOUSE NEXT TO ST AGNES STOP AS QUICK AS YOU CAN STOP

Strang's tired body was shaken out of sleep.

He could not see the response from the police operator, which would be printed on the teleprinter downstairs. But he knew well enough what they would say.

His greatcoat – now almost dry – was on the door and he threw it over his shoulders. Would the priest try to stop him? Would they have to fight?

The tapping on the glass resumed... the window.

It was only a short drop to the ground. Prising the frame open as quietly as possible – Strang felt the night's cold teeth of the night. He edged out of the window. For several awkward seconds, one leg stubbornly refused to vacate the room and its train set. Eventually he lowered himself so only a few feet separated his boots from the snow beneath. He fell in a crumple in the snow, wet but unhurt. There was the sound of movement in the room below.

Cautiously, Strang moved through the garden onto the road, his feet sinking in the pristine white blanket. It would not be long before police and possibly Brown's men arrived. Walking swiftly on the path Strang looked towards the mountainside, dimly visible in the stifled light. If he could get himself up into the trees, he had a slim chance of evading them.

A gravel track veered off the main road, probably leading to a cottage set away from the village. He began to hobble up the slope, turning every minute, expecting to see the flashing lanterns and hear the rattle of hoofs.

He cut through the gorse filled ground. The trail was difficult to follow and he could only see the broad outline of where he was going. He was not a young man anymore and had no walking boots, no waterproofs.

Waves of snow began to sweep across the fields, reducing the trees to silhouettes. A few patches of green or brown were visible in the white wasteland. Banks of cloud would lift and fall, revealing colossal slopes, although the mountain peaks would remain tantalisingly concealed.

He could no longer see the main road he had walked down or the priest's house by now. The police must surely be on their way. They would be asking the priest where Strang had gone, why he had not heard the window opening or his body dropping onto the snow. They would be calling for back-up. Dogs, perhaps, or even an airship?

Hobbling as fast he could and gasping for breath, he eventually reached the treeline.

With exhaustion, fear, and the feeling that his situation was hopeless, Strang had only enough energy to collapse on the ground. Having walked up the hill for what felt like an age, he let the waves of frustration and fear wash over him. Freezing, trapped on a lonely mountain, without money, and hunted.

One way or another he was going to die very soon. He tried to calculate how long it might take him to die. There was probably some formula used by mountaineers based on body mass, wind chill, clothing layers, water penetration and so on. Feeling his own ribs through the thin layers of damp clothing, Strang knew that whatever the calculation, his time own chances would be at the short end of the scale. Another hour, perhaps slightly longer. Would he be conscious when he died or slip into a blissful coma surrounded by dense pines?

Whump-whump-whump-whump.

The tell-tale sound of an airship turbine. They were searching. In the valley, there was also the braying of horses. Rescue was not an option. Any policeman who found him would deliver him to Brown. In big cities it was not unusual to see eight or nine different police forces in competition, their horses in a patchwork of livery with heir sponsors' corporate logos.

The law was that, theft, burglaries, fire raising, and murder must be dealt with on a first-come, first-served basis. But even the dimmest of officers knew that the needs of their sponsors outweighed any other consideration.

It was not unusual for a firm as big as UisgeCorp to sponsor every police force in every major city, ensuring priority for its staff and its interests any time and any place. Every officer in the land would be searching for him now.

Strang did something he had not done, nor thought about doing, for decades. He began to pray. Unsure of the words or syntax, unsure if what he was saying was really a prayer, he challenged God – if he existed – to deliver him.

He asked that he would not die. Nothing happened.

The birds nesting above him prepared to relieve themselves.
CHAPTER TEN

AFTER the eighth day, Jack stopped his retching. He could anticipate the lurch of the carrier as it toiled through the ocean. After a few exploratory appearances on deck, he had become a familiar presence on board. Despite the early warnings to stay out of their sight, the crew seemed to welcome the presence of the newcomers.

The men were mostly native Germans, with a few Swedes and seamen from the Baltics. Among them was Krisoph, the only Pole, whose face was bisected by the purple birthmark. Sober he was a different man; he had wasted no time in apologising to the terrified Jack for his previous behaviour. Hours before setting off and facing his final drink for more than a month, he and his fellows had been marking their departure in traditional fashion when Jack had approached. The request for the mind-altering Nectar had awoken a dark monster inside him. The Pole's younger brother was still in a psychiatric ward in Wroclaw. A cheap version of the drug, particularly unpredictable and often contaminated, was readily available in many Polish cities. Too many youngsters had been left paralysed by the chemical, he warned in halting English.

"I'm sorry to hit you... I did not want you to end up as Mikhail..." But even as he expressed regret, the sailor began to grow red as he discussed this theme and Jack dared not oppose his deeply-held views.

In the upper echelons, Nectar was used by poets, artists, and even chess players to push them to new heights of creativity. He remembered his own first experiences, the tightening of his forehead as it took hold.

Created by doctors to stop brain illnesses, people were quick to discover its recreational potential uses, how it could open long-closed memories from childhood, days with departed loved ones, memories which the fully-conscious mind had no power to retrieve. More experienced users claimed they could influence the flow of thoughts, gently guiding the surge of ideas onto particular people, places, or concepts. Sure, there was a risk taking cheaper, street-versions of the chemical but he had never heard of any permanent side-effects from pure Nectar.

Sheepish rather than angry, Jack he hid below in his cabin whenever the Pole was on deck to avoid further lectures.

Secretly he had hoped for some entertainment from the man claiming to be cousin. But Zarius spent most of the day in his cot, carefully studying the black leather journal, flicking back and forth through its pages, trying to squeeze every last drop of meaning from it. The only time he left the cabin was to sit with the crew in the cramped galley, although Jack notice that he only appeared shifted the food around his plate.

Although there were no more explosive dreams, Jack noticed that his companion had become withdrawn, far from the effusive character he had first encountered. And, although he seemed to do no writing, Jack noticed a glass phial of writing fluid by his bedside, which seemed to grow more depleted each day.

Jack was unsure what had been said or promised in order to secure their passage. One evening, before he bedded down for the night, he confronted his companion on this point.

"Oh sorry, dear boy," Zarius looked nervous. "Thought I'd explained it all. How silly of me. I just explained to Captain Abbott the truth of our situation. That you were the relative of an executive at the UisgeCorp. You had been attacked by one of his sailors and that there was a very strong chance that his ship would have its engine removed if your father found out what."

"But how did you know I had been attacked and that it had been someone from the crew? You must have been on the boat when that happened?"

"Well, I took a wild guess that something like that would happen. I supposed you'd get into one scrape or another and with the number of sailors on shore that one of them would be involved?"

"And the captain believed you? There was no need to check my bracelet to confirm who I was?"

"No, they seemed quite happy to take me at my word after I had shown them this." Zarius pulled from nowhere a glossy folder, which Jack recognised as the prospectus for the Eric Meinher School. On the front cover a picture of a sullen teenager with a dark mop of hair, beside him stood a powerful-looking man with cropped greying hair and piercing blue eyes – his father John Brown.

"And what about, Kristoph? Will he get in trouble for what happened in the bar? It wasn't his fault what happened – or at least it was partly my fault as well."

"I asked the captain to refrain from punishing him although I daresay it will be some time before he is allowed back on shore."

Jack realised Zarius could not be trusted. Burglary, kidnap and blackmail: he was capable of all of them and more. Despite his simple joviality, there was something which made people feel deeply uncomfortable.

These suspicions led him and to seek out the company of the men on board. Despite their rough appearance, they were friendly and forthcoming with well-worn anecdotes and stories, translated by one or other of the English-speaking crew. The captain and officers remained aloof, nodding politely at the visitors but refraining from dialogue.

In want of something to do, he asked and was allowed to carry out the more simple chores around the ship, all the while enduring the gentle gibes of the crew.

It was perhaps because of his proximity to the prow of the ship, where he was securing the one of the winches that Jack was the first to notice the movement in the water. The vessel was more than half-way through the Mediterranean. A blue haze was all that could be seen across the horizon – streaked by the ozone plume of the boat's hydro reactor.

A dull clang resounded over the low waves. Jack lurched forward, looking over the rail. Nothing to be seen. The second strike was more definitive and the sailors on deck yelled angrily as they too now peered into the water. This time a thick trail of foam had massed on the ship's hull.

Suddenly, the cargoman caught sight of it. A great fold of grey flesh, shaped like a sail, briefly parted the waters. Then nothing.

A dozen men stood poised by the railings, anticipating the next thunderous movement, desperately scanning the secretive waters. A third knock came, and then a fourth cracked against the hull. The metalwork croaked under the pounding.

Then as if anticipating the fear it had caused, the animal could finally be seen. A colossal head and body were the colour of rusted iron. Cruel teeth like kitchen cutlery flashed in the sun. Its tiny, malicious eyes glared malevolently at the crew as if challenging them to prepare for its next strike.

Jack felt movement behind him. Zarius was waddling towards him, the spiked, metal globe in his arms.

"Quick take this," he thrust the antique into his arms. Jack staggered under its weight, nearly collapsing as the ship again lurched to the side.

"Hey!? What do I do with-?" But Zarius was already running across the deck to the prow.

"Over there! It's right over there." He grabbed the rail and leaned over, peering into the waters. "Drop it in the water, dear boy! Now!"

Jack was wet and cold and it looked like he was going to die. But he was too confused to argue. Bundling the bulky sphere over the sides, he watched it spin into the waves. For several long seconds there was nothing, just the foam indentation where the curiosity had punched the water.

There was an ear-splitting sound, and then sky. Jack was knocked onto his back. The ship swayed wildly. Salt water hailed down on the deck. Cargo shirked its bindings. But all Jack could only hear ringing silence. Gradually he acknowledged the screaming. He looked round expecting to see carnage, dismembered limbs and gaping wounds. Instead Zarius was yelping and dancing across the deck, hand still wedged in his coat, as stunned sailors helped each other to their feet.

"Well done! It's a direct hit." He slapping his fat hands together. "Now before it sinks to the ocean floor, grab that rope and follow me. We need to get its spleen!"

Before anyone else could react, the rotund figure had leapt over the rail into the water and started swimming to the shredded remains where a red stain was now growing.

"Are you mad?" the Estonian helmsman bellowed in disbelief. "Where there's one, there will be others."

"Kill the engines, do it quick!"

"Come back Zarius. What the hell are you doing? We don't even know if it's dead yet!"

But the portly figure in the ancient sea costume battled against the sway of the rolling water, his arms lashing out wildly but with surprising speed. Soon he was in the centre of the bloody pool, chunks of warm flesh floated around him like a rich stew. He pointed to the remaining torso and shouted excitedly.

"Throw me a line, good man! Throw me a line!! We need to bring it on board."

Over the roaring waves, the crew could not hear his words but the message was loud and clear.

"We should leave him there."

"Who is that madman?"

"Quick! Get a line and haul him onboard! I want to kill him myself."

But Zarius would not take the line. Instead he wrapped it around the bleeding torso and refused to leave the water until the sailors, still stunned by the attack, had first hauled it aboard. The headless carcass thumped onto the wooden floor, weeping blood and clear fluid, just as the captain appeared on deck.

His head was swollen and his eye blackened as if he had not long ago been struck by some loose cargo. He began barking orders at the crew, shaking them out of their stupor as Zarius himself cleared the rails beaming like an idiot.

Hands were quickly laid on him and he was hauled before the master, still smiling as if what he had done was the most commendable thing in the world.

"Keep a firm grip on him boys. We will deposit him with the port authorities when we reach Aden. I hope for our sake and for his they see fit to put him in the stocks for as long as it needs to cure his madness. Hans! Put him down in the food store until we can find somewhere more suitable to lock him up. Give him a change of clothes; I don't want that mess contaminating the meat. You men, help me push this monster back into the water! Why in God's name did you bringing it on board? I don't care if he was the one that killed it and I don't care whose father this boy is. Is this madness contagious?"

Zarius jerked into action, lurching out of the strong grip of the sailors with effortless ease.

"No, no, captain! If you must throw away the carcass, please allow me to examine it first. It is essential to my...errr. To my...-"

Strong hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling the rest of his body towards the lower deck.

"Captain Abbot," Jack said quickly, without thinking. "Don't you know who this man is? He is Theodore Bouscht. The most respected oceanologist in the field of shark-hunting. His many papers on the habitat and behaviour of these predators are the textbooks for students across the world? Surely you must have encountered some of these papers?"

"I can't say that I have young master, but-"

"No, well even from a position of inexplicable ignorance, you will at least not contest how masterfully he has dealt with this particular incident. Needless, to say, his deterrent techniques have saved many sailor's lives."

"That may well be true. But it doesn't explain how this -"

"And of course these techniques require constant refinement and study. It is therefore vital that he inspects the carcass of this creature to see what fiendish new tactics its species will unleash upon mankind before it is too late."

After some further remonstration and an inspection which revealed that neither vessel nor crew had sustained serious damage, Zarius was released and grudgingly allowed to inspect the carcass.

"He has five minutes and then the beast is thrown back where it belongs. And if I see him once more during this voyage or he attempts to interfere with the running of my ship, he will be joining it at the bottom of the sea."

When Zarius grinned inanely as if nothing had happened, the captain continued ominously. "It is as well that both of you will be leaving us at New Alexandria. We have no desire to see you again no matter how much money you have."

Jack gulped in relief. Such a tremendous lie went against the groupthink but felt strangely liberating.

The crew stood in cowed silence as Zarius approached the stinking remains of the giant, which had now leaked heavily so that the shoes of all on deck squelched in red pus.

"What are you doing with that book?"

"Oh, it's got directions for removing this creature's spleen. We need it in one piece of course"

"We need it's what?"

"Can you ask one of those men for a knife or something sturdy that will go through the flesh? I think it's about here – yes just here if I remember right. Have you got something? Yes that will do. Now I'm going to read the instructions from the books and tell you what to look for."

Jack – who was unsure what a spleen was and if he himself also had one – peered into the cavity that his cousin pointed to. Quickly he turned away as the smell overpowered him.

"Why can't you do it Zarius? You know what you're doing."

"I'm afraid it has to be you that does it dear boy. You were the one that killed it and it says here that the spleen won't work unless you remove it?"

"Won't work? What do you mean?"

But Zarius had already started reading. Barely overcoming his instinct to empty his own stomach, Jack somehow found himself carrying out his relation's gruesome instructions.

After several minutes, he located the relevant parts of the monster. Over the wet sounds of his work, he heard his cousin call to the sailors behind him.

"My good people, we need some sort of container and lots of ice. Can one of you please oblige us?"

The items were found and the organ – a half-filled football with its floppy ventricles – was placed inside, packed with pebbles of broken ice, and then wrapped again in thick oil skin. Zarius finished by binding tightly with thick black tape.

Indicating to the remaining sailors they were now was finished with the carcass, Zarius marched to the galley and deposited the bloody package with the ship's cook, ordering that it be stored in a deep freezer until they arrived at their destination.

The men talked in low murmurs trying to make sense of the monster.

Of course large creatures were not unheard of these days. The reduction of sea traffic following the energy crunch had led to a resurgence in aquatic life. Marine biologists were baffled. Fish stocks had increased beyond their wildest estimations, creating a new and plentiful source of food for bigger predators. Sailors who had returned to the open sea in the years following the introduction of hydropower were discovering the oceans were much wilder than they remembered.

Jack returned to the cabin and changed out of his blood and salt soaked clothes.

He was unable to get any meaningful explanation for the tumult nor the reason for their impromptu dissection.

Fortunately, the rest of the journey was uneventful. The awkward passengers were shunned by the crew. Meals were sent to the cabin. Jack was not permitted to carry out any of the chores he'd previously been tasked with.

For some reason, Zarius had now cast off his previous ill-humour and abandoned his notebook. But the incessant chatter, bad jokes and unwanted observations grated on Jack's nerves, especially coming after weeks of reflective silence. Once or twice the teenager, sick of his cousin's savage optimism, tried to sit with the sailors but was ignored throughout the course of the meal.

They departed the ship without ceremony at New Alexandria. Zarius attempted to thank the captain but his deep bows were not returned.

The only crewman that said goodbye was Kristoph. Despite reminding him for the hundredth time about his lobotomised brother, the Pole hunted out the teenager while his older companion was making arrangements on shore. The crewman pressed a handful of small metal discs into his hand.

"They still use these", he said in his thick accent. "You will need them I think. They will be good instead of bracelet."

Within minutes of setting foot on the pier, Jack and Zarius had acquired a small entourage of hawkers, street kids and touts who sensed a rare opportunity to fleece genuine sight-seers rather than sea-hardened sailors they expected.

With a caravan of would-be helpers in tow, Zarius explained they would "easily" find another fare through the Red Sea to Media.

"First, however, I have a couple of messages to run before we can see about booking our next trip. Can I trust you to stay out of trouble while I set about them?"

Jack nodded. Zarius spoke suddenly to one of the street children and pointed to a parcel he held under his arm. Red splotches seeped through the paper; it was the guts of the shark. The child spoke excitedly and began to pull Zarius towards a series of covered wooden shacks. Jack watched them go.

Unable to shake the crowd of followers, Jack tried as hard as he could to ignore their presence. After weeks on board The Peregrine, he missed the cooling sea air.

His unseasonal winter clothes clung uncomfortably to him as he paced the baking streets of the capital. Electric cars and their tiny engines jostled with donkeys, carts and cyclists. Everywhere was dust and noise. Street dealers sold all manner of fish, figs, nuts and oranges to headscarved women but Jack could spot the occasional visitors like himself – each trailing a retinue of enthusiastic hangers-on.

These foreigners, along with elegant locals, sat out on the verandas of bars and hotels watching the traffic fight with itself. Jack had never seen so many carriages and carts – not even in Edinburgh or Berlin.

The wide boulevard, which stretched far beyond the horizon, was filled with a thousand beasts and drivers, inching almost motionlessly to their destinations.

From the corner of his eye, Jack could make out signs for Wep equipment. There might be news from back home. But he was uncertain about how to pay without his bracelet? T

The metal discs that clunked unfamiliarly his shirt pocket. What was it Kristoph had said? They were a physical form of credit. Many of the locals wore nothing on their wrists. Jack decided to try his luck.

Within minutes he was sat in front of a teleprinter, feeling the cooling benefits of air conditioning. He fingered the ivory type pad, tuning the receiver to the operating station of his homeland. His last thought was to check his messages, perhaps his father had managed to get in contact this way. He tapped in the retrieve code, instructing the operator at the other end to check and send any messages which had been left. He waited as the machine beeped and dashed its response; slowly a thin noodle of paper grew out of the printer. Instead of the stream of invites and gossipy messages from school friends there was only one dispatch. Jack read the tiny black letters:

MY DEAR JACK STOP I TRUST YOU WILL DO ME COURTESY OF READING MESSAGE STOP KNOW YOU ARE ANGRY WITH ME AND HAVE A RIGHT TO BE STOP FORGIVE ME FOR NOT BEING HONEST SOONER STOP I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE YOU NOW KNOW THE TRUTH STOP YOU ARE NOT MY SON BUT THAT OF HIM WHO HAS BETRAYED ME STOP I LOVE HIM AS A BROTHER AND YOU AS MY SON BUT HIS WEAKNESS HAS THREATENED TO DESTROY ALL STOP GREAT MEN MUST ENDURE GREAT LOSS STOP IF YOU REJECT ME AND RUN I UNDERSTAND STOP MAY YOU ONE DAY BE INSPIRED AS I WAS BY YOUR FATHER TO BUILD A NEW PROSPEROUS ERA STOP YOUR GODFATHER JOHN BROWNSTOP

BOOK TWO

SAND
CHAPTER ELEVEN

HEAVEN was not as exciting as Strang had expected. In fact it was positively boring; a faint sequence of cracks and hisses, punctuated by the occasional snap.

Although his eyes were useless, his other senses were intact and told him that he was not yet dead. His body lay prone on a cushioned surface which was, he concluded from the waves of dry heat, in front of an open fire. A worn blanket of indecipherable texture had been laid over his body. There was a sickly astringency mingled with the odours carbonised wood on the hearth and the aroma of not-quite rotting grass.

Strang tried to open his mouth but his tongue clung to his palette. How weak, how dehydrated his body must be! A voice came from an unknown corner of the room. It was thick and sonorous; the words rolled into the other so that each was incomplete without the other.

"Don't try to move. You must rest."

There was something about the voice, the earthy, deep pitch which made Strang shudder. Before he could raise himself, the floorboards creak and a body came towards him, stopping just inches away.

"Who are you?" he called. "Why have you brought me here?" His mouth was still dry and he barely managed the words.

"I found you in the snow. You're in my home. My name is Sheonagh Mhari Storr. You are safe here."

"I can't see."

"You have been blinded. You need to drink before you speak again."

Strang felt a hand against his cheek. The skin was rough and, although little pressure was exerted, the fingers were strong. A mug was pressed against his lips. He drank the cool water in long, regular gulps until it was drained.

"Where are we?"

"Not far from where you fell. You were close to death and have been in and out of sleep for the last two days. I wasn't sure if I was going to have to bury you out the back."

"Then I have you to thank for my recovery."

"Perhaps."

Strang was silent as strength returned to his body. He was blind and powerless. There was no choice except to again put himself at the mercy of a stranger.

"Something fell in my eyes – it was a bird. Is there anything you can do?"

Once again, calloused fingertips touch his brow, prising open the skin over his eyes. After a few moments she spoke, her voice again surprisingly deep and accented.

"I doubt there is anything any doctor can do for that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean it's burned right through you."

"Is there no doctor – no hospital?" He would have to somehow get to the nearest town and find a doctor. Surely bird droppings could not have caused so much damage? Perhaps there was a higher than usual ammonia content in the droppings of because of the creature's irregular winter diet.

"I thought about taking you to the village," Sheonagh was rummaging nearby. "Something tells me you wouldn't have thanked me."

A wet log landed the hearth and coughed as the flames embraced it. Strang felt a burst of hot, dry air warm his face.

"Thing's aren't so bad, you know. You have four other senses. Much better than a lot of other animals. Don't you think God gave you ears, nose, mouth and hands?"

"I'm afraid that God, if he exists, hasn't been very good to me recently."

"Well, nobody said that He was good - only that he gave you more ways to explore the world than just your eyes alone."

She paused for a second and he felt hot breath on his cheek. A rough wetness on his forehead. Her tongue, yet it seemed a natural gesture, was neither frightening nor repulsive to Strang, which surprised him.

"You're still cold. I can put more wood on the fire."

Further rummaging and more logs were loaded onto the hearth. In his weakened state, he could only dwell on what a primitive form of energy it was. So much potential lost in the conversion from sunlight to plant to timber to heat which was lost into the atmosphere.

As if reading his thoughts, his hostess spoke: "There's not many people with hydropower out here. I'm not bothered about getting reconnected. Most people are used to it after the last cuts."

"You live here alone?"

There was silence, then the voice, deep as if hollowed out by a thousand cigarettes.

"Yes, but you are here now. I am no longer alone."

A cloud of discomfort fell over him He was powerless and at the mercy of this stranger, unable to ward off her tongue and strangeness of manner.

Suddenly, there was a faint shuffle and the distant creak of wood – a floorboard absorbing a man's weight.

Sheonagh moved swiftly and Strang could hear her sniff the air.

"Hush! Be quiet if you want to live!"

With surprising force, although in Strang's weakened state a flea could have knocked him flat; Sheonagh pushed him into the bedding. Blankets which felt and smelled of dead animal were drawn over, covering him from foot to head.

There was the sound of voices and a firm rap at the door. The bolt was eased open and cold air blasted into the room.

"What brings you out at this hour, Ross?" Sheonagh said gruffly.

The visitor's voice seemed friendly but the local accent difficult for Strang to understand.

"Prisoner's goan missin' Sheonagh. Nasty business. Broke oot ah Glasburgh and wis hiding down in Fort William. He'd been stayin' up wi Father Jock, wha'd taken him in, thinking he wis some homeless man down on his luck. Father got a message the station but we were too late. He murdered a priest in his oan house and fled. Ah thoat the dogs had his scent an aw' but it trailed oaf jist a few miles doon the road. We're jist asking people to keep an eye out."

"Sounds like this man's quite dangerous."

"There's no telling what he'll do. We've everywan we can searchin' the hillside. Central station has agreed to send the airship but God knows how long it'll take."

Hiding beneath the stale, stinking sheet, Strang could feel his heart pounding. The priest who had sheltered him was dead. Murdered.

Would he have lived if Strang had stayed put? It was yet another life chalked against his conscience.

Then a second voice spoke; clearer but still accented, the superior of the other man. The tone was officious and carried the potential for trouble.

"So you haven't seen or heard anything then this evening, missus?"

"My name is Sheonagh."

The first man spoke again: "This is Inspector Ravenwood from B division, he's come over from the city to help us wi' the search."

The inspector, ignored the introduction, his voice cold and detached.

"The last we can tell this man was just a few miles from your house. And yours is one of the closest homes for miles."

"I'm sorry. I've not been anywhere all day."

"He would be desperate, cold, perhaps injured, seeking somewhere to hide."

"Well I'd certainly have remembered him, then."

"Would you mind if we had a quick look around?"

"I certainly would. What on earth do you expect to find?"

"We're dealing with a desperate murderer, missus."

"It'll just take a few minutes." The first man, Ross, interjected, trying to sound more reasonable than his superior. "A desperate man. You don't know if he's hiding in a wood shed or with the chickens."

"Someone would be very foolish to come here seeking trouble, Ross."

"Aye they would at that Sheonagh, they would at that."

"Well since you men are here you can help me move Bertie outside. I had to put her down the other day. Her leg was trapped in Murray's fences, torn to pieces. Thought of keeping her inside to save the hide from freezing but it's starting to reek the place out."

The musty smell, which had dominated Strang's nostrils since awakening, was explained.

"This is a murder inquiry – a priest has been killed," barked the inspector.

"We'd love to help Sheonagh but wi' oor clients, they expect us to do more than lug animals aroond."

"Aye, I'm sure there'll be a good commission in it for you Ross if you find this man; and you too inspector."

"That's quite a brace of birds you've got on the wall, missus. Are you sure you've got permission to hunt those?"

The door swept open and more heat fled from the room. Heavy footsteps and Strang could hear a further rattle, was it handcuffs? Guns?

But his hostess had clearly planted discomfort in the two officers' minds. They had barely been in the room a minute, before marching outdoors again. Under the animal hide, the words were masked by the wind. After a few minutes, there were more footsteps and he could hear the junior policeman say: "... a city man. Well spoken. You'd recognise him instantly."

"Why do they always think they can hide out here? Surely they have no idea how nosey folk around hear are. Can you imagine anyone here out of the season? That would be a strange thing, indeed."

The door closed, warmth began to return to the room. The sound of hooves crunching snow grew faint. He was again alone with Sheonagh.

