LITMIR.BIZ

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a skull. Dusty-mouthed, I glanced aside; and realised I’d begun to shake.

      ‘Jackie’s right,’ came Razoxane’s voice. ‘You look like you could do with a good sit down.’

      It was the edge of dry amusement in her tone that brought my head back round – and pushed fear past the flashpoint into anger.

       ‘For Christ’s sake leave me alone!’

      The words came out like a stream of spittle. I’ve even heard that spit can drive back demons – but perhaps it’s the vehemence behind it that counts; the hate that really matters. And hate was what I tasted now: it filled my mouth like bitter medicine. Hate for the past I thought I’d left behind me. And hate for Razoxane – who’d brought it with her.

      Not being a demon, Razoxane stood her ground – and clicked her tongue in mild admonishment.

      ‘Rachel. Is that any way to greet your long-lost sister?’

      ‘You’re no bloody sister of mine …’ I managed grimly.

      ‘Not in this life, maybe.’ Her thin smile hadn’t faltered; it was still so horribly knowing. ‘But we still belong together, Rachel. Believe it. We’ve walked apart too long.’

      I almost choked. ‘Listen, I’m not following you anywhere … ever … again. All right?’

      Behind me, the Irish girl shifted impatiently. Unsettled. ‘McCain. You said we could trust her …’

      That lifted the hairs on the back of my neck: made me think of twitchy trigger-fingers, and bullets in the spine. I swallowed so hard it hurt my throat.

      Razoxane looked past me. ‘She’s had a shock; it’s only to be expected. Thought I was dead, didn’t you Rachel?’ (Hoped, I thought back viciously, still glowering.) ‘Listen, give us a few minutes alone: I’ll talk her round.’

      I risked a glance behind me; the girl met my eyes suspiciously, before lowering her pistol with exaggerated slowness. There was a message in the gesture as much as in the gaze: a barely-veiled threat.

      Jackie. That’s what Razoxane had called her. I found a moment to wonder if that everyday name – this young, unsmiling face – was one of those behind the atrocities of recent weeks. The thought was dizzying. I really hoped she wasn’t.

      And was really afraid she was.

      Then Razoxane was beside me, her hand on my shoulder: her bloody hand – however many times she’d washed it.

      I didn’t even try to shrug it off. Suddenly I didn’t have the strength.

      So we went upstairs to our bedroom – Nick’s and mine: retracing Razoxane’s dirty bootprints to the place I’d once felt safest. Once inside, I went straight to the window and just stared out – at the cherry-red streetlamps coming on, and the ashen sky beyond them; stared, while our bed creaked behind me. There were kids still playing, down there in the park: scampering and shouting through the gathering grey.

      I left it as long as I could; then let go of the outside world, and turned reluctantly around.

      She was reclining comfortably against the pillows, her booted feet crossed on our nice clean duvet. The black leather was withered and grey with grime; her jeans were tucked into the tops. The grubby combination of her greatcoat and her grin made me think of some Victorian ragamuffin in a long-faded photo.

      ‘I was quite looking forward to that cup of soup, you know …’ she said, reproachfully.

      ‘Why’d you come back?’ I hissed. It sounded almost petulant: the last stab of someone who’s lost the argument already. Which of course I had.

      Razoxane shrugged. ‘It’s a round world, Rachel. Even if we walk away, we always end up back in the same place.’

      I mulled that over dully for a moment, then ventured: ‘You … cheated the Void, then?’

      She nodded. ‘In the end. It almost had me …’ Her gaze slid away as she said it, her voice growing raw. She paused, and her silence spoke the rest – or some of it.

      I waited nervously.

      ‘Melphalan got out,’ she continued after a moment, her unseen eyes now roving the room. ‘Bastard. I couldn’t hold him …’ The shades fixed me once more. ‘But you stopped him, Rachel. You really did. I was impressed.’

      An image of cremation lit my mind – and filled my nostrils with its stench. I grimaced, instinctively rubbing my fingers over my pinched-shut lips. Then something else occurred to me, and almost froze them into place there.

      ‘But … If you got out …’

      Her smile was back again, still faint; she shook her head. ‘The other two didn’t. They hadn’t the strength: they hadn’t the will. They’ll still be sinking now, Rachel. The Void goes on forever.’

       And you almost dumped me there, didn’t you?

      Another pause. She’d returned her attention to her hat: was turning it idly between her fingers. I noted the circlet of old, discoloured iron pushed down around the crown.

      ‘So what do you want now?’ I asked.

      ‘Your help,’ she answered simply.

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘Believe me, Rachel, if I didn’t, I’d have left you in peace. You’ve already been through enough.’

      I could agree with her on that, at least. More than enough. Again I waited.

      ‘I’ve things to do in this city,’ Razoxane said slowly. ‘Things you don’t want to know about …’

      ‘Oh, God,’ I blurted. ‘Not more Clinicians?’

      She shook her head. ‘Not this time. My business with them is finished.’ She settled herself back. ‘I’ll say no more about the wherefores: it’s best you don’t know. But it’s work I’ve recruited some help for.’

      I thought of the restless woman downstairs; could almost picture her pacing up and down in the hall. ‘That girl – Jackie or whoever. She’s …’ I hesitated, half-aware I was stating the obvious. And half afraid to. ‘She’s a terrorist, isn’t she?’

      ‘That’s an emotive word,’ said Razoxane mildly.

      ‘Razoxane. Jesus!’ I could feel my frightened outrage beginning to seethe. ‘What the hell are you doing, bringing her to my house?’

      ‘I thought it would cut out some of the small talk,’ was her unperturbed response. ‘Explanations and such. Much easier to let you see for yourself.’

      ‘I’m living with a policeman, for God’s sake.’

      ‘Well, she doesn’t know that, does she?’

      I found I was hugging myself. Gripping my shoulders tight. ‘All those bombings … Liverpool Street and places. You did those?’ My voice had sunk to a disbelieving whisper.

      ‘Not personally, no. But I’m involved. There are reasons, Rachel.’

      I stared back at those uncompromising shades. The face below had hardened; like the voice.

      Open-mouthed, I just shook my head. Fractured images of mutilation seemed to rattle round inside it. And then all the rest came crowding in; the other injuries and deaths. The tearful faces. The creeping fear we’d all begun to feel – and our revulsion for the people who made us feel it.

      One of whom was staring at me now.

      ‘No reasons, Razoxane,’ I said, still whispering. ‘Not for that …’

      ‘You’ll understand them someday,’ she told me evenly. ‘Some fine day …’ She paused then, and glanced

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