Fabian rang the bell. He put his finger on the button and did notrelease it until he saw a form approach behind the smoked-glassdoor.

Natasha opened the door to him.

Fabian wondered for a moment if she was stoned she looked sovague, her eyes so clouded. But he saw how white she looked, howthin, and he knew that this was more than dope.

She smiled when she saw him, and looked up at him with unfocusedeyes.

‘Hey, Fabe, man, how’s it going?’ She sounded tired, but sheraised her hand to touch fists.

Fabian took her hand. She looked at him in mild surprise. He puthis lips close to her ear.

His voice, when he spoke, was unsteady.

‘Tash, man, is Pete here?’

She looked up at him, creased her face quizzically, nodded.

‘Yeah. We’re practising. For Junglist Terror.’

Fabian began to tug at her.

‘Tash, we have to go. I want you to come with me. I promise I’llexplain, but come with me now…’

‘Oh, no.’ She did not sound angry or perturbed. But she pulledaway from him gently and began to close the door. ‘I’ve got to playsome tracks with him.’

Fabian pushed the door open and grabbed her. He held her mouthclosed with his right hand. She struggled, her eyes suddenly wide,but he dragged her towards the door.

His eyes were prickling, and he whispered to her. ‘Tash please youdon’t understand he’s something to do with it all we have to get away…’

‘Hi, Fabian! How’s it going?’

Pete had appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked down at themboth, his body poised in mid stride. He grinned amiably.

Fabian froze, as did Natasha, in his arms.

Fabian stared at Pete’s face. It was white, crisscrossed withvicious, half-healed scratches, bloody and intricate. He affected hisusual cheerful expression but his eyes were giving him away now, opena little too wide, staring a little too hard.

Fabian realized that he was very frightened of Pete. Fabianwondered how long before Crowley would be there.

‘Hey, Pete, man…’ he muttered. ‘Uh… I was wanting… me andTash might split for a bit… uh…’

Pete shook his head, looking amused and rueful.

‘Oh, Fabian, you mustn’t go. Come hear what we’ve beenplaying.’

Fabian shook his head and stumbled backwards a little more.

‘Natasha?’ said Pete, and turned to her. He whistled somethingvery quickly. Instantly Natasha spun in Fabian’s arms and twisted herleg, taking his feet from under him and kicking the door closedbehind him in one motion. She stood to one side as he fell againstthe door. He stared at her, and her eyes clicked back into the focusthat had momentarily deserted her.

Fabian fumbled behind him for the latch, his mouth open, his legswobbling as he stood.

‘Look, Fabe,’ said Pete reasonably, descending towards him. ‘It’ssimple.’ Natasha stood still and gazed at him as he approached. ‘Idon’t know quite what you’ve worked out or how, and I’m impressed,really I am, but now what? What to do with you? I could kill you,like I did Kay, but I think I’ve got a better idea.’

An angry, frightened little noise issued from Fabian’s throat. Kay… what had happened to him?

‘So anyway, the first thing I think is that you should comeupstairs.’ Pete motioned to the room above them, and the faintstrains of Jungle that had been filtering down the stairs seemed toswell, the plaintive song that he had caught from outside wassuddenly filling Fabian’s head. And it was such a beautiful song, itcompletely took him away…

It made him think of so many things…

He was on the stairs, he realized, and then he was in the bedroom,but he wasn’t really bothered about that, because what was importantwas that he should hear this song. There was something aboutit…

It stopped and he caught his breath, stumbled, felt as if he waschoking.

The room was silent. Pete had one hand by the on off switch on thesequencer. Natasha stood next to him, her arms by her side, the samefree-floating look in her eyes. With his left hand Pete held akitchen knife to her throat. She obligingly held her head up.

Fabian opened his mouth in horror and gesticulated towards the twoof them, frozen like a waxwork scene of the moment of murder. Heemitted inchoate sounds.

‘Yes yes yes, Fabian. Answer or I slit her throat.’ Pete’s voicewas still measured, urbane. ‘Is anyone else coming?’

Fabian’s eyes flitted around the room as he tried to gauge thesituation. He shrieked as Pete pressed the knife to her throat, andblood welled up around it.

‘Yes! Yes! The police are coming!’ Fabian screamed. ‘And they’regoing to fucking take you, you motherfucker…’

‘Nope,’ said Pete. ‘Nope, they won’t.’

He released Natasha and she touched her neck experimentally,screwing up her face, perturbed and confused by the blood. She pickedup her pillow and pressed it to the side of her neck, watched itstain red.

Pete kept his eyes on Fabian. He fumbled on the top of thekeyboard and gathered up some DATs which sat there.

‘Tash?’ he said. ‘Grab your record bag and a few twelve-inches.We’re going to go to mine until Junglist Terror.’ He smiled atFabian.

Fabian bolted for the door. He heard a faint whispering and hisleft calf burst into agony. He screamed as he fell. The kitchen knifewas embedded deep in the muscle of his lower leg. He fumbled at itwith bloody fingers and screamed when he had the breath.

‘See,’ said Pete, sounding amused. ‘I can make you dance to mytune, but fuck it, sometimes other methods do the job.’ He stood overFabian.

Fabian closed his eyes and laid his head on the floor. He wasfainting.

‘You will come to Junglist Terror, won’t you, Fabe?’ said Pete.Behind him Natasha quietly gathered some things. ‘You may not feellike dancing now, but I promise you will. And you can do me afavour.’

The faint percussive thump of the Drum and Bass beat which waftedinto Bassett Street was washed out, rendered nothing by the sirens.Two police cars slid to a stop outside the house. Uniformed men andwomen leapt out and raced to the door. Crowley stood beside one ofthe cars. Behind him, the residents peered out of their doors andwindows.

‘Have you come about all that screaming? That was quick,’ said anold man approvingly to Crowley.

Crowley looked away as his stomach yawned. He felt sick withforeboding.

Next to the door a bicycle lay on the pavement. Crowley stared atit as the battering ram took care of the door. The police swept upthe stairs in a confused mass. Crowley saw the guns at the ready.

There was a sound of heavy feet in the house, audible in thestreet outside. The faint Jungle beat jerked to an abrupt halt.Crowley strode after the advance party into the hallway. He jogged upthe steps and waited by the front door to the flat.

A short woman in a flak jacket approached him.

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

‘They’re gone, sir. Not a sign. I think you should see this.’

She led him into the flat. It was thick with heavy bodies. The airwas full of authoritative voices, the sounds of searching.

Crowley looked around him at the bare walls of the sitting-room.By the entrance to the room was a pool of blood, still slick andsticky. One of the white pillows on the futon was stained deepred.

The keyboard, the stereo, a handbag… everything was untouched.Crowley strode over to the turntable. A twelve-inch single rested onit. The needle had skipped, pushed off course by the vibration of theheavy police boots. Crowley swore.

When he raised his voice it dripped bile.

‘I don’t suppose anyone saw how far through the record we were?No?’

Everyone stared at him in incomprehension.

‘Because that way we could have told how long ago they left.’

They looked away, surly. Next time you try rushing a fuckinglunatic and stopping to take notes, sir, they said with every lookand gesture.