The Uninvited

For Clare Blatchford ReesAn inspiration

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgettingThe soul that rises with us, our life’s starHath had elsewhere its settingAnd cometh from afar . . .Hence in a season of calm weatherThough inland far we beOur souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hitherCan in a moment travel thitherAnd see the children sport upon the shoreAnd hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.William Wordsworth, Ode: Intimations ofImmortality from Recollections of EarlyChildhoodThere is always a moment in childhood when thedoor opens and lets the future in.Graham Greene, The Power and the Glory

CONTENTSPrologueChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5

Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16AcknowledgementsA Note on the AuthorBy the Same AuthorAlso Available by Liz Jensen

PROLOGUEMass hysterical outbreaks rarely haveidentifiable inceptions, but the date Irecall most vividly is Sunday 16thSeptember, when a young child inbutterfly pyjamas slaughtered hergrandmother with a nail-gun to the neck.The attack took place in a family living-

oom in a leafy Harrogate cul-de-sac, thekind where no one drops litter and you canstill hear birdsong.Three shots. Three half-inch bolts ofsteel. The jugular didn’t stand a chance.No reason, no warning.The little girl’s father was the first onthe scene. Hearing a blunt vocal noise –the woman had tried to scream – he rushedin to find her haemorrhaging on the sofa,while the kid sat staring at the wall in atrance that resembled open-eyed sleep.When the others joined him and saw theblood, they all had the same thought: aterrible accident.But it was a mistake to think that,because a few seconds later the childjolted awake and grabbed the tool again.Before anyone realised her intention,

she’d put it to her father’s face and fired.Eyes are delicate, so no chance thereeither. He was fortunate it wasn’t worse.A lightweight pump-action Black &Decker. One murder, one blinding. Twominutes. No accident.She can’t have been the first. But I’llcall her Child One.At the time of the assault, she had justturned seven.Is violence contagious? By whatmechanism does a series of apparentlyrandom events start cohering into anarrative of cause and effect? Can there besuch a thing as psychic occupation?For me, these became pressingquestions.The day the news broke, I’d just flown in

from Taiwan. In the car park of Glasgowairport I blinked in the sunshine. After thepressurised heat of downtown Taipei, theair shuddered with freshness. While myplane was touching down, the little girlwas preparing her weapon. By the timeI’d cleared customs, she’d executed theattack. And as I drove towards the coastand the ferry, skirting the sprawling edgesof grey Scottish towns, two police officerswere contemplating a crime scene whichthey later described as ‘the mostdistressing and perverted’ of their careers.I lived, at the time, on the island of Arran,in a landscape that flitted unpredictablybetween light and dark: shafts of sunlight,charcoal clouds, sudden rainbows, thepale featherings of fog on scrub, the

pewter glint of the Atlantic. I’d rented astone cottage on the eastern coast straightafter my split with Kaitlin: ideal forsomeone who cherishes his solitude andneeds only appear at Head Office on therare occasion. It was dark and lowceilinged.The front door opened on to aflank of scrubland a short walk from theshore: in the middle distance lay therhomboid outline of a black granite rockand a cluster of hawthorns, side-swipedby wind. I could watch the rotating bladesof the wind turbines on the horizon forhours. At the back of the cottage, by anabandoned vegetable patch, lay somerusted tractor parts and an enamel bathtubon brick supports which a previous tenanthad turned into a crude pond. When Icleared away the chickweed, I found a

pale goldfish. Once in a while I’d emptythe toaster and feed it crumbs.‘Here, Mr Fish, Mr Fish, Mr Fish!’ I’dsay. Strange to hear a human voice, in thatempty place.There are certain fixtures in my life whichconstitute a kind of home. The antiqueoptometrist’s charts in Cyrillic, Hindi,Chinese and Arabic that ProfessorWhybray bequeathed me when he retired;my paint catalogues, foreign-languagedictionaries and folk-tale compendiums;some of the mathematical diagrams andorigami models I’ve constructed acrossthe years, and a cardboard dinosaurFreddy made at primary school. Goodshelving is important. I have that too. I’ma creature of habit. After three days in

Taiwan working flat out on the sabotagecase, it was comforting to be surroundedby what I cherish. Fortress Hesketh,Kaitlin used to call me. Entry forbidden. Ifshe had a point – and yes, the generalconsensus was that she had – then my selfcontainmentwasn’t something I had amind to fix.I had one day to write up the Taipeiinvestigation, and explain the anomaly ofSunny Chen. That’s what waspreoccupying me as I unpacked mysuitcase. Five identical shirts, ditto boxershorts, two pairs of trousers, wash-bag,Chinese dictionary, electronics. I put on awash, then flipped on the TV to catch themidday news. Growth figures up for thethird consecutive season; the UN warns

of ‘catastrophe within a generation’ ifbirth rates fail to drop; severe weatheralert as Hurricane Veronica heads forthe West coast. But it was the domesticatrocity that snared me. My exhaustion lentthe report the drifting, sub-oceanic qualityof a nightmare.The little girl’s grandparents were on theirregular weekly visit to her home. Thedistraught family insisted that nobody haddone anything to antagonise the child.Neither on that Sunday or any other day.When she woke that morning, she was ingood spirits, according to her mother. Shehad even recounted a dream about‘walking around in a beautiful whitedesert that sparkled’. It looked likeHeaven, she said.

