Now it came into sight at the top of the stairs, andturned its slow head towards Swann's funeral pyre. Evenfrom this distance Harry could see that Valentin's last-ditch attempts to destroy his master's body had failed.The fire had scarcely begun to devour the magician.They would have him still.

Eyes on the Raparee, Harry neglected his moreintimate enemy, and it thrust a piece of flesh intohis mouth. His throat filled up with pungent fluid; hefelt himself choking. Opening his mouth he bit downhard upon the organ, severing it. The demon did notcry out, but released sprays of scalding excrement frompores along its back, and disengaged itself. Harry spat itsmuscle out as the demon crawled away. Then he lookedback towards the fire.

All other concerns were forgotten in the face of whathe saw.

Swann had stood up.

He was burning from head to foot. His hair, hisclothes, his skin. There was no part of him that was notalight. But he was standing, nevertheless, and raising hishands to his audience in welcome.

The Raparee had ceased its advance. It stood a yard ortwo from Swann, its limbs absolutely still, as if it weremesmerised by this astonishing trick.

Harry saw another figure emerge from the head of thestairs. It was Butterfield. His stump was roughly tied off;a demon supported his lop-sided body.

Tut out the fire,' demanded the lawyer of the Raparee.'It's not so difficult.'

The creature did not move.

'Go on," said Butterfield. 'It's just a trick of his. He'sdead, damn you. It's just conjuring.'

'No,' said Harry.

Butterfield looked his way. The lawyer had alwaysbeen insipid. Now he was so pale his existence wassurely in question.

'What do you know?' he said.

'It's not conjuring,' said Harry. 'It's magic.'

Swann seemed to hear the word. His eyelids flutteredopen, and he slowly reached into his jacket and with aflourish produced a handkerchief. It too was on fire. Ittoo was unconsumed. As he shook it out tiny bright birdsleapt from its folds on humming wings. The Raparee wasentranced by this sleight-of-hand. Its gaze followed theillusory birds as they rose and were dispersed, and in thatmoment the magician stepped forward and embraced theengine.

It caught Swann's fire immediately, the flamesspreading over its flailing limbs. Though it foughtto work itself free of the magician's hold, Swann wasnot to be denied. He clasped it closer than a long-lostbrother, and would not leave it be until the creaturebegan to wither in the heat. Once the decay began itseemed the Raparee was devoured in seconds, but itwas difficult to be certain. The moment - as in thebest performances - was held suspended. Did it last aminute? Two minutes? Five? Harry would never know.Nor did he care to analyse. Disbelief was for cowards;and doubt a fashion that crippled the spine. He wascontent to watch - not knowing if Swann lived or died,if birds, fire, corridor or if he himself- Harry D'Amour- were real or illusory.

Finally, the Raparee was gone. Harry got to his feet.Swann was also standing, but his farewell performancewas clearly over.

The defeat of the Raparee had bested the courage ofthe horde. They had fled, leaving Butterfield alone atthe top of the stairs.

'This won't be forgotten, or forgiven,' he said toHarry. 'There's no rest for you. Ever. I am yourenemy.'

'I hope so,' said Harry.

He looked back towards Swann, leaving Butterfield tohis retreat. The magician had laid himself down again.His eyes were closed, his hands replaced on his chest.It was as if he had never moved. But now the fire wasshowing its true teeth. Swann's flesh began to bubble,his clothes to peel off in smuts and smoke. It took a longwhile to do the job, but eventually the fire reduced theman to ash.

By that time it was after dawn, but today was Sunday,and Harry knew there would be no visitors to interrupthis labours. He would have time to gather up theremains; to pound the boneshards and put them withthe ashes in a carrier bag. Then he would go out andfind himself a bridge or a dock, and put Swann into theriver.

There was precious little of the magician left oncethe fire had done its work; and nothing that vaguelyresembled a man.

Things came and went away; that was a kind of magic.And in between? Pursuits and conjurings; horrors,guises. The occasional joy.

That there was room for joy; ah! that was magic too.

THE NEWSPAPER WAS the first edition of the day, and Elaine devoured it from cover to cover as shesat in the hospital waiting room. An animal thought tobe a panther - which had terrorised the neighbourhoodof Epping Forest for two months - had been shot andfound to be a wild dog. Archaeologists in the Sudanhad discovered bone fragments which they opined mightlead to a complete reappraisal of Man's origins. A youngwoman who had once danced with minor royalty hadbeen found murdered near Clapham; a solo round-the-world yachtsman was missing; recently excited hopes ofa cure for the common cold had been dashed. She readthe global bulletins and the trivia with equal fervour -anything to keep her mind off the examination ahead -but today's news seemed very like yesterday's; only thenames had been changed.

Doctor Sennett informed her that she was healingwell, both inside and out, and was quite fit toreturn to her full responsibilities whenever she feltpsychologically resilient enough. She should makeanother appointment for the first week of the newyear, he told her, and come back for a final examinationthen. She left him washing his hands of her.

The thought of getting straight onto the bus andheading back to her rooms was repugnant after somuch time sitting and waiting. She would walk a stopor two along the route, she decided. The exercise wouldbe good for her, and the December day, though far fromwarm, was bright.

Her plans proved over-ambitious however. After onlya few minutes of walking her lower abdomen began toache, and she started to feel nauseous, so she turnedoff the main road to seek out a place where she couldrest and drink some tea. She should eat too, she knew,though she had never had much appetite, and had lessstill since the operation. Her wanderings were rewarded.She found a small restaurant which, though it was twelvefifty-five, was not enjoying a roaring lunch-time trade. Asmall woman with unashamedly artificial red hair servedher tea and a mushroom omelette. She did her best toeat, but didn't get very far. The waitress was plainlyconcerned.

'Something wrong with the food?' she said, somewhattestily.

'Oh no,' Elaine reassured her. 'It's just me.'

The waitress looked offended nevertheless.

Td like some more tea though, if I may?' Elainesaid.

She pushed the plate away from her, hoping thewaitress would claim it soon. The sight of the mealcongealing on the patternless plate was doing nothingfor her mood. She hated this unwelcome sensitivityin herself: it was absurd that a plate of uneaten eggsshould bring these doldrums on, but she couldn't helpherself. She found everywhere little echoes of her ownloss. In the death, by a benign November and then thesudden frosts, of the bulbs in her window-sill box; in thethought of the wild dog she'd read of that morning, shotin Epping Forest.

The waitress returned with fresh tea, but failed to takethe plate. Elaine called her back, requesting that she doso. Grudgingly, she obliged.

There were no customers left in the place now,other than Elaine, and the waitress busied herselfwith removing the lunchtime menus from the tablesand replacing them with those for the evening. Elainesat staring out of the window. Veils of blue-grey smokehad crept down the street in recent minutes, solidifyingthe sunlight.