“Oh, shit,” she murmured under her breath. A whole host of practical problems ran through her mind: how to get him back to Durringham, whether there was even a psychiatrist on the planet, who could take over the little clinic he ran for the village. She scratched at the back of her sweaty hair, looking down at him as if he was some kind of elaborate riddle she was supposed to solve.

Rai Molvi ran up the wooden steps to the door and barged in. “Ruth,” he said breathlessly. “I thought I’d find you here. Carter McBride is missing; kid’s been gone a couple of hours now. Someone said they saw him chasing that damn nuisance dog of his into the jungle. I’m organizing a search party. Are you in?” Rai Molvi didn’t even seem to have noticed Horst.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll get someone to watch Jay.”

“Mrs Cranthorp is taking care of that, she’ll get the kids into a group and give them some lunch. We’re assembling by the hall in ten minutes.” He turned to go.

“I’ll help,” Horst said.

“As you like,” Rai said, and hurried out.

“Well, you made a big impression on him,” Ruth said.

“Please, Ruth, you must leave this place.”

“We’ll see after tonight. Right now I’ve got a child to help find.” She paused. “Damn, Carter’s about the same age as Jay.”

The drawn-out whistle brought them all running. Arnold Travis was sitting slumped against the foot of a mayope tree. He just stared brokenly at the ground, silver whistle hanging from a corner of his mouth.

The villagers arrived in pairs, crashing through the vines and scrub bushes, sending hordes of birds screeching into the baking sky. When they did stumble into the little glade the sight which greeted them seemed to suck the strength from their limbs. A semicircle formed round the big cherry oak tree, stricken faces staring at its grisly burden.

Powel Manani was one of the last to arrive. Vorix was with him, loping easily through the lush undergrowth. Canine senses bubbled into Powel’s mind, the monochrome images, the sharp sounds, and the vast range of smells. There was an overpowering scent of blood in the air.

He pushed and elbowed his way to the front of the shocked crowd, caught sight of the cherry oak tree—“Jesus!” His hand came up to cover his mouth. Something deep inside wanted to let loose a primaeval wail, just to shout and shout until all the pain was disgorged.

Carter McBride was hanging upside-down against the tree. His feet had been bound to the trunk with dried vine cords, making it look as though he was standing on his head. Both arms were spread wide, held parallel to the ground by a pair of stakes at each wrist. The long wounds were no longer bleeding. Tiny insects wriggled through the saturated grass below his head, gorging on the bounty.

Dimitri McBride took two tottering steps towards his son, then sank down to his knees as though in prayer. He looked round at the circle of ashen faces with a faintly bewildered expression. “I don’t understand. Carter was ten years old. Who did this? I don’t understand. Please tell me.” He saw his own pain reflected in the weeping eyes surrounding him. “Why this? Why do this?”

“The Ivets,” Horst said. Little Carter’s scarlet eyeballs were staring right into him, urging him to speak. “This is the inverted cross,” he said pedantically. It was important to be right in a matter like this, he felt, important that they should all fully comprehend. “The opposite of the crucifix. They worship the Light Brother, you see. The Light Brother is diametrically opposed to our lord Jesus, so the sects perform this sacrifice as a mockery. It’s very logical, really.” Horst found his breath was hard to come by, as if he’d been running a long distance.

Dimitri McBride crashed into him with the force of a jackhammer. He was flung backwards, Dimitri riding him down. “You knew! You knew!” he cried. Metal fingers closed round Horst’s throat, clawing. “That was my son. And you knew!” Horst’s head was yanked up, then slammed down into the spongy loam. “He’d still be alive if you’d told us. You killed him! You killed him! You!”

Horst’s world was turning black around the edges. He tried to speak, to explain. That was what he had been trained for, to make people accept the world the way it was. But all he could see was Dimitri McBride’s open screaming mouth.

“Get him off,” Ruth told Powel Manani.

The supervisor gave her a dark look, then nodded reluctantly. He signalled to a couple of the villagers, and between them they prised Dimitri’s fingers from Horst’s throat. The priest lay as he was left, sucking air down like a cardiac victim.

Dimitri McBride collapsed into a limp, sobbing bundle. Three of the villagers cut little Carter down, wrapping him in a coat.

“What do I tell Victoria?” Dimitri McBride asked vacantly. “What do I tell her?” The reassuring hands found his shoulders again, patting, offering their pathetically inadequate sympathy. A hip-flask was pressed to his lips. He spluttered as the acidic brew went down his gullet.

Powel Manani stood over Horst Elwes. I’m as guilty as the priest, he thought. I knew that little ratprick Quinn was trouble. But dear God, this . The Ivets, they’re not human. Somebody who could do this could do anything.

Anything. The thought struck him like a twister of gelid wind. It cleared away even the remotest feeling of pity for the wretched drunken priest. He nudged Horst with the toe of his boot. “You? Can you hear me?”

Horst gurgled, his eyes rolling around.

Powel let his full fury vent into Vorix’s mind. The dog lurched towards Horst, snarling in rage.

Horst saw it coming, and scrabbled feebly on all fours, cringing from the hound’s ferocity. Vorix barked loudly, his muzzle centimetres away from his face.

“Hey!” Ruth protested.

“Shut up,” Powel said, not even looking at her. “You. Priest. Are you listening to me?”

Vorix growled.

Everybody was watching the tableau now, even Dimitri McBride.

“It’s what they are,” Horst said. “The balance of nature. Black and white, good and evil. God’s kingdom of heaven, and hell. Earth and Lalonde. Do you see?” He smiled up at Powel.

“The Ivets didn’t all come from the same arcology,” Powel said with a dangerously level voice. “They’d never even met each other before they came here. That means Quinn did this since we arrived, turned them into what they are now. You know about this doctrine of theirs. You know all about it. How long have they been a part of this sect movement? Before Gwyn Lawes? Were they, priest? Were they all involved before his odd, unseen, bloody death out here in the jungle? Were they? ”

Several of the watchers gasped. Powel heard someone moaning: “Oh, God, please no.”

Horst’s mad smile was still directed up at the supervisor.

“Is that when it started, priest?” Powel asked. “Quinn had months to turn them, to break them, to control them. Didn’t he? That’s what he was doing all the time inside that fancy A-frame hut of theirs. Then when he’d got them all whipped into line, they started to come after us.” His finger lined up on Horst. He wanted it to be a hunting rifle, to blow this failed wreckage of a man to pieces. “Those muggings back in Durringham, Gwyn Lawes, Roger Chadwick, the Hoffmans. My God, what did they do to the Hoffmans that they had to incinerate them afterwards so we wouldn’t see? And all because you didn’t tell us. How are you going to explain that to your God when you face him, priest? Tell me that.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Horst wailed. “You’re as bad as them. You’re a savage, you love it out here. The only difference between you and an Ivet is that you get paid for what you do. You would have gone berserk if I even hinted that they had turned to the sect instead of me.”

“When did you know?” Powel screamed at him.