11

Matt stepped back onto the pavement and tried his level best to wipe off the majority of the green slime on the curbstone, sensing a bitter smile curling his lip. It seemed that he couldn’t escape crap in his life, even in another dimension. At the same time, he heard the rattle of wooden wheels and the rhythmic clip of horses approaching. Three horse-drawn carts passed each other in the roadway. None of them had drivers.

“Cars?” Matt asked as Rimsplitter finally managed to stop laughing enough to join him.

“No one has effin’ cars. No need, mate.”

“Are you telling me it’s horse and cart?” Matt asked.

“Just to transport provender.”

“It’s a bit…retro, isn’t it?” Matt took in his surroundings. There were buildings, but not much in the way of modern styles. They were mainly wood and brick, some with walls that looked as if they were leaning into the wind off Beachy Head. There didn’t seem to be many people around, either. Those there were looked disappointingly ordinary, other than the fact that their dress sense was a little eccentric. More Vivian Westwood than Gap. Capes were in vogue for both sexes, with long, multi-coloured scarves for the men. The women wore skirts, and some hid their faces behind gossamer veils under brightly coloured hair.

Other, more colourful sights drew the eye once Matt and Rimsplitter started along the streets. Matt spotted a group of dwarves with painted faces and elaborately curled facial hair, out on what looked suspiciously like a stag do (judging by the balloons and the star-tipped wand the one in the middle was carrying). Although, come to think of it, this might be them on their way to the office in normal dwarven business dress. But, since one of them was singing, “I’m a pink pix-ee, you’re a blue pix-ee,” quite loudly and swaying all over the pavement as Matt and Rimsplitter passed, a stag do went back to the top of the list.

Further along, there were four tall, bespectacled beings Rimsplitter explained were Northern Wood Elves, which he qualified with “Bunch of stuck-up, short-sighted effin’ w-ers.” And once, when a large brown mountain blubbered along the opposite pavement, Rimsplitter muttered, “Troll, fat git. They’re into real estate.”

After a while, and having encountering most of the mythical beings he’d ever read about, Matt became intrigued by the shops lining the streets. He suggested that they take a closer look. To get to the other side and avoid the two-foot deep layer of horse dung steaming in the gutter, it was important, Rimsplitter explained, to choose a crossing place carefully. Matt found one at an intersection, in the form of big stepping-stones, between which the cart tracks ran in worn furrows.

The shops on the other side were all bedecked with coloured ribbons and lights against the grey of the day, and had curious, almost familiar names. There was Bloops the Alchemist where, Rimsplitter explained, “You get your potions and your effin’ pills.” At Dependablehams, it was clothing and a big section of jewellery organised in racks according to function. Matt read signs like “Obsidian Evil Eye Brooches and Friendship Amulets.” There was a special offer on “Free The Seventh Circle Six” necklaces. Matt didn’t even want to guess what that was all about.

Starstrucks, meanwhile, was a coffee shop and soothsayer centre. Matt counted five in a quarter-mile stretch. There was a Mage and Sceptres which had a big picture of underwear in the window. Well, it looked like underwear, in that it was black and frilly; it was just that the thing modelling it had five legs and was roughly the size and shape of a wheelbarrow. Matt window-gazed at Transmogrify Us, which, Rimsplitter explained, was a “kind of fancy dress shop for w-ing weirdos.” The strange-looking get-ups in the window included an ordinary man in a business suit carrying a brief-case with a neatly handwritten sign saying “Scary Banker” underneath it. There was a tariff of sorts hanging on the door. It read:

Let us transmogrify you. Guaranteed charms.

Money back if someone recognises you

Four hours 2 scruples

Eight hours 4 scruples

Twenty-four hours 10 scruples

Midnight special this week: turn back into yourself at the stroke of twelve for that extra-exceptional surprise. Only 5 scruples.

Between the shops, musicians played in little squares, and street vendors sold a variety of hot drinks and things on sticks, which Matt didn’t find the least bit appetising. Quite a few beings (it was the easiest and least offensive noun Matt could come up with) were coming in and out of quite a modern-looking shop—in that it had straight up and down walls—called “QUINSECT.” It had a white logo of a piece of fruit with an ant crawling out of it over the doorway.

