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Other, more sinister images flickered like summer lightning in her head.

  Don’t go with strangers. Reports of girls taken to a lonely place, raped, half strangled, their pubic hair set alight, then stabbed through the eye with a screwdriver as they screamed for —

  No. Keep a grip, Red Zed.

  Despite the sweat rolling down her face, it felt so cold now. As if on this warm summer’s night she had somehow been locked into her own personal winter. Above her, the moon blurred. Shadows deepened and slid like boa constrictors through the grass.

  She tried to control her breathing. It had become rapid and shallow; it made her light-headed. She looked round constantly now and wiped her sweaty palms against her hips.

  Now they came, like she knew they would.

  Small shadows scuttled toward her. Suddenly she had visions of rats leaping at her face, biting her on the nose and lips, or running onto her feet to try and climb up inside the legs of her jeans, sharp claws hooking into her calves, the bristling snouts snuffling upwards.

  She threw a desperate look back at the white BMW. The stranger’s face was hooded black by shadow.

  Rats! She wanted to scream the word. Rats! Rats! Get me out of here!

  They swarmed towards her like disgusting black scabs on the grass; soon they’d cover her thick as a fur coat, vicious little teeth crunching through her skin. She tensed, ready to run, but as they hopped close she let out an explosive lungful of pent-up air.

  Rabbits!

  Only rabbits, she thought, dizzy with relief. There must have been dozens, hopping fearlessly around her to nibble at clumps of dandelion.

  Then, as she watched them, they abruptly sat upright on their haunches. As one, their heads swivelled to look in the direction of the farmhouse, their ears straight up as if snapped tight by invisible wires.

  What had they seen?

  Rosemary stared hard at the farmhouse.

  Your new friend’s coming, Rosemary. Welcome him like a long lost brother.

  Then, as if there had been a gunshot she’d been unable to hear, the rabbits bolted up the field away from the farmhouse. She stared towards the building with its two upper windows like dead, staring eyes.

  Nothing.

  Something in the tree? An owl, perhaps?

  She could see nothing. The tree stood with its branches clutched skyward in a deep-frozen gesture of warning.

  Then what in God’s name had frightened the rabbits?

  Others ran by, little more than grey flashes in the moonlight. Here comes your new friend, Rosemary.

  Here he comes.

  Fee-fi-fo-fum …

  Whatever happens, the man had said, don’t let him climb on top of you.

  Fee-fi …

  She looked about her wildly now, half-expecting to see the devil himself come stamping across the fields, spitting fire and farting sulphur.

  Fee-fi-fo-fum …

  More animals streamed by, all moving in the same direction: foxes, rabbits, stoats, badgers. No animal, whether potential hunter or prey, noticed the other. They were terrified. This wasn’t a few animals scampering away from a tabby cat: this was the entire animal population of the whole fucking countryside. And they were running for their lives.

  Chapter 3

  And Yet Darker

  Thursday night. 20 minutes left.

  It came gradually. So gradually that Rosemary couldn’t say with any certainty when she first noticed it.

  The moon had almost gone, as if some wicked spirit had drowned it in a bath of milk, leaving a diffused smudge of white in the night sky. Shadows rose from the ground like the freshly risen dead.

  Without trying, the image of Kirk Bane came to her with a clarity that was shocking; she could even see the blond stubble on his jaw. His eyes were wide; his mouth moved but not a sound came out. He was desperately trying to communicate a warning of danger that was here! Now!

  When it came, the groan startled her.

  It sounded human. Yet impossibly loud.

  Her eyes jerked back to the farmhouse. The sound had come from there. Those staring window eyes seemed to shine more brightly.

  The groan came again. So full of pain, so deep, the vibration rumbled through the earth to vibrate the soles of her feet.

  I’m staying, she told herself savagely. I’m staying. The man promised me the power to make my dreams come true. Anything’s worth that.

  Isn’t it?

