What happened next was confused both by the wind and Nimrod, who, forseeing his sister's slaughter, began to struggle in Cal's arms. All Cal saw was the billowing form of their pursuer suddenly flicker, and the next moment he heard Lilia's voice swoop into an audible register. It was a cry of anguish she let loose, echoed by Nimrod. Then the wind blew up again, shrouding the garden, just as Cal glimpsed Lilia's form swathed in white fire. The cry stopped abruptly.

As it did so, a tingling in the soles of his feet announced the approach of a train. Which direction was it coming from, and on which track? The murder of Lilia had further excited the wind. He could now see less than ten yards down the line in either direction.

Knowing there was no safety the way they'd come, he turned from the garden as the beast let out another scalp-crawling commotion.

Think, he told himself. In moments it would be after them again.

He wrenched his arm around Nimrod, and looked at his watch. It read twelve thirty-eight.

Where would the train be heading at twelve thirty-eight? To Lime Street Station, or from it?

Think.

Nimrod had begun to cry. Not an infantile bawling, but a deep, heart-felt sob of loss.

Cal glanced over his shoulder as the trembling in the gravel grew more insistent. Again, a tear in the veil of dust gave him a glimpse of the garden. Lilia's body had disappeared, but Cal could see his father standing in the devastation, as Lilia's killer rose above him. Brendan's face was slack. Either he failed to comprehend his danger, or didn't care. He moved not a muscle.

The shout!' said Cal to Nimrod, lifting the child up so that they were face to snotty face. ‘The shout she made -'

Nimrod just sobbed.

‘Can you make that shout?'

The beast was almost upon Brendan.

‘Make it!' Cal yelled at Nimrod, shaking him ‘til his gums rattled. ‘Make it or I'll fucking kill you!'

Nimrod believed him.

‘Go on!' Cal said, and Nimrod opened his mouth.

The beast heard the sound. It swung its ballooning head around, and began to come at them again.

All this had taken seconds only, but seconds in which the reverberations had deepened. How far away was the train now? A mile? A quarter of a mile?

Nimrod had ceased the shout, and was fighting to be free of Cal.

‘Christ, man!' he was yelling, eyes on the terror approaching through the smoke. ‘It's going to kill us!'

Cal tried to ignore Nimrod's cries, and dug for access to that cool region of memory where the dates and destinations of the trains lay.

Which line was it on, and from which direction? His mind flipped through the numbers like a station announcement board, looking for a train six or seven minutes from departure or arrival at Liverpool Lime Street.

The beast was climbing the gravel embankment. The wind

gave it skirts of dust, and danced in and out of its lacerated frame, moaning as it went.

The percussion of the train's approach was enough to make Cal's belly tremble. And still the numbers flipped over.

Where to? Where from? Fast train or slow?

Think, damn you.

The beast was almost upon them.

Think.

He took a step backwards. Behind him the furthest track began to whine.

And with the whine came the answer. It was the Stafford train, via Runcorn. Its rhythm rose through his feet as it thundered to its destination.

Twelve forty-six from Stafford,' he said, and stepped onto the humming line.

‘What are you doing!' Nimrod demanded.

‘Twelve forty-six,' he murmured; it was a prayer by numbers.

The slaughterer was crossing the first of the Northbound lines. It had nothing but death to give. No curse, no sentence; only death.

‘Come and get us,' Cal yelled at it.

‘Are you insane?' Nimrod said.

By way of reply Cal lifted the bait a little higher. Nimrod bawled. The pursuer's head grew vast with hunger.

‘Come on!'

It had crossed both the Northbound lines; now it stepped onto the first of those headed South.

Cal took another stumbling step backwards, his heel hitting the furthest rail, the voice of the beast and the roar in the ground shaking the fillings loose in his teeth.

The last thing he heard as the creature came to fetch him was Nimrod running through a celestial checklist in search of a Redeemer.

And suddenly, as if in answer to his call, the veil of dirty air divided, and the train was upon them. Cal felt his foot catch on the rail, and raised it an inch higher to step back, then fell away from the track.

What followed was over in seconds. One moment the creature was on the line, its maw vast, its appetite for death vaster still. The next, the train hit it.

There was no cry. No moment of triumph, seeing the monster undone. Just a foul stench, as if every dead man in the vicinity had sat up and expelled a breath, then the train was rushing by, smeared faces peering from the windows.

And just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was away through the curtain on its way South. The whine in the rails receded to a sibilant whisper. Then even that was gone.

Cal shook Nimrod from his roll-call of deities.

‘It's over...' he said.

It took Nimrod a little while to accept the fact. He peered through the smoke, expecting the Rake to come at them again.

‘It's gone.' said Cal. ‘I killed it.'

The train killed it,' said Nimrod. ‘Put me down.'

Cal did so, and without looking right or left Nimrod started back across the tracks towards the garden where his sister had perished. Cal followed.

The wind that had come with the boneless creature, or borne it, had dropped completely. As there was not even a light breeze to keep the dirt it had swept up aloft, a deluge now descended. Small stones, fragments of garden furniture and fencing, even the remains of several household pets who'd been snatched away. A rain of blood and earth the like of which the good people of Chariot Street had not expected to see this side of Judgment Day.

VII

THE AFTERMATH

1

When the dust had begun to settle, it was possible to assess the extent of the devastation. The garden had been turned upside down, of course, as had all the other gardens along the row; there were dozens of slates missing from the roof, and the chimney stack looked less than secure. The wind had been equally lethal at the front of the house. All along the street havoc had been wreaked: lamps toppled, walls demolished, car windows smashed by flying trash. Mercifully there seemed to be no serious casualties; just cuts, bruises and shock. Lilia - of whom no sign remained -was the only fatality.

‘That was Immacolata's creature.' Nimrod said. Til kill her for that. I swear I will.'

The threat sounded doubly hollow coming from his diminutive body.

‘What's the use?' said Cal despondently. He was watching through the front window as the occupants of Chariot Street wandered around in a daze, some staring at the wreckage, others squinting up at the sky as if expecting some explanation to be written there.

‘We won a substantial victory this afternoon, Mr Mooney —' said Frederick. ‘Don't you understand that? And it was your doing.'

‘Some victory.' said Cal, bitterly. ‘My Dad sitting next door not saying a word; Lilia dead, half the street torn apart -'

‘We'll fight again,' said Freddy, ‘until the Fugue's safe.'

‘Fight, will we?' said Nimrod. ‘And where were you when the shit was flying?'

Cammell was about to protest, then thought better of it, letting silence confess his cowardice.

Two ambulances and several police cars had arrived at the far end of Chariot Street. Hearing the sirens, Nimrod joined Cal at the window.

‘Uniforms,' he muttered. ‘They always mean trouble.'

As he spoke the door of the lead police car swung open, and a sober-suited man stepped out, smoothing his thinning hair back with the palm of his hand. Cal knew the fellow's face — his eyes so ringed with shadow he seemed not to have slept in years - but, as ever, he could put no name to it.