“What’s that?”

“Ah,” Rimsplitter said. “That’s direct cross-marketing, that is. They love our technology, the bees. ’Cept they ’aven’ got any to speak of, so they use what they got to make it look like what we got, see?”

“Clear as mud.” Matt narrowed his eyes. He was still struggling to work out whether when Rimsplitter said “see,” he meant the verb “to look,” and not “cee,” the rhyming derogatory euphemism involving people from Berkshire with a propensity for red riding jackets and hounds.

Rimsplitter shook his head in vulture exasperation. “Tell me what that thing effin’ looks like.”

“A piece of fruit with an ugly-looking insect climbing out of it.”

“Exactly, you tart. What iconic famous piece of bleedin’ fruit do you know from back ’ome?”

“It doesn’t look anything like an apple,” Matt said.

“No; that’s ’cos it’s a bleedin’ quince.”

Matt decided that he had to see this. In the window were all sorts of gadgets, most of them little shiny white boxes of varying sizes. Most were billed as Mocks. There were small Mockbooks and larger Quinsect EyeMocks. The sign next to one read “Get this latest desktop Mock Pongcluetor with three-hundred gigamite processor and an LEG (light emitting glow-worm) screen for just 399 scruples.”

“Pongcluetor?” Matt asked with an expression akin to a boxer chewing a hornet.

“Chinese invention. There’s a half a million elephant mites in the box. And you know what elephants have got.”

“Long tusks and trunks?” offered Matt.

“Brilliant memories, you tart,” Rimsplitter snapped. “Every one of these mites is trained by the Pong family. Ask ’em anything and they’ll tell you on the screen thingy. Little bees.”

“I thought you said they were mites?”

“Not real bees—bees as in illegitimate bees. You know, term of affection.”

Matt could only shake his head in wonder. Not at the pongcluetor, but at the thought of a brain that considered using the colloquial word for illegitimate as an endearment. But by that point, there were other things in that window that drew his eye, things that made you want to own one of them even though you had no idea what they did.

“What’s an Impod?”

“Ah, for the music aficionado. Same kind of thing. Effin’ Pong family again. Basically, it’s a matchbox full of parrot fleas. They have this synbionic relationship with a parrot—”

“You mean symbiotic?”

“That’s what I said,” Rimsplitter said, rolling vulture shoulders in a huff. “Means they take on bits of the parrot’s ability for replaying stuff. So, they play the effin’ parrot music, and then ’arvest the fleas and stuff ’em in the matchbox. Stimulate the fleas with a bit of parrot blood by pressin’ a little white button thing on the front, and away they bleedin’ go. Means you can listen to whatever you like. Brilliant, eh?” He sighed. “Such a simple idea, carrying around your effin’ music in a box. Wish I’d effin’ thought of somethin’ like that when I was back ’ome.”

Matt turned his head very slowly to look at Rimsplitter, praying for a sign that the vulture wasn’t serious. Unfortunately, he found none, and so they kept walking.

A couple of doors down stood a large frontage with nothing but a black canvas sheet with a silver moon and three stars emblazoned upon it. The austere window displayed small phials and bits of old parchment on plinths. Above each was a runic symbol. No one was going in or out of the large oak door with its ornate brass handle, and Matt saw no name above the door.

“What’s this? Apothecary? Mind-reading?”

“Nah, you get them in Bloops. Don’t even effin’ bother tryin’ to get in there, by the way. That’s Harpy Nix. Heavyweight effin’ stuff in there.”

“It’s not very popular, is it? I don’t see any activity at all. It’s like the Prada shop on South Molton Street.”

“No one in there ’cos they can’t get in. Don’t need security ’cos the doors are charmed. You got to be somethin’ special to get in there. Think of it like an effin’ arms dealer. Only qualified people can use what they got in there. People with ability and years of trainin’.”