"They will soon realise that you're no outdoorsman. Fortunately there's only one police force out here – not enough business out here to sustain competition. But they will be back to search here again when they don't find your body. We'll need to find you a better hiding place"

Confusion swelled inside Strang. Forgetting his blindness and dehydration, he blurted out: "Why are you helping me?"

"I know about your troubles and will shelter you as long as you need."

"But how do you-"

"Rest! You need your strength. I will tell you more when you awake."

Still concealed below the animal skin, and despite his active mind, Strang felt the warmth of the fire enter his bones.
CHAPTER TWELVE

THOUGH he was breathing harder than he had ever done before, the air refused to enter Jack's burning lungs.

He flicked a glance over his shoulder. They were still being pursued.

Zarius was ahead, arms slapping against his sides and tailcoats fluttering. Despite his ungainly form, the larger man moved effortlessly along the concourse. Jack lurched after him as he glided between vending stations and pockets of toned, expensively-dressed shoppers.

Their elegant attire made his own shabby garments even more conspicuous. It also made him remember how much he hated Zarius, his blundering ways and inability to blend in. Most of all, he hated his childish curiosity.

It was why they were once again being pursued.

The younger man had not wanted to go into the store. Days had already been wasted walking the districts and concourses of the sprawling silver city, taking food and shelter wherever they could. And yet, his cousin's uncontrollable curiosity had led them to finally seek shelter inside the one of the cool hangar-like buildings, one which boasted a multitude of shops and market stalls.

Jack watched uneasily as Zarius fingered the leather-bound diaries and platinum tipped fountain pens – relics of another time collected by only the most refined aficionados, men and women of quite extraordinary means. Even Jack, with his expensive tastes, gawked at the discretely-sized prize tags.

Who could have blamed the city wardens for approaching the two awkward foreigners – Jack unwashed, bedraggled and wearing the same clothes he had left Europe in almost a month ago. Zarius – who had begun to paw the most expensive of the luxurious velum notesheets – was in full morning dress, black tailcoat, complete with a brimmed cylindrical hat. A close-up examination revealed neither man had a bracelet between them.

One warden, who amply filled his yellow blazer, forced its way between the sorry pair and the display cabinet, fingering his sick spray.

Zarius opened and closed his mouth like an actor trying to remember his next line, drowned out by the guard's thundering glare. Long seconds of uncertainty collapsed into themselves. Then without warning, Zarius's round mouth let forth a scream, as he turned his back and ran. It occurred simultaneously to Jack and the warden – that his companion was still holding the exquisite notebook he had been examining. The teenager turned and ran.

Suddenly they were fugitives in Media, the biggest city in the Recovered World.

The entrance was up ahead. Tinted double doors bore the force of the midday sun. Zarius was first to trigger the mechanism. The furnace blast of air struck them like a physical force as they left the climate-controlled complex.

They were on a platform high above the streets, Jack guessed about the thirtieth level but couldn't be sure. Bubble-lined moving walkways crossed above and below them crisscrossing through the gleaming towers – stretching out of the city into the far reaches of the desert.

Men in djelabes talked about the latest chess game, women with young children chatted as they were overtaken by a group of teenage girls in Western jeans and T-shirts. Conservatively-dressed businesswoman whose few concessions to Western tastes were handbags with glowing electric jewels or bracelets mounted on diadem-style crowns.

After a week of exploring the vast city, Jack was slowly getting used to the way the rollertubes worked.

The six walkways were side-by side – the first always at walking pace, the next somewhat faster, and the next even faster still. If one was in a hurry, they simply stepped onto the next platform. To exit, simply hop from the fastest belt to the slowest and then the stationary sidewalk.

Jack, who had been told at school of this unique system, built at the height of the city's blackwater wealth. The pedestrian system had been built at the pinnacle of Media's excess when credits were as abundant as the sand surrounding the desert capital. Anything could be, and was, built.

At first Jack liked the platforms little better than he enjoyed his first few days on The Peregrine. But Zarius was ecstatic and would have spent the entire day travelling up and down the city, leaping on and off the belts in an unnecessarily exaggerated manner, had Jack had not pointed out their more pressing needs.

The giant transparent tubes stretched as far they could see in all directions, linking the business district with the Media centre and with the coastal hotels and apartments.

Wasting no time, Jack leapt with his cousin over to the fastest platform – quick almost as a thoroughbred at full gallop - but sensed they were still not in the clear. The guards, their skins limned with sweat, had stopped at the doors panting for breath.

The famous towers of Media, the silver lines of carriages and freight below shimmered past in a blur. Soon they were fast approaching one of the main intersections at Eagle Tower, its glass panelled wings a prominent landmark. Lower floors were taken up with department stores and the upper section was air-conditioned office blocks use by an array of impressive-sounding tenures which Jack had never heard of.

If they dismounted now, they could seek refuge in the building or travel east or west on an inland-bound connection. With only moments before the reached the junction, Zarius spoke. He sounded still giddy from their chase but seemed to sense Jack' thoughts.

"Towards the sea is best."

Jack nodded dumbly. It was the best place to lie low for a while. Two days further they would have to wait before their new bracelets were ready. At least, that is what their friend Ibn Nahim had promised.

The tinted glass wings of the eagle tower spread across the sky, as they rolled ever-closer inside the plastic tubing. Jack peered through the window, making out the tiny figures of clerks and suits, moving listlessly inside.

What could they be doing inside? Media was a city that needed no industry in any case. It had more money than could ever be spent. Blackwater found underneath the desert in the final years before the energy crisis had made the city rich beyond the wildest dreams of its kings – bringing in more credit over those few crucial years than could ever be spent.

The annual interest on their vast accumulation far outstripped the outer limits of their most exorbitant spending sprees. Floating mansion ships with their own gardens, ice palaces in the desert kept intact by vast cooling units, vast chess stadiums which could seat a hundred thousand. No project was too extravagant. But the roller network had been the jewel in city's crown. Its platform could transport a person one from outskirts to centre in a third of the time as a carriage.

Lost in his thoughts, Jack shook himself as the saw the men at the junction ahead. They wore the same blue blazers as the ones they had just escaped. It would be only a few seconds before the conveyor delivered them into their hands.

Without speaking the fugitives acted as one – leaping onto the middle platform, then to the slowest. Zarius was first onto the intersection, deftly avoiding the nearest guard as he lunged forward, before darting towards the building entrance with astonishing speed.

Jack made for the eastern-bound platforms. Again a guard tried but failed to lay hands on him, his fat fingers missing by just a hair's breadth.

In the next rollertube, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people stood patiently in line along one of the main routes through the city. Jack almost stopped short before jumping onto the first conveyor, stunned by the sheer width and length of the concourse. Columns of people sped at different speeds into an unseen vanishing point. There were eight belts on each side, those on the fastest lines moved at astonishing speeds – faster than a thoroughbred at full gallop. In such a crowd of people, it might be possible to lose himself. The thudding footsteps and bellowed orders reminded him he could not think too far ahead. He buried himself in the clump of bodies, leaping from one platform to the next, speeding ever faster as he moved up the climates.

Even in the microclimate of the tunnel, he could feel his hair, wilder and more unkempt than at any time of his life, bristling as he sped away from the Eagle Tower. But his pursuers had anticipated his move. One guard had already reached the fastest platform. Jack looked around to see the burly blazer and a clean-shaven head supported on thick shoulders ahead of him. The guard jumped unsteadily onto Jack' platform and aimed a silver canister, about the size and width of a tea can at him. Jack had barely time to move onto the next platform when the mist of fine particles wafted past him. He gagged as the mist filled his nostrils, stinging his sinus and causing him to heave his stomach dry. Sick spray. It was banned in most countries but clearly not here.

He lifted his eyes up in time to see the guard, a vicious delight flickering on his face, cross on the platform behind the boy who was coughing violently on his hands and knees. The silver aerosol was now just inches from his face. He heard the click and hiss, as the button was fully depressed. Then, a scream of frustration as the guard realised his elementary error. The speeding platform pulled his bulky figure through the cloud he had just released. He inhaled deeply; there was a violent heave as his body reacted to the gas. Jack was untouched.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE stench of sewage was as real and solid as the bodies which shuffled through the crowded street. Try as a visitor might, there was no way to filter out the aroma of the Shanty Towns.

But Jack could clutch hold of a few strangely familiar sights. Neon signs for beer and cigarettes buzzed and blinked from broken buildings. Television dishes clung to roofs, fighting for space alongside clusters of solar cells.

But the noise and the dirt. They were new. Streams of sparks gushed from these workshops onto the street in torrents. There were shacks where grime-covered men scrambled over rusted shells of once useful machinery. Twice Jack saw stalls with trays of replacement bracelets but before he could stop he was dragged on by the crowd.

"Don't be distracted from our main job dear boy. Plenty of time to explore when we reach our destination."

They turned another corner. There was no way Jack could remember what route they had taken. The only way to go was forward into the heart of the slums. His cousin had stopped dead in his tracks, causing Jack to run into him.

"Take a look, my young cousin. No bracelet readers, no cameras. We're about as safe here as we can be anywhere in the world just now. This place will do us nicely for a while..."

Leaving the sentence unfinished, he marched off again at speed. The clashing scents of human waste, ammonia and cooked food was overwhelming. Jack fought to master his urge to fight through the crowd and cower alone in some sheltered space. Every street seemed the same as the last. The crush, the bemused stares and the same throng. It wasn't a maze of trees and bushes, the walls are made out of junk and people and poverty.

The platform had propelled him out of the city, running off at a new but barely populated tower on the outskirts of the city, where clerks, messengers, house servants and other lower workers lived. Beyond this, and sweeping out almost as far as they eye could see, was the makeshift world of Sanaam, the other city. Here were the vast swathes of makeshift homes created by the thousands of workers who had come here seeking a better way of life. Together Jack and Zarius had found themselves at the edge of this slum sprawl.

Narrow houses and streets were made from the surplus and scrap from the many construction projects in Media. Most were thrown together without thought, held together by good will and circumstance. But between these were squeezed flimsy shacks of sheet metal, anything of concrete was a veritable castle. A sprawl of corrugated structures was spread as far as the eye could follow. Some were little more than four metal plates lashed together with rope. Others had started from similar humble origins but had been embellished over the years to become perilous multi-storey structures with makeshift chimneys and walkways connecting them to other dwellings. These shanty towers leant precariously on their own or clung together for safety. Jack shivered as he saw children playing in their shadow.

But even the meanest shack boasted one convenience; a condenser which could eke the merest few ounces of morning dew from the bone dry atmosphere. In the parched conditions, this daily trickle of drinking water was the difference between life and death in the desert heat.

Zarius headed towards a modern concrete structure which looked entirely out of place in the mass of leaning metal towers and clumsy buildings. Its anomalous presence was reinforced by its sealed glass windows and the hum of ventilation. A faded metal plaque was mounted above the door with writing in Arabic and English:

MEDIA SAND BUGGY ADVENTURES

Underneath this, a neat handwritten sign had been added:

M. Khalid Khan, Proprietor – medina guest house and riad

Entering the cool darkness, Jack's eyes struggled to adjust. They were inside a stone lobby. In the centre, a boy was sitting on a wooden crate, his fingers picking carefully at a landscape of wires, circuit boards, switches, diodes, and fuses, which surrounded him. Although perhaps a year or two younger than Jack, he sported a ragged moustache and appeared not to notice the newcomers as he assigned the pile of junk into one of several mountainous piles. At the far end of the room was a low desk of unvarnished wood, empty apart from a battered registration book. A voice bellowed from the other room: "I will be with you. Please be patient."

Moments later, a bearded man bounded into the room. Rolled up shirt sleeves revealed skin the same brown hue as the boy. His straight grey hair was greasy and overly long. His hands were dusted in gram flour. He looked with undisguised amazement at the oddly dressed man and the exhausted teenager standing before him.

"My God! What are you doing here?" The man was so shocked he forgot to bow... or perhaps they didn't do that out here in the slums? Gesturing wildly, he continued: "You will be shot and murdered and killed! Thieves and murderers all around this place. No! Stay here and let me think! Asif! Get the beast on the donkey-cycle!"

The youth sprung from his seat, scattering components across the room, and scuttled through the rear entrance.

The proprietor continued with his theme: "You must be mad coming to Sanaam. There is nothing for you here. Surely you didn't think there were still desert tours? People who come here from the city have been killed, lost and frightened. Even the police guards don't come here."

His violent bemusement seemed to want some sort of response.

Jack looked to his companion but Zarius was now studying his notebook, a look of supreme serenity playing on his lips. Not knowing why they had stepped over the threshold of this particular house but sensing action was needed, Jack tried as best he could their predicament.

But what to say? That he and Zarius were fugitives from the law in several countries? That despite the dangers of the slums, it was the only place they would be safe from their all-seeing pursuers?

But before he could utter a word, Zarius shut his book and looked up.

"Mr Khan, you seem to be a good and upright gentleman and your concern for our wellbeing is admirable. You will see from our attire and our weary legs that we have been travelling long. I can give you only my word that our purpose is very noble. It is quite correct for you to warn us about the nature of this district but for us the greatest danger is outside Sanaam. We kindly ask that you give us a few days board that we may continue our worthy enterprise."

It wasn't the clearest summary of their situation – but it wasn't technically untrue. Jack was already looking for the door.

But the hotel owner appeared to be thinking. Then finally he spoke: "Very well, we certainly have plenty of rooms here and it has been a long time since we have had any guests. But I cannot vouch for your safety here –"

"We would not expect you to."

"So... I will allow you to stay for the sum of one thousand credits a night. It was my rate before we had to close this place."

"One thousand!" Jack yelled. He could have stayed at the Karl Wilheim's grandest suite for the price.

"For each customer."

"That is no problem, Mr Khan," said Zarius rapidly, shooting his companion a hurried stare. "We will be happy to pay that sum when the time comes. Now if you could please show uss our rooms."

Warming, the hotelier instructed the boy Asif to prepare two rooms. The guests were offered hot milky tea as they waited.

Mr Khan's reservations about their presence quickly evaporated, as he launched into an elaborate history of his building, pointing out features he had personally had designed and fitted. He had been an engineer who had helped build the rollertube network a decade before. A site accident had put him in hospital and ended his career. With just enough savings, he purchased this new compound in the near desert hoping it would be a profitable business for rich visitors seeking adventure. But as more workers arrived, the slums grew further and further away from the city, enveloping him and his business. Now he serviced the needs of the slum dwellers, ensuring water condensers were working and installing makeshift air controls for the few who could afford it

"There is nothing here," their host complained. "No electricity, no water. The authorities have no interest in us. What difference do our complaints make when ten thousand new workers come here each day?"

Zarius nodded sympathetically. But Jack wasn't listening. In the next room, partly hidden by a curtain, he had just seen the most beautiful woman in the world.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"CATCH it! Catch it! Over there! Get him... he's out!"

It was impossible to tell which way the ball would bounce on the compacted mud of the cricket field and the cloud of dust nearly choked Jack to death.

But, despite the conditions, every evening in Sanaam was devoted to the sport. Dozens and sometimes even hundreds of men would gather in the square of scrubland – the one patch of ground which refused to be swallowed by the surrounding slums.

All remaining space had been consumed by the influx of new workers who continued to arrive from the east in search of work. But attempts to build on the field had been firmly rebutted. Any new shacks were immediately torn down by older residents protecting their games, he had been told.

The pitch was barely half the size of a normal field; around it was a thick perimeter of bodies, where men talked and smoked as they watched. Although the ball acted with alarming independence, both batsmen and fielders countered with lightning reflexes. In the absence of any other diversion, cricket was all they had to fill up the hours between shifts.

During the day men and women worked sixteen hour shifts in withering heat, but seemed to act as if it were the mildest spring day. Jack could barely move in the debilitating midday sun which, even with air control, penetrated into every room and corner of his new home. Yet the men and boys he played with at the end of each day, whose brown skins were turned charcoal by the baking sun, would uncomplainingly labour amidst the dirt and dust.

Most worked at the construction. Although the blackwater had ceased to flow, the profits from its historic sale continued. New hydro stations needed to be built to support the vast city and its roller tubes. New homes were needed for the skilled staff who work there. New shops and offices continued to spring up.

Jack's new friends wore a rainbow hue of overalls – some blue, red and even pink – depending on which project they worked upon. In all cases the bright colours contrasted with the bruised hue of their skins.

At the insistence of one of the boys, a little older than himself, Jack had looked into one of their shelters. Twenty men were crammed into a space perhaps half that of his bunk room at school. Each had the space under or above his cot for personal possessions – although some possessed only what they wore. Others had stuck up photographs of family or pictures cut from newspaper or a dog-eared magazine.

With Khalid's warning about the slums still in his mind, Jack had ventured out hesitantly.

But far from posing any danger, his presence seemed to attract only curiosity. He had been bombarded with questions when Khalid's assistant Asif had brought him to the cricket ground. His new friends all told him the same story. They had come to get rich working here, send money back and return home to buy land, property or start their own businesses. All Jack spoke with had been living there at least three years. Yet every man in the bunk vowed they were on the cusp of leaving. Just one more year.... Yes, me too... We will get a bonus if we complete before the end of the year...

Jack had not played any sport in years other than chess. There was a dim memory of being shown how to hold the bat. Someone had bowling to him slowly, the ball thrown underarm. Was it the man he had called father or had it been Strang? He had tried not to think about the message he had received over the Wep in Alexandria. The message – was it genuine – from a father telling him that he was not really his son? Had the constant movement over the last few weeks prevented him from fully absorbing the news?

There were memories of a chess match long ago. It was early morning and sunlight flooded onto the board. Pawn to e4, with black moving c5. He responds by bring out his knight to f3, and black retaliates by moving d6.

A man, an older man, had shown him the moves, had coaxed him, had cajoled him into victory.

His pawn to d3, his opponent moved his knight to c6. How was it he could remember the moves so clearly? Something had happened. Yes, something had changed that day.

He shook his head. He didn't want to think about it now.

He would rather dwell on the beautiful Saira, Khalid's daughter who had stuck her head through into the lobby as Jack and Zarius were shown around the workshop-hotel.

He had normally little trouble in getting women to speak to him. But every attempt to speak to his host's daughter had been firmly ignored. She was older than he was, certainly by a few years, and spent much of her time out of the workshop. They had been in the slums for two weeks now, and he had failed to elicit a conversation. Mostly she was nowhere to be seen. His queries about Khalid's beautiful but distant daughter were met by silence from his new friends. The woman, said and older boy, was "influenced" and should be avoided at all costs. His new friends avoided even mentioning the guesthouse and its inhabitants. Jack soon noticed, that despite the teeming streets, its entrance was always clear, passers-by seemed to keep a respectful distance from the doorway. It was the only solid building for miles around and thereby the source of some uncertainty, Khalid pronounced.

From the top of his new home, Jack was able to make out the very edges of the ramshackle city. The humming and whirring which filled his ears every day suddenly made sense. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of roof turbines which rattled in the warm breeze. These were primitive blackwater-run generators and second-hand cooling units scavenged from building sites or sold off by hotels perpetually refurbishing in pursuit of the elusive eighth star.

Hydropower had not seemed to have reached Sanaam. The makeshift architecture, the clumsy amalgam of surplus building materials had not been connected to the gleaming avenues of the main city, its apartments, hotels and shopping arcades. And yet there was logic to the unruly slum streets. Traffic and pedestrians managed to carry out their business. Animals in rotary cages slowly pulled broken engines or the rusty shells of cars along the main streets. The energy crisis had led to a number of inventive solutions. The horse-cycle was not one of them. Although designs varied, it was essentially a cart platform with a giant wheel at its centre in which a horse or ponies would stand. The animal's natural walking motion driving a belt that turned the cart's wheels in theory multiplying its force and speed in a smooth, rotary action. The reality was that the contraption was prone to failure and required constant repair and that mules were so reluctant to use that the benefits of hitching it up had to be carefully weighed.

For two weeks they had waited for Ibn Nahim, the man indebted to Jack's father. Amid the hovels, a Wep console had been found and a message keyed out to the bracelet maker asking when they could collect the items they needed to re-enter civilisation.

His reply: more time was needed. It was safer for Jack and Zarius to wait in the workers' city, where the authorities dared bit probe too closely, than roam the roller tubes in Media as they had done before. After long hours of indolence, as had happened on his ship journey, Jack found that he needed an occupation. It was a strange surprise given his indolence while at school.

Khalid's manservant Asif had attached himself Jack, who found himself fielding questions about the world outside the desert slums. But in turn, he was shown how to clean and sort the various components brought into the workshop for repair. The work served no purpose, gave him no money, but helped kill time during the long desert days.

As the sun fell, the bits would go to the cricket field and wait for the men to return. The yard workers had few advantages in life and, indeed, their prospects looked quite dim. But despite this they were friendlier and more optimistic than anyone Jack had met at his many schools. Khalid was impressed with the long list of schools which Jack had to his name, not thinking anything about the reason why any pupil had should have the need to have enrolled in so many?

"You have been to Buckley, Levenhall, Rydings in Canada, and the Sauree?" he bellowed in unsuppressed admiration. "I beat hundreds of other children to win a bursary at the American school in Karachi – where all our lessons were in English. Even our Urdu lessons we received from a native English speaker - but you must be extremely knowledgeable from attending such places?"

Jack nodded and bowed politely. It was best to not to dispute his host's view.

The last person in the household remained aloof. Though Saira lived under the same roof, days would go by without her presence being felt. When Jack did see her she was distracted and distant. He concluded that whatever chores she performed around the riad must be done in the dead of the night. Despite his deepest, most courtly bows, at best he could elicit only one word answers to his questions.

Meanwhile, Zarius was acting strangely. Once more, he withdrew and spent most of the day in his quarters. Somehow, probably with the help of Asif, he had acquired long flowing robes of Arab design. At night he would take long walks through the deserted streets, much to Khalid's alarm, a pencil-thin moustache held above his lip with what appeared to be a fine wire.

As the days passed, Jack gradually acclimatised to the temperature. Even in the impossible heat, life managed to take hold. Mean grey cacti clung to the shaded gaps between clumsy metal wall sheets. Over the turbine roar and perpetual croak of broken water pumps, birds strained their voices. Tiny flighty creatures barely the size of his thumb, would dart from rooftops to the roadside taking nervous pecks at the parched broken ground or dips in the splashed water from a leaky condenser.

Asif was returning a repaired water unit to a client one morning, when Jack spotted Saira leaving the house, a rucksack slung over her shoulder. She dressed quite differently from the robed women that inhabited Sanaam – in Western fashion, wearing light cotton and a top, cut just below the elbows, and long black hair flowing freely behind her. No doubt, this was at least one of the reasons for the gossip. She nodded vaguely at Jack as she made for the door, her fine features contorted into their usual pained expression. Before she disappeared, Jack called after her.

"Wait," he bowed hurriedly. "I'll come with you."

She shrugged as if it was too much effort to object. Dropping the bolts he had been cleaning, he followed her out onto the street. He knew her unresponsive ways and said nothing as they walked through the winding streets. Passers-by looked at them with barely contained disgust. Their contorted features shocked Jack. They must really hate her. Saira ignored the stares and brushed through the crowds. After several turns, the makeshift streets thinned out and Jack could see vast white dunes rising above the metal huts. Soon they were passing the last shelter and stood, for the first time, on open sand. The noise and bustle he had lived with for the last fortnight had fallen away and the wind was the only sound he could hear.

Saira did not turn around as she spoke: "Do you still want to come?"

"Yes, but where are we going?"

"Out there."

She did not point but the direction was plain enough. It took around half an hour to scale the first sand dune. For every two steps Jack took, he fell one behind in the sand. Following closely in Saira's path, he eventually managed to copy her sideways walking, using the side of his shoe to dig into the sand and minimise slippage.

The sun had fallen to its evening position and was resting on the horizon. The grains were still hot from the midday zenith and burned his hands as he tried to scramble up the slope. Eventually they reached the crest and were able to follow its spine, away from the city and into the emptiness. Silvery patches of salt were the only interruption in the undulating flats which seemed to fade into the sky. They had been walking for another half-hour when Saira began to speak.

"I know the stories the people tell about me," she said. "Most of them have never had any education. There was once a school once in Sanaam but it closed down. No-one was interested in educating their sons, never mind their daughters, when they can scavenge for metal and beg in the city. When they get old enough they can go to the worksites and bring more money in. All they have is their bloody cricket and their dreams of retiring rich – but none of them leave."

It was the most he had ever heard her say. But there was no emotion in her voice. The words were dry and matter-of-fact.

"That's why my father came out here. When he arrived they could not get enough engineers. My mother and I were supposed to join him but the date kept getting put back because of one project or another. Eventually the day was set. All my clothes and toys were packed and ready. Then news came that there had been an accident. A steel girder had not been secured to its hoist. The chain slipped and the metal swung out of place. It missed my father's head by only a fraction of an inch, crushing his foot instead. But, by the time he was ready for work again, a replacement was taken on. We stayed in Karachi waiting for his call but it never came."

Jack, still wheezing for breath, managed to gasp out a question.

"So you were never born here? I thought you-"

"No, it wasn't until I was a grown woman and engaged to be married that I decided to ask what had happened to my father. I had, of course, assumed that he had died and the details withheld. We moved to Islamabad to be with my mother's family. It was very different to where I had been before. We lived in a big house with our grandparents and my uncles and aunts and cousins. We did not play on the street with the other children and were driven to school. Seeing I was of age, my mother felt she could not withhold the secret. With my far out of work, she had no longer seen the marriage as advantageous and left. So it was I now knew my father did not die and was, to the best of my mother's knowledge, still living in Media. Now I knew my family did not approve of the man I was to marry – who was from Europe and had different ways. If it was my mother's plan to halt my own marriage with this news, it was successful but not in the way she hoped. After learning the truth, a long darkness fell over me. Rather than rejoicing that my father was alive I instead dwelt on the lost years of his company. My beloved eventually led me out of that darkness. He was patient with me and I accepted his love. Gradually I started to see the fact that I had given me a gift I never thought I could receive: I had my father back."

Jack shifted his weight in the sand, trying not to fall as he listened. Missing fathers. Distant fathers. Dead fathers. The story resonated with him more than she could know. But Sarah quietly continued, almost uncaring as to whether her audience was listening.

"Farrell and I married with great show, the next day we were to set off for Media. Although a Westerner, he worked hard to learn many of the traditions and after the ceremony and feasting we were eventually alone. As we dressed for the night, he went to check the next morning's carriage to the airport. I never saw him alive again. His body was found in the lobby an hour later. Even the doctors couldn't say how he died. I married five more men – don't ask why. If you do I can't really tell you why. All of them have lost their lives in exactly the same way. Why do those people say I am cursed? It's because I am."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A GOAT with patchy, balding hide was led out by an old woman into the wilderness while a distant crowd stood watching.

"You know many people here pray to the sand," she said dismissively. "It's not like where you're from, where they worship the water. Look at these people: they bring food, clothes... animals. They want to pay the desert for allowing them to live in its presence."

