weak spots. Next, we need to nail down its exact physical location in the Underground. It used the energies created by Kim’s murder to open a portal onto this plane, and now it’s using her continued ghostly existence to maintain its presence in our world. That makes it vulnerable. So we have to find and face the Intruder, hurt it enough to weaken it, then break the bonds that connect it to Kim so we can drive it out of our world and slam the door shut behind it.”
“Oh,” said Melody. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t he wonderful?” said Kim, beaming. “He’s got a plan for everything!”
“Not necessarily,” said Melody. “It could be that the only way to banish the Intruder from our world . . . is to remove the focal point that holds this haunting together. Which is you, Kim. Your existence makes the Intruder’s presence possible. To get rid of him . . .”
“We don’t know that for sure,” said JC. “There’s a lot of things we don’t know for sure yet.”
“But could you sacrifice her?” said Melody relentlessly. “If that’s what it takes?”
“He won’t have to,” said Kim. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary to save my world.”
“Isn’t she wonderful?” said JC.
“You poor damned fools,” said Melody. “There’s no way this can have a happy ending.”
She turned her back on JC and Kim and wouldn’t look at them for the rest of the journey.
The train brought them back to the southbound platform without incident. The car doors opened, a little blood leaked out, and everyone disembarked. Melody ran straight to her waiting equipment and did her best to embrace them all at once.
“Babies!” she said, not caring who heard her. “Mommy’s back, and everything’s going to be fine again.” She straightened up suddenly. “All right, who’s been messing with my equipment? These aren’t the settings I established. Somebody had better speak up right now if they like having their testicles where they are.”
“It was me, I admit it!” said Eric. “I was very careful, and very respectful.” He looked at Natasha. “And I think I’m going to hide behind you for a while if that’s all right with you.”
Natasha’s head snapped round suddenly, looking behind her. Happy’s head turned, too, at the exact same moment. Everyone else turned to look and found that the hell train had vanished, without a sound. Natasha let out her breath in a long sigh and shook her head slowly. Happy mopped sweat from his face with a handkerchief and smiled sickly.
“Wow, what a rush . . . Can’t say I’m sorry it’s over, though.” He glared at Natasha. “That woman has a mind like a bucketful of boiling cats. Sharp and vicious and downright nasty.”
“You loved it,” Natasha said calmly. “Your mind isn’t exactly a luxury hotel. I’ve never lived in such a small place. Though there were many interesting new chemical flavours . . . It’s a wonder to me your synapses still function.”
Happy looked at JC. “Don’t ever ask me to do that again. There aren’t enough pills in the world to flush that woman’s thoughts out of my head. I may put in for compensation for post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“You were born with that,” said JC.
“True.”
And then they all stopped talking to look at Kim as she advanced slowly but remorselessly on Erik. He backed away, clutching his cat-head computer to his chest. There was something new about Kim, something different, and disturbing. As though she wore the cold presence of death like a cloak. Erik swallowed hard as Kim drifted down the platform after him.
“What . . . what do you want?” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “I’ve been good. I’ve done everything that’s been asked of me.”
“Put down the computer,” said Kim.
Erik clutched the machine tightly. “No. It’s mine. I made it. I dreamed it up. I made it real.”
“Put down the computer,” said Kim. “While you still can.”
Erik looked into her eyes, and whimpered. He put the box down on the platform and scuttled quickly backwards. Kim knelt and peered into the cat head’s unblinking eyes. It tried to purr for her.
“Poor little kitty,” said Kim. “No more screaming, no more crying. Sleep.” She extended her ghostly hand down through the cat head and into the glowing workings of the box beneath; and the whole computer shuddered. It turned and twisted unnaturally, imploded, and was gone in a puff of displaced air. The cat’s head was left behind on the platform, quite dead. Kim smiled and turned back to face the others.
“It’s at peace now,” she said.
Melody looked at JC, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.
“Work your equipment,” he said. “Find me the answers I need to take the fight to the enemy. I want this over with.”
He walked off down the platform, and Kim drifted after him. They tried to walk arm in arm, but their arms kept passing in and out of each other.
NINE
LITTLE BILLY HARTMAN GETS HIS REWARD
Unknown to all the agents in the Underground, there was someone else down in the station with them. Lost and alone, little Billy Hartman went scurrying through the empty corridors like a rat in a sewer. Not very big, never very big, Billy stuck to the shadows, hiding behind corners and peering warily through entranceways. No coat, only a grubby sweater and stained jeans, and a pair of knock-off trainers that had never been fashionable. Half out of his mind with fear and panic, driven on by rage and resentment, tormented by horror and loathing for the awful thing he’d done, little Billy spied on all the other people from a safe distance. None of them noticed him, but then, no-one ever did. He was far too small to be noticed by such powerful people.
And besides, Billy was protected.
He heard them speak, heard them argue, heard of the Carnacki Institute and the Crowley Project; but these names meant nothing to him. He listened to the great people, as they spoke of theories and fears and intentions, and didn’t care about any of that, either. He only had thoughts for himself and what might become of him. He’d done something, something big and important that no-one could ever put right again. If they knew, if they only knew . . .
The day before, Billy Hartman had murdered Kim Sterling. Even though he had no real reason, no motive, no idea who she was. He’d never killed anyone before, never really wanted to. He wasn’t a murderer, wasn’t a beast or a monster. He was a little man with a little life and less ambition. A small cog in a small wheel in a small company that no-one else gave a damn about. But he woke up that morning with murder on his mind, and he couldn’t seem to shift it. He wanted to kill a beautiful woman . . . like all the ones who’d laughed at him, or spurned him, or worse still, ignored him. He wanted to hurt one of them the way they had hurt him. To strike back, just once, and let them feel the pain.
So he took a big knife from his tiny kitchen in his shabby little flat and went out into the great big world, humming cheerfully. He descended into the Underground, and travelled up and down the lines, switching from platform to platform until finally . . . he saw her. And knew immediately that she was the one. He’d thought it would be a hard thing, a difficult thing, to actually kill another human being; but when the time came, he walked up behind her, stabbed her once in the back, and walked away. No-one saw or suspected him. Why should they? He was far too small and unimportant to be noticed. He went back to his flat, still humming cheerfully, made himself a meal- for-one in his little microwave, watched television, and went to bed.
To dream of how it felt when the blade went in, and he twisted it, before withdrawing. He didn’t enjoy it. It felt like someone else’s dream.
But this morning, a new feeling had driven him from his bed. The feeling that something had gone wrong. The morning news said that Oxford Circus Tube Station had been shut down, and serious news presenters said the word