“Really?” Matt said. Normally, he stayed away from places like this, staffed by snotty salespeople who were chosen on looks and their ability to hover with disdain as you riffled through clothing that cost more than three months’ salary for a shirt. But today, he didn’t care. Today, he wanted not to have to think about what was happening in Uzturnsitstan, and brazen curiosity was as good a distraction as any. On impulse, he tried the door. It opened silently. Inside, subdued lighting and the smell of incense greeted him. He walked through a velvet-draped antechamber into a circular room.

“How d’you do effin’ that?” he heard, and turned to see the vulture hopping after him. As it tried to follow Matt across the threshold, it was as if a plate of glass had suddenly been shoved in its way. Rimsplitter rebounded backwards on to his backside with a squawk.

“You effin’cee-in’—” Mercifully, the door shut with a click, blocking out any more of Rimsplitter’s invective. Inside, the walls were covered with strange symbols—twelve in all. Beneath each was a glass cabinet with a variety of vials, carefully labelled pouches, and little tied sacks. The room was also perceptibly colder and, Matt sniffed, moister than the street outside. He tried reading the labels, but only a few were in a language he could decipher. He read one: “Powdered bile duct of three-toed troll-newt: Jehovia.” As he straightened, Matt sensed a presence behind him. A very pale and very thin young man with slicked-back hair stood there, looking as if he’d had his smile trowelled on by a plasterer in the back room.

“Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Just browsing,” Matt said.

The man’s eyebrows lifted, but the smile didn’t move.

“Really, sir? How…unusual.”

“Just visiting town. Having a bit of a wander, you know.”

“No, sir, I do not. We have never had anyone wander into Harpy Nix before.”

“Right,” Matt said. He flicked his gaze back to the cabinet. “I was interested in the powdered bile duct,” he lied.

“Of course, sir.” The man held out a hand to invite Matt closer to the item in question. “Only of the purest and highest quality, as I am sure you will appreciate. A vital ingredient for any of the higher-order curses and, it goes without saying, essential for all the demonic-cleansing spells, including the Rinten Noir. But then, of course you would know that, sir.”

“Rinten Noir. Yes, of course,” Matt said, aware that he was canoeing in a pool of treacle without a paddle. “Well, I’ll certainly think about it. Thank you ever so much.”

“Not at all, sir,” the shop assistant said. “Please take our card. My name is Luga, sir. If I can be of any further assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me directly or via cybersomnulence. My dreamweb site is on the card.” Luga reached into a drawer beneath the cupboard. “Please also accept this small sample. A little Bachau Oma from the Welsh coven of Offa. For those especially awkward moments. Self-opening packaging. Point-and-throw deployment.”

Matt thanked Luga and took the offered crumpled muslin with a smile that matched the shop assistant’s. Rimsplitter was pacing outside.

“Thanks an effin’ bunch,” he squawked as soon as Matt emerged.

“Look, I had no idea—”

“No one gets in there. No one but the effin’ big nobs. Them profs of wizardship an’ wossname from the Uni. Or Mr. Pong and his bleedin’ family. Not bleedin tossers like—”

Matt didn’t squeeze the vulture’s neck too tightly, but it was as effective a gag as any he could come up with.

“Just shut up, okay? I have as much idea of what’s going on as you do. So let’s cut out the insults and walk.”

The biggest shop in the street was called Herod’s. It had ten doors and six floors. Matt stood outside and gazed up in wonderment. Beside him, Rimsplitter sulked.

“Let’s go in.” Matt suggested, by way of further distraction. He’d got over the vague anxiety of having a vulture with him; many of the things that walked the streets had animals of various descriptions with them as familiars. Rimsplitter didn’t object, but his silent agreement was very grudging.

Inside, the air was pungent with incense. The bottom floor was given over to a perfumery infested with the usual gaggle of female salespeople dressed in short black skirts and dresses; each one was made up, in this case, to look like an extra from Halloween 4. Three of them approached with samples as they ran the gauntlet of the closely packed aisles.

“Care to try some Inflagrante, sir?” asked one with chocolate-coloured lipstick.