"People don't really worship the water." Jack replied, watching drama from the top of the dune. "It's just some crazy people. They take drugs and it makes them see things.

Sarah didn't appear to engage with his remark but kept an unwavering eye on the animal as it wandered further into the sand, its attempts at turning back foiled each time by the woman and her stick.

"In the morning it will be gone. If there is more water than normal in the moisture collectors, these people will take it as a sign. If there's less, then another animal will be sent out."

"Crazy isn't it?" Jack had little time for such beliefs.

"But with all the changes that have taken place in the last few years – is their response to it all so strange?"

The soft skin of her cheeks, her eyes dark eyes filled with water. The sun was sinking further into the faraway dunes. The brilliant disc had turned the colour of rust, but a stifling heat continued to radiate from the sand underneath, making Jack realise how well the clumsy streets and gullies of Sannam shielded its inhabitants from the brunt of the desert heat. The crowd was now disappearing into the slum town, leaving the animal to its fate. Jack's own shadow stretched back towards the town as if trying to return him to the guesthouse. The whirligigs and turbines glinted in the dusklight.

"What was your husband's name again?"

"Which one?"

"Well... all of them I guess."

"Well let me see: there was Farrell, Khorum, Amadullah, Alexander, Stephen, and... John."

"Why did you marry them all if you knew they were going to die?"

"I didn't know they were going to die – at least not at first. You have to understand there's no medical or scientific reason for it: they just die. Farrell, I loved very much. He was so different from me, so free. He had just won a big sponsorship deal and we met while I was studying in –"

"Wait, Farrell Durdon?"

"Yes."

"The chess player?"

"Yes, that's him. Have you heard of him?"

"Of course, he was a huge star when I was growing up. Wait, you were married to him! You must have been all over the world – he played for Amsterdam, Oslo, all of the top cities. How did you end up... here?" He gestured to toward the slum town.

"Because I wanted to get away! After Farrell, my family chose another husband for me. I agreed, thinking I must have done something wrong for Farrell to die... I was being punished for my selfish choice. But poor Khorum, I didn't really know him but he was so gentle. We had not even left the wedding feast when he collapsed and did not recover. His mother later said weak hearts ran in the family."

"And what about the others?"

"Amadullah was chosen for me by my uncles but this time I had little input on the matter – he was very well-connected. People said he was destined for politics but was simply a challenge as far as he was concerned. He was going to succeed where others had failed. I hated him and hated my family for choosing him. I was almost glad of what happened. Arrogant as he was, he wanted to take no chances so chose not to spend our first night of marriage with me. It was a crash that killed him... his driver had fallen asleep at the wheel... the traffic in Karachi."

The final strains of burning sunlight reflected in Saira's eyes. Her cheeks flushed with the memory of her past. She continued: "Of course, you can imagine the scandal. Three marriages, all ending in death on the wedding night. We gave back the money and presents – but I had brought shame on my family. The police ruled there was no evidence to prosecute in any of them but Amadullah's father would not let it go. It was safer for me to move back to Europe although my relatives there weren't glad to see me. Even then, rumours of a 'curse' were already beginning. Sometimes I even doubted myself whether such a thing was true"

"If you knew you could be cursed after that why did you marry husbands number four, five and six?"

"I have an education. I went to university and learned that there's no such thing as curses or magic. There's science and facts that can be deduced by cause and effect and nothing else. I was just a victim of probability. Doctors could find no medical cause for the deaths, no link. Police detectives could find no evidence of poison or a murder weapon. I was just the unhappy plaything of a cruel universe. When I settled back in London, it was different place. The price of drugs, so many sick people. I thought I could make the best use of my skills at an apothecary; there was a huge demand for cheap, plant-based treatments."

She pointed to a withered crop of shrubs at the edge of the town, fighting against the incoming torrent of sand.

"The plants that can grow here are amazing. They cling on despite everything."

"Like the people who live here."

"Yeah, I guess. But most people don't appreciate how powerful they can be. We've developed all these synthetic drugs – or at least we've developed them for the rich. Drugs that can change our mood, drugs that can even change our physicality, making us stronger, need less sleep."

Jack nodded uncomfortably, not wishing to concede his own Nectar experiences. But he, too, knew about military and police corps being given pills to improve their performance and keep them alert.

"Most of the time," Sairah continued, "I was simply preparing plants and roots but was able to use some of the science I majored in. That's where I met Alexander. I had vowed to never marry again and would find happiness on my own but he pursued me. I had no relatives in England and was desperately lonely. He was the only one I could talk to. Although I told him about the others, he asked lots of questions about disease and water-carried illnesses. He too believed my husbands' deaths were natural, a Jackpot of Woe, he called it. When we married it was a small registry office in the outskirts, with an elderly neighbour acting as a witness. I refused to go to sleep that night – I watched him breathing easily. He was peaceful and calm. I tried to keep myself awake, dreading what would happen but I was not strong enough. In the morning, his body was cold beside mine."

She wiped a trickle from her cheek. "Again the police ruled out anything suspicious. Sudden heart death, the hospital said.

"I'm surprised they weren't more suspicious given your other husbands."

"I didn't tell them about the deaths in Pakistan. I was too distraught and Alex had never shared this information with his family. But... I guess I did need to talk to someone about what was happening. Stephen was my therapist. I was still in London and working. Alex's family could see I was falling apart, even though they didn't fully know the reason why. They insisted I should seek help. The sessions were a great relief at first. He was friendly and very easy to talk with at first. But as we progressed, I began to sense something else. He looked at me suspiciously. I should have realised from his questions what ideas he was forming. On our final session, he presented his analysis. I had been driven mad by the revelation about my father and had killed each one of my husbands in turn using an undetectable poison procured through my knowledge of herbs and botany. A classic case of Artemis Syndrome, he called it."

"You mean like the goddess of hunting?" Jack had not been the best student. But stories about spiteful deities and the heroes of the past had caught his imagination.

"I guess so. He thought, I was killing off my suitors, deluding myself into forgetting what I'd done. However much I denied it, the more he insisted it was true. Furthermore, he was now going to tell the police in London of his 'findings' and the death of my other husbands.

"Of course, this story was untrue; at least I thought it was. But I realised it had more than enough plausibility to jail me. Furthermore I had not told anyone other than Alex about my husbands in Pakistan, an omission which would appear as good as a confession to the police in London. But my therapist had an alternative proposal; he would refrain from contacting the police because he thought I could be "cured". If I agreed to marry him that very day – he would remain awake and ensure I had no way of killing him. He believed I had developed two personalities: victim and killer. If we were to remain married for more than 24-hours, he claimed, then I would be forced to recognise the permanence of the ceremony and forgive my mother and accept that I had murdered my husbands."

"You didn't try to warn him then?"

"I begged with him, of course. I told him that I could not explain it – but I knew that marrying me would his life was in danger. But this only spurred him on and I was as good as dragged me to the nearest registry, where anticipating I would accept his ultimatum, he had already made an appointment. I tried but he dragged the vows out of me before throwing me into a carriage. We road back to his office and he tied me to his couch. I was too frightened to put up a fight. We stayed there all night. My throat was hoarse from crying and my skin raw where the knots dug into my wrists and feet. He sat at this desk shouting his theories at me: 'You'll soon be cured! Go to sleep – in a few hours you'll understand everything. Fascinating case... absolutely fascinating.' I must have dropped off in the early hours. It was daylight when I opened my eyes. Stephen was slumped over his desk with an almost empty bottle in front of him. I knew as soon as I saw him. I screamed for hours and hours before someone came to the door of the private office he rented. God knows what they thought. The psychologist dead at his desk, his patient tied up with tears streaming down her face. A wedding certificate in both their names with the ink not yet dry."

"But you were the victim," Jack was absorbed in the story. "They couldn't have suspected you."

"The police did not take long to find his notes on my case. I was interviewed under caution and warned not to leave the country. In short, it looked very bad for me. The worst thing was Alex's family. The police wasted no time telling them their suspicions – they were such nice people and I tried to explain but only sounded like the disturbed killer they thought I was."

"And what about the final husband? After all of this, you married again?"

"Detective Inspector John Melody lead the case against me. An ugly, red-faced brute. Horrible teeth. I heard he deliberately avoided brushing, so he could breathe in the face of his suspects during questioning. I was his biggest case yet. The Black Widow, they called me. I was responsible for five unsolved murders in two countries even though no proof, no cause of death or motive. Melody was determined to get a confession. I had no idea if he was capable of delivering on his threats. What were my husbands worth? Did I have any overseas accounts? What dangerous herbs did I work with in my job? Sometimes, I prayed for death. If this is life, then let me seek peace elsewhere. In my anger, I sought to prove to them the reality of my curse. I challenged the policeman, saying: 'I have nothing to do with the deaths. If you don't believe me, then why don't you marry me yourself?' To my surprise, the vicious beast seemed to ponder this for a while. He left the room and I was led back to my cell. Two hours later, Melody returned with a man in a grey suit who he said would oversee the ceremony. Knowing what I knew then, it was the moment I now regret the most. I should have backtracked and refused, signing whatever confession they wanted. But I was so angry with the world. I had done nothing wrong and wanted to prove once and for all that the deaths were beyond my control. I said the words that bound me and that evil man, knowing it would mean his death. Once completed, I was marched by two officers from my cell to the interview room and the recorder was prepared. I waited for Melody to appear but nothing happened. Eventually a sergeant bounded into the room. He grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against the wall. Melody had collapsed in the toilets and was being rushed to hospital. He was to die before he arrived. Rather than proving my innocence, I had insured by imprisonment. Melody's deputy made it clear I would spend the rest of my life in jail, even if they had to fake evidence against me. Even the other prisoners – women who were genuine murderers – stayed clear of me. I struggled to sleep in that cell, the smells and the stains and the screaming."

"How long did they keep you before they realised the mistake?"

"I would still be there now. On the fourth night, I fell into a deep sleep. In my dream, I heard a voice tell me not to despair; that I was not responsible for the deaths and would find happiness again. It told me to seek the desert and to record everything that I saw there. When I awoke, I was no longer in prison but in cold and quiet hospital with a tube up my nose. There were no guards and no nurses. I simply put on the clothes that were by the side of the bed and walked out onto the street a free woman. The only place I could think of was Media. In my despair I had put aside thoughts of finding my father but had discovered from a distant cousin his whereabouts in Sanaam. Although my bracelet would be tracked by police before I even got to an airfield, some strange fortune meant there was no trouble buying a ticket and in flying from London to Constantinople and then to Media. It took less than a week to find my father who welcomed me back with all the love in his heart. The slums simply grew and grew until he was surrounded. He could have left here but he chooses to stay. He likes the people; likes helping them repair their condensers. So like you Jack, I travelled here because I am not wanted anywhere."

Jack pointed to the band on his companion's wrist. "Are they still looking for you?"

"It is only in this slum that I can walk about freely without bracelet checks or police," she sighed. "If I went into the city, I would be arrested and dragged back to Europe."

"So that's why you spend so much time here in the desert?"

"I was told in my dream to study the plants in the desert but there's nothing out here really. A few measly cacti, some withered storm flower here and there. I tried to put my skills to good use. The sick, the dying... I have the skills to help if only I could find the right herbs to help them. If only they would let me help them but... Wait, what's wrong?"

Jack did not answer because he had just been stabbed in the heart. He clutched his chest in agony. His tongue was stuck and moving so slowly. He was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"WHAT do you remember?"

His head was filled with rocks and pebbles. The rattling noise in his head was either the cooling units or the petulant drum of his companion's fingers on the bedframe. The cot was fashioned from the remains of a petrol car and his body weighed unevenly on the beaten metal frame. Zarius stood over him – his intent expression was as worried as he had ever seen.

"You gave us quite a nasty surprise, dear boy. Can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"You must be frightfully tired but I need to check you are unharmed. You were talking in your sleep when you were lying here. Do you remember what you were saying?"

Jack shook his head. His mouth was too dry to speak

"What is the last thing you remember?"

He furrowed his brow. This was Khalid's house. He was back in Sanaam and the room was his own. But where was Saira?

"The desert. I was in the desert. The sun was going down and we were talking and then – I don't remember. How long have I been here?"

"She had to drag you up and down a sand dune and then through the streets of Sanaam. No-one would help her, of course. Do you know she's cursed by the way? I suppose she told you. Anyway, she brought you back but you've had us very worried – running up a frightful temperature and mumbling about this and that."

Jack tried to sit, but the bolts rattled in his brain. He scanned the room as best he could for the source of the buzzing. The cooling unit in the corner was too low-pitched. Zarius was looking at him intently with pale, unblinking eyes.

"What are you looking for Jack?"

"Can't you hear it?!"

"Dear boy, I'm going to ask you something and I want you to be honest with me."

The arrow was drawn from Jack' head and the buzzing stopped. His head sunk into the bed and the gentle chug of the turbine was all he could hear.

"I know it's been a bit dull hiding here in Sanaam..."

"I've not taken anything, Zarius. Honestly. Was I really shouting at Saira? I don't remember."

"Yes you were – some quite inventive insults apparently. Some words we've not heard for a long time... As for what's wrong with you I'm not sure, my dear cousin. I'm not sure. But you need to get some rest. Go to sleep."

Over the next few days, Jack did nothing.

He lay on the cot and saw no-one but Asif, who brought lentils and water. Three times a day. Khalid had looked into the room briefly but turned before Jack could address him. Despite the constant whirr of the air fans, Jack's clothes were drenched in sweat but he didn't have the strength to change them. There was no window but in the stillness of the night, Jack heard the picture of the street. Babies were crying, men coughed up workdust; others were drunk on homemade spirits, howling promises to the moon. Goats spluttered and chickens hawked their agreement. The trundling burr of a thousand distant cooling turbines filled the sky.

His thoughts returned on his own story. What was he doing in this improbable place? His father was dead, there was almost no doubt about it. He remembered their dragged-out, purgatorial meetings in dry but fashionable restaurants. That fist-clenching phrase. "Choose anything you want." Did he really care whether who his father was? Let the two men fight among themselves, what was this foolish quest about finding a new bracelet? The smart thing would be to accept his father, or his uncle, whoever he now was, on the offer and go back to his old life of ease. But then... but then...

By the third day, Jack felt strong enough to leave the room and sit in the workshop watching Asif skilfully pick apart the junk. Khalid had been avoiding him. Saira and Zarius were nowhere to be seen.

His companion had said no more about his collapse but the accusation of his silence resonated guilt inside Jack – yes, a few weeks ago he probably would have been guilty of popping a Nectar tablet out of sheer boredom and frustration. But the experiences of being chased, learning something of the truth about his family and travelling to this place had given him new ideas. He was no longer the spoilt schoolboy from what seemed an age ago. Why didn't Zarius give him credit for this?

Other than knowing he was blameless, Jack could not himself account for what happened in the desert, nor had any other explanation been offered for the fever which came and left so suddenly.

Darkness had smothered the sky when his cousin finally returned to the hotel, dressed in the luminous green overalls of a worksite labourer.

"Good news," said Zarius, unperturbed by the spectacle he presented. "I have been in contact with our friend. He has done exactly what we asked. Very soon we shall be on our travels again but this time by airship – first class I hope. We shall meet our good friend Ibn Nahim in the morning. Be glad, young cousin because I shall require your assistance in this matter. Now, do you have a bathing costume?"

***

Thousands of people sped beside them in the shaded plastic tunnels. Travelling on the rollertubes once more, Jack was able to appreciate what a feat they were. It was truly a monumental effort to have placed these platforms so high, going on to stretch them across the city. It was an effort, which at the time, would have required the focussed manpower of every single inhabitant of Sanaam.

"Asif, your friend, was most useful in directing me to the right address," said Zarius. "That's the only problem with our new home, the lack of street signs make it very difficult to find your way."

The only problem. Jack could think of quite a few more things wrong with the slum town but bit his tongue.

He focussed instead on his fellow passengers, standing idly around him as their platforms moved across the city. Elderly women, Western business types, wealthy families, clerks, school children, and sailors. As they slipped from sector to sector, the advertisements on the overhead boards changed, investment properties gave way to luxury scent and jewellery, to overseas air travel, to freight providers. Speeding through the heart of the centreless city towards pleasure beaches and hotels, Zarius and Jack transferred to the slowest belt and jumped off at a stand near the shoreline.

The air was different to the dustbowl of the slums. Microscopic droplets of sea littered the atmosphere. After weeks of living at the desert edge, the moisture almost stifled Jack's sand-hardened throat. Wealthy, tanned foreigners walked the lush boulevards gawping at the soaring towers. The docile enjoyment on their faces was a further reminder for Jack about how far he had come. He had spent too long now as a fugitive to go back to his old way of life. The detached contentment of tourists was now alien to him.

The cousins stepped down to the second street level so they were eye-line with the mature palms which lined the coastal boulevard. The sun was at its highest point. Sweat drenched from the teenager's browned face. Zarius pointed towards an unusual structure, whose undulating roof fanned awkwardly from its highest point to the ground in a wave of plexiglass.

"Isn't that clever? Look, it's shaped like a seashell," his fleshy cheeks wobbled as he marched forwards towards the ridge-ended entrance.

The visitors were a strange mixture. Some were tan-skinned Medians, others older tourists, there were even a few servants dressed in crisp white uniforms. Almost all were male, although a smattering of older women left and entered by a smaller, separate entrance.

"Now before we proceed, a few pointers my dear boy." They had almost reached the black plastic gate which counted in the patrons. "Our good friend Ibn Nahim has much to lose by helping us. Treat him nicely but be careful what you say. He has delayed us so long because he is unsure whether to risk all for his obligation. He may falter yet and it will be up to you to remind him of the debt he owes your father.

"You keep on saying that. But I don't even know who he is? How does he owe them anything?"

"Well we don't really have time to go into that but if you look your usual cheery self then I'm sure everything will go swimmingly." Zarius dived into the queue of men entering the building. Jack was preparing for a cool blast of air as he passed through the threshold but instead the temperature increased.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness but struggled to focus on the swirling surroundings. A wave of steam bathed his face and body. Around them men in towels sat on long benches which tracked out of sight in both directions. Attendants in white smocks carried towels and drinks on wide metal trays. Stomachs and chests gleamed in the mist. Gentle music, the sound of birds or animals, was funnelled from sound points, muffled by the hiss from vents above. Through the dark horizon, Jack could just make out the sound of running water and the firm slapping of flesh on wet flesh.

Ahead was a central nave, wider and taller than the other avenues. In contrast to the cavern-like darkness, it was flooded with shafts of white light from windows high above. Men stumbled out of blasting rooms, their raw flesh burned scarlet like a newborn. Other cried in pain as their limbs were contorted to breaking point.

"Isn't it cosy?" Zarius's melodic, high voice was at odds with this hellish cathedral. He led them towards where the nearest shaft of light scored the floor.

The white light against the background darkness, made the figures' skin sheen almost like marble, giving their sweating, flabby bodies a curious dignity.

But even in the cooler air of this atrium Jack, fully dressed, could feel his clothes now melt into his body. Sweat was pouring out of his every pore and a tight prickling sensation crept across his scalp.

Without conscious thought, his gaze fell upon one particular figure, a grotesquely overweight Westerner, basking in the cooler air. His rotund figure was completely naked save for a modest pair of white shorts. Every few minutes, he dipped his hand into a nearby container and drew out a sponge soaked in a curious blue liquid which he distributed generously over folds of flesh before squeezing the remaining juices over his brow.

Jack took some time to notice his companion stalking the dark perimeter of the corridor like an animal. Few of the prone figures noticed this fully clothed individual weaving past them in theatrically-measured paces. Zarius stopped beside a small, dark-skinned man whose head and features were entirely covered in a soaked white towel. Taking a seat next to him, he bend his head in introduction, speaking in what he considered a hushed tone.

"We appreciate the risk you have taken for us, oh great one."

"Sorry?" the towel was taken off to reveal the smooth face of a Median man aged in his thirties with a neatly trimmed beard and a serious, unblinking gaze.

"Oh, my apologies. I thought you were someone else."

"No. I am Ibn Nahim." said the man, giving a relaxed unhurried bow. Beads of water were racing each other down his forehead collecting, in his thick eyebrows. "A bathing house is the best place for a meeting," he continued, "No bugs or bracelet readers here."

The prickling tightness was moving across Jack's face and chest.

"Couldn't you have picked somewhere more comfortable?" he gasped.

"These days there are eyes, ears, and other things in every corner. One can't be too careful." The man studied Jack with careful eyes but his tone was relaxed, perhaps even glib, as he talked about the illegal bracelets he had acquired.

"Everything has been done as you requested. Getting hold of unmodified bracelets in the first place is very easy. Their possession by those unauthorised to have them is, of course, one of the many offences which attracts the death sentence."

"We appreciate all your effort." Zarius said hurriedly.

But Jack was unimpressed, and ignoring his companion's warnings asked: "So if you're a forger, right? How come we've seen plenty of bracelets on sale in the streets? What makes yours so different?"

The man with the beard gave a roar and slapped his bare stomach.

"Getting these trinkets is the easiest thing in the world," he laughed, "But do you propose to put on them? You need access to money and a plausible identity. What are you pair supposed to be? Cousins? Brothers? Where are you from? How much money do you have in your account? But do not fear! I have slaved for you like I have for no other. There should be a generous amount of credit available to you both which should be available for many years, long enough for you succeed in your challenge. Or else build a new life, if you fail."

Jack had tuned out of the subtleties of identity manipulation. He could see men dipping their hands in iced buckets proffered by attendants. He resisted the urge to rush forward and plunge his head into the nearest container. He tried to listen as Ibn Nahim continued with his account.

"Even now, I still risk exposure and punishment. I tell you plainly, I would have ignored your plea, had it not been for the debt I owe."

Zarius bowed deeply at these words.

"I consider that this has now been paid?" the bearded man continued.

A further bow

"I don't understand," could not interpret silent message between the two men. "What was it you did for UisgeCorp? Why is it I've never heard about you before?"

The forger's sweat-rimmed eyes regarded him with disdain.

"UisgeCorp? No, I haven't done all this for them, the very opposite in fact. If you had any meaningful discussion with Mr Strang, your father, about then you'd know."

So he, too, thinks Strang is my father. The angular face, dark eyes, the sharp cheekbones, all masked by aged and time, but so similar to his own. The man who had forced him into so many schools, who had badgered him about whether he had done his lessons, was the one who might be his real father. While the man he never saw, the one who he had called father, who was always busy and distant, had always been a peripheral figure who had played a part in his mind, rather than in reality.

But Ibn Nahim was about to satisfy his curiosity. Adjusting his towel, he gestured around the cavernous hall.

"Your father was responsible for all this, our city I mean. We had blackwater to last decades, of course, but our rulers knew that one day it would run out. They seized the chance to install large-scale hydro, seeing the potential for roller-tubes, our hotels, every building to have air control. Many thousands of workers were involved in its creation. No safety rules then. The hydrogen and oxygen cores weren't separated by carbon gates as they are now – seepage was common and fuel cell explosions were an almost daily risk."

"People died then?"

"One tiny spark was all it took. Two hundred men dead and countless others injured. There was no publicity of course. Even then, the Hydra openness department was a well-oiled machine. Families which who lost a father or son or both were well-compensated."

"Well, at least they got something." Jack spoke out of instinctive loyalty.

"My family had no high station and used their meagre savings for my schooling. I excelled at logic, form, and function, but still could find no better work than as a minor manager among many. I worked through that black day and brought the bodies out; using my knowledge to seal the fuel cells, prevent further leaks. Suddenly I was picked from obscurity – handpicked by Mr Strang to be in charge of safety in one of the greatest building project the world has ever seen. Though he had considerable knowledge of the physics, your father was no engineer. It took the combined efforts of those around him to translate these theories into a working, practical reality."

"So he gave you a job and set you on the road to success?"

"Yes, after a fashion. But I must confess, over these last few weeks, I have been trying to figure out exactly what percentage of my success I owe him. Would I have made good in my own time? Is it worth my head if I am found out? Worth the heads of sons and daughters? But as you will see, I have performed my duty and given what you seek."

Jack couldn't be sure but, from the corner of his eye, it seemed that Zarius stiffened slightly at these words.

"Where are the passes?" he demanded.

After checking in both directions along the sunlit corridor, the forger produced three black wristbands.

"I am surprised because I was told you had no interest in anything beyond comfort and wealth. And you have travelled so far without a bracelet. How could you have managed that I wonder..?"

"A long story, my friend," Zarius seized the looped material with his fat fingers. "One we shall entertain you with another time."

"Then I've done all I can for you. Do you agree that I am now free of my debt?"

But Zarius had already turned to leave.

Confused, Jack made his own brief thanks and followed the striding figure along the sunlit aisle. The people who had been reclining in the daylight mist just moments ago had withdrawn into the fog. Jack could see distant silhouettes moving and shifting. One eventually drew closer until he could see the torso wrapped in white cotton. In the man's right hand was something glinting... a gun.

Other armed men emerged from the steam. Each clad only in towels but quite capable of killing with their bare hands if necessary.

Ibn Nahim. They had been betrayed. His last words were an excuse, an absolution from the blame of what was to happen. Jack felt for Zarius but his cousin was neither to his left or right. Turning around, he could see the portly figure of his cousin – his clothes bedraggled in the tropical climate – reach into his cloak and withdraw – a metal tool similar to a wrench and begin furiously to attack an exposed pipeline at the nearest wall.

Suddenly there was a high-pitched wail and the sunlit nave filled with an even denser cloud of steam. Their would-be attackers were once again obscured. Voices around him roared in anger. There was a burning sensation around Jack's wrist. It was Zarius's hand, pulling him to a destination he could not see. The air grew clearer and lighter. Together they stumbled out of the clogged corridor, past the ever-coming crowds, through the entrance and its flimsy plastic gate, blinking into the sunlight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"THAT poor fellow," Zarius looked regretfully back at as the shell-shaped building disappeared on the horizon.

"He tried to have us killed!" Jack nearly choked in surprise.

"Yes, but they have killed him - or will kill him," Zarius muttered as looked to a nearby time display, then declaring. "Yes, he'll be dead now. A shame as these bracelets are quite genuine if I'm not mistaken. He did do what he had promised."

"Just a shame that he chose to betray us as well."

"Don't be too harsh on the man. We got what we came for, haven't we?"

"Yes, if they work. Why do you think he's dead anyway? If he helped those men find us they wouldn't want to kill him."

"Oh... well, I just have a feeling."

Jack examined the three bracelets as they travelled through the escalated tunnels. The straps were thick and dull with the familiar raised bump which covered the sensor. All that effort just for these, he thought. He had felt naked when he had taken his bracelet off so many weeks ago. It was as though some part of him had gone missing and he'd fought the reaction to automatically present his left wrist at shops, terminals and entrances. But it would feel strange to put one back on again, to feel it clinging to his wrist once more. The new bracelet meant a new name, a mask to conceal himself and... possibly John Strang, his father.

"Who were those men just then?"

