"Take it easy, young man," he said to me.

I couldn't move my body, but I could move my mouth, having already proved that. "Take a running fuck, fatso." I said, not even knowing I had those words within me.

"It's all over, big guy," Murdoch said to the Beetle's sleeping shape. He moved slightly then, stirring from his deep pit.

"I know it," he said, his voice full of thick juice from the game. "I know when I'm beaten."

That's not like you, Beetle. Where's the fire?

The fat partner had one of my wrists in his free hand, and he was trying gamely to cuff me to the chair. I was struggling against him but the Vurtlag was still heavy in my brain, and I was a slow dream, waiting for the dawn. The cuffs were clunking in a half-bite, missing the hole in the sweat and the fear. The cop was dropping beads of sweat on to my trousers. "Come on," he said. "Do it!" More to the cuffs than to me, I think.

"I thought I told you already," I told him. "Go and take a running one."

He looked at me like I was a bad dream he couldn't wake up from. Oh good. I'm glad.

"Come up slowly, Beetle man," said Murdoch.

"I'm coming up like a slow train," said the Beetle, turning around on the settee. "You win, Murdoch. Game over."

Fat cop had forgotten all about Mandy in his struggles. Shadowcop hadn't though: I DO BELIEVE, SIR, THAT'S SHE'S GOING TO -

Did no good.

Mandy had twisted around behind the cop, and now she had her free arm around his neck, pulling back, until he started to cry out. I felt my mind zooming to focus as the last of the Vurt peeled away, and then my hands were moving fast, faster than snakes, until they reached his free hand, which he was using to prise away Mandy's fingers. My fingers clamped around his knuckles.

"I said leave off, pigshit."

Murdoch could see the trouble going down so she had moved her gun away from the Beetle slightly, trying to get a new fix. The Beetle rolled over, and then up, until he was sitting on the edge of the couch, and his hand was already inside of his coat.

MURDOCH! I'M GETTING SOMETHING!

But Murdoch had already seen what was happening. She was turning back to the Beetle, but too late, way too late, the Beetle had pulled his hand out again, into the open, and a gun was clenched tight in his fingers. The Beetle's gun. In use at last.

"It's that time of day, Murdoch," he said.

"Shaka!" Murdoch's call sent the shadowsnake into action. His beams swung in from every corner until they pulled in a tight focus on the Beetle's gun.

FLAME PISTOL. 0.38. FULLY LOADED. SIX BULLETS.

The partner cop was struggling between Mandy and me but we had him tight yet. "Wooh!" shouted Mandy. "We're happening!"

"Don't go silly on me," Murdoch said to Beetle.

"Kill, Karli!" I shouted. "Destroy!"

Young dog went for it.

Murdoch's gun roared and flashed, but the dog was there first, knocking her off her feet. The shecop was on the floor, Karli on top of her, biting at her face. The bullet lodged in the wall, knocking petals off the clock, and Shaka was beaming everywhere, panic-struck. Twinkle was coming towards me and the fat partner, her tiny fingers bunched into fists. The gun in Beetle's hand waved in the air, and there was a look of pure Jam in his eyes.

The fleshcop made a big push with his bulbous gut, shoving me back into the chair. Then he took off towards the Beetle, pulling Mandy along behind him, still cuffed. She was beating on his back and shouting at him, calling him all the names of the famous fuckers, but he was reaching down to the floor anyway, to where Murdoch's gun lay waiting.

Sometimes we just go too far, partner.

Beetle shot him.

Beetle shot him! And all these miles and days away, I'm still listening to that shot of flame.

Murdoch was screaming under the dog Karli, holding those jaws back with fists of pain. Dog was eating at her fingers. And the fleshcop's blood splattered all over the walls and the floor. It made a beautiful mess, like a garden of scarlet wounds, and I was gladdened by the sight of it. My life was just a few seconds adrift in those moments.

"Shaka!" screamed Murdoch, her face bloody from the dog's teeth. "Shaka, call up! Call up!"

Petals were falling all over, drifting down in waves from the severed clock-face, and Shaka was calling up the station, beaming through the petals. Except that the beams were hot! Petals bursting into flames as the snakehead came whipping around the small room, aiming for a total burn-out. A line of fire along the back of the settee, heading towards Beetle. So Beetle shot the snake. Of course nobody can shoot a Shadow. The Beetle had put a hole in the shadowcop's aerial box. Shaka was a wounded ghost then. And then just a wraith, a thin wraith, fighting for life. His beams went dark. His face was a silent cry and holes were opening up in the body of smoke. He was fading to black, the deep emptiness, which is Shadow-death. Beetle was glued to the seat, the gun in his hands, both hands clenched, and his eyes wide from the action. Murdoch screaming from under the dog.

"Get the pig off me!" shouted Mandy, her face smeared with the thick blood of the fleshcop. "Can somebody please undo these cuffs, please."

I could move then, and I stood up, out of the clutching chair, away from the fear. I moved over to the dead cop. I found the keys on the floor, and set Mandy free. "Cheers, Scribb," she said. The cuffs fell to the lino, one ring still around the cop's wrist. Beside his body I saw Murdoch's gun, just lying there. I slipped it into my pocket. "Karli, that's enough." The dog moved back slightly.

Beetle had risen up, and he had the flame pistol pressed against Murdoch's temple. Her face was a pleasure to behold, all cracked with fear and blood. Her shecop eyes were clenched tight shut against the moment. I saw a feather down on the floor, next to Murdoch's head. I picked it up. Cheap fake Knowledge Feather, going cream in my hands.

"That's enough, Beetle" I said. "Job is done."

We're all just out there, somewhere, waiting to happen.

DAY 21

"Babe, it's going all the way."

CONTAMINATED WITH BASS

"The djinn is going in! Feel it! Feel it!"

Two hands, separate, but in time with the big rhythm, working the Siamese decks.

"Big djinn going in now! For the Collyhurst disciples. They are in the Limb! They are in the fucking Limb!"

Two hands, two small human hands, working the twin decks, the triple decks, the quadruple decks of the Limbic System house.

"This one's on special import! All the way from Noirpool! Coming on tough-core from the Limbic System, out of the North. This is a white label dream coming at you! Ha ha ha! Dance, suckers, dance!"

Twin hands working the infinite decks, mixing dreams with real time stories, forcing sweat out of hard-packed bodies. I can make a dead man dance. Fuck that. I can make a robot dance, a Shadow dance.

I was looking through the booth glass, watching the submasses moving, groin to groin, or just on their own. Men, women, real or Vurt. Robo or smoke. I'm moving them all, at last, the whole congregation, all of the various shapes of existence, moving to the latest remix from the Interactive Madonna.

"We're all together, at last!" I shouted. And my voice was amplified throughout all of the land, all of the places of Limbic, all of the wide-open spaces, and all of the darkest corners.

"Play that Limbic Splitter, white boy!" called a voice from the dance floor. Voice came through the system like a flare-path, all of a purple sheen, just the voice of a nowhere girl caught tight in a shining moment, but in that moment she was a queen.