“Umm,” Matt said, as usual, hamstrung by his desire not to seem rude.

“Guaranteed to render the wearer irresistible to the partner of their choice for twenty-four hours.” She offered a seductive smile. “Today only, special offer, three scruples of gold for two ounces.”

She did have a lovely smile, and the smell of her made Matt feel a little strange. Suddenly, he was not in a hurry at all. How could he be? He had all the time in the world. Well, this world anyway. The sales assistant’s badge read “Naomi,” and the heady mix of rich amber with a hint of bergamot emanating from her was tantalizingly reminiscent of something—or was it someone? Gosh, Naomi really did have one very big eye, and under the caked makeup she had quite a cheeky little scar that ran from one side of her temple to the other. Matt licked his lips and wondered what she was doing after work. Perhaps they could meet up for a drink somewhere and Matt could tell her all about his adventures and see if he could charm his way into her…

A sudden sharp pain in his leg grabbed his attention. He looked down to see Rimsplitter gnawing at him with his wicked beak. “Oi,” Matt protested. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Effin’ zombies. Can’t stand ‘em.”

“They’re zombies?”

“Course they effin’ are. Some things are the same ’ere as back home.”

Matt stared at him. “You’re not saying that—”

“I’m not sayin’ nothing,” Rimsplitter said. “But the next time you’re in Selfridges, take a look at ’em. Nothing behind them made up-eyes, mate. They’re all effin’ doorknobs, I’m telling you. ’Ere, get a whiff of this.”

The vulture hopped over to a stand and picked up a wallet, which he thrust at Matt. Matt held the leather to his nose and with two sniffs, Naomi became less Kate Moss and a lot more an evil Michelle Pfeiffer in Stardust after three weeks face down in a river.

They got through the perfumery, a little voice nagging in Matt’s head for him to remember where he’d come across Naomi’s smell before. He stood stock still, his eyes like fog lamps as the synapses fired in his brain.

“Silvy,” he whispered.

Rimsplitter was more interested in the wafts coming from the food court, but half-heard and looked up.

“What’d you say?” The vulture hopped back to where Matt was standing.

“Silvy,” Matt repeated. “That’s what she was wearing in the Carp the other night. Bloody Inflagrante. That was how she got me to bury the hatchet.”

“Lucky it was only the hatchet you buried, mate. Forget Inflagrante, should be called Shotgun effin’ Weddin’, if you ask me.”

“I’ve been a total idiot,” Matt said.

“Well, you’re not going to get any bleedin’ argument from me on that score. I mean, walkin’ straight into the Ghoulshee lair like that, knowin’ they were out to get you. Takes a special talent, does that. Only found in total effin’ morons. You’re an effin’ liability, you.”

Matt sighed. Rimsplitter was right. He had been an idiot, wandering off from Kylah’s side. And now here he was on a jolly with a vulture while she was stuck to a post somewhere, waiting to be turned into offal porridge. But there wasn’t much he could do about it. Matt forced himself to get back to the moment and looked around, his eyes darting from one bizarre thing to the next. “So, where is everyone?” he asked, feeling the need to comment on the absence of bodies.

“What time is it?” Rimsplitter replied.

Right at the centre of the far wall were two massive hourglasses next to a pulley-and-chain system with numerals. “Says half past one on that clock.”

“That’s effin’ it, then. ’S’lunchtime, innit. Everyone’s effed off.”

“To where? I haven’t seen any restaurants.”

“Ah. This is where it gets effin’ good. What do you fancy? Italian? Chinese?”

Rimsplitter hopped off towards some gently vibrating stairs. They weren’t an escalator, but they did move upwards of their own accord once you stood on them. Disconcertingly, once they’d reached the next floor they kept on going, hovering just above the ground.

“Where are we going?” Matt asked, still a little unsure of his balance.

“Food mall. You got to effin’ see this.”