"They were sent by your father to bring you back."

"Which one? It appears that I have two."

"No dear boy, only one. I thought you would be quite au fait with these matters by your age."

Rather than taking the most direct route to Sanaam, Zarius insisted that they take the tube through one of the business districts to cover their tracks. The risk of being followed back to the guesthouse was a real possibility. If they had killed Ibn Nahim – and it was only his portly friend's hunch that they had - who knows what they would do to Khalid and his family. But something else had been troubling Jack, flitting in and out of his thoughts since they escaped the ambush.

"Zarius, why were you carrying that wrench with you?" The reality of the last hour was only just sinking in. "And how did you know how to use it on that pipe?"

"Well, I'll let you into a little secret if you promise not to tell."

"Go on."

"You can never - ever - be too prepared for an adventure like this."

"That's your secret? But how did you know we were going to be betrayed."

"Preparation."

"Did you know it was going to be a trap?"

"Of course"

"And you still decided for us both to walk in there! What if we hadn't been able to escape?"

"But we did."

"Still you could have told me. And it's not natural how you always know stuff like that. It's like when you asked me to steal that bomb-thing from the museum. You knew we were going to be attacked by that shark. And then when you came disguised as a policeman. It was just after the hotel manager had called the police. And Saira and Khalid – just about the only people in Sanaam likely to help us – you walked straight in like we already had a reservation?"

"It's all part of life's rich tapestry, dear cousin." Raphael's hand fluttered in the air, as if waving away his young friend's concerns. "Just the skeins and threads coming together."

"But how do you know what's going to happen? And why are you helping me even? And please don't give me that story about Uncle Brian. I know you're not my cousin."

Zarius's round lips wobbled as if to give a reply, but almost immediately clamped shut. The ripples in his brow smoothed over and his features relaxed.

"Believe what you choose, young Jack. The only thing I ask is you see this day through to the end."

It was the first time he had called him by his name.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ASIF was cleaning filters. It was dull work but a moment's lost concentration would mean a broken membrane, allowing dust and sand to flood those houses fortunate enough to afford the finished air control. For three hours he had been sat in the lobby of Khalid's workshop hotel, balancing the heavy motor on his knees.

Intent on the mechanics of this task, his inner mind was free to wander. What food would his boss buy from the market? Would they eat well tonight? What changes might he make to this workshop if he, Asif, were the owner instead? Hands thick with black grease worked out the fine grains from the rotor. As Jack and Zarius opened the door, searing sunlight pooled into the workshop, causing him to squint and cover his face, leaving a smear on his brow.

Both men were arguing and had obviously been doing so for some time, despite the midday heat from which they had just stepped out of.

"No, you must stay," said the strange, fat one to the boy. "They know we are in Sanaam. Please trust me that it is safer this way."

The older man wanted to go somewhere on his own without Jack. Could they really be cousins? His eyes still half-closed, Asif could almost see a resemblance – not the noses, one of which was bulbous, the other aquiline, nor the eyes that were different hues and shapes. There was something hard and immovable about the jaw line of both men, although one was thickly covered in flesh.

However, the light was still pounding his eyes and Asif couldn't be sure.

***

Was this his diary then? Jack held the leather cover he'd seen his friend consult regularly during their time together. He'd lost count of the occasions Zarius sat nodding and occasionally saying "Ahhh" or "Hmmm" or "That's right" as he read its pages.

Although barely the size of his palm, it was heavy and Jack had almost dropped it back on his cousin's side table. The cover was smooth and warm, almost sweaty, to the touch and he could almost taste the tang of aged paper on his tongue.

It was old; many, many years old. On the spine, spidery letters were too faint to be read. How could anything so ancient possibly contain anything useful to their endeavour?

Before he did anything else, Jack glanced around the room unconsciously. He clenched and opened his hands. His 'cousin' had refused to say where he was going or when he would return.

He still didn't know who Zarius was, not really. He sensed that he meant well. That he was lucky. Things happened around him. But he was oblivious to the world, the way it worked and the people around him.

Jack's hand rested on the cover. There had been no instruction against reading the book but instinctively, he knew it was wrong. The unexpected weight, the musty smell of it age aroused an unclassifiable dread inside him.

Visions of Zarius's secretive manner, the furtive concentration with which he studied the book's pages, fuelled his curiosity. It was only a book. Words printed on a page.

He forced the covers apart, running his finger down the page, searching for first elusive entry. The words were handwritten in the same angular script which adorned the book's exterior, yet this time, somehow, the letters were as clear to him as print. Underneath the deliberate, careful pen strokes, the yellow paper looked hundreds of years old and had a sweet, damp aroma.

Jack blinked hard and tried read again. The entry continued over the page, followed by another, then another. It was clearly a reference book, an encyclopaedia of sorts, but what it described was unclear. He turned the pages, following the alphabet towards its zenith. Pages fluttered like wind through long grass. He started to read one entry:

Despite the spidery script and outdated language, Jack felt himself drawn into the tale. Almost as if he had been there watching the baker carry out his good works, looking on as he was bludgeoned to his death. He lifted his hand to turn to the page but suddenly felt a red fire, searing his right wrist.

Zarius loomed above him.

"Just what do you think are you doing?" His voice was clear as a church bell, the pale almond-shaped eyes burned with cold fire, and the flowing robe no longer ridiculous, but flaring out with their own emotion.

Try as he could Jack could not break his gaze from the irises which flickered and spinned with energy, until it was that Zarius releasing his wrist from his grip.

Swiftly he stuffed the book inside his voluminous gown.

"I'm sorry dear boy. I reacted badly," his mellow expression returned. "But you were wrong to read that book."

"What is it?"

"Different people have added to it over the years. It's probably best you don't think about it too much. There are some things you might find... difficult to understand."

Zarius broke off and looked to the other side of the room. Saira was standing at the doorway.

"Are you okay?" Her dark eyes were filled with concern. It was the first time they had spoken since the desert.

"We're fine."

Even though he had just greedily devoured the contents, Jack couldn't now remember what he had just read. The words leapt and danced as when tried to focus on their meaning. He was about to say something to Saira but she had already turned and left the room.

Zarius looked at him meaningfully.

"I suppose you realise now that you're going to have to marry the girl."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

STRANG woke to find the lodge empty. Sheonagh was gone but had left a hearty breakfast prepared. Swinging his legs off the cot, he made his way to the table, feeling the pathway next to the kitchen wall. Blindness was no obstacle. The small lodge had become his world. He knew every dusty corner.

He knew, for instance, that an assortment of food been methodically arranged on the table. The salty aroma of cooked oats steamed into his nostrils, warm bread was cut into thick slices next to small pots of clear honey and soft, warm butter. To his right a jug of fresh milk was still foaming with cream.

Feeling in front of the porridge he felt an earthenware bowl and lifted the covering to find four boiled eggs, still warm. To drink, he warmed himself with cupfuls of tea only slightly stewed from a battered steel canteen. After eating his fill, he felt strong enough to tour again the simple home; each wall was a stack of arced logs.

There were no books, no trinkets, no personal objects that he could find. Just a simple cooking stove, a few clothes, the battered upholstered chair and the single framed sofa where he had slept less than an hour ago.

On the nights when she was home, his hostess slept on the chair ignoring his offers to change places with her on the sofa. But she seemed to require little sleep and for most of his stay, Sheonagh had spent the evenings "roaming", as he called it.

Outside the chickens pecked idly at feed, rustling their feathers and announcing themselves with their poultry gargle.

For the first few weeks, he had been ordered to remain indoors while the search continued. Sheonagh had been right about police returning. Although the Inspector was taken up with other matters, the sergeant and a colleague came back to conduct a more formal search of the small home and the outlying buildings.

Once again, as if by some unknown instinct, Sheonagh had known the men were near before he had heard their footsteps. She had herded him into the snug beneath the floorboards of the lodge, and the hatch concealed with pungent animal furs.

Days after the inspection, Sheonagh had returned one night to report that the hunt had moved and was now concentrated in the north east of the country, near Dornoch, where a man matching the priest-killer's description had been seen.

This announcement, puzzling though it was due to his hostess having little to do with the outside world, allowed Strang some breathing space. He could escape the stuffy confines of the lodge and explore the yard outside. The nearest farm was five miles away and Sheonagh's lodge was well concealed by a copse of tall pine trees. The sound of the birds had at first engrossed him. He had never appreciated the alarm-like clarity of their songs. Without his sight, he could not stray too far; but it was a blessed relief to breathe fresh air free from odour of burnt wood and stale blood.

In the evenings, and if Sheonagh did not come home from her hunting, Strang feasted on the cold victuals kept in tins on the shelf – or the cold sausage, biscuits, cheese, hunks of cold beef which were left for him. In his previous life, food had held no pleasure. It was a means to an end. The punishing schedule had meant little time for such things but the country air had awakened a ferocious appetite.

In the hours when he was not sleeping or eating, he rested on the couch. Standing in certain parts of the room he could feel the sun through the windows. His capacity for sleep was a surprise. Sometimes, he dozed on and off for ten, twelve hours at a time. It was an ability he thought he had not possessed. But while his body recovered, his mind railed against inactivity and dwelt upon his misfortune. Without his eyesight, he could neither read nor write, not that his hostess had even one book in her humble home.

As far as Strang could tell, she had no profession or trade, no friends, and no obvious means of income. Her sole occupation, whether it was for profit or pastime, was hunting the various wildlife in the forgotten hillside. During his first, exploratory tours of the lodge he had quickly turned up a pair of young rabbits, their torsos floppy and flexible like rubber. Later his hand brushed against the gallery of mounted heads which crowded the cabin wall. Vaguely, hopelessly he felt their lifeless features – an exercise both repulsive and frustrating to him as he tried to guess their species. The anglers clearly belonged to a stag, but the long snout and pricked ears of another trophy could surely not be a wolf? Were such things even native to this country? How she caught this menagerie was unknown for he could find no trace of gun or shot in the lodge.

Even in company, Sheonagh remained an enigma to him. Unused to company, she did her best to accommodate her visitor but was uncomfortable with conversation, meeting questions she did not like with stony silence. Information was volunteered when she felt like speaking. Her speech consisted almost solely of statements of fact. She and was either unable or disinclined to ask questions or reciprocate to any of Strang's own.

After so many days of living under her roof, he was no wiser about her moods or character than when he was three weeks ago. Not that he had any right to complain about her taciturn nature. His wife had insisted for long enough, that he had almost been blind to others' feelings.

Fortunately his new companion was no great conversationalist. During their silent nights together, he felt a bond developing with his unresponsive new friend – their stunted social skills creating common ground. Stunned and bedraggled, he had for the first time in his life felt the need to unburden himself to the parish priest in the confessional. But there was no desire to explain himself to Sheonagh. In the silent comfort of the lodge, he felt no need to tell his story.

One night, and quite out of character, Sheonagh suggested they visit the pub.

"It's a good walk to Strablane," she said matter-of-factly.

"It's night time," Strang had by now adjusted to the peculiar rhythms of his new life and the suggestion was wildly disturbing.

"Won't make any difference to you anyway," the deep voice added.

Her excursions, wherever it was they took her, led Sheonagh to believe police maintained little surveillance in the district and thus it might be safe for Strang to journey to the local village.

"I suppose you haven't got a carriage to hand," Strang had assumed that his friend had no other means of transport, but asked hopefully anyway."

"Don't believe in them," was his friend's response.

"You don't believe in carriages?"

"Don't think they are of any good. It's unnatural to make the horses go where they don't want to. Plus they take too much looking after. It'll take us an hour by foot."

He wanted to pointed out that it wasn't very kind to hunt and kill animals, but realised it wouldn't alter the fact that he'd have to walk.

A stout walking pole was pressed into his unexpecting grasp, as Sheonagh's firm fingers took his other hand, guiding him from the porch, past the grumbling chickens and beyond the wire fences which marked the boundaries of her domain. For the first time, he left the confines of his trial period of blindness and entered a wider, uncontrolled environment.

She did her best to guide him; clumsily pulling on his arm, jerking him as he veered off course. But several times, he found himself stumbling on the unknown surface. Was it flat up ahead? Were there any roots to watch out for? After a series of unhelpful grunts from Sheonagh, he began to rely on his own inexpert judgements about the gradients and smoothness of the track ahead. They progressed slowly and, for what seemed like an age, the path followed a steep incline.

Strang's weary shins ached as the balls of his feet connected firmly with each rising step. As they began to descend the crunch of snow on loose bark was replaced by a softer sound. After some time they stepped onto the tarmac.

"Not far to go", his companion grunted.

The sudden feeling of open space and the smooth tarmac suddenly made Strang feel very exposed. He strained to hear the distant clatter or sneezing whiney of horses – anything that would alert them to the sound of a carriage. Sheonagh's horny-skinned hand was now lodged under his armpit. She walked two steps ahead, stopping to let him catch his breath. After a while the road began to descend.

"Not far now. Just another half mile."

Inside The Scorraig, Sandy Duncan had just poured his first proper pint under the watchful eye of Joe. It was his first night behind the bar and his abortive earlier attempts – full of bitter froth - had already been dismissed by the regulars. For the fifth time, the weary Joe had shown the younger man how to hold the glass at a tilt with the tap just touching the edge of the rim before cranking the pump. Patrons watched in open amusement as the lad grew increasingly flustered under this tutelage and his battle to free the ale from its cask became more desperate.

Eventually the young barman blushed in embarrassment as a cheer echoed through the small tavern. Sandy was no longer a glass collector. A half-nod was all he received from surly Joe. In the cheerful elation, few noticed the feral, dirty-looking woman who entered the inn. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and her dull clothes hung shapelessly off her bony frame. It was impossible to say her age – she wasn't young but her burnished face was unmarked by any lines. Few locals would meet Wild Sheonagh's gaze, all were secretly terrified. And she was given a wide berth by her immediate neighbours who lived on the far side of the woods next to her strange little cabin.

Strange she was, yes, but also an important local asset.

In an era where local delicacies were hard to come by, the huntswoman had an unerring ability to find the game that were so scarcely seen these days, along with The Gypsy, Woodtufts and other musthrooms. Residents who had an understanding with the wild woman would awake to find a rabbit, fish, perhaps some birds outside their door. No payment was ever given for but favours were unquestioningly returned on the rare occasion they were asked for.

Anyone who wondered about her business never voiced their curiosity in her presence, as if aware of an unspoken threat. Occasionally a man would sometimes mutter to his friend, "Doesn't like people much, that Sheonagh."

Regulars shot a few furtive glances as the bony figure made its way to a secluded table. Few gave much notice to her companion. It didn't do to show much interest in other people's business. Some might have noticed the wide-eyed stranger, his steel grey hair overgrown, walked with a stick in a clumsily as he hung from the woman's arm.

"My Jack," Strang murmured as he sat. Although, he sighed the words to himself it elicited a rare question from his partner.

"You have a son."

"Yes, he probably thinks I'm dead. Perhaps things will be better for him now. I'm sure he'll be alright. We haven't got on very well in the last few years since my wife died and... our relationship is complicated."

"What do you want?" Sheonagh snorted, shifting the subject without apology.

"I don't really mind."

"Well, it's ale. There's not much else."

He soaked up the roll of other people's conversations. The voices both loud and quiet, low and high-pitched merged into a painted soundscape. Why could he still not see? The droppings should just have washed out. Would any hospital examine him without first demanding to see his bracelet he could not now produce?

A sturdy glass was pressed against his hand and Sheonagh sat down. He took a sip; the beer was warm compared to the chill outside and slightly malty. It had been a long time since he had been in a pub.

"So you're someone important then?" Sheonagh broke the silence. "I hope this is not too boring for you. You must be used to banquets and castles."

"No, not really. I'd prefer to be here than in Edinburgh."

"You are right. I think you would be dead if you were in Edinburgh. Here you are not dead. That makes it better straight away."

"How much do you know about me Sheonagh, really? We've barely spoken since I've been staying with you. You clearly know that I'm in some sort of trouble but you've not explained why you're still helping me."

"You were dying when I found you. It was very little effort to bring you to the warmth. If it had been too difficult or dangerous for me, I would have let you die."

"You'd probably be arrested or worse if anyone found out. The last person - the priest - just look what happened to him."

Sheonagh snorted and Strang could hear her take a long draught of her drink.

"I can always tell when there's a game," it was her word for hunt, he realised. "I knew from the moment I found you in the snow. I could have left you to die; I turned my back ready to walk, but then something... I felt you deserved a chance."

"These men, they aren't hunters. They are soldiers, spies; all of them are dangerous and won't stop until they find me."

"They are not so different to you. You are being hunted by your own kind."

"But the priest-"

"There is nothing anyone can do to me," the words were final and clear, declaring the strand of conversation at an end. "Now drink your pint."

Unhappily, Strang slurped at the glass, ingesting a mouthful of creamy foam from the top. The clamour was making more sense; the barman was new and undergoing a lively initiation from the regular drinkers.

Sheonagh spoke again. Again it was simply a statement: "You are the man who made the water."

So she did know who he really was.

"It's electricity from the water," he corrected her automatically, "and I don't make it, but yes that's what I do – or what I did."

It seemed as though he would have to tell his story after all to this strange woman, just as he had done the priest.

"It was me and my... friend really. We started the research in the tens, about ten years before the first big crash crash. The reserves of blackwater and other fuels were dwindling but there weren't any protests back then, no new religions."

The words cascaded out of him. He was anxious for a chance to finally describe his work, to lose himself in the emotionless world of science.

"Of course, you probably know that water is made up of two things - oxygen and hydrogen. Both are among the most abundant elements in the planet but highly reactive, rarely found on their own. But them together in their raw state and –" he clapped his hands together expressively.

"I never was one for schoolwork," his companion's glass was nearly empty.

"This is basic science, which everyone should know. Oxygen explodes in our bodies, in your body, in the bodies of all animals, firing our cells, giving them energy. It keeps fire burning. It reacts – or at least used to – with blackwater to create a series of explosions that would power an engine. Hydrogen also explodes in the right conditions as any historian of air travel will tell you. Put them together and –" he clapped his hands a second time, but louder.

"And you put them together. Simple as that."

"Everyone was looking at things the wrong way. Things like windmills – turbines – which have been around for centuries. Mankind needed a new form of energy. Water hydrogen fusion could make power from the most abundant compound on the planet with no harmful by-products whatsoever. Generators could be built quickly and cheaply. It was almost a perfect solution"

Sheonagh sniffed unimpressed. "Do you want another?" Realising his glass was now empty, Strang accepted and after a few minutes alone a fresh drink was placed in front of him.

"I do not believe you or anyone else is capable of doing anything perfectly. If anything is perfect it is a fire. All the compounds you need are around us. You just have to pick wood for the ground. No need for your generators."

"Nonsense," says Strang, "surely it is better to have a reaction where there is nothing wasted. An equation where everything balances. With hydro power there is no radiation, no carbon, no smoke."

"But things balances out here too. When you chop down a tree, it grows back again."

There was a long pause. Sheonagh drained her glass.

"What do you think about death?" she said bluntly. "A man of your intellect must have some interesting views on this topic?"

"My views aren't particularly novel. I think when you die, all brain activity ceases and that's it."

"Nothing else?"

"How could there be?"

"So, not particularly religious then?"

"I don't have strong views. I'm happy to let people have their beliefs if it comforts them, if it doesn't disturb me. But it's really just a primitive instinct."

"You've not going to join these water boys then? You could probably be their leader or something."

Strang shuddered at the men and women on Princess Street, shaking and howling in the rain.

"The old religions at least have a history and some dignity," he said defensively. "Those idiots are simply trying to justify their drug abuse with pagan mumbo-jumbo. During times of uncertainty such as we've been through, stupid ideas can gain a foothold. I'm surprised you've even heard of them."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," she said mockingly. "We little villagers have heard of tales of the big city. Even if everyone here is half-alive."

"You don't seem to like people much."

"No."

"And don't the others in the village...?"

"What you mean is 'Don't you yokels believe in groupthink?' Yes, they do. Even though they are in the countryside, men seek comfort in the same views. They huddle together like sheep around the same small stock of opinions."

"And you're happy to be an outcast."

"I'm different."

But to be different was a taboo, Strang thought. People now clung to what was comfortable and familiar, the same conventions, even the same way of dressing, wherever they could. He looked around the pub at the smiling customers in all their gaiety. Their clothes, shoes, even expressions, had the same unconscious uniformity, as if they had been compelled by a force they didn't fully recognise or understand.

"You aren't afraid that people will turn against you?"

"To share is to want, to follow is to be..." she began the familiar chant, her deep voice heavy with irony.

"You know as well as I do where it comes from. The food riots, what happened in England, the common values was the only way to stop violence. It's a miracle so many people bought into it."

"Aye, right down to wearing the same underwear."

"It was only ever supposed to be an emergency measure. We're in a period of stability now. I'm not saying it was a good thing."

"Yes, you are. But the problem is that you're the outcast now, same as me."

Sandy was mopping up the mess from his shoddy pouring, when he looked over at the table. A tower of foam specked glasses a testament to Sheonagh's prodigious thirst. If her companion had looked lost and unsteady before entering the pub he now appeared, if anything, more sober and confident in his movements.

"Is there anything you do like?" he heard the man ask

"Hunting. Drinking, as well, sometimes. That's about it."

"What about love?"

"A few men tried once or twice. They won't be trying again. Do you want another?"

"No, my glass is still full."

"Well I'm having another."

The lubrication of drink worked wonders with self-assurance. Outside Strang barely felt the icy lacerations of the wind. There was an inner fire burning inside.

"I am still alive," he said to himself. "If the company's butlers were going to find me, they would have done so by now."

Having given this fullest account of himself to Sheonagh, he felt he could say anything without fear of judgement. And yet his disclosure was still to be reciprocated. Sheonagh was keeping something back. It would come later, but not here and not now.

The route out of the village was not as arduous – ever though he received fewer directions from Sheonagh, who now lumbered beside him.

The path which would take them to the cabin was up ahead. As they turned off the roadside through the trees, Strang heard the faintest crunch of icy gravel under his feet and the chill caress of frost-caked branches.

Despite her heroic consumption, the hunched figure of Sheonagh continued heavily but without fatigue. Neither of them spoke, although she hummed a tune to herself, low and beneath her breath. The drift was deep. Fresh snow had fallen in the hours they had spent inside.

Without warning, Sheonagh's grip tightened and she slipped away, causing Strang to crash to the side, his legs moving involuntarily. Trying to protest, his mouth was filled with snow. The hand returned was tight above his elbow. A voice rasped in his ear: "Hush!"

The fall of feet moving away from him. For several long moments he lay stunned. There was nothing but the seeping damp numbing his face and hands. Should he stay here? Then a man's voice floated in the distance. The words were indistinct but carried by the wind, the precise, clipped military tone was clear – it was an order being issued. He strained to hear other sounds. Footsteps, running perhaps a hundred metres to his right.

All of a sudden silence.

Then there was a yell – a man in agony. More footsteps and shouting – this time about a hundred yards ahead. Orders were being barked – he could make out two or three separate voices. There was an inhuman sound, like an earthquake – low and grumbling as if an airship motor had just started. More voices yelled, one was cut short in a high-ended scream, then another.

Strang barely noticed the melting snow soaking into his clothes. His breathing was shallow, his chest felt tight, he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. The light-headed sensation he had felt from his drink session was evaporated. In its place was raw and primitive terror.

The Butlers. They were closing in. Perhaps among them, the man who had warned him, who had taunted him with the messages over the vacuum tube.

He tried to imagine his final moment – it was only a few seconds away. Would he be tortured to death as his correspondent had suggested. He tried to block out images of his skin being stripped. No, if he was to die, let it be quickly. Not like that.

Footsteps drew closer. Soon they would see his prone body in the fresh snow.

Sheonagh, brave, stubborn woman, was dead but had put up a surprisingly good fight. Why she had given up her life was still uncertain yet it was clear she possessed a bravery that he could only marvel at.

Then a voice spoke. It was deep and sonorous. Strang could feel the emptiness in his own lungs, as he held his breath. It did not seem that the human body could produce such a sound. But he had heard and understood the words, as muffled and fuzzy as they were.

"We must go."

Strang trembled. His legs jerked and he faintly struggled to rise to his feet.

For the second time in weeks, he had readied himself for death in this land of snow and darkness. She was beside him now. He left his arm drop on top to her back, resting his weight for support. Faint fingers grasped her shoulder. It was wet with blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY

"YOU can go to Hell!" Saira stormed out of the doorway, her parting words echoing in the corridor. "Both you and your stupid friend had best be gone before I'm back."

It was always going to be a hard sell, Jack thought grimly. It wasn't as if he had much practise in proposing to anyone before now, not least someone who had been married six times before. Perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed Zarius's suggestion of buying flowers after all.

Was it his imagination or had Saira had paused slightly, laughed almost, when he posed the question? There had bee a fleeting second, or so Jack had thought, where the words rattled in her brain; but when she could see he meant it, her features instantly hardened.

However unpopular the idea, Jack had hoped there would have been time to explain the thinking behind the proposition. But how could he explain what he barely understood himself? Zarius's explanation about the misfortune which had followed Saira and her family was hopelessly vague. He had not worked hard at school. In rebellion, he had gone to extreme lengths to deliberately ignore and misremember any tuition in science. Yet despite his self-inflicted ignorance, the explanation he was offered did not ring true.

Surely it was not scientifically possible that the same illness had caused the deaths of all Saira's husbands? Even if they had contracted it, why had it caused them to die on their wedding nights? And if it was fatal, why had Saira not died from it and why wasn't she showing any symptoms? Why hadn't others who were close to her, Khalid, Asif, and other family members, not ill too?

"I fear you too have contracted this... illness, dear boy." Zarius had told him as they sat in the seclusion of their room, with the evening sun painting blood across the adobe wall.

"Your sudden turn during your visit to the desert was the first stage. You will not be fully cured unless you embrace this illness head on. You will not die – for, unlike those who have gone before, you understand the scale of the challenge. The sickness that you must fight is like none you have ever known, like none other on earth in fact. For it is an illness of the heart. Saira has lived with it for all her adult life and like a parasite feeds on her grief. With her father's permission, I have interviewed Saira about the circumstances of her husbands' deaths. Your fate will be no different from theirs unless you take action."

"What sort of action?"

"Remember?" Zarius held up a glass jar in his palm. The contents were a cloudy red and a spongy shape could just about be seen. It was the spleen of the shark which they had carried from Alexandria. "If you eat this before your wedding night – you will be able to overcome the illness."

"What do you mean?"

"Very high in protein, it stimulates the brain. The illness will take on a very real form... The best way to describe it; you will feel as if someone else is trying to take over your mind. But you must fight it. I won't underplay things – you will be in great danger, mortal danger in fact."

It sounded to like exactly the effects of a Nectar tab. But looking at the tuberous ventricles suspended in decaying blood, Jack thought that he'd take the tablet any day.

"But this isn't making any sense," he said. "If people only die when they marry Saira, the safest thing is for no-one to marry her at all."