The TV showed a semi-detached housein a Harrogate suburb. The reporterdemonstrating how a small hand mightclasp and operate a nail-gun of this type.A psychologist struggling to hypothesisewhy such a young child would turn onpeople she loved. An elderly neighbourdeclaring the family to be ‘perfectlyordinary’ and giving the detail about thepyjamas. Her own granddaughter had asimilar pair. From Marks and Spencer,she said. ‘With blue butterflies on.’Strange, what makes people cry.I wondered what kind of blue.Celestial, Frosted Steel Aquamarine, InkyPool, Luna? I could name you thirty-eightoff the top of my head.As a boy, I read everything I could lay my

hands on, regardless of its function:dishwasher instruction manuals, TVschedules, the works of Dostoyevsky, listsof cereal ingredients, my mother’sCosmopolitan, fishing magazines, porn.But mostly I devoured comics featuring apanoply of onomatopoeic words deployedto render specific sounds. A blow to thejaw would be B AM , while an arrowloosed from a bow might be ZOOOSHHH.A regular gun would typically go BANG.But a nail-gun’s sound is shallower, andfeatures a distinctive click. I would spellit SCHTUUKH.Plato suggested that the realm we inhabitafter death is the same territory we livedin before birth: a fusion of time and spacethat encompasses both pre- and post-

existence. Ever since the High EnergyResearch Organisation in Japan confirmedthe results of CERN’s experiments inwhich neutrinos travelled faster than light,it has struck me that Plato was closer tothe mark than anyone could haveimagined. Not least Einstein, whosenotion of special relativity had beenviolated. The fact that a unified theory ofphysics had come within our grasp for thefirst time in human history was somethingI came to reflect on much later, in relationto Child One’s attack and the others thatfollowed. But perception is personal. Inthe early days, some saw the atrocity as asymptom of a spoiled generation’s‘pathological’ craving for attention in aworld in which the future of mankind,through its own mismanagement, appeared

lasted. I’d seen no evidence of thismyself, in my observations of Freddy andhis entourage. On a point of style, I alsoconsidered the interpretation to be undulymasochistic. As an anthropologist I readthe phenomenon more as a sick fairy tale,a parable of dysfunctional times. None ofus got it right. The message was written inletters too big to read, letters that couldonly be deciphered from a vast distance oran unusual angle. We were as good asblind. This, by the way, is a figurativeexpression. Unlike many on the spectrum,I can deploy those.The nail-gun murder struck me withparticular force because Child One wasFreddy’s age: seven. Having made theassociation, I couldn’t help picturing my

stepson aiming his catapult at anotherhuman being and letting fly.Who is Freddy’s chosen target, in thisimage?It doesn’t put me in a good light, but I’llsay it anyway, because it’s the truth: hismother, Kaitlin.I see Freddy, with his curly black hairand pixie face, take aim and fire at herheart – ZOOOSHHH – and I hear her cryof shock.One of my chief coping mechanisms, inmental emergencies, involves origami: Icarry an imaginary sheaf of delicate ricepaper in my head, in a range of shades, tofold into classical shapes. When the imageof Freddy shooting Kaitlin first reared up Iswiftly folded eleven of the Japanesecranes known as ozuru, but I couldn’t

anish it. Kaitlin used to call me,affectionately, an ‘incurable materialist’.Later, this changed to ‘a robot made ofmeat’. This is unfair. I’m not a machine. Ifeel things. I just register them differently.The story of the pyjama-clad killer and theunwelcome images it inspired rocked myequilibrium.After she confessed to her affair, and itsexcruciating nature, and the lies (‘whitelies’, she insisted) that she’d told to coverit, Kaitlin and I stuck it out for a while, ather insistence. This involved a form ofmental torture known as relationshipcounselling.What do you most admire aboutKaitlin, Hesketh?Kaitlin, can you identify what

attracted you to Hesketh when you firstmet?As well as being irrelevant to the issuein hand, it was purposeless. There arecertain things I am not cut out to do.Fieldwork, my mentor Professor Whybrayalways told me, was ‘very probably’ oneof them. Sharing my life with a woman,I’d long suspected, was another. The factthat my first and only attempt had ended infailure confirmed it definitively. I wouldnot be trying again. I moved away fromLondon and the home Kaitlin still sharedwith Freddy. I have always beenfascinated by islands, both linguisticallyand because of the social-Darwinianspeculations they invite, so Arran suitedme perfectly. That said, I saw few people:the cottage stood alone, five miles from

the nearest village, in a landscape of seaand heather, boulders and sheep. Here,with the capital far behind me, I tookstrategic command of myself bydeveloping a ritualised schedule of workand half-hour walks, began work on anambitious origami mollusc project, andtrained myself to think of Kaitlin in thepast tense. But nothing could fill thevacuum left by the boy.‘Look at me properly. In the eye,’Kaitlin used to say, at the climax of afight, or sex.It was a kind of taunt. She knew Icouldn’t. That I’d simply turn my faceaway or shut my eyes tighter.When she got me, she got the things Iwas, including the elements of mypersonality she deemed defective. She got

