They started it, officer,' said one of the number, a balding individual who, before the blood had stained his knuckles and shirt, might have been a bank cashier.

‘Is that right?' said the officer, taking a look at the black derelict and his sullen mistress. ‘Get the fuck up, you two.' he said. ‘You've got some questions to answer.'

XI

THREE VIGNETTES

1

‘We should never have left them.' Cal said, when they'd made a circuit of the block and come back up Lord Street again to find the street crawling with officers, and no sign of Jerichau or Suzanna. ‘They've been arrested.' he said. ‘Damn it, we shouldn't have -'

‘Be practical.' said Nimrod. ‘We had no choice.'

‘They almost murdered us.' said Apolline. She was still panting like a horse.

‘At this point, our priority has to be the Weave.' Nimrod said. ‘I think we're agreed on that.'

‘Lilia saw the carpet.' Freddy explained to Apolline. ‘From the Laschenski house.'

‘Is that where she is now?' Apolline enquired. Nobody replied to the question for several seconds. Then Nimrod spoke. ‘She's dead.' he said flatly.

‘Dead?' Apolline replied. ‘How? Not one of the Cuckoos?' ‘No.' said Freddy. ‘It was something Immacolata raised. Our man Mooney here destroyed it, before it killed us

all.'

‘She knows we're awake then.' said Apolline.

Cal caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes had become like black pebbles in the puffed dough of her face.

‘Nothing's changed, has it?' she said. ‘Humankind on one side, and bad raptures on the other.'

‘The Scourge was worse than any rapture.' said Freddy.

‘It's still not safe to wake the rest of them.' Apolline insisted. ‘The Cuckoos are more dangerous than ever.'

‘If we don't wake them, what happens to us?' said Nimrod.

‘We become Custodians.' said Apolline. ‘We watch over the carpet until times get better.'

‘If they ever do.' said Freddy.

That remark put an end to the conversation for a good long while.

2

Hobart looked at the blood that was still bright on the paving stones of Lord Street, and knew for certain that the debris the anarchists had left on Chariot Street had been only a curtain-raiser. Here was something more graspable: a spontaneous eruption of lunacy amongst an ordinary cross-section of people, their violence whipped up by the two rebels who were now in custody awaiting his interrogation.

Last year's weapons had been bricks and home-made bombs. This year's terrorists had more access to more sophisticated equipment, it seemed. There'd been talk of a mass hallucination here, on this unremarkable street. The testimonies of perfectly sane citizens spoke of the sky changing colour. If the forces of subversion had indeed brought new weapons into the field - mind-altering gases, perhaps - then he'd be well placed to press for more aggressive tactics: heavier armaments, and a freer hand to use them. There would be resistance from the higher ranks, he knew from experience; but the more blood that was seen to be spilled the more persuasive his case became.

‘You,' he said, calling one of the press photographers over. He directed the man's attention to the splashes on the paving underfoot. ‘Show that to your readers.' he said.

The man duly photographed the splashes, then turned his lens towards Hobart. He had no opportunity to snatch a portrait before Fryer stepped in and wrenched the camera from his grip.

‘No pictures.' he said.

‘Got something to hide?' the photographer retorted.

‘Give him his property back.' said Hobart. ‘He's got a job to do, like all of us.'

The journalist took his camera and withdrew.

‘Scum.' Hobart muttered as the man turned his back. Then: ‘Anything from Chariot Street?'

‘We've got some damn peculiar testimonies.'

‘Oh?'

‘Nobody's actually confessed to seeing anything, but apparently around the time of this whirlwind things got crazy. The dogs went wild; all the radios cut off. Something strange went on there, no doubt of that.'

‘And here too.' said Hobart. ‘I think it's time we spoke to our suspects.'

3

The haloes had faded by the time the officers threw open the back of the Black Maria, and ordered Suzanna and Jerichau out into the yard of Hobart's headquarters. All that was left of the vision she'd shared with Jerichau and Apolline was vague nausea and an aching skull.

They were taken into the bleak concrete building and separated; their belongings were taken from them. Suzanna had nothing she cared much about but Mimi's book, which she'd kept in either hand or pocket since rinding it. Though she protested at its confiscation, it too was taken from her.

There was a brief exchange between the arresting officers as to where she was to be lodged, then she was escorted down a flight of stairs to a bare interrogation cell somewhere in the bowels of the building. Here an officer filled in a form of her personal details. She answered his questions as best she could, but her thoughts kept drifting off: to Cal, to Jerichau, and to the carpet. If things had looked bad at dawn they looked a good deal worse now. She told herself to cross each bridge as she came to it, and not fret uselessly about matters she could do nothing to influence. Her first priority was to get herself and Jerichau out of custody. She'd seen his fear and desperation when they were separated. He would be easy meat if anyone chose to get rough with him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. A pale man in a charcoal-grey suit was staring at her. He looked not to have slept in a long while.

‘Thank you, Stillman.' he said. The interviewing officer vacated the chair opposite Suzanna. ‘Wait outside, would you?'

The man withdrew. The door slammed.

‘I'm Hobart.' the newcomer announced. ‘Inspector Hobart. We have some talking to do.'

Caveat Emptor (Let the Buyer Beware) Latin Motto

1

TO SELL IS TO OWN

1

That was the most important lesson Shadwell had learned as a salesman. If what you possessed was desired ardently enough by another person, then you as good as possessed that person too.

Even princes could be owned. Here they were now, or their modern equivalent, all assembled at his call: the old money and the new, the aristocracy and the arrivistes, watching each other warily, and eager as children for a glimpse of the treasure they were here to fight over.

Paul van Niekerk, reputed to own the finest collection of erotica in the world, outside the walls of the Vatican; Marguerite Pierce, who had with the death of her parents inherited at the tender age of nineteen one of the largest personal fortunes in Europe; Beauclerc Norris, the Hamburger King, whose company owned small states; the oil billionaire Alexander A., who was within hours of death in a Washington hospital but had sent his companion of many years, a woman who answered only to Mrs A., Michael Rahimzadeh, the origins of whose fortune were impossible to trace, its previous owners all recently, and suddenly, deceased; Leon Devereaux, who'd come hot-foot from Johannesburg, his pockets lined with gold dust; and finally, an unnamed individual whose features had been toyed with by a succession of surgeons, who could not take from his eyes the look of a man with an unspeakable history. That was the seven.

2

They'd started to arrive at Shearman's house, which stood in its own grounds on the edge of Thurstaston Common, in the middle of the afternoon. By six-thirty they had all gathered. Shadwell played the perfect host - plying them with drinks and platitudes - but letting few hints drop as to what lay ahead.

It had taken him years, and much conniving, to get access to the mighty, and more trickery still to learn which of them had dreams of magic. When pressed, he'd used the jacket, seducing those who fawned upon the potentates into revealing all they knew. Many had no tales to tell; their masters made no sign of mourning a lost world. But for every atheist there was at least one who believed; one prone to moping over lost dreams of childhood, or to midnight confessions on how their search for Heaven had ended only in tears and gold.