Disturbia

Shit, he thought, panicky now, this is a set-up. Time to get out and get lost fast. The club was supposed to have a deal going. They dealt with The Man. They were supposed to protect him.

'He's standing in front of me right now,' said Xavier Stevens, dipping his head to avoid being seen speaking. 'I just want to confirm that I have authorisation for this at the price we've just agreed.'

'I'm in a position to confirm that,' replied Sebastian.

Stevens had once been destined for great things in the Territorials, but his attempts to intellectualise the Greek warrior spirit and instill it in his men cut against the grain of an army that saw itself strictly in terms of a peacekeeping force. His uneasy superiors had finally discharged him. Now he was the unacceptable face of the League of Prometheus, carrying out their dirty work, a Gordon Liddy to Sebastian's Nixon. But if Sebastian thought he controlled his violent footsoldier, the reverse was actually true; Stevens had compiled quite a lengthy file on their beloved leader. Who knew when it would come in useful?

'The general consensus here is that there should be no loose cannons,' buzzed his earpiece, 'so I guess that's a green light to proceed.'

'All I needed to know. Out.'

Stevens pushed aside the spaced-out waif in lime Lycra who was blocking his path, and closed in on the nervous-looking dealer. Wentworth threw out his arms and began to say something, but before he could be heard above the pounding beat Stevens drew a pencil-slim blade from his jacket and slid it smoothly into his target's gut, cutting through the padded jacket that he hoped would absorb much of the blood, and hooking the edge up, up, until he was sure he had cut so deep and so far that life would entirely depart the drug-wasted body before it fell to the floor.

Wentworth's mouth was still wide with his first words, but already the light in his eyes was changing. Stevens withdrew the steel as easily as he had brandished it, and allowed his cruciform victim to be borne onto the dance floor by the backs and shoulders of the hypnotised crowd.

'Hang on, there's a train going past.' Vince put a finger in one ear and looked back up at the arch as the carriages clattered by. 'Sorry about that.'

'Okay,' said Harold Masters, 'this time we're ready. We have pens, dictionaries, thesauruses, encyclopediae, volumes of forgotten lore and reproductions of historical maps, not to mention Maggie's collection of ancient burial sites. We're ready for anything you can throw at us. Read out the clue.'

It wasn't until Vince felt in his pocket to locate the letter that he remembered where he had last seen it. In Jason's hands, being refolded as he absently placed it in his coat. How long did he have before it turned itself into chemical dust?

'Ah, there's a bit of a problem with that,' he explained. 'I'll call you right back.'

He stamped his soaked boots in the slush and studied the illuminated entrance of the club. The admission queue snaked halfway around the block now, but no one was coming out. In clubbing terms, the night was still very young. He would never be able to blag his way back in. Wentworth had probably forgotten his promise to meet him outside. Come to that, he had probably forgotten his own name and which planet he inhabited.

Vince looked back at the garish doorway, the bitter sleet-laden air dragging at his bones. He did not have time to return and look for the art teacher-turned-dealer. He felt like going home, packing a bag and leaving the country for a few days, but flights required money, and he had none. At least the draft of his piece on the League was safe with Esther, and the other copy -

'I only came here for a bit of a night out, you know? It's not fair.'

Vince turned to find himself facing an attractive dark-haired woman of about twenty-two who appeared to be dressed in a soul singer's concert outfit. She was wearing elbow-length purple satin gloves.

'I'm sorry?'

'Didn't you see it?' she asked incredulously, looking back at the club.

'See what?'

'They've turned the music off and put the lights up and everything. If people want to get into punch-ups they should do it outside so it doesn't interfere with us.' She addressed him at great speed, speaking as if she had known him all her life.

'What do you mean?'

'Somebody just stabbed this bloke I know. Right in the guts. I mean, right through, like lethal and everything. Blood up the walls, everywhere. They called an ambulance but they'd have been better off ordering a hearse. So he's probably gonna die, right, so there's no point in spoiling everyone else's evening, right?'

He had a horrible precognition of the victim's identity. The coincidence was too great. 'You saw this happen?'

'Only from the other side of the room. I was up on the stage, dancing and that.' She indicated her outfit with a resigned shrug. 'You know, showing off a bit. It's that time of the night. You know. After two.'

'I know what you mean.'

'After two's a state of mind. Anything can happen between two and dawn, can't it? I mean, it's the only time when everyone is equal. Look out on the street, whores, junkies, career girls, rich businessmen. If they're out after two, there's no difference between any of them. It's my favourite time. You can say what you like, do what you like, make your own rules. The barriers don't go back up until daylight. Until then you're like, a free spirit.'

Great, thought Vince, do some more drugs. He returned to the club entrance but the doorman was refusing to let anyone inside. Knife wounds had to be reported to the police, and they were the last people he needed to see right now. He had no choice but to get away.

'Hey, listen,' called the stoned dancer, pushing through the crowd towards him, 'don't look so worried. He's not a mate of yours, is he?'

'You haven't told me who got stabbed yet,' he said, exasperated.

'His name's Jason, he does some work for the club, always hangs around there, skinny bloke, long blond hair in clumps.'

Vince's stomach twisted in a sudden plunging cramp. Someone else had been hurt, and once again it was his fault. He stared back into the crowd milling outside the club. What if Sebastian's assassin was still here?

'It's not unusual, you know, stabbings and that. Happens all the time. There's some pretty bad people in there.'

'Dealing drugs?'

She gave him an old-fashioned look. 'No, dancing round their handbags.'

'Do you know which hospital they'll take him to?'

She rolled her eyes at him. 'They're not gonna take him to a hospital, you moron. He's carryin' for the club, isn't he? See the pub at the end of the next street?' She raised a satin finger and pointed to a corner tavern lit with strings of grubby, coloured bulbs. 'The bouncers'll drop him off over there.'

'In a pub?'

'Well, he's got mates there who'll sort him out. If he goes to hospital it's the start of a long chain of events ending with the club closed, the licence fucked and him inside, so what do you reckon's the best solution? Here, my name's Betty. Let me give you my number.' She pulled a business card from her purple satin cleavage and pushed it into his hand. Vince read the card in his palm.

'Hostess/Escort Service and Ace Van Hire?'

'They're sidelines. I also do bereavement counselling and candle-art. Turn it over, that's my home number. No, I'll tell you what, you look like you need a drink inside you. You wanna buy me one? Go on, be a sport, it's the best offer you'll get around here.'

'I don't know,' said Vince. 'You're a bit aggressive.'