He wondered if it would be soon.

Fat Charlie sat on the blanket on the metal bed and waited for something to happen, but it didn’t. What felt like several months passed, extremely slowly. He tried to go to sleep but he couldn’t remember how.

He banged on the door.

Someone shouted, “Shut up!” but he couldn’t tell whether it was an officer or a fellow inmate.

He walked around the cell for what, at a conservative estimate, he felt must have been two or three years. Then he sat down and let eternity wash over him. Daylight was visible through the thick glass block at the top of the wall that did duty as a window, by all appearances the same daylight that had been visible when the door was locked behind him that morning.

Fat Charlie tried to remember what people did in prison to pass the time, but all he could come up with was keeping secret diaries and hiding things in their bottoms. He had nothing to write on, and felt that a definite measure of how well one was getting on in life was not having to hide things in one’s bottom.

Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen. More Nothing. The Return of Nothing. Son of Nothing. Nothing Rides Again. Nothing and Abbott and Costello meet the Wolfman—

When the door was unlocked, Fat Charlie nearly cheered.

“Right. Exercise yard. You can have a cigarette if you need one.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Filthy habit anyway.”

The exercise yard was an open space in the middle of the police station surrounded by walls on all sides and topped by wire mesh, which Fat Charlie walked around while deciding that, if there was one thing he didn’t like being in, it was police custody. Fat Charlie had had no real liking for the police, but until now, he had still managed to cling to a fundamental trust in the natural order of things, a conviction that there was some kind of power—a Victorian might have thought of it as Providence—that ensured that the guilty would be punished while the innocent would be set free. This faith had collapsed in the face of recent events and had been replaced by the suspicion that he would spend the rest of his life pleading his innocence to a variety of implacable judges and tormenters, many of whom would look like Daisy, and that he would in all probability wake up in cell six the following morning to find that he had been transformed into an enormous cockroach. He had definitely been transported to the kind of maleficent universe that transformed people into cockroaches—

Something dropped out of the sky above him onto the wire mesh. Fat Charlie looked up. A blackbird stared down at him with lofty disinterest. There was more fluttering, and the blackbird was joined by several sparrows and by something that Fat Charlie thought was probably a thrush.

They stared at him; he stared back at them.

More birds came.

It would have been hard for Fat Charlie to say exactly when the accumulation of birds on the wire mesh moved from interesting to terrifying. It was somewhere in the first hundred or so, anyway. And it was in the way they didn’t coo, or caw, or trill, or sing. They simply landed on the wire, and they watched him.

“Go away,” said Fat Charlie.

As one bird, they didn’t. Instead, they spoke. They said his name.

Fat Charlie went over to the door in the corner. He banged on it. He said, “Excuse me,” a few times, and then he started shouting, “Help!”

A clunk. The door was opened, and a heavy-lidded member of Her Majesty’s constabulary said, “This had better be good.”

Fat Charlie pointed upward. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The constabular mouth dropped open peculiarly wide, and it hung there slackly. Fat Charlie’s mother would have told the man to shut his mouth or something would fly into it.

The mesh sagged under the weight of thousands of birds. Tiny avian eyes stared down, unblinkingly.

“Christ on a bike,” said the policeman, and he ushered Fat Charlie back into the cellblock without saying another word.

Maeve Livingstone was in pain. She was sprawled on the floor. She woke, and her hair and face were wet and warm, and then she slept, and when next she woke her hair and face were sticky and cold. She dreamed and woke and dreamed again, woke enough to be conscious of the hurt at the back of her head, and then, because it was easier to sleep, and because when she slept it did not hurt, she allowed sleep to embrace her like a comfortable blanket.

In her dreams she was walking through a television studio, looking for Morris. Occasionally she would catch glimpses of him on the monitors. He always looked concerned. She tried to find her way out, but all ways led her back to the studio floor.

“I’m so cold,” she thought, and knew that she was awake once more. The pain, though, had subsided. All things considered, thought Maeve, she felt pretty good.

There was something she was upset about, but she was not entirely sure what it was. Perhaps it had been another part of her dream.

It was dark, wherever she was. She seemed to be in some kind of broom closet, and she put out her arms to avoid bumping into anything in the darkness. She took a few nervous steps with her arms outstretched and her eyes closed, then she opened her eyes. Now she was in a room she knew. It was an office.

Grahame Coats’s office.

She remembered then. The just-awake grogginess was still there—she wasn’t yet thinking clearly, knew she wouldn’t be properly all there until she had had her morning cup of coffee—but still, it came to her: Grahame Coats’s perfidiousness, his treachery, his criminality, his—

Why, she thought, he assaulted me. He hit me. And then she thought, The police. I should call the police.

She reached down for the phone on the table and picked it up, or tried to, but the phone seemed very heavy, or slippery, or both, and she was unable to grasp it properly. It felt wrong for her fingers.

I must be weaker than I thought, Maeve decided. I had better ask them to send a doctor as well.

In the pocket of her jacket was a small silver phone which played “Greensleeves” when it rang. She was relieved to find the phone still here, and that she had no problems at all in holding it. She dialed the emergency services. As she waited for someone to answer she wondered why they still called it dialing when there weren’t dials on telephones, not since she was much younger, and then after the phones with dials came the trim-phones with buttons on them and a particularly annoying ring. She had, as a teenager, had a boyfriend who could and continually did imitate the breep of a trimphone, an ability that was, Maeve decided, looking back, his only real achievement. She wondered what had happened to him. She wondered how a man who could imitate a trimphone coped in a world in which telephones could and did sound like anything—

“We apologize for the delay in placing your call,” said a mechanical voice. “Please hold the line.”

Meave felt oddly calm, as if nothing bad could ever happen to her again.

A man’s voice came on the line. “Hello?” it said. It sounded extremely efficient.

“I need the police,” said Maeve.

“You do not need the police,” said the voice. “All crimes will be dealt with by the appropriate and inevitable authorities.”

“You know,” said Maeve, “I think I may have dialed the wrong number.”

“Likewise,” said the voice, “all numbers are, ultimately, correct. They are simply numbers and cannot thus be right or wrong.”

“That’s all very well for you to say,” said Maeve. “But I do need to speak to the police. I may also need an ambulance. And I have obviously called a wrong number.” She ended the call. Perhaps, she thought, 999 didn’t work from a cell phone. She pulled up her onscreen address book and called her sister’s number. The phone rang once, and a familiar voice said. “Let me clarify: I am not saying that you dialed a wrong number on purpose. What I trust that I am saying is that all numbers are by their nature correct. Well, except for Pi, of course. I can’t be doing with Pi. Gives me a headache just thinking about it, going on and on and on and on and on—”