It was not like any of the food malls Matt had seen in his travels to the States or in any of the big British shopping centres like Cribb’s Causeway or Blue Water. For a start, it was almost empty, there was no seating, and the only things remotely similar were the garish signs advertising food from different parts of this world—but there didn’t seem to be anywhere to buy the food, unless it was from the stunningly dressed temptresses who wandered up and down with samples on trays. The signs were a bit different, too. The oriental flavour was provided by The Great Well of Thailand; there was a Parisburger and something called Insect Bap. Matt made for the girl who stood in front of House of Hinduria. She was smart in a colourful sari, and the food she had on the tray drew him like a moth to a matchstick. He took something on a cocktail stick and munched away, making cooing noises to Rimsplitter as he did so.

“Okay, okay, I get the message,” the vulture said. “Effin’ vindaloo village, it is. Bit too cooked for my effin’ liking, though. And the spices play bee-in ’avoc with me—”

“Where do we order?” Matt interjected.

“Oi,” Rimsplitter said to the nice girl, “table for two.”

She smiled, revealing two incisors with needlepoint sharpness that looked quite capable of aspirating two quarts of type O per minute.

“Follow me.” She shook her head from side to side.

They walked towards a plain door at the end of the House of Hinduria booth, and Matt realized that all the other booths had similar doors. The girl, or whatever she was, opened it and ushered Matt and Rimsplitter through to a candle-lit antechamber full of sitar music. A flap of heavy burlap in front of them was pulled back by the biggest bloke Matt had ever seen. He must have been eight feet tall, and was bare-chested and bald except for a pigtail lock of hair in the middle of his head. He wore sandals the size of small tugboats and Ali Baba trousers. With a theatrical wave of an arm, he ushered them through into…

Matt’s jaw did an impression of a larded guillotine. With one step, they were on the shores of a great lake at dusk. The wind was warm and gentle, and banners decorated with strange lettering fluttered overhead. In the middle of the lake stood a white marble palace, whilst ahead, leading down to the shore, were tables covered with white tablecloths, most of them occupied. To their right was a tented kitchen with waiters and cooks working like bees to prepare the food.

“Told you it was effin’ impressive, didn’t I?” Rimsplitter said.

A waiter appeared at Matt’s elbow. “Can I show you to your table, sir?”

“Um…”

“Need a minute, pal,” Rimsplitter said.

The waiter bowed and moved away.

“But what…how?”

“Transport, mate. That’s the effin’ truth of it. They can go anywhere at any time through them effin’ doors. Bees.”

“But…” Matt was well aware that his contribution to the conversation wasn’t improving.

“Don’t ask me. ’S’not physics, but it’s pretty effin’ neat. Breakfast in New England, dinner in Italy, supper in Calcutta. Effin’ brilliant.”

“So, no cars. No energy issues. It’s—”

“Un-effin’-believable, I know. Took me a while to get me effin’ ’ead around it.”

They wandered down to the shore and back again. Matt explained to the waiter that he wasn’t feeling well. He was, in actual fact, famished, but he realised that he had no money. So, they left the restaurant and went back to the street with Matt still buzzing. They wandered again past Mage and Sceptres, and Matt realised as he glanced inside that it was packed with people.

“Hang on,” Matt said. “What’s going on here?”

“Exotic goods sale, mate.” Rimsplitter said. “Innit.”

Matt went inside. It was laid out like all the other “real” Marks & Spencer stores he’d been in back in England. Men’s upstairs, women’s on the ground floor. There was lingerie, sweaters, even driving gloves. Driving gloves? In a world without anything to drive? Still, that shouldn’t have been much of a surprise. They were still selling harpoons in parts of Japan. But this was bizarre. Things he thought of as ordinary were exotic here. For a second, Matt was filled with a mixture of disquiet and wonderment at the thought that Blue Harbour was a sought-after designer label.

“So, they like this stuff?” Matt asked as a witch with half a dozen witchlings in tow wheeled a trolley overflowing with Spiderman outfits to the checkout.

“They love it. Tees.”

“But if this stuff is so popular, why can’t we buy any of their stuff?”

Rimsplitter, spotting a dead mouse under the chinos, gobbled it up. “We effin’ can, you pillock,” he said with his mouth full. “What about them effin’ gift shops with scale models of mythical beasts and tarot cards and dreamcatchers and whossnames?”

