So Crowley was cut off from discussion, the medium in which hisbest work was done. He was afraid that without it his notions werestunted, half truths, soiled with the muck of his own mind that noone could brush off for him. But he had no choice; he wasatomized.

Kay as killer. That was one of the ideas that he must dispensewith. Kay was peripheral, not close to any of the main protagonistsin this drama. He had even less motive than Saul for any of theseactions. He was even less physically impressive than Saul.

And besides, his blood group matched that which had covered thewalls of Mornington Crescent station.

The fragments of jaw that could be analysed seemed to matchKay’s.

Nothing was certain, not with a body as destroyed as that hadbeen. But Crowley believed he knew who they had found.

And he still, he still, could not believe that it was Saul theywanted.

But he could talk to no one about this.

Nor could he share the pity he felt, a pity which was welling upinside him more with every day, a pity which was threatening to dwarfhis horror, his anger, his disgust, his fear, his confusion. Agrowing pity for Saul. Because if he was right, if Saul was not theone responsible for all the things Crowley had seen, then Saul wasright in the middle of something horrendous, a kaleidoscope ofbizarre and bloody murder. And Crowley might feel isolated, mightfeel cut off from those around him, but if he was right, then Saul…Saul was truly alone.

Fabian returned to his room and immediately felt bad again. Theonly time now that he did not feel oppressed by isolation was when hegot on his bike and rode around London. He was spending more and moreof his time on the road these days, burning up the junk calories hegot from the crap he was eating. He was a wiry man, and his hours andhours on the road were stripping the final ounces of excess fleshfrom him. He was being pared down to skin and muscle.

He had ridden for miles in the cold and his skin blushed with thechange of temperature. He sweated unpleasantly from his exertions,his perspiration cold on him.

Straight south he had ridden, down Brixton Hill, past the prison,through Streatham, down towards Mitcham. Real suburbia, housesflattening down, shopping districts becoming more and more flat andsoulless. He had ridden up and down and around a roundabouts andalong sidestreets: he needed to cross traffic, to wait his turn onthe road, to look behind him and indicate brief thanks to someoneletting him in, he needed to cut in front of that Porsche and ignorethe fact that he had pissed them off…

This was Fabian’s social life now. He interacted on the fuckingtarmac, communicated with people passing him in their cars. This wasas close as he came to relationships now. He did not know what washappening.

So he rode around and around, stopped to buy crisps and chocolate,orange-juice maybe, ate on the saddle, standing outside the pokylittle groceries and newsagents he now frequented, balancing his bikenext to the faded boards advertising ice-cream and cheapphotocopying.

And then back out onto the road, back into the cursoryconversations of the roadways, his dangerous flirtations with carsand lorries. There was no such thing as society, not any more, notfor him. He had been stripped of it, reduced to begging for socialscraps like signalling and brake lights, the rudenesses andcourtesies of transport. These were the only times now that anyonetook notice of him, modified their behaviour because of him.

Fabian was so lonely it made him ache.

His answering machine blinked at him. He pressed play and thepoliceman Crowley’s voice jerked into life. He sounded forlorn, andFabian did not think it was just the medium which was having thateffect. Fabian listened with the contempt and exasperation he alwaysfelt when he dealt with the police.

‘… pector Crowley here, Mr Morris. Ummm… I was wondering ifyou might be able to help me again with a couple of questions. Iwanted to talk to you about your friend Kay and… well… perhapsyou could call me.’

There was a pause.

‘You don’t play the flute, do you, Mr Morris? Would you or Saulhave known anyone who does?’

Fabian froze. He did not hear what else Crowley said. The voicecontinued for a minute and stopped.

A wave of gooseflesh engulfed him briefly and was gone. Hefumbled, stabbed at the rewind button.

‘… ould call me. You don’t play the flute, do you, MrMorris?’

Rewind.

‘You don’t play the flute, do you, Mr Morris?’

With an agony of numb fingers Fabian fast forwarded, found thenumber Crowley gave. He punched it into the phone. Why does he wantto know that? why that? his mind kept begging.

The number was busy, and a pleasant female voice told him he wasin a queue.

‘Mother/wc&er!’ Fabian yelled and threw the receiver at thecradle. It bounced and hung from its cord, the dial tone justaudible.

Fabian was trembling violently. He tugged at his bike, wrestled itthrough the constricted entrance hall and hurled it ready for himinto the street. He slammed the door behind him. Adrenaline andterror made him feel sick. He lurched into the road and sped towardsNatasha’s house.

No sociability now. He wove in and out of cars, leaving acacophony of horns and curses in his wake. He twisted around cornersat sharp, sharp angles, leaving pedestrians leaping out of hisway.

Jesus Christ Jesus Christ, he thought, why does he want to knowthat? What has he found out? What has a man who plays the flutedone?

He was over the river now, Jesus God knew how, he realized he wasrisking his life at every second. He seemed to be in and out offugues, he had no recollection at all of passing through theintervening streets before the bridge.

Blood poured through Fabian’s veins. He felt giddy. The cold airwoke him, slapped him in the face.

He saw a clump of phone boxes speeding into view before him. Hewas struck with a sudden realization of his isolation, again. Hetugged at his brakes and pulled his bike up short, letting it fall tothe ground and breaking into a run before it had stopped moving. Thenearest box was empty, and he ransacked his pockets for money, pulledout a fifty-pence piece. He dialled Crowley’s number.

Dial 999 you stupid fucker! he suddenly admonished himself, butthis time Crowley’s phone was ringing.

‘Crowley.’

‘Crowley, it’s Fabian.’ He could hardly speak; the words swallowedeach other up in their eagerness. ‘Crowley, go to Natasha’s housenow. I’ll see you there.’

‘Now, hold on, Fabian. What’s this all about?’

‘Just be there, motherfucker! The flute, the fucking flute!’ Hehung up.

What’s he doing to her? Fabian thought as he ran to his bike. Itspedals still spun slightly where it lay. That weird fucker who justappeared, Jesus! He had thought she was having an affair with him,that this explained her weird behaviour, and the obscure challengeFabian always sensed from Pete. But what if… what if that was notthe whole story? What did Crowley know?

He was nearly there now, speeding towards Natasha’s house. Londonlight surrounded him. He could not hear the traffic at all, he reliedonly on his eyes to stay alive.

Another sharp turn and there was Ladbroke Grove. He realizedbriefly that he was drenched in sweat. The day was overcast and cold,and his wet skin was frozen. Fabian felt like crying. He felt utterlyout of control, as if he could have no effect on the world.

He turned, and was in Natasha’s street. It was as deserted asusual. The ringing in his ears dispersed and there was the Drum andBass, the soundtrack to Natasha’s house. Dreamy and washed out, avery bleak song. He could feel it creeping into him behind hiseyes.

He stepped free of his bike, letting it fall beside her door.