  The groan came again. It reminded her of an old man suffering an ache beyond endurance.

  And something strange was happening to the farmhouse.

  The roof had lost its straight line. Slowly … slowly, with the speed of the minute hand of a watch, its roof began to dip in the centre.

  The groaning grew louder; then Rosemary realized what it was. It was the sound of the ancient roof timbers bending under a massive weight.

  Then came sharper sounds. Roof tiles shattered with the abruptness of corn popping in a pan.

  What happened then happened incredibly fast.

  The timber’s resistance collapsed.

  Rosemary watched, eyes achingly, stingingly wide as some force thrust the roof down into the body of the house with a crash, blowing out the two windows in a gust of shattered glass.

  Below, the roses nodded frantically now, the pink babies’ heads tossing in panic. Then —

  Bang!

  They exploded into a mist of petals.

  To her astonishment she knew that something she could not see – something enormous – was rolling across the landscape towards her. She sensed its colossal weight.

  Imagine it’s a new friend, the man had said. Welcome him.

  No. You could no more embrace that than you could embrace a tornado.

  It hit the tree.

  Branches shook as if waving for help; a series of gunshot-sharp cracks.

  And the tree split from top to root.

  Leaves from the lower branches gushed skyward in a plume.

  Rosemary realized she was no longer breathing; shock had locked tight every muscle of her body.

  The world had gone crazy.

  Green snow fell; no, it was leaves. Followed by gobs of white spittle. Angels are spitting on me, she thought, dazed, and rolled a gob of white in the palm of her hand. No. It was the wood of the tree itself crushed to frothy blobs of fibre.

  A word circled in the depths of her mind. She tried to bring it out. It seemed important, this word. If she could only catch hold of it, recognize it, she’d know what to do. Dizzily, she fished into her mind, trying to catch this slippery word, as something invisible bore down on her.

  Fish for that sneaky word, Rosemary.

  That something came closer. Rolling the grass flat in a band as wide as a truck.

  Closer.

  Word, Rosemary? What’s the word that will tell you what to do?

  Suddenly she hooked it:

  RUN!

  Thursday night. 17 minutes left.

  She thought: For Godsakes, move! You’re next!

  She turned and ran towards the car as this thing rolled after her, like a lion pursuing a gazelle.

  A hundred yards away the white BMW with its shadowy occupant waited on the road.

  That bastard got you into this, he can get you out!

  She ran, shouting, waving her arms. In the car the man shook his head, his face glowing eerily.

  Then she knew why she could see his face in the dark. It reflected the lights of the instrument panel. He’d started the engine.

  He was leaving.

  ‘No! Don’t you dare … don’t you fucking well dare!’

  Tyres screeched against the road, propelling the car forward like a rocket. For one insane moment she tried to outrun the car but soon it accelerated into the distance, headlights blazing across the fields.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Though her legs felt suddenly weak, she kept running. Because she sensed the approach of some dark, pounding force.

  Her Destroyer.
r />   Her running feet clipped dandelion clocks into sprays of white. Stitch skewered deep into her groin; her throat burned.

  Fence! Her blurred eyes never saw it; she only felt the jolting concussion as she ran into it.

  Her lungs burned like two clumps of molten plastic in her chest as she put one foot clumsily on the bottom rail.

  When she had her feet on the second rail she rolled forward, allowing gravity to pull her over to the ground. Then, on her hands and knees, she shuffled through a clump of tree saplings to the road.

  Crack!

  The fence smashed flat, posts snapping at ground level.

  Panting, she rolled onto her back to see what had so violently destroyed the fence. Above the fence she saw only night sky.

  She sensed movement in the air above her. Something descending.

  And she sensed its strength.

  Her own strength had all but gone as she heaved herself on to all fours. She tried to get to her feet. She couldn’t. All she could manage was to shuffle forward on her hands and knees, the road grit pricking the palms of her hands.

  Gonna die, Rosemary.