“That’s just tat,” Matt said.

“Agreed. But it ain’t tat over ’ere. Them things effin’ work ‘ere. Trouble is, our lot ’ave banned anything in the slightest effin’ bit magical, on account of the fact that it might undermine effin’ society.”

“They’ve got a point, I suppose,” Matt considered. “If everyone started knowing their future accurately, things would grind to a halt. But this transport thing is…I mean, it would revolutionise travel.”

“Yeah, dream on, Gandhi. The car manufacturers and the bee-in’ oil companies are goin’ to let that happen, right? Bollocks they are.”

“But no pollution, no global warming—”

“Exactly.” Rimsplitter spat out a bit of fur that had once been the mouse’s head. “Effin’ disaster for capitalism and the world economy. Nah, better stick to what we know and watch our world eff itself, I reckon.” Rimsplitter glanced up. “Eff me, is that the bleedin’ time? Come on, or that poncy clerk at the hotel will ’ave my guts for effin’ garters.”

Rimsplitter hurried out to the street and Matt followed, along an unfamiliar route that took them off the main drag.

“Where are we going?” Matt asked.

“Shortcut.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rimsplitter uttered a belligerent squawk.

Matt followed the hopping bird in silence, his thoughts moving at twice the speed of his legs. It was a lot to absorb. That this place existed was a pretty challenging concept to start with, let alone how he’d got here.

Rimsplitter noticed his pensive mood. “Wossamatter? You’re like one of them effin’ zombies.”

Matt shrugged. “It’s a lot to take on board, isn’t it? I mean, this could all be nothing but a construct of my fevered imaginings. Maybe I’m still in a coma ward having a bed bath. Or maybe they’ve upped my drugs.”

“Look, you tee, I like you,” Rimsplitter paused, considering. “Well, at least I don’t think you’re a total cee. What’s happened to you is pure bad luck. Crap karma. Ess-aitch happens, sunshine. Get over it.”

Matt shook his head ruefully. “I just wish I knew my place in all of this, that’s all.”

“Like me, you mean?”

“Well, not quite like you, but you catch my drift.”

They were still walking. Rimsplitter’s shortcut was taking them down ever narrower and darker lanes, flanked by tall buildings that leaned in so much they almost touched at the eaves. Neither of them noticed the figure lurking in a doorway. At least, not until it stepped out into their path and growled. Matt jumped; Rimsplitter squawked. The figure rumbled deep in its throat. It wasn’t easy to see any detail, but two yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness under its hood.

“Well, well, lost your way I see, gentlemen. Need any help?”

The voice was gravel and dust. Rimsplitter made an extremely unsavoury noise, and promptly deposited something green and white on the pavement. Matt, having walked home on many an occasion through St. Paul’s in Bristol in the early hours, knew the score.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Matt said, keeping his head down and walking on. The hooded figure didn’t move.

“You look a little anxious,” the figure croaked. “Perhaps you might feel less anxious if you relieve yourself of those heavy possessions you’re carrying.”

“Ah,” Matt said with an apologetic smile. “I’m in transit, you see. No possessions. None at all.”

“A man always has possessions,” said the figure. “A few scruples? A nice gem amulet, perhaps?” Matt shrugged, and Rimsplitter squawked.

“Your parrot doesn’t say much,” the figure said.

“Mouth like a sewer. Believe me, it’s better when he’s like this.”

“Well, if you have no worldly goods, perhaps I can have something else. A little blood, perhaps? Easy enough to trade in these parts.” The figure shifted and allowed a little more of itself to be seen. Matt shuddered. What was on view included nails like claws and long, curved teeth under the yellow eyes. It reminded Matt a little of Silvy, in her less-guarded moments.

“Not today, thank you,” Matt said and prepared himself to bolt.

“I’m not sure you understand,” the thing replied, and this was accompanied by as disgusting a sucking noise as Matt had ever heard. “It’s not a request.” It fell into a crouch, ready to pounce.

