"Ah, so now you docare." She smirked. "Steve, it'll be the discovery of the last two millennia," said Beth, looking over at him. "Not that I'm going to get into the whole science versus religion thing, but you do realize what time of year it is, don't you?" He caught her eye for a moment, then they broke it off. They drove the rest of the way in silence, the inference hanging heavy in the air. And with the question still unanswered: who had passed this condition on to Matthew in the first place?

~

"Why don't you come inside and shut the door?" said the dead man. "We have things to talk about, you and me."

Douglas Knowles was freeze-framed in the entranceway. The words broke whatever spell was holding him there and for a second he found himself doing as he was bid, walking slowly inside. Then he stopped again.

Douglas was still staring at the man, unable to properly take in what was happening----or to grasp that it might be real. The last time he'd seen that face it had been through his windscreen, cracking the glass, panicked and bloody. (A scene his mind had recorded especially for him to play back the highlights.) Then as a dark lump in his rearview mirror after he'd finally screeched to a halt. Douglas had been breathing heavily, eyes flicking up to his mirror, then back down at the white knuckles clenching the wheel, his wedding ring digging into the third finger on his left hand. Rock music was belting out from the speakers, the soundtrack of this particular nightmare... and many more to come. Part of him had wanted to get out of the car and go back to see if the man was all right, but a larger part told him he didn't need to see that----if he drove away he might just get away with it. So before he knew what he was doing, he'd put the engine, still idling, into gear. He was bringing his foot off the clutch, finding the biting point; moving off, away from the scene.

There were no other cars around, no houses, just a road that led up to the chemical plant where the man must have been walking from, facing oncoming traffic just like you were supposed to do. But Jesus, how was Douglas supposed to see him in a pitch black tunnel like that? Even if he hadn't been trying to swerve to avoid the wall he might still have hit him. It had been an accident, that's all. An----

"Accident?" said the man, now rising. "An accident!"

"Y-Y-Yes," said Douglas, although there was hardly any conviction in his voice.

"You didn't even bother to report your 'accident.'" His tone was unforgiving. "I had to wait to be found. There might have been a chance if----"

"Get out of my head," said Douglas, closing his eyes and backing away.

"You still don't understand, do you?"

When Douglas opened his eyes again the dead man was standing inches away, grabbing him by the wrists.

"I'm real, Doug. This isn't one of your guilt dreams. I'm not the Ghost of Christmas Past. I'm here, in the flesh."

Douglas shook his head. "No, no!"

"I lost everything that night. Missed seeing my son grow up. And now my wife, she's..." He let the sentence tail off. "All because of you and your accident."

Douglas tried to wrestle out of his grip but couldn't manage it. "I-I didn't mean to----"

"You had a choice that night; I had none," said the dead man. "See... feelwhat I felt!" The dead man shoved something into Douglas's hand, a toy. A small child's car.

Suddenly Douglas experienced that night in a way he never had before. He was the one who'd set out to walk home after his shift, who'd been in that tunnel when he'd seen the light. Who'd felt the force of the car, doing almost 50 miles an hour on that bend, ploughing into him. His legs no match for the metal of the bonnet. He felt the agonizing pain as the bones broke in several places, as his hip cracked and he went tumbling over that same bonnet. Heard the music coming from inside, the loud thumping of the stereo. Saw the knuckles on the steering wheel, looking up to gaze into his own shocked face behind the wheel----the pair of them becoming intertwined in that moment. Then the rest of the 'accident' was filled in for him, spinning over the roof, his shoulder coming out of its socket, then back down onto the boot and finally colliding with the rough concrete of the road, raking his skin, shredding his thighs, blood pouring from him freely, nose breaking and splintering with the fall. He blinked once, his vision blurred, then again. Everything was black but he couldn't tell whether it was the darkness of the tunnel or that he was losing consciousness. And it hurt so much. He couldn't move a muscle. It hurt so much he actually prayed for death to come because then it would end. But he still managed to mutter one thing: "You'll... you'll see me again."

"Do you understand?" shouted the dead man, pressing him up against the balcony wall.

Douglas was crying now, and spit ran from his mouth. "Please... please... stop."

"You took my life away from me. Now----"

"Now," he blurted through the tears. "Now what? Now you're here to do the same, to take it away from me?" Douglas found hidden reserves from somewhere, his voice becoming stronger. "So do it. What do I have to live for now anyway?"

The dead man looked him squarely in the eyes, those tired eyes desperate for sleep. A sleep denied him by the drink. He looked back over his shoulder at the place where Douglas now lived. Was it enough, this punishment? How could he weigh it against what he had been through?

It was a decision, a choice only he could make.

And so he made it.

Chapter Fourteen

On approach it looked like a bird.

Robbins pulled up outside the block of flats just as the body fell. It seemed to drop forever, coat flailing behind like a pair of wings. Then right at the last minute it speeded up, like one of those slick shots in a TV show. It hit the ground with all the grace of a safe landing on a cartoon character's head. That is to say, it would have hit the ground had there not been something there to break its fall.

The body slammed into the roof of the middle car of three, parked just opposite and further down from them. The battered old Metro----nobody had decent wheels around there----crumpled up as if it had been placed in a decompression chamber, metal and glass folding itself around the shape that had fallen from the balcony above. They gaped at the wreckage, not one of them knowing quite what to do next. Then Robbins said, "Shit! We're too late."

They got out of the car, but still stood staring at the crushed roof of the vehicle. It was Beth who moved first, her instinct being to try and save whoever this was who'd plummeted the seven floors from above. Except as she got there, Robbins radioing for an ambulance as she did, she realized what a waste of time that would be. The man's face, white apart from the occasional dash of red, was pretty much intact: it was only his eyes that gave away his state, rolling back into his head like two boiled eggs. As for the rest of him, it was difficult to tell where the flesh stopped and the metal began. Both were twisted and intertwined, his limbs----for she could see it was a man now----were bent into the most awkward of positions. His legs were shooting out at bizarre angles, the bottom halves, below the knee, bending back like a contortionist's. His arm had split wide open at the elbow joint and there was bone protruding through, while his left hand, having been severed by the glass of the Metro's window, was dangling----almost off----by the tendons. Something dropped out of that hand onto the ground: a red toy car.