"Listen Jack, we didn't come here by accident. You though we were just going to come over to acquire new bracelets, evade your father's debtor's trap, hide from the law, and overcome unassailable odds by returning to your homeland triumphantly. No my dear boy, it was never going to be that simple. You must marry Saira or you will not see your father and all we have worked for will be lost. By doing this you will cure both her and yourself. It is the only way."

"But if I do overcome the illness and cure us both. What then?"

"I'd be honoured if you name your first child after me."

"I don't want a wife!"

"Why not? I think you'll be very good for each other. She is a little bit older than you but very beautiful, don't you think? But we're getting ahead of ourselves here. Firstly we need to get her agreement. It will be your job to think of a nice way to propose."

"What exactly do you suggest?" Jack said sarcastically.

"Oh candles, music, the usual thing." His companion said chirpily, oblivious to the irony.

It was in this regard that their plan remained weak.

Jack had run through the doorway where Saira had fled. He was just in time to see her fading into the street, the crowd parting to avoid touching the outcast woman. Ignoring their bemused stares, he launched himself into the street calling her name. Her dark, shiny hair was easy to pick out in the crowd, among the covered heads and dust-covered faces and goats ready for slaughter. Whether she had heard his voice, there was no acknowledgement. A gang of blue overalls covered in work dust stormed through the makeshift street and Saira disappeared in a nimbus of plexiglass helmets.

But by now Jack knew where she was heading.

He raced across the meandering backstreets, stinking of human waste, making his way to the heat-soaked outskirts, where the sun pounded the flattened sand. A speck on the horizon, on a far away dune, was Saira. He drew closer, every step an agony in the searing light.

She was facing him but did not turn. His feet slid with every step as he ascended the hill, eventually having to plunge his fists into the slopes to keep going. Thus he climbed up the mountain, heaving for breath and soaked with perspiration as he arrived.

Saira looked blankly as he collapsed at her feet.

"Will you marry me?" he panted. She shook her head.

"I will not die. I promise. I've found a way to lift your curse – your illness, I mean- but you must trust me. You need to trust me."

"It is not your life that concerns me. It is mine. I don't know who you are. From the company you keep, you don't seem very reputable."

He followed her gaze to the tiny cloaked figure, standing at an outskirt wall, his robe hitched up to his knees as he gingerly picked his way through the sewage-strewn landscape. Somehow he had managed to find them.

"But my friend has the means to destroy the sickness that has killed your husbands. He's got a sort of medicine which will cure you."

"Tell me, what makes your friend so sure that I am sick."

"I thought you told him what you told me."

"I have no sickness and your friend is certainly no doctor. I know every plant there is in this godforsaken place, it's every property. There is no illness in the world which could take the lives of six men in such a way as my husbands."

Jack was confused.

"But didn't he tell you that you abou-"

"He asked me lots of questions, when you were ill in bed, exactly like the police did before. Perhaps I should never have told you about my marriages. You obviously think t I am now willing to accept any man – any child - who comes along."

"Look Saira, I know it sounds crazy but so much has happened that I can't explain. Your husbands, our coming here, I think it is connected. I don't know what has caused it all but I think we can help you. Please let us."

"But I don't want to marry you."

"Me neither," he stood in front of her now, hopelessly trying to find the right thing to say. "You married the last man, the policeman, out of anger. You didn't love him. Marry me instead because you have a chance to rid yourself of this thing."

She sighed and wiped a solitary drop of water from her eye.

"I suppose it's worth a try. I don't like you that much."

Both of them stood in silence. From the bottom of the dune, the hooded figure was kicking dust into the channels of effluent streaming out of Sanaam.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SAIRA walked up ahead, the soles of her scuffed shoes kicking up the dust which layered the newly set concourse. Her new husband followed silently behind. Behind them Zarius laboured with a bundle of blankets on his shoulder, clothes for the wedding bed. The night sky was tinged green by the construction lights. The glare was so strong it hid the stars, which could be seen so clearly a few miles away in Sanaam.

Skeletons of new buildings towered over the waterside. It was difficult to tell whether the crane-topped structures were still waiting to come to life, longing for fabric that would make them real, or had stood fossilised, slowly decaying, for years. The clicks and whistles of countless unseen creatures clouded the night air.

Khalid had refused to give his blessing to the union. His warning still lingered in Jack's ears. It would be almost certain suicide, he'd been warned. How could he agree to such a union after what had happened to his daughter's previous husbands? However, grudgingly, after several long conversations with Zarius, the proprietor was present at the short ceremony in the workroom of his house. Since the wedding had primarily medical goals, there was no reason to delay. Jack was unclear about the exact words spoken; he nodded throughout and repeated the phrases he'd been taught. In contrast, Asif was delighted and insisted on singing the traditional chants.

They had already walked for an hour to the roller tube entrance. Somewhere far away, Zarius had insisted. The sickness wouldn't come until they lay down to sleep. The hundreds of thousands who lived in Sanaam were dispersed far, working on projects around the city. The men and boys who played cricket worked on new hotels, apartments and entertainment centres. Between them they knew of hectares of unoccupied space. Jack felt the glass jar bounce awkwardly against his hip. He remembered its contents and what he was to do before the night was over.

They neared the tallest building on the palm-lined strip. In the distance was a fairground, long since emptied. Faraway loudspeakers played a strained electronic tune, haunting synthesised pipes echoed over the water. Up close and bathed in green glow, the half-finished cylinder with its unglazed windows looked even more distant and removed. Jack felt that he was someplace else, exploring the remains of a cold and distant civilisation, which like this concrete honeycomb was once mighty but now slowly decaying.

As his friends had described, the padlocked gates were dauntingly heavy. But the fence dipped over a gully creating a gap, one substantial enough for the trio to crawl underneath. Edging towards the honeycomb tower, he caught a glimpse of the deep pit, the foundations for an adjacent office which would perhaps be his burial ground. If you marry this woman, you will be dead tomorrow morning. But don't worry we will give you honours, there is no shame to be buried in this fashion. In our religion, sooner is better. Standing at the edge of the opening, Jack shuddered. In a few hours, would what was left of him be lowered into that hole and sealed there forever.

Inside the yard, metal beams were scattered like straw. Distorted air danced over a still smouldering tank of tar. The acrid tang of bitumen was everywhere. Mounting the scaffold stairs, Jack took the lead with Saira now following behind. He reached the first platform and glanced down. His friend was still standing in the yard. The pair exchanged a glance. A cold chill crawled in his stomach. Zarius strained a smile but he too looked pale and fragile in the neon glare. Whatever was to happen, Jack and Saira were now on their own.

The fourth floor was unoccupied, simply a cold, concrete shell. It was here they would spend their first night as man and wife. Alone together, Jack was suddenly struck by a different fear. Here were they technically, if not in any other way, man and wife. He was very aware of the distance between the two of them in this huge space and he could tell that she too was conscious of his presence. Jack wanted to say a kind word or squeezing her hand, but this would be misinterpreted.

She threw the blankets over the cold concrete and lay down fully clothed, her back towards him. In silence he lay next to her. The walls and windows were unfinished and through the gaps opposing buildings were highlighted in the neon glare. The stench of the bitumen mixed with other chemical tangs.

He could feel Saira's chest heaving in tight, controlled sobs. And yet there was nothing to be said. What would death feel like? Where will I go? What would it like for her to wake up again next to a lifeless body? He thought about Strang, his father Brown, whose name he still shared if not his blood, and his mother in a childhood distantly remembered thanks to the miracle of Nectar. All three, in his imagination, were marooned on an island, fighting sharks, being chased by dogs, mired by all manner of dangers. Perhaps the men were already dead - his mother was beyond this world - and soon Jack would join them.

As his eyes grew heavier, he realised there was something he had forgotten. Was it too late? Hastily, he sat and grappled with his jacket in the darkness until his fingers clasped the glass bottle. The organ had been stewed and strained by Zarius on Asif's stove, producing a fiery red fluid with the consistency of runny, plum jam. In one swig, Jack downed the draft – bracing himself, but grimacing anyway at its septic fire. Keep it down, he had been told. No matter how bad it tastes, you must not be sick or it will give you no advantage. Saira was now lying still. Jack felt his head grow numb. He slept.

Dark, damp but warm, wherever he was, it felt comfortable. He was walking. It was somewhere familiar; an old school, perhaps? Maybe the one in America, where the new boys had to clean the toilets. His thoughts skipped back the sunlit room and the later stages of that chess match. The King's Indian Attack. He had not known the stratagem at the time, but had known of the name afterwards. His pawn to g3, while black responded on the same rank g6. There had been bad news. Someone had disappeared. Someone important.

He was at the edge of a swimming pool. The pale tiles stretched out forever in each direction. Round and round, he circled the glass-still water. A women's voice called out. It was light, musical, and deliciously familiar. She was calling his name.

Slowly he followed her voice as it travelled around each corner of the pool. Finally the sound appeared to rest on its surface, coming from deep below. He could not tell how deep the depths were. The might only be inches deep or it could be miles. There was no way of knowing. He increased his pace, walking faster and faster, now just inches away from the water.

Something at the back of his mind, some involuntary voice, was urging him to go closer and closer, bending his centre of gravity closer to the water, forcing his footsteps to veer closer to the precipice... trying to find the women and her familiar sound.

Now, in his favourite dark dressing gown, as he was staring at his reflection in the bath mirror. Had he been here once? It was so familiar; perhaps he had even had this dream before. The face in the mirror began to twitch and smirk in tiny rapid movements. Slowly his mouth, eyes and cheeks began to contract and bend. He could not control the hideous grimaces but somehow was not afraid. It was as though the muscles were taking their commands from a different brain. This feeling was familiar, it has happened before.

Now he was speaking to himself in a way he did not understand. The words were too fast and made references to things he had never read, ideas he'd never encountered. The contorted face in the mirror was now hideously ugly, almost unrecognisable. It was a stranger's face, with only the slightest resemblance to someone he once knew.

The face was so contorted, so pathetic-looking, it filled him with disgust. He could feel his chest begin to tighten. It would be best to put this person out of their misery. And yet... and yet.... The contorted grey mouth in the mirror – full of fear and anguish – struggled to speak. Lips and jaw moved in slow spasms.

"L-l-l-eave m-m-mee..."

But Jack felt himself laughing uncontrollably, even though he knew it was himself that he was mocking and the weight on his chest grew heavier. "Is that the best you can do?" he roared back.

There was nothing in his heart but disgust. He wanted to torment the creature in the mirror. If this weak fool was his true self, it deserved to be crushed and mocked, deserved for his body to be possessed and mind totally erased.

The figure in the mirror, its features more agitated and anguished than Jack had ever imagined himself. It sobbed: "Zarius! Zarius! Please... please."

And as it cried, its voice became his own and the metal band which had been constraining his chest was removed.

The other voice spoke but this time it came not from the mirror, but from deep within the ground, shaking his entire body. "You will never have her – she cannot be twice-wed."

Jack gasped for breath, sobbing in deep guttural bursts of oxygen. His eyes were wide open. The dark sky was lightening; the green neon glare of the building site had softened. Saira was beside him. Her breathing deep and regular.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE morning was a blur to Jack. They had returned to Khalid's workshop. Hundreds of men standing in their worksuits in groups of two or three, like blotches of blue, black and red, stood wearily to the rollertube as they trundled past them. He and Saira fought their way through the sea of plexiglass helmets.

Word of their marriage had spread. Those friends of Jack who were secretly preparing to find and dispose of his dead body gazed in shock to see him alive and well. The animosity against Saira appeared to immediately lift, perhaps through surprise or an instinctive recognition that she was no longer carried the stigma of death.

They passed untroubled to her father's house. Aamer was working outside on the round axis of the donkey-cycle. The distant hubbub, followed by shouting and then the trail of children running excitedly down the street, alerted him to the homecoming of the extraordinary newly-weds. Khalid's furrowed brow unfolded in amazement as he saw the couple enter his doorway. He embraced both tearfully. There would be a feast, he declared. No expense would be spared.

Jack allowed these things to be done. He was weak, almost faint, ever since the morning sun woke them several hours ago in the half-finished hulk of the office. He and Saira had descended their platform to the empty building yard below. There was no sign of Zarius. After several minutes of calling and searching behind the stacks of girders, they decided to leave before the worksite opened for the day.

Shyly, awkwardly they walked down the boulevard. Daylight gave meaning to the lifeless landscape, the trees, water and even the skeleton buildings seemed to glow with a new, vibrant energy. His dream had left him light-headed. He wanted to tell her everything about his dream, but she stopped him. "I don't need to know," she said flatly. "But I believe that you what you did was very brave and I owe you a debt."

Too tired to be hurt by her short response, he wondered again where his friend Zarius had gone. Had something happened? Why had he abandoned Jack at moment he was most vulnerable?

Back in the house, Jack continued to dwell on this, as Khalid prepared for the promised celebration. Different people entered the house that day to pay their respects. Khalid and his family were outcasts no more; this much was obvious even to Jack, untrained in the etiquette of life in Sanaam. The success of Saira's marriage, the continued survival of her husband, appeared to satisfy the superstitious neighbours. As the day grew longer, Jack found himself facing more and more questions – women visitors asked where he had come from and his family history, old men wanted to know about his schooling. Saira too faced questions – prying but not rude. Jack feared his new wife, bitter with years of being shunned, would lash out in anger against those who had rejected her. Instead she was the perfect hostess, skilfully answering probing questions and parrying those too personal, always saying the right thing, before moving to offer another visitor more tea.

Shortly after sunfall, more men arrived, some of the faces recognisable from the cricket field. The foundations next to the honeycomb building, the pit where he was to be buried under tonnes of concrete, had been filled in that very day. They were glad that there was no need to dispose of him in that way. Food came as a welcome break for the exhausted groom. Dozens of guests had filled the former lobby. Hundreds more filled the streets outside. Khalid had somehow managed to procure enough food to more than satisfy everyone. Empty barrels had been cleaned out and were being used to cook vegetables and rice. Bread and even some meat were also passed around the crowd. As they ate, a group of men produced their instruments – drums, elongated guitars, and the reedy desert pipes Jack had seen played in the market. The music was mournful and slow. One man in the centre of the group began to sing. Asif, who had not left Jack's side, explained it was about a love that the singer had been forced to leave but would eventually rejoin.

Everyone was happy he was still alive apart – it seemed - from Saira. With the crowd's attention distracted by the singer, Jack was eventually able to draw his new wife aside.

"What's wrong?" he asked, trying to win her reluctant gaze, "We're both safe and it looks like everyone's talking to you now."

"These people are imbeciles," she hissed. "They had no decency to show me yesterday, but they change their opinions like the desert wind."

"They're superstitious and afraid and maybe with good reason. We don't know what's happened. How can anyone else understand it?"

"This is the wedding I wanted with my first husband Farrell. I know that I am somehow in your debt, but I can't help wishing that it was you who had died first and Farrell was here now." She stared at the fire, at the musicians, and the crowd, her father laughing heartily at the centre. "I know that's ungrateful and wrong but I can't help what I feel."

Jack thought this was understandable. He tried to think of something to say, something that would put her at ease.

"Saira... What do you want to do about us being married? I mean, I was wondering if you wanted to... see how things worked out."

"A marriage of convenience was what you said. Don't get any ideas that we are actually husband and wife. Do you think I would have agreed to marry you if I hadn't thought you could lift this curse?"

She lowered her voice and suddenly she reached out and gently reached out, to touch his dark hair.

"Do you really want to be married, Jack? Weren't you too only doing this because your friend had told you to? How can you suggest love, when you barely know me?"

She turned and walked through the crowd to sit beside her father, embracing him warmly.

Jack knew it was time for him to leave. His purpose, if indeed he ever had one, was fulfilled. He now faced a long journey to find Strang. For ill, for good, the old man was the one being hunted and chased. He was the one who took an interest in his life, who had, it seemed, fathered him.

Just as this thought settled in his mind, he noticed the rotund figure standing at the fringes of the wedding crowd.

But up close, Zarius appeared quite different from his usual self. His arms hung wearily and the smooth, bulging cheeks were sallow and grey, while his bright eyes dulled and ringed with dark lines. But he managed to raise a weak smile as he saw Jack.

"Well done, my young friend. You have been very successful."

Jack wanted to ask him where he had been but first asked: "What happened? Where have you been?"

"I will tell you, my boy," the musical voice was barely a whisper. "But first you must tell me everything."

Briefly, he described what had happened the night before, of his dream, the swimming pool, how he had bested the man in the mirror and woken up alive and well that very morning.

Zarius was silent for a long time, finally saying: "My dear friend, I had feared that this ordeal was going to be much for you. At the final hour, I cursed myself for placing you in danger. But I was wrong, you are no boy and you were strong where clever and wise men have withered."

"Where have you been? I want an answer."

"I promise to tell you everything - you have shown yourself worthy of my fullest confidence - but not tonight. I just ask for one day of rest then I shall speak more openly than I have done before. We must take our leave this morning and it is probably best not to disturb our hosts.

"But what about Saira and Khalid –"

"Leave a letter by all means. But we have put them in enough danger. We must leave quickly and cleanly. Enjoy this night, enjoy your friends, but make your preparations. We will depart before the sun rises."

Jack did as he was told and, after a few hours of restless sleep, was sitting as the edge of the bed unsure to explain his departure. Finally he settled on a simple message: he was sorry and they should pretend the marriage never took place and forget about him.

Zarius's doughy features had been wiped clean of the strain the night before. But Jack noticed there was something different; he moved and spoke with intent, far from his normal, bumbling manner.

Stepping carefully over the many prone revellers sleeping in the hallway, the companions made their way to the atrium and slowly opened the door.

Saira stood waiting, a bulging rucksack resting by her feet.

"What do you think you're doing!?" Jack hissed.

"I should ask you that."

Apart from her well-worn satchel, Saira was almost indistinguishable from the smartly-dressed women who lived in Media in gown, smart jacket and boots. Turning her head, she spoke not to the companion. "He is my husband and I owe him a debt. You say he has lost his father. I will help but after I have done my duty our bond will be –" she snatched a handful of sand, letting it slip through her fingers.

Jack tried to protest but Zarius simply bowed his head with a flourish, in acquiescence to a better.

"My lady, we are at your disposal."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

JACK inhaled his first proper breath as they passed the security gate. It was a strange sensation to feel the plastic grip of the bracelet again on his wrist. And even stranger to use it without know that if the magnetic tape inside, had been wrongly coded, he could be arrested and jailed for trying to use it. Who knew... maybe even executed.

But perhaps Zarius had been right about Ibn Nahim and his code of honour. The bracelets they'd received in the sauna appeared to work, and the new identities which were crafted for them – along with a generous store of credit - appeared believable enough to the airship stewards who issued their tickets. But Jack knew they were in unchartered territory, there was no guarantee how long their new identities would hold.

It would be an hour before the ship that would take them to Milan departed. From there, they would change for Edinburgh. Jack made to press ahead through the maze of shops and glass corridors but his companion's voice called him back. Zarius was resting on a bench untouched by the tide of travellers, porters and attendants which surged around him. Impatient to press on, Jack and Saira made to heave him up, earning bumps and scowls from the bustling crowd.

"We don't have time for this." He complained, figuring the larger man had still not recovered from his unknown exertions of the last day.

"Sit down."

"We can relax once we've reached the departure gate," Saira sounded more sympathetic.

"Please sit."

They exchanged scowls, but did as instructed. Reaching into the depths of his djelabi, Zarius pressed a fold of paper into Jack's hand and a phial containing the now familiar scarlet fluid.

"Wyvis, go to Ben Wyvis," he jabbed at the sheet. "I've marked it on this map. It's where your father is being looked after. Here's the last of the shark. Remember, it's high in protein."

"Why are you talking like this?"

"I have other work that must be done but you are strong enough, dear boy, to carry on the rest of the journey. If you get into difficulty – ask for help. If you ask for it, I will come."

Jack was silent and then said simply: "You're not my cousin, are you?"

"No."

"So who are you?"

"Don't you have any ideas? Any at all?"

"No, I really don't."

"Not even far fetched ones?" Raphael stretched out his arms. "Ones you think might just be too fantastical."

Tobias hesitated. An idea, distant like the echoes of a dream, was entering his head, like a memory suppressed under water floating to the surface. "Perhaps at first I thought... But it's..."

"... silly, yes I know. That doesn't mean it's not right."

"So you're a..."

"Yes."

"And the organisation you work for that's... and your boss he's..."

"Yes."

Saira looked at the man and boy on the bench, disbelief spreading over her features.

"Wait a minute! Are you joking with us?"

But Zarius just smiled serenely. She could not be sure, but his unblinking eyes seemed unnaturally bright, almost luminous under the artificial lights of the departure hall.

Jack addressed her over his shoulder, speaking quickly: "Don't you see, that's why he can't tell lies or anything like that? And how he always knew what was going to happen... and food! You never – I mean I never saw you, in all that time..."

"Yes. I seemed to eat and to drink with you: but I use an invisible meat and drink, which cannot be seen."

Saira was recoiling in horror, staring at the two men. One of them mad, the younger seemingly lost in a spell. The poor boy, she thought, he's obviously been leading him up the garden path for so long. She dragged him into the crowd, out of earshot of the strange new figure on the bench.

"Are you crazy? You're acting like you believe him!"

"But just think about it, Saira! All the amazing things we've seen?

"That you've seen!" she was disturbed by the way his words tumbled into each other, he had seized on this unlikely idea without question. "I've not seen all this amazing stuff you're talking about."

"But he's always known what to do, he never eats, he helped me beat your curse!"

The hysteria in his voice was too much.

"Jack," her rising anger echoing across the wide corridor, "do you even believe in any of that stuff?"

"Well, not really. But now... now it makes sense."

"Jack, how long have you been taking Nectar for? Too long and it fries your brain, you know that? All those artists and chess players, they don't last that long because they can't tell between hallucination and reality. I've seen people go that way and you're at the border-line, I'm sure. And your friend has definitely passed it unless he was insane to begin with."

But he had already brushed past her and was returning to the seated figure.

"Look, I'm not sure I believe you," he began. "After all I don't go in for all that sort of stuff. But let's say you're right..."

"You have questions," Zarius smiled benignly. "And I'm ready to answer."

"The man I fought in my dream – he was real. It wasn't just a dream, it really was happening in some way."

"Yes, we speak best with you in dreams. It is when the mind is most open to the possibilities outside the world."

Something stirred in Jack's mind. He wrestled with his memories. The women's voice, the one he had heard in the swimming pool of his dreams... but also things more visceral, more recent. "When I was in Berlin – at the airstation – the man who was with me, the one who had lost his hand. I ran away because I remembered. I wasn't sure it was something I had seen in a dream or because of the Nectar."

"You may choose not to believe what you have seen. In some cases the experience will gain a foothold in your memory. Few are willing to believe – but it is those few that are very special. And your next question is..."

"So Saira has really been cursed all these years?"

"WHAT?!" his wife began, "You're kidding right?"

But the older man solemnly nodded his round face so that the soft jowls tumbled slowly up and down.

"But I don't believe." Jack looked exhausted and scared.

"What don't you believe?"

"In... heaven and all that stuff."

Saira butted in, trying to break the spell. "Why are you even listening to this, it's obvious he's been leading you along all this time. I knew he was up to something. Don't you realize that's what they do these cultists – they tell you all these great things are going to happen, and when some of them finally come about, they claim its all hocus-pocus."

"Just because you don't believe doesn't mean you aren't still loved," came the reply.

"Shut up! If you're some sort of messenger for someone who's all powerful why can't you just make things happen? Surely you could just take him to his father."

Zarius sighed and looked around him as he spoke.

"It's really all very complicated." He waved into space as if illustrating his point. "There's a sort of framework of do's and don'ts. I could do as you suggest but then that would be what is known as a 'delict action' interfering with the principal of human agency. But if I directed the boy to an air station it would be a "negotiatable action", meaning that you did all the footwork and I just showed you the way."

It was the vague answer she was expecting. But she couldn't shake off the idea of a circle of light around the reclining figure in front of her. She shook her head. It was ridiculous. But Jack was still caught up in the fantasy, trying to make sense of the extraordinary claim.

"You say you can't interfere, but I would still be in Berlin if I wasn't for you."

"Don't be so sure. I just gave you some pointers when you looked like you were going astray. In the cabaret club, for example, I was the woman you spoke with!"

"Yes I know." Jack sighed. "The disguise wasn't that good."

"And the jolly fat man, do you remember him? The one who gave you his jacket"

"That was you?"

"That's unfortunate that I had to strike you when you tried to buy something you shouldn't have in Rostock. I had to ensure that you stayed away from negative influences. But I think I made it up to you in the end."

"You! You were Kristoph? You beat me!" Memories came flooding back of flailing on the floor of the distant barroom as fists and kicks rained won on him. "Why? Why did you do it?"

For the first time he could remember, the jolly man looked serious and regretful.

"It was for your own good, my boy. I could have warned you about all the things that were to befall you, but there was only one way that you were going to learn."

"That doesn't make sense – you were both on the ship at the same time. I saw you both."

"Did you? Both of us at the same time? Are you sure?"

And Jack wasn't sure. He remembered the late night conversations on the deck with the Pole with the port wine stain on his face. He remembered how Zarius had spent much of the journey sequestered in his quarters, never coming out...

But before he could say more, Saira could contain herself no longer.

"This is utter nonsense. Jack, don't you get how dangerous this guy is. He's actually claiming that he's different people. And that I was actually cursed?"

Zarius bowed his head apologetically. "So what do you think it was, my dear? Your husbands, I mean."

"Coincidence. All of these things are."

"I make no comment, my dear."

"Rubbish! You're saying you did some sort of spell to cure me."

"Well Jack did the hard part to be fair. But, yes, when he fought and triumphed against the unwelcome spirit, it took on a weakened form. I chased him from your wedding room, out of the building and into the desert. I grabbed him in my arms, he transformed himself first into a serpent, then an eagle, then a lion. But each time I only increased by grip further. Eventually he submitted and I bound his arms, taking him to the place that I had been prepared. When your friends arrived, they filled in the hole themselves with liquid stone under my direction."

In the time it took for Zarius to speak, hundreds of different faces had walked past the bench. Some were intent on travelling, others recently returned. It felt like the whole of humanity was passing them by – each set on their own trajectories, mindful only of their own business.

The porter by the entrance was ringing a hand bell. Saira looked anxiously at the clock on the wall. "We've got to go, Jack. Leave him, come with me. He's either a lunatic or a charlatan; either way he's revealed himself now."

But there was something else he needed to ask, something which stirred in his memory.

"The book you had, Zarius. I thought it was your diary... but when I picked it up, it was written like a dictionary. I'm mentioned in it. So is my dad. It tells you things, doesn't it? Like what's going to happen in the future."

"Well, yes... it's not exactly the future. More like a very strong suggestion about what might happen. I was angry with you, my boy, because there are things in there that would be harmful for you to know. People who read about their own prospects eventually go mad."

