I've been talking with Sophia. They're not far away now. They'll tell us where to meet, and they know somewhere safe. Isn't that fine?

"And Steven?"

A pause, so slight that Tom thought he had imagined it. He's at home, she said.

"And where is home?"

It's a place …, Natasha said, trailing off. If she'd had eyes, Tom imagined she would be staring into the distance. My mother used to tell me about it while I was falling asleep. Below the streets of a city she never named are the tunnels, and below them the caves, and way, way below them is home. Humans have never been there, only berserkers. It's huge, alight with fires that have burned forever. The food is the richest, growing from the purest ground. Water collects in pools, the cleanest there is, and there are fish like nowhere else in the world. Some of the dwellings carved from the rock go back to a time before humans walked on two legs. There are other tunnels leading to other places, but it's home that berserkers always return to. The cradle of our existence. It's … somewhere I can barely imagine, let alone explain.

"I suppose we'll both see soon enough." He curled the blanket into a ball and slammed the boot shut, hissing as pain punched him in the back. Something ground around in there, like a rat clawing and gnawing through his flesh in search of another organ to rupture, and Tom had to lean forward and rest against the car, eyes closed once again. "Oh, Natasha, I'm going to go, I'm going to collapse and that'll be it, no home, no Steven—"

Don't you fucking dare!

His eyes snapped open. Fear swiped him around the face, and it was as effective as a real slap. The dizziness retreated. The pain decided to stay put, and he could feel it waiting in the shadows for its next opportunity to mess him up.

He had never heard her speak like that. That had not been a little girl's voice. Those had been the words of someone used to being in control.

What is she doing to me? he wondered yet again, and he thought briefly of what Cole had said.

Mister Wolf might be here soon, the girl said in his mind, shouting, drawing him away from his own thoughts. And we won't get away from him again, not with you shot like that. You're bleeding, Daddy. Her voice dropped again, changing from a shout back to a childish whine. So much blood! Get in the car and hold me before we go, and I'll make sure we both have the strength for this.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked.

Helping you. Making you strong. Keeping you alive.

"I don't even know what you are."

I'm a berserker, just like I've told you and shown you. Sit with me for a minute and I'll dream you some more, show you the truth.

He opened the back door and sat down in the car.

Pick me up, hold me like you did before.

Tom maneuvered Natasha into his lap and cradled her like a baby. He felt a needle-prick at his chest, and this time she moved in his arms, a grotesque shuffle that raised his hackles and sent a tingle down his spine.

We'll both be well soon, she said, and then he felt her withdraw from his mind as she began to feed.

With his free hand he spread the dirty blanket over the strange girl. Then he leaned his head back, relishing the warm waves of comfort that spread through his body and took away the pain.

Soon they took the light as well.

"I've shown you what we are", Natasha said, "and now I'll show you what they did to us."

And this was her real, true voice, and she sounded just like a little girl.

Cole had lost them. He was sure of this, just as he was sure that the MX5 was dying. It coughed and gasped, and something sounded as if it had come loose in the engine. Of all the dumb fucking luck… But then he had murdered the car's owner, so he supposed there was some cosmic justice at work here.

He was on the motorway heading north, simply cause he could move faster that way and it felt as though he was getting somewhere.

The car spluttered again and jerked, and at sixty that was not good. He'd have to pull off soon, or risk having to stop on the hard shoulder. If that happened and the police decided to stop and see if there was any problem, he'd have trouble explaining the blood and brains and bone all over the car's interior. He could try, he supposed. But it would not be easy.

I'm chasing a monster I buried alive ten years ago, officer, because some stupid twat dug her up without having the slightest fucking idea what he was doing. And now he's doing his best to take her to more of her kind, where she'll be looked after and tended and brought back to the land of the living, and I'm afraid of that because there's something about her, something they did to her at Porton Down. And though I don't know what it is, I am certain that, along with the Black Death, AIDS and a dashing of the Ebola virus on your morning cornflakes, you wouldn't class it as Good News. Oh, the car? Yes, well, I accidentally blew the driver's head off when I really only meant to put one in the car body. Pretty brunette. Just the kind of woman I'm trying to protect.

No, that would never work.

Cole took the next exit from the motorway, the car died on the roundabout and he managed to roll downhill into a small petrol station. There was a garage behind it, one car inside with its oily guts strewn across the ground. As the MX5 curved to a halt the mechanic strolled over, lighting up a cigarette on the way.

"Shit!" Cole climbed from the low car, cursing at the increasing pain in his bruised thighs. "Don't worry, mate," he said, nonchalant as he could be. He could feel a splinter of bone stuck into his rear from where he had sat on it. How bloody casual can I be like this? he thought. The .45 was a comforting weight in his belt.

The mechanic looked him up and down. His eyes grew wide, he took a long drag on his cigarette, then nodded. "Yep. S.E.P." He turned and walked away.

"What?"

The mechanic spoke over his shoulder, still walking. "Somebody Else's Problem. Douglas Adams. Phone's in the shop."

Cole stared after the man in amazement. "Maybe my luck's changing," he muttered, but then he pictured the woman he had killed, her pale thighs and black panties and ruined head, and he knew that Lady Luck would never smile at him again.

He limped to the shop, digging his mobile phone from his pocket. Hopefully they'd have toilets inside, and from there he could make the call he had been contemplating for the past hour, one which he had always promised himself he would never make. The call that would guarantee that he would be tried for at least four murders.

He had already tapped the number in, ready to dial.

"I'm too committed," he said as he entered the shop and spied the sign for the bathroom. The girl behind the till stared at him, never stopping chewing her gum.

Cole thought of himself as a good person, God-fearing and good. A splinter from an innocent woman's skull could prick his ass, but that did little to change his mind.

In the bathroom he checked that all the cubicles were empty, stood where he could see the door and pressed DIAL.

The phone was answered after four rings. It took some discussion and several minutes on hold for him to be passed through, but in the end the familiar voice came on, and Cole felt his instant dislike rising to the fore.

"Major Higgins," Cole said. "So you're still licking Her Majesty's ass?"

They were in the enclosed rear of some sort of vehicle, being transported to Porton Down. It was moving fast and the roads were bumpy, and if it weren't for the safety belts they would have been thrown around the interior of the cab.

There were no windows, and only one weak light. Strong mesh formed six separate cages, three on each side, with a walkway down the centre. The sliding doors to these cells were open today. Natasha sat across from Peter, and their parents sat in the stalls next to them, none of them speaking. Her father seemed to be asleep, but she could see the glint of his eyes beneath his lowered eyelids. Still pumped up from the exertions of the day, his animal instincts kept him awake. Her mother sat with her head resting back against the side of the truck, mindless of the bumps and knocks, staring at the short strip-light in the ceiling. Her face was pocked with two old bullet wounds, put there only hours before. By the time they reached Porton Down the wounds would be totally gone. The effort of healing was tiring her, and Natasha saw her eyelids droop.