“I’ll burn them!” screamed Greg. He waved the cigarette lighter, as the kneeling protesters sobbed with terror. “I’ll burn them so you’d better take me seriously, Goddamnit! Do you hear me? I want to see my son!”

“Put the lighter down,” said Turner. “Please. You don’t want to hurt them.”

Greg stared at the Director, his face running with tears and twisted with bright, burning hatred. “Why did you have to take him?” he asked, his voice trembling. “Everything would have been fine if you hadn’t taken him. What did I ever do to you? Why did you ruin my life?”

Kate stepped forward. “Matt wanted to be part of Blacklight, Mr Browning,” she said. “He volunteered.”

Greg shook his head furiously. “That’s a lie,” he said. “That’s a filthy lie.”

“I promise you it isn’t,” she said, forcing as much calm and warmth into her voice as she possibly could. “He wanted to help people. He wanted to do something good, like you did with SSL, like I’m sure you thought you were doing with the Night Stalkers. He wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Greg stopped pacing and stared directly at her.

“I shot your dad,” he said. “Did you know that?”

“Take it easy,” whispered Turner.

“Yeah,” said Kate, meeting the man’s gaze. “I know you did.”

“I was trying to kill him,” said Greg. “I wanted to kill him. Everything would’ve been OK if he’d just died like he was supposed to. Now it’s all ruined.”

Kate felt anger boil in the pit of her stomach. She tightened her grip on her Glock, and forced herself to lower her aim from the centre of Greg’s chest; she was suddenly less confident of her ability not to pull the trigger.

“Put the lighter down, Mr Browning,” said Turner. “It doesn’t have to end like this. You still have the power to change it.”

“I can’t do anything!” screamed Greg. “Everything I’ve tried to do, you’ve spoilt! You ruin everything! You’re monsters!”

“We didn’t do anything,” said Turner, his voice low and calm. “Your choices are your own. It’s nobody else’s fault that you keep making them so badly.”

“I tried!” shouted Greg, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I tried to do good! Nobody would let me!”

“That’s right,” said Kate, forcing her anger down. “I know you tried, Mr Browning. I don’t think you’re a bad person, and we know the Night Stalkers weren’t your idea.”

Greg began to cry, huge sobs that wracked his body as tears streamed down his face and thick ribbons of snot hung from his nose. The protesters stared up at him, struck dumb by fear.

“I didn’t know,” said Greg, his voice wavering. “I swear I didn’t know, until I saw the news this morning. A man came to me, and he talked to me, and he told me what I could do, and he was right. There’s no room for us and the vamps. This is a war. It’s a war.”

“Who was it?” pressed Kate. “Who told you to start the Night Stalkers?”

Greg looked at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never saw him again. But it was his idea. SSL, all of it. Get the vamps to confess and punish them, like an inquisition. He told me we were the same. I didn’t know who he was working for.”

He broke down sobbing again. The realisation that his crusade against vampires had been started and funded by the very worst of them appeared to have unravelled him completely.

“I want to see my son,” he whispered.

“We can talk about that,” said Turner. “But only if you put the lighter and the gun down.”

“Please,” said Kate. “You don’t want to do this, Mr Browning. I know you don’t.”

Greg threw back his head and howled. To Kate’s ears, it sounded barely human: it was the broken, wounded cry of an animal. He lowered his head and fixed her with eyes that were full of pain.

“Get my son,” he said. “Please. Just get him. GET MY SON RIGHT NOW!”

“I can’t,” said Turner. “I’m sorry. Not until you put everything down.”

Greg stared at them for a long moment, then placed the muzzle of the MP5 against his temple.

“Don’t,” said Turner, his voice suddenly full of urgency. “Please. It doesn’t have to end like this, Greg.”

Matt’s dad grunted with laughter, his tears shining in the early evening gloom. Kate stared at him and made a decision; she could not watch her friend’s father kill himself, at least not unless she had tried absolutely everything to stop it. She took a step towards him, put her Glock on the ground, and raised her empty hands.

Greg pointed the MP5 at her. “Don’t come any closer.”

“You’re not going to shoot me,” said Kate, with far more conviction than she felt. “We both know that. Put the gun down.”

“Kate,” said Turner, his voice low and full of warning. “Step back. Now.”

“Why do you want to see Matt?” she asked, ignoring the Director. “What will you say to him if we let you see him? Tell me.”

The hand holding the MP5 began to shake, and Kate tried not to look at the finger curled round the submachine gun’s trigger. She took another step forward.

“Come on, Mr Browning,” she said. “Tell me what you want to say to your son.”

Greg grimaced, and for the briefest of moments he looked down at the ground. Kate’s muscles tightened, but before she could leap forward and take the gun away from him, his eyes were back on her, huge and wide and wet with tears.

“I need him to know that I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything. Will you tell him for me? Please?”

“Tell him yourself,” said Kate. “That’s the least he deserves. Put the gun and the lighter down and we can go to him right now.”

Greg shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “You have to tell him for me. You have to.”

Kate took another step.

“Put the gun down,” she said. “Please, Mr Browning.”

“Don’t come any closer.”

Kate raised her hands higher. “Just put it down.”

“DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!” screamed Greg, the gun trembling wildly in his hand.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” said Kate. She drew in a deep breath, and stepped—

Bang.

Matt Browning stepped out of the elevator on Level H, turned away from the airlock door, and walked along the corridor towards the non-supernatural cellblock, his brain aching with exhaustion.

Tiredness was a constant inside the Loop, particularly within the Lazarus Project, and was not normally worth commenting on, or complaining about; this morning, however, was different. After the awful news about Danny Lawrence and his awkward, halting encounter with Larissa, Matt had gone back to his desk and thrown himself into his work with an enthusiasm that bordered on manic, trying to replace everything in his head with figures and formulas and reports. He had collapsed into bed just after 4.30am, his mind finally cleansed by exhaustion, and had instantly fallen into an unconsciousness so deep and impenetrable he was not sure it could accurately be called sleep.

What had woken him two and a half hours later was the piercing, hateful beep of a message arriving on his console.

He had fumbled on his bedside table for the plastic rectangle, his eyelids feeling like they weighed several tons each, and held it up in front of his face. It had taken several jabs of his finger until the screen finally awoke, revealing four lines of glowing text.

FROM: Turner, Major Paul (NS303, 36-A)

TO: Browning, Lieutenant Matthew (NS303, 83-C)

Meet me in non-supernatural containment in fifteen minutes. Don’t speak to anyone or access any overnight reports.

Matt rounded the corner and saw the Director standing at the entrance to the cellblock, his face as pale and expressionless as ever. He walked towards him, trying not to let the nervousness that was beginning to spread through him show.