He looked around the circle of listeners as the wordsdescribed their familiar pattern.

'... and over every living thing that moveth upon theearth.''

Somewhere near, a beast was crying.

WYBURD LOOKED AT the book, and the book looked back. Everything he'd ever been told about the boywas true.

'How did you get in?' McNeal wanted to know. Therewas neither anger nor trepidation in his voice; only casualcuriosity.

'Over the wall,' Wyburd told him.

The book nodded. 'Come to see if the rumours weretrue?'

'Something like that.'

Amongst connoisseurs of the bizarre, McNeal's storywas told in reverential whispers. How the boy had passedhimself off as a medium, inventing stories on behalf ofthe departed for his own profit; and how the dead hadfinally tired of his mockery, and broken into the livingworld to exact an immaculate revenge. They had writtenupon him; tattooed their true testaments upon his skinso that he would never again take their grief in vain.They had turned his body into a living book, a bookof blood, every inch of which was minutely engravedwith their histories.

Wyburd was not a credulous man. He had never quitebelieved the story - until now. But here was living proofof its veracity, standing before him. There was no partof McNeaFs exposed skin which was not itching withtiny words. Though it was four years and more since theghosts had come for him, the flesh still looked tender, asthough the wounds would never entirely heal.

'Have you seen enough?' the boy asked. 'There'smore. He's covered from head to foot. Sometimes hewonders if they didn't write on the inside as well.' Hesighed. 'Do you want a drink?'

Wyburd nodded. Maybe a throatful of spirits wouldstop his hands from trembling.

McNeal poured himself a glass of vodka, took a slugfrom it, then poured a second glass for his guest. As hedid so, Wyburd saw that the boy's nape was as denselyinscribed as his face and hands, the writing creeping upinto his hair. Not even his scalp had escaped the authors'attentions, it seemed.

'Why do you talk about yourself in the third person?'he asked McNeal, as the boy returned with the glass.'Like you weren't here ...?'

The boy?' McNeal said. 'He isn't here. He hasn'tbeen here in a long time.'

He sat down; drank. Wyburd began to feel more thana little uneasy. Was the boy simply mad, or playing somedamn-fool game?

The boy swallowed another mouthful of vodka, thenasked, matter of factly: 'What's it worth to you?'

Wyburd frowned. 'What's what worth?'

'His skin,' the boy prompted. 'That's what youcame for, isn't it?' Wyburd emptied his glass withtwo swallows, making no reply. McNeal shrugged.'Everyone has the right to silence,' he said. 'Exceptfor the boy of course. No silence for him.' He lookeddown at his hand, turning it over to appraise the writingon his palm. 'The stories go on, night and day. Neverstop. They tell themselves, you see. They bleed andbleed. You can never hush them; never heal them.'

He is mad, Wyburd thought, and somehow the reali-sation made what he was about to do easier. Better to killa sick animal than a healthy one.

'There's a road, you know ...' the boy was saying.He wasn't even looking at his executioner. 'A road thedead go down. He saw it. Dark, strange road, full ofpeople. Not a day gone by when he hasn't ... hasn'twanted to go back there.'

'Back?' said Wyburd, happy to keep the boy talking.His hand went to his jacket pocket; to the knife. Itcomforted him in the presence of this lunacy.

'Nothing's enough,' McNeal said. 'Not love. Notmusic. Nothing.'

Clasping the knife, Wyburd drew it from his pocket.The boy's eyes found the blade, and warmed to thesight.

'You never told him how much it was worth,' he said.

'Two hundred thousand,' Wyburd replied.

'Anyone he knows?'

The assassin shook his head. 'An exile,' he replied.'In Rio. A collector.'

'Of skins?'

'Of skins.'

The boy put down his glass. He murmured somethingWyburd didn't catch. Then, very quietly, he said:

'Be quick, and do it.'

He juddered a little as the knife found his heart, butWyburd was efficient. The moment had come and gonebefore the boy even knew it was happening, much lessfelt it. Then it was all over, for him at least. For Wyburdthe real labour was only just beginning. It took him twohours to complete the flaying. When he was finished -the skin folded in fresh linen, and locked in the suitcasehe'd brought for that very purpose - he was weary.

Tomorrow he would fly to Rio, he thought as he leftthe house, and claim the rest of his payment. Then,Florida.

He spent the evening in the small apartment he'drented for the tedious weeks of surveillance and planningwhich had preceded this afternoon's work. He was gladto be leaving. He had been lonely here, and anxious withanticipation. Now the job was done, and he could putthe time behind him.

He slept well, lulled to sleep by the imagined scent oforange groves.

It was not fruit he smelt when he woke, however,but something savoury. The room was in darkness. Hereached to his right, and fumbled for the lamp-switch,but it failed to come on.

Now he heard a heavy slopping sound from across theroom. He sat up in bed, narrowing his eyes against thedark, but could see nothing. Swinging his legs over theedge of the bed, he went to stand up.

His first thought was that he'd left the bathroom tapson, and had flooded the apartment. He was knee-deepin warm water. Confounded, he waded towards the doorand reached for the main light-switch, flipping it on.It was not water he was standing in. Too cloying, tooprecious; too red.

He made a cry of disgust, and turned to haul open thedoor, but it was locked, and there was no key. He beata panicked fusillade upon the solid wood, and yelled forhelp. His appeals went unanswered.

Now he turned back into the room, the hot tideeddying about his thighs, and sought out the fountain-head.

The suitcase. It sat where he had left it on the bureau,and bled copiously from every seam; and from the locks;and from around the hinges - as if a hundred atrocitieswere being committed within its confines, and it couldnot contain the flood these acts had unleashed.

He watched the blood pouring out in steaming abun-dance. In the scant seconds since he'd stepped from thebed the pool had deepened by several inches, and still thedeluge came.

He tried the bathroom door, but that too was lockedand keyless. He tried the windows, but the shutters wereimmovable. The blood had reached his waist. Much ofthe furniture was floating. Knowing he was lost unlesshe attempted some direct action, he pressed through theflood towards the case, and put his hands upon the lid inthe hope that he might yet stem the flow. It was a lostcause. At his touch the blood seemed to come with fresheagerness, threatening to burst the seams.

The stories go on, the boy had said. They bleed andbleed. And now he seemed to hear them in his head,those stories. Dozens of voices, each telling some tragictale. The flood bore him up towards the ceiling. Hepaddled to keep his chin above the frothy tide, but inminutes there was barely an inch of air left at the top ofthe room. As even that margin narrowed, he added hisown voice to the .cacophony, begging for the nightmareto stop. But the other voices drowned him out withtheir stories, and as he kissed the ceiling his breath ranout.

The dead have highways. They run, unerring lines ofghost-trains, of dream-carriages, across the wastelandbehind our lives, bearing an endless traffic of departedsouls. They have sign-posts, these highways, and bridgesand lay-bys. They have turnpikes and intersections.