so, but will be back in touch immediately at that time.'
'Very good, Doctor,' said the nurse, carrying the note safely out of harm's way.
'Shall we go, then?' Doyle said.
He picked up his bag and started out. Sparks fell into step beside him.
'Find everything you needed?' asked Sparks.
'Yes.'
Good God. Good God. I can't run, thought Doyle, and I can't seem to hide anything from him, not even my thoughts. I've seen only too well what he's capable of; he's the last
man on earth I'd want opposing me—is it all lies, everything he's told me? Could any one man be as pernicious and cunning as that? Yes, if he's mad, who better? But wait, Doyle, what if it's not true? What if Leboux's got it wrong? After all you've been through together—he's saved your life how many times now?—shouldn't you give him at least the benefit of that small doubt?
'You all right, Doyle?' asked Sparks evenly.
'Hmm. Couldn't say there's not a lot on my mind, could I?'
'Certainly not.'
'Guess I've as much right to my own brooding silences from time to time as anyone else.'
'I shan't dispute you.'
'I mean, I'm the one who's had his life fairly well taken apart—'
A cry from the door of the ward they were passing interrupted, an extended scream, high-pitched and agonized. A child's voice. Doyle turned and looked inside.
The beds had been pushed to one side, and a mechanical carousel, children in hospital smocks seated on its six wooden horses, filled one side of the spacious L-shaped room. Three stocky tumblers in red Russian blouses were coming down off one another's shoulders. A shambling red-nosed clown had just left off playing a hurdy-gurdy organ and was crowding in behind a quartet of nurses attempting to calm the child whose ululating outburst had stilled the room: a small boy, dressed in a bright satin Harlequin outfit of many vibrant colors, predominantly violets and blues. About ten years old. His head was as pale and bald as a hen's egg; the skin edging the back of his neck was warped and strangely puckered.
Spivey's vision! Men in red, horses, a boy in bright blue—a bone-chilling wallop jumped Doyle's spine, his skin tingled with goose bumps. Sparks brushed past him into the room, then Doyle quickly advanced around him to close in on the child.
'Blaglawd!' Doyle thought he heard the boy wail. The child's eyes had rolled back into his head. His arms thrashed about as his entire body jerked in fitful spasms.
'What's happened?' asked Doyle of the senior nurse.
'We're having a show for the children—' she said sturdily, trying along with the others to grab hold of the boy's flailing limbs. 'He came with them; he's one of the performers.'
The white-faced clown pushed forward. 'What's wrong wid 'im?' asked the clown, with more irritation than concern.
'Blaglawd! Blag lawd!' shouted the child.
'What's a matt'r wid 'im then?' asked the man in a fiat Midlands accent. Doyle could smell rum and peppermint on his breath.
'Stand clear, please,' the nurse instructed him.
As the nurses struggled to hold the boy steady, Doyle checked his pulse and looked into his eyes; his heart was racing, his pupils widely dilated. A thin, clear froth bubbled freely from the corners of his mouth.
'Black Lord! Black Lord!' His words were becoming clearer.
'Wot's 'e talkin' 'bout then?' the clown crowded in again to ask.
'What's the boy's name?' Doyle asked of the man.
'Joey—'
'Is he your son?'
' 'E's my apprentice,' the clown replied defensively. 'I'm Big Roger; 'e's Litt'l Roger.'
Beneath the clown white, the man's face was oily and cra-tered with vivid pocks. Viewed closely, the wide red artificial smile painted over his mouth only accentuated a tight-lipped sneer that was clearly his customary mien.
'Has he ever gone off like this before?' asked Doyle.
'No, never—ow!' the man cried painfully.
Sparks had clamped a pincer grip on the back of the clown's neck.
'You'd best answer the doctor truthfully,' said Sparks.
'Once! Once 'bout six weeks ago. We was down Battersea, outside the train station durin' a matinee: Right in the mid'le, 'e goes like this 'ere—'
'Black Lord! Black Lord!' the little boy cried.
'Hold him steady,' Doyle said to the nurses.
With a culminating yell, the boy pulled his hands free from the nurses and clawed wildly at his head; his fingers dug into the skin and ripped it clear away from the bone. The other children who'd been gathered in a fearful knot around them
screamed and ran about, hysteria spreading like a transmitta-ble airborne germ.
'Stop him!'
There was hair beneath the boy's faltering skin, a full head of sandy hair. The boy was wearing a bald pate, Doyle realized as the shock wore off, a guise identical to his elder partner's. As the uncomprehending nurses fell back in horror, Sparks stepped forward, took firm hold on the boy, and earned him away from the crowd and behind a stand of bedside screens.
'Quickly, Doyle,' said Sparks, sitting the boy on a bed.
Doyle kneeled down and moved closer to the child. 'Joey, listen to me, listen to my voice: Can you hear me?'
The boy's face remained blank and inexpressive, but he spoke not another word; Doyle's voice seemed to penetrate the thick haze surrounding him. He allowed Doyle to take his hands without resistance.
'Can you hear me, Joey?'
Sparks pulled the screens around the bed to shield them and stood guard behind Doyle and the boy, but in the caterwauling din that had resulted, the source of its instigation had almost been forgotten.
'Joey, you can hear me, can't you?' said Doyle.
Joey's eyes flickered shallowly behind their half-closed lids, only the whites visible. The boy slowly nodded.
'Tell me what you see, Joey.'
The boy licked his cracked, parched lips; blood seeped :rom serrated, self-inflicted wounds. 'Black Lord ...'
'Yes, Joey. Tell me.'
His small, round face assumed a quiet dignity. The boy's voice was high and bell-like, but it now possessed a melliflu-ous maturity that belied its innocent frame. 'Black Lord ... books for passage. Passage to this side.'
Passage. Spivey Quince in his trance said something about passage.
'To which side, Joey?'
'Physical.'
'Where is he now?'
Joey paused, his eyes darting around, seeing. Then he slowly shook his head. 'Not here.'
'Passage how, Joey?'
'Rebirth.'
'Rebirth into physical life,' said Doyle.
Joey nodded weakly. Doyle caught Sparks's eye, glancing back at them over his shoulder; he was listening.
'They try to help It,' said Joey.
'Who does?'
'The Seven.'