Anxious dread took hold of Matt’s neck and poured a glass of ice water down his collar. His fingers tingled, his breathing seized. He should have collapsed in a shivering mess. But something, be it anger or plain stupidity, put all that on hold. He did breathe, and in doing so realised that several thoughts were stampeding through his head.

In the lead was a shard of curiosity. He’d already died once that day and he wasn’t sure if, under the rules, he could die again. Still, by the look of those claws, whatever was going to happen was not going to be pleasant. Added to that was the sad realization that this world, like his own, operated under the same rules of criminality. It seemed that there were victims and perpetrators in all manifestations of the multiverse, and here he was with a starring role in the age-old story of preying on the innocent ingénue. Although thinking of Rimsplitter as innocent made his head hurt. But more than anything, Matt felt a burgeoning anger as the injustice of it all bubbled up inside him, and he heard himself mentally voice the two most plaintive words in the English language.

Why me?

He hadn’t asked to meet Silvy, or be almost killed in an RTA, or end up stabbed through the heart in a baked-bean tin. Now, to cap it all, here he was being mugged by a Nosferatu lookalike in an alley in Deity alone knew where. It took the effin’ biscuit, as Rimsplitter would undoubtedly have said. Matt looked his assailant in the eye and saw the pupils constrict into vertical ovals. There was nothing he could do. The thing was twice his size, and had homegrown weapons and teeth like tusks. There was no one about. No witnesses. No help to call for.

Matt shook his head again. It was like all those pornographically voyeuristic TV programmes that showed CCTV footage of feral youths on the streets attacking innocent bystanders. Programmes with names like Night Cops: War On The Streets, or something equally reassuring. The kind of programme where you wished that once, just once, a group of revelling rugby players would come around the corner at the very moment the hooligans started beating up on the old granny. That, just once, the victim got lucky and the bad guys got what was coming to them.

Take the here and now. All that needed to happen was for a bolt of lightning to come down from the sky and strike old nosy here on the head. Or for the git’s cloak to get caught on a rusty nail sticking out of the street sign above its head so that, as Matt and Rimsplitter dodged, it would snag. Snag and tighten so that the knot holding it tied around its neck would depress the pressure point in its carotid and send a message to the vagus to slow its black heart enough for it to pass out.

But things like that didn’t happen in real life. Fate, in Matt’s experience, had nothing to do with fairness, and was more like Cruella de Vil on amphetamines. Yet a small glimmer of understanding began to glow in the dim recesses of Matt’s brain. Something trapped in the corners of his memory stirred and stretched and turned over, something that had happened in Oxford with Mr. Porter in the kid’s playground. He’d heard crows cawing and…an odd pricking sensation tingled into existence somewhere behind his eyes.

“Rimsplitter,” Matt hissed. “Do exactly what I do, okay?”

There was no reply from the bird. Matt risked a glance and saw the vulture cowering, his feathers ruffled and his head bowed.

“Shit,” Matt said. He grabbed the bird by its neck, feinted left but went right. The thing before them, unaccustomed to any sort of resistance from its terrified victims, stood momentarily confused. But having twisted left, it read the feint and lunged right, its timing instinctively perfect. The claws were out and primed to meet Matt’s neck as he ran beneath the outstretched arms. Once in the soft flesh, they would not let go, and were destined to find vital veins and arteries to sever and pop.

But that initial turn to the left induced by Matt’s feint did cause the thing’s cloak to billow upwards.

Was it…? Could it…?

Matt didn’t hang about to see what happened next. He kept his head down and ran. But he heard the sound of material ripping. Heard a strangled gurgle as he passed beneath the reaching arms. Heard the whoosh as the claws somehow missed their target and flailed at fresh air inches from his jugular. Fuelled by adrenaline and terror, and with Rimsplitter under one arm, he covered a hundred yards in less time than it took Usain Bolt to pack his lunch box.

When Matt eventually slowed enough to look behind him, the thing was lying in a heap on the ground with its cape ripped and torn. Dangling from the street sign above, a matching fragment of material fluttered in the slight breeze like a trapped moth in a spider’s web.