  She wanted desperately to live, but she couldn’t manage to move any faster than this tortoise shuffle.

  She sensed it approach.

  It reached the saplings. One after another, they were whipped down flat to the earth with a crisp snapping sound. The last sapling whipped down to slap her foot so hard she cried out.

  This broke the spell. A massive kick of adrenalin jerked her to her feet. In seconds her feet powered her along the road, faster than she’d ever run in her life before.

  Unable to resist glancing back, she saw the fence that divided field from road being hammered flat to the ground as if some monstrous yet invisible lawn roller was running along it, shattering post after post into bursts of splinters.

  A car, she thought, dazed. A car comes … Flag it down … We drive out fast … We’ll be safe …

  If only a car would come trundling down this bit of road. Everything’d be fine. Damn, DAMN fine. But a car? Here? In the middle of nowhere? At this time of night?

  You might as well wish that the Apple Clan would sprout butterfly wings and carry you away to the moon.

  Because she knew: Here comes my Destroyer.

  The fence behind her shivered into splinters.

  Then a concrete gate post. It exploded with the force of a hand grenade, and she knew her Destroyer was gaining on her. She sensed her ending.

  A wail came across fields of darkness. Long, low and full of sorrow, wailing her epitaph. Death was calling her.

  It came again.

  No! she thought. It’s a horn. A bloody train’s horn!

  Two hundred yards away, across a field of yellow oilseed rape, ran a railway track. Even in this dim light she could see that the line began its run down into a cutting at the end of the field. And heading towards the cutting came the train, slowly hauling coal trucks.

  She knew the only way she’d outrun this thing was to get herself into one of those trucks. Basically all she needed to do was step from the top of the cutting on to the top of the truck, as if stepping on to a train from a station platform. If she landed on loose coal it’d break her fall. If she didn’t she’d break her neck.

  Run faster. The train’ll soon reach the downhill stretch. If it picks up too much speed you’ll never catch it.

  Behind her came a female-sounding shriek as a metal road sign crumpled flat to the ground.

  She ran across the grass verge and jumped the fence like an Olympic hurdler. She landed awkwardly, her feet skidding forward from under her. She sat down heavily on her backside.

  But when the pain hit her, it was in the back of her head. Sickened and dazed by its intensity she clawed at her scalp.

  Something held her by the hair.

  Unable to turn her head, she fumbled awkwardly where she sat, her back to the fence post. At first she scratched wildly at fresh air, convinced something had grabbed her. Then her fingers hit the fence post itself. That was it! A handful of her long hair had become knotted as she ran; now the knotted strands had looped over the top of the post like a lasso.

  Free yourself, she thought frantically, then you can run. You must reach the train if you’re going to have any chance!

  Then the fence began to shiver like it was alive.

  She looked to her right.

  Fence post after fence post snapped; the fence rails slammed earthward beneath the crushing weight.

  She counted the fence posts away from her. She’d reached ten when she saw it shatter. Again she thought of an invisible lawn roller of monstrous dimensions; it rolled relentlessly along the length of the fence towards her, snapping post after post.

  Post nine.

  Same again. Crushed.

  Dazed, she thought, Eight more posts between me and my Destroyer.

  Crack!

  Post eight.

  It burst into a spray of splinters. Here it comes: what will I feel?

  Brilliant images squeezed into her head, showing her her final seconds of life. The weight settling on her; the stab of agony as it forced her – CRACK – flat on her back.

  Then, like having an invisible rock descend on her from the sky, she’d feel the agony of her skin splitting, then muscle stripping from bone, ribs going: crack! crack! crack!

  Down, down, down …

  Until it broke her open to expose her beating heart. She saw herself struggling to scream through a mangled mouth, choking as teeth splinters slid down her throat … Down, down, down …

  Bones squelched to the marrow. Then, finally, her heart bursting as easily as you could pop a tomato beneath your heel.

  Vividly, she saw herself lying there in the dirt, like one of those rabbits flattened to the thickness of cardboard by the tyres of a truck.

