‘So what’s going on?’ yelled Saul.

‘Something… went… wrong… Once upon a time. Rats’ve longmemories, see?’ King Rat thumped his head. ‘They don’t forget stuff.They keep it all in the noggin. That’s all. And you’re involved,sunshine. This is all tied up with the one that wants you dead, thecove that bumped off your fucking dad.’

Fucking dad, said the echoes for a long time afterwards.

‘What… who… is it?’ said Saul.

King Rat looked balefully at him with those shadow-encrustedeyes.

‘The Ratcatcher.’

Almost as soon as Fabian had left, Pete had appeared. His alacritywas suspicious. In another mood it would have pissed Natasha off, butshe felt like forgetting about Saul, just for a short time.

She and Fabian had sat up late in her small kitchen. Fabian alwayscommented on Natasha’s rather self-consciously minimalist approach todecor, complaining that it made him feel uneasy, but that night theyhad other things on their mind. The faint strains of Drum and Bassfiltered through from the stereo next door.

The next morning Natasha rose at eight, regretting the cigarettesshe had shared with Fabian. He rolled out of the sleeping-bag she hadlent him, when he heard her stir. They had no more words to say aboutSaul. They were numb and tired. Fabian left quickly.

Natasha wandered out of the kitchen dripping night-clothes,pulling a shapeless sweater over her shoulders. She turned on thestereo, slipped the needle onto the vinyl on the turntable. It wasthe best of last year’s compilations, now some months old, renderingit an ancient classic in the fast-mutating world of Drum andBass.

She ran her hands through her hair, pulling brutally at thetangles.

Pete rang the bell. She guessed it was him.

She was tired but she let him in. As he drank her coffee, sheleaned against the counter and peered at him. She considered himugly, his pale skin and thin limbs. He was hardly a style guru,either. The world of Jungle could be elitist. She smiled slightly atthe thought of the rudeboys and hard-steppers in the club AWOL beingpresented with this under-sunned apparition, complete with flute.

‘How much do you know about Drum and Bass?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘Not much, really…’

‘I can tell. When you played yesterday it was impressive, but I’vegot to tell you it’s a weird idea playing flutes or shit like that toJungle. If it’s going to work, we’re going to have to figure it outcarefully.’

He nodded, his face comical with concentration. Natasha almostwished for a repeat of his extraordinary performance of the previousday, his sudden knowing smile. The alternative was so cringing, sodesperate to please, that it all but nauseated her. If this daydidn’t go well, she decided, she wasn’t having any more of it.

She sighed. ‘I’m not cutting anything with you without you knowingsomething about the music. Just because General fucking Levy gets asingle in the top ten, and some art-school wankers start writingabout Jungle, and the next thing you know anything with a backbeat’s"Jungle". Even Everything But The fucking Girl!’ She folded her arms.‘Everything But The Girl aren’t Jungle, alright?’

He nodded. It was clear he had never heard of Everything But TheGirl.

She closed her eyes and bit back a grin.

‘Right. There’s a lot going on in Jungle: there’s intelligentJungle, there’s Hardstep, Techstepping, Jazz Jungle… I like ’emall, but I can’t cut Hardstep tracks. All the darkness edges. Youwant Hardstep, go to Ed Rush or Skyscraper or something, OK? I cuttunes more like Bukem, DJ Rap, stuff like that.’ Natasha wasenjoying herself enormously, lecturing him, watching his eyes dartfrantically around. He had no idea what she was talking about.

‘DJs have started bringing musicians to gigs; Goldie brings in adrummer, and stuff like that. Some people don’t like it, they reckonJungle should be digital or nothing. I’m not down with that, but Igot no immediate plans to be dragging you on stage either. What I’minterested in is maybe playing with you for a while and sampling someof your flute for the top end. Loop it and cut it and stuff.’

Pete nodded. He was fumbling with his case, assembling hisflute.

Saul woke in the throne-room under the city. He sat curled up inthe cold, below the unmoving shape of King Rat, stiff on his throne.As soon as Saul’s eyes opened, King Rat stood up. He had been waitingfor Saul to awake.

They ate and left the chamber by the brick ladder which crept upbehind the throne, emerging by means of another hidden door into themain sewer. Saul followed King Rat through the tunnels, and this timehe paid attention to his location, his movements, he created a map inhis head, he tracked himself.

The water rushed around them as drizzle hit the urban sprawl aboveand poured into their recesses. It slid around the bricks,transporting a sudden deluge of oil. The walls here were coated withfat, thick with translucent white residue.

‘Restaurants,’ hissed King Rat as he plunged on, and Saul pickedup his feet to avoid the slippery muck. He could smell it as he ranpast, the stench of old frying and stale butter. It made him hungry.He ran a finger along the wall as he moved, sucked the glutinous messhe had picked up, and laughed, still amazed and excited by his hungerfor old food.

Saul could hear things frantically escaping their path. Thecorridors were thick with rats, nibbling at the walls and theabundant edible detritus, fleeing as they approached. King Rat hissedand the path ahead of them cleared.

The two of them quit the underground, emerging into a Piccadillybackstreet, behind a great stinking pile of food waste, gastronomiceffluent spewed out by London’s finest.

They ate. Saul devoured a crushed concoction of old cold fish insome rich sauce, King Rat wolfing broken tiramisu and polentacake.

And then up onto the roofs, King Rat ascending by a stairway ofiron piping and broken brick. As soon as he had used it, its purposebecame clear. Saul saw through vulgar reality, discernedpossibilities. Alternative architecture and topography were assertingthemselves. He followed without hesitation, slipping behind slatescreens and running unseen over the skyline.

They barely spoke. Periodically, King Rat would stop and stare atSaul, investigate his motions, nod or indicate to him a moreeffective way to climb or hide or jump. They picked their way overbanks and behind publishing houses, sly and invisible.

King Rat whispered obscure descriptions under his breath. He wavedat the buildings they passed and murmured at Saul, hinted at the darktruth concerning the scratchmarks on the walls, the hollows thatbroke up lines of chimneys, the destination of the cats thatscattered at their approach.

They wove in and out of central London, climbing, creeping, movingbehind houses and between them, over offices and under the streets.Magic had entered Saul’s life. It didn’t matter any more that hedidn’t understand.

This was a million miles from the tawdry world of conjuringtricks. His life was in thrall to another hex, a power which hadcrept into his police cell and claimed him, a dirty, raw magic, aspell that stank of piss. This was urban voodoo, fuelled by thesacrifices of road deaths, of cats and people dying on the tarmac, anI Ching of spilled and stolen groceries, a Cabbala of road signs.Saul could feel King Rat watching him. He felt giddy with rude,secular energy.

They ate. They raced north beyond King’s Cross and Islington, thelight already hinting that it would soon leave. They passedHampstead, Saul still not tired, gorging himself from time to timefrom backstreet rubbish bins. They skirted briefly into HampsteadHeath, out of the intricate paved world. They doubled back and foundtheir way through small parks and along ignored bus routes to theborders of the financial world, the City.