Saira snorted ironically, as she pulled Jack by the sleeve. But here was something he needed to ask. A question trapped in his head, buzzing like a fly trapped in a room.

Zarius continued. "Of course, I don't really need the book. I already know what is going to happen to you and everyone else for that matter."

"What?"

"Yes, I've always known. Right from the beginning of time I have known what I would be doing throughout the ages. I have spent the aeons rehearsing these events, this very conversation, in my head."

"Then why do you need the book."

"Sometimes I... get a little hazy about what I should be doing. It's there to remind me. Kind of an aide memoir that's given out to stop us going off track."

"How can you forget what you're doing when you've had since the beginning of the universe to memorise it all?

"There's a lot to remember. It's not just you I'll help. Millions of people will see me before the end of time. It's not all harp playing and glorious choir... but your wife is right, of course." Zarius bounced to his feet, the roll of flesh around his stomach jiggling slightly under his robe. "You pair had best head off right now. It won't be much of a honeymoon if you miss your flight."

Saira and Jack backed away, still unsure of what to believe or expect. Fleshy hands gently directed them towards to gate ahead. As they approached the entrance, Jack remembered his final question. But Zarius had gone.

BOOK THREE

WATER
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ALEX Malloch was used to the intermittent rainfall. The veil of water was fine, sometimes heavy, but ever-present. Someone in the pub had once tried to explain why the mountains drew such weather. The story had involved high bands, low bands and air streams. Alex had not understood but was glad there existed a good and proper reason for the way of things.

The tarmac had long since worn away. They had forgotten about this road, people said. But from decades of experience of riding, Alex and his horses knew every dint and chink on the track. A few hardy enthusiasts, most from Edinburgh, would sometimes venture out in the hillside to stalk deer or shoot birds. Alex didn't care for the hills or those who went up them, although he liked their money. Those who still kept livestock as a concern had to brave the weather – beasts had to be fed no matter the time of year. But people who chose to go out in the hills for pleasure? They needed their heads looking at!

He could tell the couple sat in his carriage below were destined to get in difficulty. City people who believed heat suits worth thousands of credits would compensate for their lack of mountaincraft. Those with money could make arrangements for the police to come looking if they failed to return, but there was no such insurance for those without ready credits. Public spirit had been another casualty of the energy crash.

He flashed a glance in his mirror at the faces in the window of his cab. The tall youth was no more than a boy but with an unusual, serious expression. Although his skin was marked by the sun, his complexion would naturally be pale and ill-fitting clothes were loose and creased. The woman was dark skinned with fine features and brilliant green eyes. She too was clad in light, summery clothes, which seemed to taunt the rainfall outside. To Alex's ears both spoke in the clipped tones of the English upper classes.

They had asked to be dropped at Ben Wyvis when he had picked them from the railstation. When Alex had tried to elicit specific directions – did they intend to head for Braemore or follow the trail as far as Ulla – he was met with uncertainty. Just take them to the mountain, anywhere was fine.

***

Wind sliced at Saira's ears, each chop followed by a splatter of rain on her flimsy plastic top. It was she who had remembered to buy the anoraks as they left the airstation in Inverleith. Both still had the clothes they had worn in Sanaam. Unfortunately, neither had thought of footwear. Their first steps onto the spongy slopes immediately revealed the inadequacy of their desert soles. Every subsequent step was damp, cold and heavy. Jack travelled empty-handed and Saira carried only a small shoulder bag containing a few spare clothes.

"Where exactly does it say?" she had hissed to him as the taxi travelled closer.

Jack examined again the folded map Zarius had given them at the airstation. He already knew there was no answer but pretended again to study the familiar clumsy contours on the parchment.

"It only gives a rough location" he admitted, scanning slopes blanketed with purple heather. "But I'm sure that it'll become obvious as we climb. When we get to the top we'll be able to spot wherever he is."

Jack did not want to be dragged down. He felt only relief. Even in the rain, the mountain was a beautiful sight; a fitting end to their journey. It could take them no more than an hour, probably less, to climb, find his father and take him far away... perhaps then there would finally be answers. And yet, in spite of their imminent success, Saira was being despairingly pessimistic, unwilling to let the rescue take its course.

"You mean we have no idea what we're looking for?"

"A cave, a hut, maybe a tent. Something like that. Whoever it is that is helping him has something up there."

"That carriage driver thought we were nuts to stop here. I do too."

It was a strange complaint from someone who had been living at the edge of the desert, but Jack didn't share this thought with his wife.

Wife. The airship journey had given him some time to think about this word. Neither he nor Saira had spoken their minds about their union – instead exchanging puzzled theories about Zarius and how he had led them blindly to this point. Of all the strange things that had happened since leaving Germany this marriage between them was perhaps the third or fourth most unexpected.

He imagined trying to explain this fact to his friends, those he regarded his peers. And how would they respond to the fact that he was now a husband? They would surely ask about sex. And if they did what could he tell them? Would he and Saira eventually bow to their status and lie together? There had been at least two occasions when she had reached grasped his hand as he spoken about his fears for his father. But all the certain facts Jack had possessed about woman had evaporated. He could no longer tell the difference between the initial sparks of attraction and the signals of honest friendship. In truth, he did not feel any desire for Saira – despite her beauty – and probably she felt even less for him.

Wind lashed again at his face. He gritted his teeth and followed his bride up the steep slope, grasping for clumps of grass that would stop him toppling backwards. Soon they were both scrambling hand and foot up the bleak hillside. His sense of achievement evaporated as he saw the vast carpet loom above him. There was no obvious footpath and now both were damp and soaking. After several breathless minutes, the couple stopped. As they sank behind a wind-etched boulder, a rabbit scuttled past them into the safety of the dull heather.

Saira looked at Jack accusingly, but in silence.

***

NEVER had so few words been worth so much to Alex Malloch. The carriage driver and his casual complaint, would earn a small fortune for the informant by the end of the night.

Of course, no-one thought much about it as the red-faced cabbie railed against the couple from the railstation. How, despite their flimsy clothing and clear ignorance of the conditions, they were determined to scale the mountain. As he pulled away, even the horses had looked on in despair. The driver had seen it a dozen times before – city people returned to safety, draped in blankets, sheepish looking and the stern words of rescuers ringing in their ears.

Logs crackled on the open fire, helping those inside forget the fierce downpour which lashed against the tiny glass windows. Beer and music kept the drinkers' attentions inside.

But one man had taken an interest. He had listened sympathetically, gently teasing out further details about this eccentric pair. Where had they travelled from? What were they wearing? Why had they travelled so far? After judging that he had got as much useful information as could be got, the man was seen slipping out of the bar, paying the tab for the driver's drink.

The woman, the boy. Both had come, just as had been predicted. They could not have gone too far. The red-faced man would be well paid for his information. Reaching the post office, he woke the town's weary wep operator and dictated a message. HEISHERE/STOP/COME.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SAIRA'S wet trousers were sticking to her body. He could see the shape of her legs, her bottom, beneath the soaking material as she climbed above him. Months of living in the harsh conditions of Sanaam – her excursions into the sand dunes – gave her a lean strength he didn't possess. But despite the alluring view, Jack could only muster the energy to think about his next footstep.

Looking over her shoulder, Saira could read his pained expression feeling in her gut that their ascent was to prove fruitless. There would be nothing in the hillside and daylight was fading. Even if they descended to the broken road before nightfall, it could be days before another vehicle passed. She should have known better than to allow her child-husband to navigate their position. He was soft; unused to the trials of outdoor living.

The cross on the map they had been given was clear. What it denoted was another matter. Saira scanned the slopes around her but could see nothing but undulating banks of green, interrupted only by families of broken boulders. As the howling wind retired, the sheep called out for an encore. Grasping handfuls of wiry heather, they pulled themselves upwards. As they climbed, the landscape melted into fog.

Jack adjusted the bracelet, still stiff on his wrist. How far had they climbed? It must have been an hour at least since they had left the cab. There was no rain but he could feel droplets of moisture in the air attaching to his body without the need to fall. Groping in the mist for certainty, mounds of heather gave way to rocky ground in which a clear path could finally be seen.

A sudden noise, the open-mouthed hiss of an animal, just a few feet away caught Jack by surprise. His canvas-clad foot slid on the wet stone causing his body to surge towards the groundless sky. He wavered momentarily, floundering for balance. Saira grabbed his arm; her hands wet, clammy and frozen. For a moment Jack felt he was floating in limbo. He neither fully occupied either air or land. The position of his feet – a matter of such importance only a few moments ago - now no longer had any bearing on his survival. Producing a growl seeming incapable of her slender frame, Saira dug her heels against a jutting ridge of rock and heaved until they collapsed into the hillside. Numb with shock, neither said anything about the sound which startled him. If some animal were on the hillside, they could see nothing through the fog and had no choice but to resume their climb.

Jack focused on his footsteps, looking two or three steps ahead. The mist began to thin. Patches of bright blue broke through the vapour. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but in the distance below he could see... a figure, a man standing on the rocks, their head crowned with glorious light, like a rainbow bent into a brilliant circle of colour. His gasp drew Saira's attention.

"It's a trick of the light..." she squinted at the apparition. "Your own shadow reflected on the clouds. A Brockenspectre. It's not uncommon to see them in the mountains, usually bigger ones than this."

"What about the light around the head? The rainbow?"

"It's the way the light refracts through the water droplets – just like a normal rainbow."

Sure enough, he recognized the slouched weary shoulders. And when he raised his arms the distant silhouette, gave back a distant salute. Cutting through the wispy ribbons of fog, he gulped down his surprise as the ghostly shadow followed them, darting behind thickets of worn scrub, sometimes dropping back, but always mocking the teenager's weary gait and doubled-over stance.

Suddenly, they stepped out into the clear out of the rain and cloud into brilliant sky and... heat. Jack could scarcely believe the inversion. Both stripped off their clinging plastic anoraks. Looking back down the hill nothing they could see nothing except an impenetrable blanket of moisture.

Above them was the final slope. Steep cliffs, turreted with the same broken black rock, frowned upon them, hiding the summit. Tufts of heather sprouted through the cracks; the only sign of life. Flat stone walls gave no quarter and surrounded the top in a near perfect circle of rock.

Slowly they circumferenced the citadel, testing the broken rock with their plimsolled feet.

"Where now?" Saira moaned. "You said the way would be obvious."

Jack could not reply. If they stayed on the hill, they would only more cold. He pulled back on his clammy anorak and gazed upwards. Midway up the black rock, there was a distinct line of scree and vegetation which ran jaggedly towards the precipice.

"There looks lies a route up there."

"Are you crazy? You'll kill yourself doing that."

"You stay down here. Once I get up I'll be able to get a proper look for miles around and spot any shelters or tents."

"You're really going to do it?"

"See there," he pointed to the zig-zag of broken stone. "There are enough steps in it to pull myself up. It'll be like walking up a staircase."

"We don't have any ropes and the rock is soaking wet and... Look we can come back if you really want."

He wasn't listening. The idea was not in his imagination anymore. It was the route – the only route - to whatever secrets were on that peak. His old arrogance had not been entirely demolished by his adventures. And before his wife could speak again, he strode purposefully towards the barrier.

Up close he realised the ascent would be no walk up the stairs. The wall was chunky and riddled with cracks providing ample holds for his feet and hands. Uncertain hands gripped the first jutting boulder above his head. He tested his weight. It held without giving measure. Satisfied, he placed his foot in a broken crack and hauled himself upwards, catching a second shelf of black stone with his right hand.

Saira, meanwhile, stayed silent considering whether it would be best to grab this stupid youth and pull him from the rock face yet she was torn by spectatorship. The first few metres were straightforward and looking down, Jack saw he was already well above the fractured rock floor.

Would his courage fail him? There was now only one way. He hauled further grabbing a firm outcrop of rock and bringing his left foot onto a ridge filled with green moss. His arms were tingling now and he felt a shudder in his stomach which carried up his body, settling in his clenched jaw. Looking upwards, he saw a further clump of stone and jamming his hand into the space, so that it wedged tightly, he trusted this position and pulled his right leg to a ledge almost parallel with his chest. The movement seemed almost untenable and yet he held firm onto the rock. Moving his other arm to an outcrop above his head, he pushed hard on this leg and gained further distance.

Below Saira felt entirely powerless. She could do nothing – and it was too late for Jack to descend. A fall at this height on to the broken black stones would mean serious injury if not death.

The scale of his recklessness was now swift dawning upon him. Looking below, the ground swelled towards him. Shaking arms stung with pain and his heart was pounding in his chest harder than he had ever felt before. He pushed onwards with his legs. The next handhold was easy and he grew in confidence with his next lift yet this was not to last as he climbed further.

Down below, Saira was an insect, as was he to her. His eyes watered as they measured the distance back to the plateau and the untested security of the pebble path he thought he had seen. And if he was wrong? If it was no more than a few loose chunks of stone, what then? Tentatively he edged his foot to the ledge above. Small steps. That was the key. The shoes he had worn in the desert were surprisingly sticky against the rocks despite their wet, gleaming appearance.

As his body grew smaller to her, Saira contemplated the possibility of being widowed yet a seventh time. But their whole enterprise was wrong. What would they even do when they found the father? Son and father could travel to a new place, a safer place, if there was such a thing, but hat then? Would she go back to the dry city of Sanaam to live in solitude, carrying out her tests in the desert or fulfill the desperate vow she had taken only days ago.

Her thoughts returned to the distant insect on the mountainside, now only metres from the gravel slope and what he hoped was safety. Despite burning anger at his selfishness, she could not help a grudging admiration for his physical courage.

His arms quivered with tension as he neared the ledge that was now so close. It was a solid path! The small but distinct trail of broken gravel was punctuated by cracked shelves of stone which formed a natural staircase across the face of the black rock citadel. Just a couple more inches and his fingers free from their terrible burden.

Thinking too far ahead, he allowed his tired limbs to relax. Breathing heavily and with his legs shaking at the knees he pulled himself up further – expecting at any moment to topple backwards towards death. His fingers slipped as he made the final lunge at a protruding stone above the ledge but quickly slapped onto the wet surface, sliding on the moss-covered rock before halting. Pulling with all his might, he brought his left foot level with this and hauled himself onto the ledge with a gasp of surprise and relief.

Heaving for breath he stared straight into the dying blue sky, finally daring to lean forwards and wave to his wife below. He opened his mouth as if to scream but no sound came out.

In the mist beyond the plateau where Saira stood, a figure was moving in the gloom. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the dying sun and then again to the towering silhouette praying to see the rainbow glow of the Brockenspectre. But there was no halo this time which adorned its head.

Down below, Saira saw surprise in her distant husband's features. She turned to see the strands of fog fall away from the emerging shadow.

The woman who approached was old and bony in body, but flowed with a restless intensity, her eyes flickering with unassailable pride.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A faint glow of a gas-lantern cast a measly light onto the sodden slopes, as Jack and Saira scraped their lungs for breath. Every few metres, the woman would turn to ensure they had not fallen behind.

Swiftly and surefootedly, she picked her way through the crumbling pathway, while the sodden wet travellers stumbled behind. Despite their exhaustion, there was something about her imperious glare which spurred them on.

To their relief, there was an easier way off the cliffside than the lethal route Jack had taken to ascend. Using only a few barked commands, she had told him how to find the iron hook in the slope hammered in many decades ago and unstrung a fine but tough rope from her shoulders, swinging the grapple hook up to him and slowly lowering him to safety. Saira grabbed him as his feet touched the surface, unsure whether she should strike him. Instead they both held each other, shivering in fear and cold.

The woman said nothing. Her face was burnished with age, yet the smooth skin was taut and free from lines. It was hard for him to say what age she was. Perhaps she had seen her sixtieth year, maybe she was older? But her ramrod straight back suggested strength beyond her years. Dark waterproof trousers were paired with a green jacket of similar material and a close-fitting hood covered her iron-flecked hair. She met their examination with black, bottomless eyes

"You're late," her voice was gravely and thick. Turning on her heel, she started to walk down the hillside, leaving the couple mouthing a silent response. The stern voice called them: "Well, aren't you coming then?"

Thus they retraced their steps down the hillside. Or at least they seemed to. Clumps of rock, a patch of mountain scrub, seemed familiar at first. But neither remembered the twisting path. Jack's limbs still trembled from the climb, and Saira, too, was drained from watching his reckless stunt. Neither had the energy to question this fierce old creature.

"Hurry! Neither of you are strong enough to walk far in the night."

"Where are we going?" Saira didn't like to be ordered around; and liked less that she had no other choice. "You've not told us who you are."

"Not far. Keep moving."

Never a straight answer. Jack remembered his first encounter with Zarius many months ago. Questions were met with blunt refusals or evasion. There was no good reason how this woman could have known of their presence, no explanation as to why she should be looking for two strangers in the wilderness. And yet, somehow, it seemed natural and right that they should follow. Perhaps it had been destined to happen, the details of their meeting written in the margins of his friend's book of forecasts.

As they emerged from the mist and, even through the fading light, Jack and Saira were taken aback at the beauty of the valley below. No lights, roads or pylons could be seen; there was no fingerprint of human activity. The brow of the hill collapsed into broken rock cascading in front of them.

Their guide was now marching along very edge of the cliff, looking around her as if to check for the presence of others. Then calling, she pointed and they saw it. A thin path ran down the face of the rock, the slightest misjudgement would mean a fall hundreds of feet onto the rocks below. Jack's heart sank when he realised what was to come.

Silently, the capable old woman unwound her rope, expertly securing the line to Saira's waist

"There is a gap in the rock. It isn't far. You will see the entrance. Untie yourself when you're inside."

It was Jack' turn to watch helplessly as his wife stumbled down the narrow ledge, her knuckles whitening on the rockface. He leant over to follow her progress but was called back by a fierce word from the strange woman. After a few moments, he heard Saira's voice.

"It's okay. I'm in."

The empty rope returned to the hilltop. Strong hands grabbed his belt as the line was fed across his own waist and tied tight. Tired and barely able to move his feet to the slippery ledge, his hands scoured the wall looking for security. Eventually, he edged himself along, feeling the rope slip behind him as it followed his progress.

It was now almost dark, yet he could still see the glistening surface of the rock in the half-light. There was a gap, a blank space of darkness in the face of the cliff. As he was lowered closer, the opening in the rock face widened into view. It about four feet high and wide enough to admit a person through. Pulling himself into the gap, he ducked low to avoid a collision with the unseen roof.

A faint glow leaked from behind the curtain loosely erected across the sides of the tunnel. Brushing away the side of the sheet, he saw Saira knelt by a bundle of animal furs and rags. In the centre of the cave, a small fire crackled and spat.

A kettle and pots were placed neatly beside a camping rucksack and several large containers. There a strong, overpowering smell, the decaying sweetness of rotten fruit mixed with the tang of sewage.

Jack was about to speak when he felt a tug around his midriff. The rope. He had not untied it. Fumbling with numb hands, he eventually managed to free the knot and the lined slipped away from him, past the curtain and out of sight.

Saira turned towards him, tears filled her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I think we're too late." She pulled back the animal covers to reveal a familiar shape. Scored with new lines upon his face and eyes more sunken than he had ever seen, there was no mistaking the figure of Strang. Gasping, Jack fell to his knees and fumbled over the covers to clasp his hand.

But there was no sign of recognition. The old man's body was bathed in sweat but shook in the cold evening air. His mouth opened but it only to allow his tongue to wet dry lips.

Saira sat in silence for several minutes, studying, listening to the deep breaths. Finally she pulled a glowing stick from the embers holding it close to the prostrate figure's frozen eyes.

"There's no reaction. Whatever else is wrong with him, he can't see."

"What you mean he's gone blind?"

"It was a bird. A bird did it to him." The deep voice rasped behind them. The woman had lowered herself into the space and in the dim light seemed bulkier and fiercer than the wiry figure on the hillside. "An animal's discharge is a powerful thing. Not to be trifled with – it kill a man as easily as poison."

She paused and for a moment, a soft look crossed her impassive features. "I don't think... that he's got long to go, son."

But Jack was calm. The woman's voice again – melodic and so familiar. It was, he remembered, the voice he had heard in his dormitory in Berlin, handling a half-read airphone message as the Nectar surged through his bloodstream. It was the voice he recognised, before he lost a father and gained a new one. Before he met Zarius, heard his divine claims or read his leather-bound notebook. They were gentle words he knew he would never hear again. The speaker had sunk below the waves.

But wherever he was – in whatever state of mind – there was only one course of action. Fishing into his anorak, he drew out the small jar. Suspended in the salty oil fluid, the fist gut winked in the fire light like a tiny pickled eyelid.

Without any sense of his previous revulsion, he squeezed the shrivelled grey matter between his fingers, managing to wring out a few drops of yellow moisture.

Saira handed him a cloth tissue. "Here use this."

He laid soaked the material in the putrid fluid; he bowed low in the style one did from father to son, and gently bathed the man's closed eyes, squeezing the paste into the lids.

The old man said nothing but slowly the muscles around his tired mouth melted into a smile. His eyes flicked open pale hand grasped the wrist which hovered above his face with wrenching strength. He spoke.

"My son! My beautiful son..."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IT was two days before Strang was strong enough to leave the hiding place, and longer still before Jack learned his story.

As his fever diminished, the old man slept but was able to eat and drink a few sips from the canteen. Sheonagh was semi-present, scouting backwards and forwards to the cave carrying fresh water and legs of deer or sheep, skinned and ready to go on the fire. Where the rest of the animal went was anyone's guess.

Jack surveyed the few battered possessions that filled the smoky cave. In a large canvas rucksack were mostly practical possessions: clothes, stove, rope, and tools. But in a battered old tin, there were the scratched wooden figures which he instantly recognised.

Drawing his finger along the dusty, soot-lined floor, he sketched out the squares of a board, laying the little figurines in the correct order.

Pushing the king's pawn forward, he waited. The question was what would the old man play? Strang appeared puzzled when he finally awake. His eyes focussed on the pattern scraped in the dust, the little figures standing patiently awaiting their orders. Then he smiled, gently nudging the black pawn to the spot Jack remembered.

"I remember this game," the older man croaked. "It was the first time you showed any promised at it."

The sunlit room, the dust which clung in the air and swam between the pieces on the board. How was it that he had buried the memory? Jack had not been able to see into the past and yet more memories of the man now sat in front of him came flooding back.

"Why is it I couldn't remember you? I thought, I thought – the other man, that he was my father."

"And that's exactly what you were supposed to think."

"And the other man? Who is he? I mean, I know who he is but why have I grown up believing that he's my..."

"Lots of questions," the hand hovered over the queen's knight shakily. "I'm afraid you won't like the answers but you deserve them, my God! If anyone does, you deserve to know the truth."

Sarah skirted to the edge of the cave pretending to be examining the contents of her rucksack. The grey fingers of the older man lifted up the queen from her resting place and held her up above the dim embers of the fire.

"What do you remember about your mother Jack?"

A women's voice singing. Long, auburn hair being brushed before the mirror. The sound of a carriage. Breaking glass. A body swimming out onto the water.

"She died. I never talked about it with you or ... him, John Brown, I mean. But people said things. There was a break-in when we were out. We lived in the countryside then, near the Firth, to be near to the hydro plant you were building. She was found in the water by the shore."

"Yes, in the water. That's what we said. That's what everyone believed."

Jack's stomach tightened. His mind was racing over the possibilities.

The older man, his face clouded with sorrow, placed the piece back on the board as he continued to speak. "We didn't want to deceive you. But neither did we want you to be at risk. Protection that's what we wanted to give you. Protection from the world... protection from her."

"What do you mean? Do you mean..."

"Come on son! You can remember can't you? I mean the drugs haven't totally obliterated your memories. You were eight years of age; old enough to remember me and old enough to remember what happened that day."

"No, I don't know what you're talking about." He wanted to run, but was rooted in the gloomy space, his eyes flitting between the untidy ranks of white and black figures and his father's penetrating glare.

"The night," the old man hissed, "when she tried to take you, her own son. The night, she revealed herself for who she truly was. When she showed that she would stop at nothing to get her hands on what me and John had made."

The sound of gushing water filled Jack's ears. He felt the cold burn his wrist and tight fingers dragged him through the sharp, coastal grass and towards the shore. The chill cut of wind tore his cheeks as the estuary waters surged against the pebbles. A woman's voice; calling, cajoling, ordering him to hurry on his way. His young mind – somehow attuned to the dangers of his situation – called for him to resist or to run. But that familiar voice, those maternal urgings, compelled him to follow in trail towards the water. As the icy water licked his slippers and gown, a powerful beam of light – like the gaze of some distant deity - fell on the mother and child. Voices could be heard calling his name, dogs barked for a scent, and fiery beacons jumped-ever closer in the distance as the searchers who held them skipped over the shore. The desperate fingers which gripped his collar and dug into his rubs, clung on for a few final seconds, before the woman beside him turned and fled into the night, never to be seen again. Lights, dogs, voices, all of it overwhelming... he could focus on nothing now but the sound of the water and the crashing currents of the Forth.

"Why didn't I know until now..." He looked at the man across from him, who wore and expression of deep regret and something else too... shame.

"My dearest Jack," his voice was broken with emotion. "The drugs, it's the drugs, which have stopped you from remembering."

"How did you know about ... I mean I've not told anybody about the Nectar."

Strang's blinked in confusion, but then added: "Nectar? It's nothing to do with Nectar, my boy. Quite the opposite, we felt... it would be safer that way. Your mother, you see, she only ever wanted our designs. Hydro stations, I'm sure you realise, where quite the novelty back then. They still are. The first prototype, almost ready to be commissioned, the blueprints for it were priceless. Countries, multicorps, they would pay any amount to get their hands on our plans. Your mother, she was always an ambitious lady, we both were both were. But I never realised how ambitious until that night; never realised how far she would go to carry out her threats."

"What happened that night?"

"She wanted the plans. I was working late at the plant but she came to me. You were there with her; you'd been brought as a bargaining chip I suppose. She gave me an ultimatum, either I made copies of the documents there and then or she would take you with her. And you would both be going over the bridge."

"She had threatened before, threatened and tried to persuade me that there were other opportunities, better opportunities elsewhere in the world. We could take the technology anywhere, revitalise the lost continents, restore the great cities of America, bring Africa back into the Known World. But my loyalty was bought and the designs were not mine alone to give, I couldn't give them over without my friend John's permission."

"What happened when she ran? Did you... Did the Butlers... ?"

"No. The honest answer, I don't know."

"Then she's alive then? My mother is still alive and I didn't know about it?"

The old man's wavering voice steadied with a steely resolve. "I hope with every grain of dirt in my body, that she is dead and her body is dust. What that woman made me do – what she forced us to do. The deception we forced upon you."

"What do you mean?"