  This is how it ends for Rosemary Snow.

  ‘No!’

  Crack!

  Post seven. Gone.

  ‘Red Zed! You’ve got to get that train!’

  Crack!

  Post six.

  ‘My hair! I can’t!’

  The train’s horn wailed. The sound of its wheels quickened. In a moment it would be gone.

  Scrambling into a squatting position, she lunged forward, simply trying to rip herself free. Hairs parted from her scalp with a crackling sound, but still a fistful of it held.

  Post five.

  She pictured the stranger’s face, those downturned eyes. Now I know why you drove so fast. This thing’s following you. You know what it is. Are you laughing at me like all those other torturing sadists that’ve made my life hell? Are you enjoying the thought of my death?

  ‘You bastard!’ she screamed. ‘I’ll kill you.’

  Snap!

  Post four.

  She tried to reach the lasso of hair caught on the fence post. And all the time she screamed her hatred for the stranger.

  Post three.

  Timber crumpled into fragments smaller than matchsticks.

  Come on! You can still make it to the train. But this is your last chance. You’ve got to move now!

  Crack!

  Post two.

  She raged at the stranger.

  Post one.

  The post nearest to her exploded. The rails she leaned against snapped downward, a clump of thistles an arm’s length away slapped flat.

  Suddenly she stopped twisting. Cold, she jerked her face upward.

  Above her, the still summer’s night air was suddenly stirred. Displaced air gusted into her face, then she sensed something rush down at her. Like the hammer of God.

  Rosemary Snow screamed.

  Part 2

  There is something strange about the city in Turkey known as Istanbul.

  In the year AD 330 the Romans made it the new capital of their Empire. Then it was known as Byzantium. The Romans renamed it Constantinople. They didn’t change the place so much as the place changed them. They became Byzantine. And when they did t
hings they did them in a strange, convoluted, you might even say Byzantine way.

  When a new Emperor ousted the old one it was customary to mutilate the outgoing Emperor by gouging out his eyes with a sharpened iron bar.

  In 1453 the Turks conquered Constantinople. They renamed it Istanbul and set out to change the city. The city changed them. They became Byzantine. The things they did and how they did them became strange, again you might even say Byzantine.

  When a new Sultan ousted the old one it was customary to execute the outgoing Sultan by crushing his testicles.

  Chapter 4

  Whatever Happened to Amy Young?

  Do you want power?

  More precisely, do you want power over people?

  Do you want the power to command someone to die for you?

  And for that power to be so absolute, so complete, that they not only die for you willingly, they go to their deaths so full of joy, so full of pride that they cry out your name with their final breath.

  Do you want that kind of power?

  Do you?

  If you’d asked Richard Young that question he’d have been in too much of a hurry to give you a proper answer.

  For the third time that afternoon Richard Young had growled to himself, ‘Well, Dicky Boy … it’s going to be one of those days.’

  He pulled open the bureau drawer in the dining room and began tugging out fistfuls of old gas bills, insurance policies for cars he no longer owned, all liberally mixed with loose photographs of his family.

  ‘Christine. How much time have I left?’

  ‘Temper, temper,’ sang back his wife from the kitchen. ‘Less than an hour.’

  Swearing under his breath, he thrust both hands into the drawer and resumed the search. Where was that damned passport? He had an appointment with his doctor at 5:30. This damned wild goose chase was the last thing he needed.

  Today was the first day of a week’s leave from work where he scripted video promos. Just last night he’d stayed thumping the keys of the computer until one in the morning to finish scripting a sales video for a tennis ball manufacturer. He enjoyed his job and constantly surprised himself at the satisfaction he derived from turning in a good tight script that gave clients bloody good value for money. And would create a video (he referred to them as his ‘five-minute blockbusters’) that would entertain as well as inform. Nevertheless, after working ten months straight with no holiday, it would be good to give himself a break.