"The drugs. It's why you can't remember what happened. About your mother. About me. And why you believed for so long that John Brown was your father. After we found you by the water, it shook me more deeply than you can imagine. If your mother could betray me like that, if you could be threatened, who knew what other spies were out there. I was a simple man, I didn't have expensive tastes, nor did I understand or care for the security arrangements my friend prized so highly. In my eyes, you were safer with John than you were anywhere else in the world. Plus my work was taking me across the world setting up new hydro plants, places like Media. I couldn't guarantee your safety abroad so I devised a way to keep you safe but still in contact."

"But why don't I remember!"

"Because the human brain isn't just a mixing pot. It's a sieve." The old man snapped back. "People keep hold of the stuff it needs and lets everything else go! You're too young to know but before there was Nectar, there were a whole range of other substances. Drugs that make you forget as well as remember. We decided, may God forgive us, that the greatest risk to you was the memory of your mother. We decided it was better for you to forget..."

"All these months I thought it was Nectar that was making me crazy. The dreams I've been having. It was you all along!"

"It was the only way to protect you."

Jack stood up, scattering white and black figures across the floor of the cave. He could see Saira staring at them transfixed, her mouth framed in silent shock. "No! I don't believe you. You didn't have the right."

"You don't understand how dangerous she'd become. If she'd come for you again, if you'd gone with her, I'd never have forgiven myself."

"You could have stayed here and been a proper father to me, instead of this web of deception and..." Jack paused as if in sudden shock. "My memories, I want them back. I want to remember everything."

"I can't give you that. The drugs don't work like that."

"Antidote, then."

"There isn't one. You can't control what you remember. You can't control what you forget. Nectar can help people go looking for what they lost but you know yourself, it seems, that it's far from reliable and its results are questionable."

"You know what you told me though... after you wiped my brain."

"We stuck as close to the truth as possible –"

"Apart from telling me my mother was dead and that my father's best friend was my father."

"We told you only the things that would have kept you safe and allowed you to lead a normal life."

"Normal life! Have you any idea where I've been over the last few months. If your plan has worked so well how come I've been chased around the world? How come you've been hounded out of your home?"

"Jack, Jack, my boy. Let me explain–"

"I wish I'd never come here. I wish you'd let me drown in the water that night."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

SHEONAGH had shown little surprise at the sick man's recovery and the restoration of his sight, little surprise about anything at all. The cave was evidently known to her and had taken him directly from her cabin, where they had been hiding some miles away, bringing supplies along as well.

How she had managed to avoid detection by the Butlers? His father, perhaps too weak to give a full explanation, only smiled at first. But slowly the details emerged. There had been an ambushed as they returned from an inn. But somehow the woman had managed to fend off the attack, avoiding or perhaps even incapacitating the assailants, before taking flight with Strang to the hills, carefully backtracking and laying false trails on the way.

Jack tried as hard as he could to remember the cold, arrogant figure he had grown up resenting. Squeezing his eyes shut, he blocked away his father's pale face and weak, trembling arms and focussed on the great wrong that had been done to him. The change that had been wrought in his own mind through deliberate exposure to the drug... the truth that his mother – a would-be murderess - was alive.

He listened as the shaking figure told of his attempts to make amends to the wrongs of the past. How he had hoped to share his discovery with the world. But Brown, his partner was always the worldlier, had already read the dangers. If his best friend's wife could threaten her only son to get her hands on the designs for the first hydropower plant – what would a stranger do? Would Anne-Marie Strang return to carry out what she failed to complete.

The security arrangements were comprehensive. Strang and Brown were now rich and powerful men. Jack was shifted from school to school, always the most privileged, the most secluded.

"I was finally persuaded it was for the best that you were was introduced as Brown's own child for fear your mother found out," he whispered in the darkness. "He had no son of his own and he enjoyed the little chats you had. I felt I could still be part of your life and guide you from the sidelines. I see now how wrong I was, especially as the man who I trusted betrayed all the young ideals we had strived for. We swore we would share our findings with the world, regardless of profit or riches. Instead he wants to sit on our finding – our greatest finding – while whole cities and nations sink into darkness.

"But after so long, after so many years, why now? What made you stop going along with it?"

Strang explained about Liddell, the yellow press publisher, whose pamphlets had all of Edinburgh agog at the corporation's business dealings.

"It was careless of me to help the widow of that poor man, knowing how your uncle's spies were everywhere. I should have found a better way of easing my guilt but I couldn't help thinking about my own family. The way I had let you down."

There was a new element to his personality, a sort of glowing light. The old Strang, with his demanding scientific mind, would never have spoken this way about rights and ideals. Jack did not recognise the warm, fiery eyes which warmly welcomed Saira, clasping her hand and placing his own on her cheek, unperturbed that his teenage son was now married. Hearing of the deadly intent of the pursuers, she could not help but wonder why they wanted the harmless old man sitting amid the animal skins.

"Surely, they know you are now powerless. Why do they want to kill you? This is a company you helped create and the man who is chasing you is, was, your friend?"

"My dear girl, the man was once like a brother. He dearly loved me and I him. All I can think of is that the same level of emotion that was love has now returned as hate."

"But you can't do any harm to them. If they can erase your bracelet and force you from your home – they have already made you powerless. Why continue the chase?"

Finally Sheonagh voiced her opinion. "They continue the hunt because it is fun. They enjoy the kill. There is no other reason. Even with your sight, you will be lucky to confound them."

They resolved to allow themselves one more day before beginning their journey but Sheonagh's dark words lingered long into the evening.

"If you are to leave, we must leave tomorrow morning. I will be back before dawn. Get sleep because it will be a four hour walk to the town and you are still weak," she spoke to Strang. A gale shook the curtain that covered their entrance so it flapped and crackled.

"Don't go. It's too bad out there", Jack says. Sheonagh laughed and even John coughed a chuckle.

"Sheonagh is hardier than anyone I have ever met, if she says she will be back before dawn then she will be."

Saira slept restlessly that night. Both men were too exhausted to be distracted by the entrance sheet as it snapped in the wind, but the lingering expectation of Sheonagh's return kept her awake.

Above the ember glow, she was struck by the resemblance between the two men. Although the father was still weak, his brow and jaw were quite the same set as his son's. She remembered her own homecoming, returning to her father in Media after her flight from London. The fire coughed its final sounds, sending out a faint orange mist which ebbed against the damp rock walls. How long had this cave been used as a shelter by those trapped in the mountains?

Did anyone else know about it or did the secret now belong to Sheonagh alone? Insulated from the world outside and far away from any human activity, there was something timeless about the space. Years could pass as hours without any changes to its appearance. Gradually she allowed herself to be hypnotised by the dying glow.

***

Strang's first steps in two weeks were not as difficult as he had feared. Slow, yes. But the illness which gripped him was beginning to relinquish its hold. With the new plastic band firmly secured to his left wrist and a stout stick in his hand, he dismissed Jack and Sheonagh's suggestion that they carry him over the first hurdle of the narrow entrance ledge. Instead, leaning on his son's shoulder he negotiated the rock shelf with relative ease although Sheonagh insisted once more using the rope support.

Leaving behind almost all the equipment in the cave ("We'll travel faster. I'll come back for it," the mountain woman opined), they started their descent, following the brow of the hill as it sloped towards the valley, where a silver body of water lay resting. Tiny brown birds – ptarmigan, Saira recognised them – shy, nested almost invisible in the boulders while proud red grouse hid in the heather-clad moorland. Their pace was much slower than before.

Strang hobbled as fast as he could with the support of his son and daughter-in-law. The morning frost had failed to solidify the slope, still slippery with mud, but a series of broken rocks formed a patchy staircase down towards the loch. After half an hour of slow progress they were on an even level and had joined a trail which circumferenced the water.

The sky was blue smudged by strands of grey. The grass still glazed with frost. The water was still, like a clear mirror, with no animal, no insect, breaking its surface.

"I remember when there was fish in these waters." The old woman's voice came from nowhere. "So much that you barely had to put your nose in the water and one would jump into your mouth."

The others said nothing. Sheonagh's expressions had a way of unnerving them. Her midnight eyes examined the stumbling figure propped by the younger pair. "Do you need to rest?"

"No, we'll keep going," Strang puffed, "I'm fine."

It took a further hour to reach the other side of the loch. The pebbled path was solid and fringed with receding frost. Despite his grit, John's legs were weaker than his resolve. During their rests, their guide would walk ahead, looking this way and that. Her behaviour began to change and she seemed more distracted from their journey.

Resentful, Jack felt little desire to describe the events which had taken him halfway across the world. Despite his lack of zeal, his father listened with calm contemplation, even as he was told about the wedding night dream, the mysterious book and the strange guide in the form of Zarius.

"Your friend, he never told you where he came from? Or how he came to find you?"

"Not exactly," Jack hesitated, "So, you don't know him then?"

"I have no idea who he is. But I'd like to thank him personally though, for helping you."

The mystery of Zarius was no closer to being solved. In his heart, Jack had known that even if his father had been able to offer some background to the emissary's sudden appearance, it would have come nowhere near to explaining the strange events of the last weeks and months.

After some deliberation, Sheonagh decided the group would travel to the nearest town and travel by rail to the city. From there they could take an airship across the sea. Jack showed them the bracelets acquired in Sanaam and placed the black plastic band on his father's arm. There was one for each of them. Each of them, apart for Sheonagh.

Strang edged towards his friend, who stood erect by pebble shore as she scanned the waters.

"Why don't you come with us?" he said.

"No."

"I know you are lonely. Come with us."

"And where will you go? You do not even know yet. I have lived here all my days. I know every tree, every hill and mountain. This is my land and I have no desire to experience other people's."

He sensed there was something changing behind the impassive dark eyes. It was like watching the sky change, witnessing the movement of clouds in the wind, not knowing whether it would bring clearer skies or rain.

"Have you never left this country?"

"No, I have no interest in doing so."

"Are you afraid?"

"In the time that we've known each other have you ever known me to be afraid? Do you think there is anything in heaven or hell which could make me tremble?"

"I think you are afraid of change." Strang gestured around the hills that surrounded them. "Why have you never been anywhere? Look around you, the countryside is changing. Even here the wilderness that you love so much is under attack. New houses, new roads are being built. There are few places where you can be free from other people. But out there, we can take an airship passage to wherever you like. There are new wildernesses, new things to hunt."

"I won't travel... on those things."

"Why not?"

"They are not natural."

The response echoed in Strang's mind, triggering glimpsed memories of traversing snow-lined forest near Sheonagh's cabin to their cliffside shelter. How had they covered those many miles? He could see feet moving over the ground but they were not his own for he was lying down. She must have carried him all the way – the strength of the woman!

They resumed their journey, the trail veered away from the head of the lake, slicing the heather-filled gap between two hills and descending further towards a sloping patch of forest. Through the pines, a narrow streak of grey concrete could be seen. It grew closes and more distinct as they picked their way through the needle-covered floor but no cars passed their view. When a few hundred yards from the roadside, Sheonagh ordered them to remain in the trees, following the curve of the road. They travelled in this fashion for another mile.

Saira and Jack fruitlessly scanning the roadside for signs of a town or village, their weary feet aching as their delicate canvas shoes were now so damaged they did not even pretend to keep out water.

Suddenly, Sheonagh drew to a stop without warning, arching her back as she tasted the air. Her eyes turned upwards and she stood frozen.

"Hide!" she hissed as she grabbed Strang by the waist, shunting Jack and Saira flat against a nearby trunk with alarming force.

A whining sound broke the silence of the woods. At first, the faint tremble seemed no different than the hum of a float car. Jack turned to check the carriageway but Saira's hand held him tight against the tree. The burring sound was louder. Something was overhead, flying above them. They anxiously studied the gaps in the pine canopy for the cause of the growing commotion.

Finally the suggestion of a dark curve came into view, rotating so fast it seemed only half there. They could then see the metal carriage underneath, like a black flying beetle with protruding, spindly legs. Jack realised the hazy circle above the capsule was a single, whirring slice of metal. "A gyrocopter! But... they stopped making them decades ago??"

The beetle churned the air for long seconds, lingered as if looking for something. The figures below dared not to move an inch. Slowly, the aircraft roared onwards, following the road to the west. Jack and Saira sighed in relief and started to move once more but Sheonagh angrily motioned for them to be still. They remained hidden in the trees for four minutes, five, six.

Eventually, the wiry figure crawled from under the fallen tree where she had lay hidden with the frail Strang.

"Must hurry. It will be back again in another couple of hours. They have been scanning the area for the last five days. They must know we are here."

"You knew they were looking for us?!"

"Yes," the hollow voice replied

"Why didn't you say anything, Sheonagh? You could have at least warned us?"

"Would have hindered you. Made you frightened, more likely to fall or make a mistake."

"How do they know we're here?"

"How did you get to the hills?" she answered their question with one of her own.

"We took a train and then a taxicar to Ben Wyvis."

"Then train guard told them. Or the carriage driver. Maybe both. Mister Strang is being hunted by someone who is particularly persistent and thorough. They will not give up until they have done what they mean to do."

Saira found Sheonagh's admiring tone towards their hunters disturbing but was more troubled by the aircraft. She too had recognised the helicopter from a visit to a London museum - but production had been halted decades ago after oil started to run out. Along with jetplanes, it was just not viable to operate them anymore. Electric batteries could not power an aircraft – everyone knew that. The weak charge they carried was barely enough to power a float and needed to be refuelled from the hydro network every day – and even these had a fraction of the power or speed of a horse. How had someone managed to get enough liquid fuel for this vessel? The black metal trim of the vessel looked sleek and new and there were no signs of rust on its body.

Strang must have seen the consternation on her face for he spoke.

"Hydro. It was powered by a hydro engine."

"But they can't make engines that small. Don't you need vast amounts of water just to get a small current?"

"They managed to get the generators small enough to fit onto cargo vessels. Now they are even smaller. It's the latest thing we were working on before I- ... left the company. What myself and Brown fell out over, in a sense, among other things."

"Then all the things that we used to have – planes, space rockets even – we'll be able to run them again."

"Yes and it means Hydra will have the monopoly on all those things - even worse than the one we - they have on power stations."

"Dad," the word felt unusual in Jack's mouth when delivered without malice, "how exactly did this new thing have anything to do with why you left."

His father began to speak but a wheezing cough welled up in his lungs. He struggled to clear it while his family looked on uncomfortably, powerless to help. Recovering, he started to speak but Sheonagh held up her hand for silence.

"Nearly there," she pointed to the brow of a hill where the road rose then disappeared. Beyond it a cluster of streets, buildings made from thick cut slabs of grey stone, could be seen.

It took only a few minutes to reach the verges. The sensation of walking on concrete again was strange to Jack. How wonderfully solid the ground was. No longer had he to battle with the reluctant mud to make his next step.

Spurred on by the thought of food and dry feet, the party forged onward, passing the metal sign welcoming them to the town. If the strange appearance of this party, their ragged clothes and mud-soaked faces had attracted the interest of the locals, then they had the good sense to hide it as the four marched into the town. They could see the rail line cutting through the cobbled streets. A parade of shops – a tempting selection of tearooms and bakeries – caught Jack's eye.

But Sheonagh intervened. Ignoring their protests, she marched them to the station.

"Not safe here. The sooner you are on the train, the better."

"Twenty past," said Saira after inspecting the board. "There's one in twelve minutes. It will take us directly to Edinburgh."

The family collapsed on a bench facing the tracks. Not Sheonagh, who continued to stand.

"You'll be safe enough from here," the finality of her tone alerted Jack and Saira, who had not been privy to the earlier conversation with Strang, to her intentions. "Need to keep a low profile. New clothes when you get to the city but spend no more time than you need to. I'd keep moving for the next year if I were you, maybe the next two. If you manage to avoid them you might survive for another five or six years."

"Sheonagh –" Strang did not know what to say.

"S'alright. I didn't have to help you. But then you didn't ask me for anything, so that makes us even."

"Will you not come with us? If those men are as serious as you say, they'll come looking for you as well."

The older woman snorted. "Let them. I'd like to have a crack at them again. This is my land, no-one will drive me off it."

A distant rattle became the thunder of metal wheels grinding the track. If Saira had not known better she would have said Sheonagh's shoulders shuddered as the roaring engine closed in on the station. She knew no fear of danger or death but something about the train with its coaches, its clanking cog wheels, the crackle and hiss of the electric cables overhead – unsettled her greatly.

As the father boarded the carriage, Sheonagh grabbed Jack's arm and held it. "You've seen him haven't you boy? That savage. I can tell that you have – you have his smell on your clothes. Let me tell you now – whatever he has promised you, whatever help he appears to have offered – he can't be trusted."

But before he could respond, she had pulled away and moved to the edge of the platform, standing erect and proud as ever.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THE journey south was filled with plans. Father and son had begun talked as if they were speaking for the first time, giving each their views on how best to travel, the nature of their pursuers and learning from each other's ordeal. Saira watched with warm amusement as the two expounded on their hopes. She did not understand what had earlier between the two men, other than that the father had admitted to some ancient wrong – begging his son for forgiveness.

Perhaps the enmity that Jack had described was another form of closeness. A manifestation of their shared history. All three passengers were slightly giddy as they basked in their new comfort, causing the few others in their carriage to turn their heads. Finally they were in a warm space, sheltered from the uncaring outdoor elements, and escape from those who hunted them was close at hand.

During their conversation Strang fiddled with the plastic band around his wrist. Jack knew how it felt to be without a bracelet for weeks on end. He too had gone into social exile, unable to buy anything or travel or even show his bare wrist. In some countries, people were put on the steam chair for no less than failing to produce one.

But there was another feeling, one of exhilaration. There was a freedom in not being tracked and refusing to be scanned at every opportunity. He remembered his own mixed emotions when he had acquired the replacement bracelet in Sanaam.

The verdant countryside raced past them. Saira again was struck by the affluence of this country, the solidness of the stone buildings, compared to the shanties of her father's home. Blue apertures opened in the grey sky as they passed villages, towns and fields. The minutes ticked past. Although the service would take them to the city, it stopped at a dozen small stations on the way. Dozing off and on, her eyes flickering as the train bumped to a halt at each platform, Saira followed only snatches of conversation between her husband and his father.

".. something important. But this is not the right time. As soon as we are safe in another country I will tell you and ask for your help, even though I have no right to ask you for anymore. You have done so much already."

"Whatever it is, I'll do it. Not for you though... I still haven't forgotten what you did but I want to know more. I want to know answers... like my mother: did you ever seek her out.. Where is she now?"

The rattle of the tracks filled her mind once more. When she opened her eyes once more, the small wooden table was filled with food: sandwiches, bottles of water and sweet juice, and thick slabs of chocolate. The sight of it made her realise how ravenous she was and quickly she set about her business. Grinning, Strang pointed at the band on his arm.

"Just tested it on the tea trolley. I guess it works."

Saira smiled through mouthfuls.

"Jack tells me that you are a scientist - and your father an engineer. I had wished that my son would have followed a more scientific route. There's still time for him to learn, of course, but I'm glad to see his wife is keeping the tradition alive.

"Our marriage was... is one of convenience. It was necessary."

"All marriages are convenient my dear, whether we realise it or not. But regardless of what both of you intend to do with your future, you have been a good friend to him and me also."

He reached across the squashed wrappers and clasped her hand

It was hard to credit that this saintly old man with his soft, tired eyes had a price on his head.

"Have you been to this part of the country before? Well the bridge we'll be crossing shortly is one of the world's greatest engineering marvels. It stretches a mile and a half and at the deepest point the water is seventy metres deep. Had to use a cantilever system to span such a distance; it was really quite novel at the time. Funny thing is they forgot such a mass of iron in water would rust. For the last two hundred years they've been painting it to protect it from corrosion. As soon as they have finished painting one end, they need to start on the other. Imagine that! Even in this age of hydropower, it is a task that will never be completed."

The carriage dropped its speed as they slid past factory units, then tiny rows of slate roofed houses. As they pulled into the station, Strang stood up.

"I'll be back in a minute," he pointed towards the empty coffee cup on the table and smiled. Jack and Saira both moved as if to help but he waved them down. The doors hissed open and a handful of people stepped off the platform. Mothers with children, pensioners with empty shopping bags yet to be filled, some older teenagers looking to escape in the city. All looked so glum and grey. Life in this country seemed monochrome to Saira after the bluster of the desert. They pulled away once more, the train resuming its even pace.

A man sat down in the empty seat beside Jack. He was aged in his fifties and his mottled red face was scored with ugly blisters. Impressively built, muscles bulged beneath his black suit, which he wore with a pale shirt and dark coloured tie. Saira gasped, clasping her hand to her mouth in terror.

"It's lovely to see you again my dear. You can't begin to imagine how surprised I was when the surveillance report came through. At first I couldn't quite believe it but the description we received from the mountains fitted so well with the one from London airstation."

"How on earth did you get here?"

"I could ask you the same, my dear. It's hard to fathom how managed to get involved in this. But mystery was always your forte. As a professional in finding people, please take that as a great complement."

"Melody."

"My dear, we're still married aren't we? Can't you call me by my first name?"

Jack' heard was pounding hard in his chest. He shifted his head slightly. Was it still possible to escape?

Caching this slight movement, the giant man turned to address him. The red marks on his face seemed to contort under his skin as if they had a will of their own.

"And you must be the boy," a momentary flicker of annoyance on his features was quickly submerged. "I can only imagine that you haven't had any physical involvement with my wife yet. Otherwise you would be dead. Of course, death is not always a straight-forward process and – ahh! Here comes the man we've been all been waiting for."

Strang stumbled through the half-full corridor, slumping to his seat nodding to the man as he sat down. Then, sensing that something was wrong, he looked to Jack and Saira's stricken faces before his gaze settled once more on the stranger.

"Hello Mr Strang," the man's tone was musical and oddly familiar, as he bowed in greeting. "We had an entertaining discussion on the airphone some months ago. I promised you we'd catch up eventually."

CHAPTER THIRTY

NO-ONE else showed any concern as the carriage trundled blissfully on his way. And yet, Jack realised that this man Melody would not have revealed himself unless supremely confident all possible escape routes were closed.

Saira was pale and silent, staring intently at the turnip-shaped head sat across from her. John Melody. The policeman determined to find her guilty for the murder of her therapist husband; who had learned of her previous wedding; who had agreed to marry her himself in order to secure her false confession. The man who died that same day. Except, he was clearly very much alive and somehow leading the hunt for her father-in-law.

"It will be better if you remain exactly as you are," the big man bared his teeth as he smiled coldly. "You can't see them, but the train is well covered with my best people. The train will arrive at its destination in 18 minutes but in four minutes there will be an unscheduled stop. At that point, we will exit and you will follow."

"And if we refuse?" Jack couldn't help himself.

"While you are all needed alive for the time being, I have been given no instructions regarding your health and wellbeing. It is best for you if you comply."

The silence was a tacit agreement.

"Since we have a few moments. I feel that each of you owes me an explanation about certain things."

"No." Strang looked at the mottled beast with unblinking eyes. "It is you, who owes us the explanation. About what this is all about? About why your employer wants me dead."

"This has been a very good and interesting chase Mr Strang, you've done very well. Much better than I dared to hope. I'm afraid I can't offer you the insight into my employer's thinking. But yes, yes, I don't have any problem explaining what good entertainment you provided. Based on our conversation, I thought you would be dead much sooner. But then perhaps you've had some help, haven't you? Don't worry you'll be telling me all about it later on. We're going to have several nice, long conversations once we've reached our destination."

Seeing Jack start at these words as if ready to strike, the giant turned towards the youth then, laughing, back to the father.

"Your boy has also led my staff on a merry chase ever since Berlin. I had sent one of my best Butlers to take him back. Don't worry lad, nothing bad will happen to you. It's a shame that you didn't get a chance to meet Thomas because he's a very committed man. Unfortunately, he had a few problems with his false hand, which caused you to panic didn't it. The hand had an unusual attachment, a needle containing a sedative, I forget the name of which. And Thomas, so committed, he was so keen to take up his assignment to bring you hope that he volunteered to have his healthy hand removed it, so as to be able to sedate you. Needless to say, he is looking forward to finally making your acquaintance."

Jack shuddered, remembering the gleam of metal beneath the Butler's glog. The sharp edges where fingers should have been. But their captor had already turned to the woman in the corner of the table.

"And you, my dear Saira. How well you are looking. Wherever you've been hiding, it's obviously agreed with you. I must say that I was a bit hurt when you decided to leave so soon after wedding, sadder yet that you left me dying in hospital."

"Yes John, I see the doctors gave you better care than I was led to believe."

The mottled blotches of skin darkened as Melody responded angrily. "I suppose you believed you acted properly by giving me fair warning about your particular problem."

"You were dead. Your men – the prison officers – they all told me you had died!"

"And they were right in their way," Melody had reined in his anger. "After so many of your husbands had died, I was too thought that would be my fate as I lay on collapsed on the floor."

"So how did you –"

"He saved me from death - and has provided me with insight and opportunities not afforded in my previous life."

"Who did? What are you talking abou-"

There was a high-pitched wail as the carriage juddered. Jack and Saira dropped their bags. The train pulled to a halt. Melody rose to his towering height, staring at the trio as they picked themselves from the seats. He pointed to the end of the carriage and waited until they started to move, bringing up the rear.

"But it looks like we'll have to start moving. Leave those there," he commanded.

As they exited, a man was already standing by the door, dressed as Melody was, in a stiff blue collar, black knotted tie and black tail coat. Nodding to the larger man, he pulled the handle on the door and swung it open. Jack and Saira were forced out first of all, followed by Strang then the two other Butlers. Whatever had happened to halt the service, no-one appeared to notice the open door or the impromptu departure.

They had halted at the very cusp of the bridge. Even compared to the towers of Media, the structure rising ahead of them was monumental, Jack thought.

Were it not for the colossal scale, the complex framework, with its interlinking struts and columns, looked like it could have been a child's toy. Sheets of thick plastic straddled the framework. The never-ending, year-long task of painting that his father had described was beginning anew.

The coat-tailed man in front pointed to a nearby siding, and walked ahead of them, looking left and right as he went. Melody continued to stay back, glowering at his prisoners with wolfish superiority as they stumbled across the tracks. Jack felt his heart shrink. Once taken into custody by these capable men, they would be entirely at their mercy. It was most likely that they would die in secrecy without anyone being the wiser.

Something Melody said was echoing in his mind.

Saira had thought he was dead. But he had not died. Someone had offered him the chance to live. Jack thought about his own marriage to Saira, the night he had spent in the building site, suffering as he dreamt his strange dream.

The shark's gut. Something about it had allowed him to drive out the evil thoughts that might have overwhelmed him. Melody, too, should have died but didn't. Had he succumbed to the darkness somehow still surviving, allowing it to control him?

Carefully, Jack allowed his hand to slip down to the pocket of his trousers. He felt the rounded surface of the glass bottle with perhaps just a few drops left inside?

A steep path ran from the edge of the tracks to the road below where a security cab was waiting. Four sturdy horses stamped their feet impatiently. A clanking sound and the crackle of electricity drew everyone's attention to the beached locomotive. Power had been restored. The train slowly picked up speed, blue sparks spitting from the overhead conduit, as it pulled away towards the bridge.

Taking his father's shoulder with his left arm, Jack shielded his body from view and he drew out the vial with his other hand. He snatched a glance at the bottle in his hand. A few drops clung to the bottom, perhaps just enough to do what was necessary.

"Down," Melody commanded once power, pointing towards the sloping path. Saira started to lead the way but the smaller, suited man stopped her, pushing his way in front. But the slippery grass provided no support for the Butler's leather shoes. As he started to fall, Melody surged forward to catch his stricken colleague. Recognising his chance, Jack leapt forward brandishing the glass bottle but to his amazement a muscle-knotted hand caught his neck. Steel-like fingers closed over his throat. Melody held him firm, even as he continued to support his fallen man. But Jack still had the bottle. Choking in spite of the pain he managed to turn over the vial, its contents ebbing so slowly from the lip of the container that they appeared frozen in time. Before the behemoth could see what was happening, a thick globule of the fish gut had fallen onto his thick, red cheek.

Releasing his grasp of both Jack and his unsteady colleague, the giant fell to the floor, holding his head in his hands as if it was being eaten by stinging fire. No longer supported, the smaller man had no choice but to continue his descent down the mud caked slope. From their vantage point, Jack, Saira and Strang could see the doors of the carriage spring open and two men in tails leap out.

Perhaps it was the adrenaline which was delivering the instructions to his brain, but Jack suddenly felt very certain about what he had to do.

"Saira, take dad! Go across the tracks and down the other side, if you can. I'll draw them away. Go down into the beach and hide somewhere safe."

Before she could argue, Jack ran to the edge of the barrier, calling and waving his arms at the men in the carriage below. As soon as they saw him, he headed towards the bridge; its triangular forms began to fill up more of the horizon.

Turning, his wife and father were now clearing the other side of the tracks where they would reach the pebble-clad beach and its black waters. It wasn't much of a plan, he acknowledged. If the men followed him, it would at least give his family a fighting chance.

The girders now branched above him like the bones of a long-deceased monster. His attention was drawn to a set of steps, which ran parallel to the train tracks. There were men up above working on steel struts, carefully pumping jet red spray onto the surface. If he could draw their attention, the Butlers might think twice about seizing him. Two tail-coated figures, their white collars gleaming in the sunlight, were approaching him in the distance. They were not running. Although they were visible, he was creating distance between them.

Darting to the side, he grasped the first set of rungs, scrambling the slanted struts. He could see the workers clearly now, their yellow jerkins clear against the dull metal. Clambering further up the rungs, he yelled for help. There was no response. His pursuers were now at the foot of the ladder but did not ascend.

Instead they leant over the barrier staring at the shore – and signalling with their flags. Jack could not make out their call-sign but followed their gaze towards the coastline, where the distant but unmistakeable figures of Saira and his father were stumbling over the rocks. Through the grass flecked sand dunes, other figures were heading towards them. Suited Butlers weaving through the foliage. Three, four bodies on one side, another six were ahead of the struggling pair and would soon cut them off.

In desperation, Jack turned and called once again to the men working in the struts above him. The nearest of them lifted his head, acknowledging the sound over the soaring wind. Spotting Jack, he gestured to his colleague and both started to edge across the scaffold towards him. But as they drew near, Jack could make out the crisp, starched collars and the trailing tails bulging from beneath their work jackets.

Their expressions were marked with detached determination.

Trapped on both sides, Jack had no choice but to continue his climb.

He heaved his body up the rungs, hands and feet working harder than they ever had ever done. His efforts appeared to be paying off. The bogus workmen followed but were moving in slow-motion in comparison to his frantic ascent.

The wind whipped at his face as he climbed. The water below was dark and fathomless. The lonely dots on the shore which he knew were his wife and father were being joined by others.

Sensing his fear, the two Butlers - who had now removed their jackets – were matching his efforts. Their prey was not going to get away. They walked unsupported and upright, balancing their steps along the struts, and they were now closing the distance. Ahead of him two more Butlers stepped from a service lift ahead.

Shakily Jack stood upright, eyeing the men now on both sides of him. There was cold satisfaction in their eyes. The wind was burning his face. He was not going to give himself up. Whatever they wanted from him, he would deny. If he was to die, it would be now.

Surging forward, the teenager took the first fake workman by surprise, colliding with him under his shoulder. The pair struggled on the edge, teetering for a moment before continuing into beyond.

At first, all Jack could hear was the silence. Someone was shouting his name. Was it Saira? The black sea, marbled with foam, was drawing closer. The rush of air on his face was exhilarating, intoxicating. He felt dizzy and light-headed as the curls of white grew bigger and more distinct in the grey mass of water. He waited for the impact and the final eruption of darkness, the wave of euphoria that was so welcome...

But then the waves got no bigger. His arms jerked and groaned with the sudden sensation of being pulled out of their sockets. His body was now moving in the wrong direction. His wrists burn as if clasped with white hot iron. He looked up.

Zarius. His radiant wings coloured gold behind the low sun.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE exertions of being kidnapped were enough to drain anyone even on the best of the days. Strang was nearly dead on his feet. Saira struggled to support his weary body as they crashed through the barrier and stumbled down the slope towards the beach. The ant-like figure - his son - was running across the bridge. In such open ground it would only be a matter of time before the pursuers caught up with him. Would they have instructions to kill?

The long grass was sharp and cut through the light slacks which Saira wore, rasping against her skin. The old man was no longer capable of carrying his weight and leaned heavily on her shoulders as they came to the first support of the mighty bridge, resting on a hillock of cut stone blocks. The smell of rotting seaweed and acrid grease was overpowering, and in the distance was the single spire of Grangemouth, its giant plume of hydro-powered steam rising into the heavens.

Although so far from home, something about the scale of the structure and the surrounding dust of sand brought Saira's mind back to Media where such epic monuments were the norm. The presence of her former husband had been a body blow.

That he was working for the corporation which now sought her, her new husband and father-in-law was but a secondary marvel, compared to the fact that he was still alive at all. The London police had been insistent that he had died in hospital and she was the one responsible for his silent, unexplained collapse.

Scanning the shoreline for options, the number of hiding places was distinctly limited. The few fishing boats that graced the water were far from land. She could see a cluster of houses, perhaps a foundry or fish processing plant further towards the widening channel. Could they reach those in time?

No, their only option was to hide, to seek refuse in the rocky outcrops which jutted from the high grass slopes into the water. If the area was to thoroughly searched they would be found quite easily but it was their best and only hope. Once dark, they might be able to find shelter.

Voices from the bridge above cut through the mumbling waves. She fancied she heard Jack' voice but could not be certain of anything on the colossal framework above. As they hobbled along the shoreline, a small inlet could be seen. There were jutting rock walls on either side of the stream and the folds in the cracked red stone could hide them from prying eyes.

She dragged the old man closer but then recoiled suddenly as a silent figure emerged from behind the rock wall corridor. His hair was short and he wore the dark tails and tie that was now horribly familiar. His lips were pursed in grim satisfaction.

The fugitives back-pedalled awkwardly over the rocks, drawing back towards to the water. Other men were stepping into view, some from the grass banks which topped the beach above her. Others from the outcrops where they had just come, others appeared from the horizon from the direction of the fish factory. At least dozen figures were walking, slowly, purposefully towards them.

Dragging, the helpless figure towards the water's edge, Saira searched for something, anything she could use as a weapon. Although voice in her head told her it was pointless to fight, her fingers grasped a smooth stone, slightly larger than her hand. Strang, grimly aware that they were now exposed and powerless, tried to remonstrate as the advancing figures encircled their prey.

But they came no further.

From the pebble-strewn slope which Jack and Saira had slipped from, a heavy figure was striding towards them. The head was bathed in sweat – a sea surrounding angry continents of red flesh. It was Melody. He marched over the uneven rocks as smoothly as riding on a rollertube. The ring of guards around the trapped duo melted respectfully as he approached.

"Don't come any closer!" Saira brandished the rock in her hand.

"A good wife is loving and loyal. A good wife does not marry another man."

"I mean it!"

"He asked me if I was ready to go," Melody ignored the threat, as though their conversation on the train had been interrupted, "I confess that as I lay in hospital so shortly after making our wedding vows, I almost saw the light go dark. I was standing at the entrance to a doorway. I was being drawn inside. All I had to do was take the first step but..."

He drew closer so that he was almost face-to-face with the shivering pair.

"You were right, my drear. There are more things in the world than I was willing to admit. Forces of which we know nothing. But now my eyes were opened. If I wanted more life, he would be happy to oblige. All I needed to do in return was to assist with a few simple tasks. I was not ready to go. But don't worry: I have a plan to correct your bigamy. Once the father dies, I'm going to ensure the son enjoys a nice, slow session in the steam chair. By the time we are finished you will no longer be married to two men, my dear. I will be your only husband and I will teach you the wifely discipline that you so obviously require."

She was prepared to answer for the deaths of her husbands but now she wanted one more. With a bellow of rage, she hurled the stone towards the colossal figure of Melody. It bounced off his forehead, landing in the white-specked water.

There was no reaction from the giant man, none at all. Slowly, he reached into his pocked and produced a stub-nosed cylinder which he levelled and the unsteady Strang, aiming squarely at his chest.

"No hard feelings, old man. A promise is a promise after all."

He squeezed a button on the rod and a shot rang out, followed by an encore of red from the older man's chest. Saira screamed in anger as the waves lapped against the fallen body. Her sharp cry deepened and became a howl, which became louder and louder until it no longer seemed to come from her own body, as though from a mouth other than her own. And suddenly the sound did belong to another, for a massive dark shape dropped onto the beach as if it had fallen from the sky.

With a terrible roar, the dark blur tore towards the pock-marked Melody, scattering the Butlers around them. Melody aimed the deadly cylinder but with one swipe of its arm, the creature swiped at his head with deadly force and Saira heard the crunch of her husband's neck breaking.

His head contorted and the jaw bone snapped clean from his skull, hanging loosely from a few fibres of muscle. The creature turned around and faced the stunned assassins with a terrible roar. It was a beast, a proper beast, furious and terrible. But its face, its face was a woman's.

"Sheonagh", Saira whispered in awe. The animal Turned and Saira could see beyond the fury into the dark watery eyes of the guide they had left less than a day ago.

She wore a suit made of thick brown fur and glogs with dirty black claws like thick rusty nails. Her teeth were like pointed stalactites. Standing on both feet, with her back to the prone figures in the water, she seemed to tower above the men but was no more than her normal five feet tall.

It was hard to know where the costume ended and the woman began, whether she was woman at all or consumed by an animal rage. But instinctively, Saira knew they were seeing their friend's true nature, the part of herself she hid from view.

Viscous, thick phlegm dripped from their defender's bared teeth. A strong musty smell hung in the air, like the aroma of the cliff top cave with its centuries-old musk and the time-polished carcasses.

The men on the beach had recovered from their shock. Brandishing metal weapons, they opened fire upon the creature. Sheonagh roared in anger as projectiles bit her flesh, splashing rusty blood onto the pebbles. Bounding forward, she swiped at the closest man, who stumbled as he tried to move backwards. The paw studded with three razor claws crashed against his skull with the force of a bear's paw. A lifeless body crumpled on the shore. Further bullets dug into the matted hide but again seemed only to make her angrier than before. She lunged at yet another man, knocking him to the ground before sinking her teeth into his exposed throat.

Bullets whizzed past Saira. She flung herself onto the rocks, over the bleeding body of her new father. She felt for his hand. There was a faint beat below his wrist and as she touched him he coughed a fountain of red from blue lips.

The men were running now to the rocks and up the slopes from where they had come. Sheonagh reared up on both feet once more, offering a thunderous roar of defiance at the fleeing assailants.

Will he live? The voice was Sheonagh's but not quite hers, darker and deeper like the sound of the ocean

"I don't know. We need to get out of here fast. What's happened? What are you?

A long story.

"How did you get here?"

Took the train. First time.

They were interrupted by a piercing whistle and the beast roared in pain. The men had stopped at a safe distance and were returning fire. More were emerging from the hillside, their coats and closely cropped hair like miniature versions of the now-dead Melody. Two dozen silver tubes pointed in one direction.

The pistols spat in contempt but Sheonagh continued to stand firm. Thick purple geysers on the creature's body answered each bullet, matting her coat with blood. One more volley would her down. Saira could no longer feel Strang's pulse. No breath escaped his lungs. She hugged the dead body, preparing for her own death.

Suddenly Zarius was among them. His pulsating wings were spread wide, filling the skyline, blocking the towering bridge, the estuary, even the clouds from view. There was a hiss of steam, a faint odour of something sweet as a fine mist filled the air.

The same smile, the same wild hair but Zarius now looked different... glorious. The whirr of bullets fizzled out, cackling guns were silenced, the gunmen were still. The beach faded away as everyone drowned in paralysing light.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

IT was bright. The location had a familiar tang to the air but Jack couldn't remember its name. There was no sea, no sand, nor bridge. Only thick walls of mist which blocked everything else from view.

Somehow Jack recognised the terrible figure in the distance as Sheonagh, her hands and matted fur costume were soaked in blood as she stood panting above the body on the floor. Saira cradled the limp remains of his father in her hands, tears streaming down her face.

Moments before, it seemed, they had been standing on the beach. Around them on the rocks and grassy slopes were many men. Too many to count. All pointing their weapons but they were now far away. Dead or disappeared, who could say.

Through the brilliant mist, the familiar fleshy mask emerged first, glinting with a strange new power, followed by a span of brilliant feathers and his bulky frame

The white clad figure spoke first.

"We don't have much time, my boy. You must tell me what your father has told you about the flying machine."

But Jack's groggy brain was unable to make sense of the new surroundings. The question struck him from out of the blue.

"Zarius, please! I don't understand. What is this place?"

"My dear boy, now is not the time for your slowness!" He spoke in an impatient, urgent tone, something Jack had never heard before. The wings which were strapped to his chest seemed somewhat less resplendent than they appeared at the bridge. There was something artificial and overly-practical about them – as if they were too bulky to be just for show. Jack imagined he could hear a faint sigh of gas and an almost invisible column of steam was rising from where the wings met Raphael's ample shoulders.

"I don't know what you mean, Zarius."

"Your father, fool! What did he tell you about the gyrocopter? About the condenser engines?"

There was a woozy recollection of the black metal insect which had roared above them in the Highland forest, hovering above as Jack and his group had clung for cover.

"The 'copter. Yes, I saw it."

"A flying machine! And you are sure of this, are you?"

"They sent it to look for us when we were in the hills. At least I think it was searching for us. But I don't know what you mean about the engines."

"Hmm... so he has it then," the man with the wings seemed chiefly to address himself, "Your uncle, he's ahead of the game and there's some catching up to do. But your father, your father, will know exactly how far ahead."

"But, he's..." Jack pointed to the crumpled figure in the mist.

"Yes, dead. But still it is not too late to say goodbye."

From his robes, the same long flowing robes that he had worn in Media but somehow no longer ridiculous, he withdrew a phial of liquid. It was identical to the container which had held the shark's gut but instead of the pallid, sickly liquid it was quite empty. On top of the lid was a plunger-like device with a wide mouth and a series of valves reaching into the bottle.

"What is that?"

"Sleep, dear boy. Sleep."

"What do you mean? I want a straight answer. Where the hell are we and I come I can't see anything?"

His companion's full-blown lips curled for the first time into a knowing smile, almost a sneer. Jack's head was swelling, he could feel his arms and limbs growing heavier, it was as if everything around him was moving more slowly, as though he were pushing himself through water.

"My dear boy, you more than anyone must recognise the condition you are in and appreciate the different hues of consciousness After all we've been through you must have realised by now that we all hear best when we are in dream. When our minds are open to all possibilities."

An angry lump rose in Jack's throat but he stopped himself from speaking. As if in a dream, he slowly became aware of the dusty residue in the device which sat in Zarius' hand. "That thing you've got there... is it Nectar?"

"In dreams, we talk to you. Was it not in dreams that Saira's poor husbands were lost? Was it not in your sleep, that you were able to avoid your fate? Your father has something important to say to us. This draught will put you into the sleep where you can speak once more."

"But there's nothing inside it?"

"That's because you've drunk it already. All of you have been drinking it for some time. Ever since I dispersed it at the beach."

Before Jack could reply, the shimmering figure strode to the prone body of his father and addressed him.

"Get up!"

Nothing happened. Then a flicker of the eyes, a cough, and the dead man was awake. Slowly his moved his head, looking at those who stood over him.

But as his gaze rested finally on the glowing figure of Zarius, his flickering eyes widened and his dry mouth opened and closed helplessly as if in warning.

"... trust him," Strang addressed his son, every word an effort to perform "I've met.. He stole... he stole... don't trust him, Jack..."

But Zarius simply laughed, as he bowed with mocking ceremony.

"Mistaken identity, poor chap! What a shame I didn't arrive sooner. This all might have been prevented and we could have got to know each other properly. But what really fascinates me Mr Strang is why you have gone to so much trouble running around the country. What exactly is it you were running from – or should I say running away with?"

"Wate... water..."

"Water cells, of course. We know. You stole the plans from your friend Mr Brown, didn't you sir? And don't you have something for your son Jack here. A little gift? His inheritance perhaps?"

"But you have.... You already..."

The vapid smile dropped from the round-faced man's expression, unable to conceal his pain.

"Not quite perfect, Mr Strang. A few flaws here. A few little niggles there. While I'm sure your design – that is your design belonging to Mr Brown - is quite perfect. How wrong for you both to keep us from a world where motorized carriages are back on our roads again, air machines returned to the sky. Imagine we could send vessels into the heavens themselves."

"But we already have floats and airships," Saira spoke out, chewing out the words with great effort as though in a trance. "What good will smaller engines do?"

"Those _floats_!" Zarius could barely hide his contempt. "They have no power, no speed at all, they are little more than toys. Why do people of means travel by carriage? No, you are too young to remember real cars, real airplanes, real solid things. The Hydro power we have now can do the big things - cities and cargo ships. But cars, aircraft, and personal devices which have their own power supply, that is where the real power lies."

Stooping low, Zarius reached down towards the stricken man, feeling his clothing before drawing out a tarnished black square with dark plastic handles. It was his old bracelet, the one which had been replaced by the new model from Media.

The old man tried to speak – but his final words were lost to eternity. As his body faded into the mist, Jack wanted to fight. He wanted to run. He had been betrayed by Zarius – by far the cruelest of all the deceptions he had suffered - and now wanted to kill him.

But he was paralysed by a dizzying, drunken force. His mind teetered between the misty plane and the eternity of his memories. Recollections of the pebble-lined shore of his childhood, the crashing waves, a woman's hand dragging him towards the water, the piercing flash of a searchlight. A cold, marble face, almost angelic, but which offered only empty, unfulfilled smiles.

Saira, too, was unable to move and, for all he knew, locked in her own silent battle against her past.

But Sheonagh, more beast than woman, stared warily at the winged thief who had moments earlier rifled through the dead man's pockets. She spoke boldly but without anger, her deep voice resounding even in the ceilingless vacuum.

Some of us will not die so easily Angel.

"You continue to amaze me, dear one," Zarius beamed a smile at the fur-clad figure. "Fearless in so many ways. But you would not use man's roads or the railways. Never have you left your land, until now."

"You made me do it! It was because you kept chasing these people that I did."

"Me?" Zarius drew a fat hand over his brow feigning hurt. "It was not my Butlers who were seeking your friend Mr Strang? Nor I who hired an unsavoury detective to find him. I am simply an outside party, with no interest in whatever disagreement there has been between Messrs Strang and Brown."

"But you saw your opportunity?"

"And I took it, yes. But I am not the only one to be congratulated in this matter. I am quite impressed how you overcame what must have been a very natural instinct to let these children suffer their fate. I must say I'm glad you did, because I've grown very fond of them both."

I didn't do it for them. I did it for him. For the man, Strang. For respect, see.

"The honour of the Wild Woman!" Zarius laughed. "Just like that funny little story about the one who found some brigands desecrating a holy man's body so many long ago. The one who was rewarded by the heavens, the gods, the one who should have died so many years ago."

How much longer Angel? How many more years will you let me suffer?

"If I changed you, it was only to make you all the more dazzling dear one. To give you the body to match your illustrious, roaming soul."

What use is a soul to me when my kind has died from this land and I am alone?

She licked the blood from her many wounds. The hide made from a dozen trapped animals was still torn by bullet marks and its fur matted with fluid, which dripped from her claws and pooled on the ground below.

Zarius's smile dropped but he looked at Sheonagh with calm and serene eyes.

"My dear one, no-one loves you as much as me. Nothing has been hidden from you."

Bah! That's meaningless. You said as much when you gave me your so-called gift.

And gesturing at Saira and Jack, motionless and trapped as they watched helplessly, she added: I could kill you now Angel. Your drugs won't work on me.

The larger man studied her closely.

"Yes, perhaps you could."

"Do it Sheonagh," Jack shouted through the tidal wave of memories. "He killed father."

"I did not kill your father, dear boy"

"He betrayed us. He stole from us. He has tricked us all along."

Will you grant safe passage to this pair?

"Of course, dear one. Now that I have the old man's designs, we can all friends again."

Do you give your word?

"Of course. I shall take them on one final journey and leave them in a place of peace. Allow me to do this and I tell you a secret. There are others who can guide you."

Others like me..?

"Did you think you were the only weird man or woman to have been gifted? Others who have been freed from their dull humanity with all the skill our chemists have at their disposal. The unused parts of their brain, their physique, their emotions, liberated by a few simple procedures.

But I will never be human. I will always be an animal. I may take the shape of men and use their language but my heart will never be like theirs.

"It doesn't need to, dear Sheonagh. You have already shown a spark of life far beyond the dull existence of your ancestors. You were blessed with long but not limitless years. Now that you have left your homeland you will soon find others who have been changed as you have been. Seek their company and you will discover the companionship you desire."

Glancing only briefly at the two transfixed spectators, the blood-soaked woman with her terrible claw glogs and sodden rag coat turned without a word. Snuffling the air for a familiar scent she sloped into the light, the wall of mist closing around her.

Zarius turned to Jack and Saira who stood side by side, grasping each others hand, equal in their ignorance, not knowing what they saw was dream or real.

"And now... we must go on our final journey," the chubby man said.

Immediately the bright mist began to evaporate, revealing glimpses a high wall which soared to an unseen vanishing point like a vast underground cathedral. Beams of light fell from an impossibly high window. As the fog disappeared, giant pillars of broken glass erupted from the floor. Each was a tree made of thousands of shards of coloured panels. On each of the branches were tiny birds, moulded from the same stained glass. Almost alive with vibrant colour, they seemed to flit and preen under the flickering light from above.

I know I am dreaming. It is the Nectar making me feel this. But what Jack knew in his head could not erode the rich and sensuous evidence of his eyes and ears. Perhaps everything - the last few months – had all been a fantasy. He could still be at the school, locked in his subconscious, never to wake up. Yet somehow he knew the fantastical surroundings were anchored in reality.

"Lovely building this," Zarius marched past them, his wings now appearing more mottled in the new light, his robes dirty and worn.

Still grasping each other's hands tightly, Jack and Saira followed his voice, their eyes adjusting to the forest of light.

A woman's body slipped through the shadows, her fingers gestured to Zarius to come forward. The fallen angel approached and bowed low to the ground so that his wingtips scraped the floor. The battered old bracelet, so familiar on his father's wrist, was passed over.

Her face, her smile – so familiar – so like a statue. Jack froze as he remembered the game of chess he had played so long ago, the cold water licking at his knees, the steely grip on his arm, the searchlight of rescuers. All of it had been for a simple discovery, he had been told. The box which could turn water, so abundant, into energy.

And yet... and yet... how could this – any of it – be real?

Zarius, now looking still more dishevelled, led them further and further away. Ahead of them was a tiny speck of brightness which grew bigger and bigger until it was unmistakably a doorway. The air grew warmer.

Jack could feel his voice returning.

"Where are you taking us?"

"The same place I've been taking you for the last two weeks. Somewhere very familiar."

"Two weeks! But we've only just left the bridge!"

"Have you, really my boy. Well it certainly doesn't feel that way to me."

The vibrant colours were fading. Picking their way slowly over the unknown surface, suddenly Jack and Saira reeled as they found themselves being buffeted by a tide of bodies. The drumming footsteps and lull of a hundred earnest conversations seemed to envelope them.

They were in Sanaam.

Zarius turned to face Jack. He spoke normally, his words effortlessly clear over the din.

"All clear about what's happened?"

"No."

"Oh, you'll figure it out."

The drugs were wearing off. Jack flexed his fist, feeling the sensation of movement travel down his arm and into his brain. Looking directly at the man who was his friend, he said: "The next time I see you Zarius, I will kill you."

"I don't suppose we'll see each other again. But I am sorry things couldn't have been worked out differently."

Before either of them could reply, Zarius smiled and put his finger to his lips. He did not disappear but was no longer where he had been. A gentle puff of steam was the only clue of his departure.

Jack felt sure that he would see his former companion once more, along with his uncle John Brown, and the woman in his dream – who he dreaded most of all - and when he faced them it would be on his terms. Feeling his chest tighten, he swore to get the answers he deserved.

Sensing the dangers ahead, Saira hurried to speak first.

"Before you say this isn't any of my business -"

"No one is asking you to-

"Shut up. You will come to my father's house - to my house \- because that's your home now. And after we've had something to eat and a decent night's sleep we're going to figure out how to do what your father really wanted."

"I can't even be sure of what's real any more."

She gestured around her at the bustling streets teeming with life, poverty, and unbroken expectations.

"Look around this place! Look at these people working every waking hour just to get bread and a few ounces of water, whose children die from lack of even the simplest medicines. Don't you think they could make use of hydropower? Couldn't everyone? Isn't that what your father wanted Jack? Isn't that what he'd want you to do?"

He was touched by her affirmation and paused for a moment as he considered what to say next. "So... are we really married then?"

"Yes, we are married but we aren't husband and wife."

"Just friends then?"

"I don't know. We barely know each other and you're still a kid and I'm... I'm tired. It's a conversation for tomorrow. Let's go."

"It's just I'd like to know..."

"Come on! Aren't you hungry?"

"Yeah, I guess I am."
NOTE

The story of Tobit is arguably the most obscure of Biblical passages, excluded from many Christian and Jewish traditions as Apocryphal. Nonetheless, anyone familiar with the text will doubtless recognise the debt owed to its plot and structure.

Many of the ideas in this book have been directly or indirectly influenced by Leonard de Vries' Victorian Inventions, an admirable collection of real and speculative inventions published in 19th Century scientific journals, including a system of moveable platforms which was the inspiration for the transport system of Media.

An article written by Janice Short, from the Wolves and Humans Association, contains the poem and translation which prefaces this book.

I am indebted to my family, my parents, my brothers, my children, my wife, for their patience, support and love.