the package called Hesketh Lock and allthat it contained. Where was the logic inwanting me to be someone other thanmyself?Freddy never did that. He’d neverheard of Asperger’s syndrome. And if hehad, he wouldn’t have cared. He acceptedme from the start. To him I was Hesketh.Just Hesketh.Anthropology is a science which requiresyou to observe your fellow men andwomen, their traditions and their beliefs,as you would members of another species.The impulse to fabulate is a naturalresponse to a confusing and contradictoryworld. Grasping this helped me to unlockthe thought systems of my fellow men, andmove on from the state of frustrated

afflement that dogged my childhood andteenage years. I grew adept at sketchingmental flow charts to track therepercussions of real events as well ashypothetical scenarios. Tracing narrativepatterns through the overlapping circles ofVenn diagrams – still my tool of choice –revealed to me the endlessinterconnectedness of human imaginationand memory. Armed with these templates,I worked on adapting my behaviour.Under Professor Whybray’s tutelage, Ilearned to mimic and then assimilate someof the behaviours I observed. I was not thefirst: others had exploited their apparentdisadvantage with great success, he toldme – most notably an internationallycelebrated Professor of BehaviouralPsychology. But apparently I still lack

some of the ‘normal social graces’. Menlike Ashok, my boss at Phipps & Wexman,tend to take me as they find me. Womenare different. They see a tall, dark, wellbuiltman with strongly delineatedfeatures, and this classic combinationtriggers something at cellular level: abiological imperative. When theydiscover my personality is at odds withwhat they wishfully intuit from my‘handsomeness’, their disappointment isboundless. It’s often accompanied by adisturbing rage.Ashok once said to me, ‘We’re allliars, bud. It’s human nature.’No, I thought. He’s wrong. Through aquirk of DNA, I am not part of that ‘we’. Ican get obsessive about things. Orsidetracked. I can appear brutal too, I’m

told.But I know right from wrong. And Irevere the truth.So you will at least find in me an honestnarrator.In the days that followed the Harrogateattack, the little girl in blue butterflypyjamas still refused to speak.GIRL WHO DREAMED OF HEAVEN –AND MADE HELLSICK CHERUB’S SHOTS OF HATEWhat happened next to the child whosedream about a sparkling white desert gavebirth to such lurid headlines? Speculatingon the possibilities and their variables, Ipictured the family moving to another part

of the country, or even abroad, to start anew life. The child would accompanythem, if the father could still bear to bearound her. If not, they’d install her in asecure home. I’ll admit that I consideredthe case to be as unique as it was isolated:a thing of its own and of itself. I am anatural joiner of dots, and I saw no dots tojoin.And then came the distressing phonecall about Sunny Chen, which sent mythoughts hurtling back to Taiwan. Andbecause of the drastic nature of whatfollowed, Child One was relegated to theback of my mind.

CHAPTER 1The phenomenon known as the fairy ringis caused by fungal spore pods spreadingoutwards like a water ripple around abiologically dead zone. In Europeanlegend, they represent the gateway to thefairy world, a parallel universe with itsown laws and time-scales. The rings are

evidence of dark forces: demons, shootingstars, lightning strikes.Jump into one and bad luck will befallyou.From the air, Taipei is like a fairy ring:a city built in a crater encircled bymountains.It was early morning when my planetouched down, but the day’s heat wasalready rising. I’d spent the flight fromManchester to Taipei listening to audiolessons on headphones to brush up on myMandarin. When the last one came to anend, I pressed play and started again fromthe beginning. I once attended an intensivelanguage course in Shanghai, hoping torefine elements of my PhD. Linguistically,I am more of a reader than a speaker, so

inevitably it was the ideograms thatexcited me most. I’d copy pages ofChinese characters and use the dictionaryto make translations.The effort on the plane paid off. My taxidriver understood me when I gave himdirections. The air shimmeredinvigoratingly, reminding me of TV static.I dislike change of any kind. Butparadoxically, something in me – a kind ofinformation-hunger – seeks and requiresit. If sharks stop moving, they die. Kaitlinonce said my brain was like that. Wedrove past suburban tower blocks stackedlike grubby sugar cubes; flat-screenbillboards and rotating hoardings thatadvertised toothpaste, nappies, kung-fumovies, mobile phones. All this alongsideglimpses of an older order: street hawkers

selling tofu, lychees, starfruit, sweets,caged chickens and cigarettes beneathtattered frangipanis and jacarandas. Violetbougainvillea frothed over fences, andpotted orchids swayed in the breeze. Evenwith sunglasses on, the intense lightdrilled into my retinas. Here and there, onstreet corners or in doorways and templeentrances, thin trails of incense smokedrifted up from offerings to the dead: fruit,sweets, paper money. For the Chinese,September is Ghost Month. The spirits ofthe dead pour out from Hell, demandingfood and appeasement, and wreakinghavoc.I inhaled the foreignness.Fraud is a business like any other.Anthropologically speaking, it involves

the meeting, co-operation andcommunication of tribes. The spacebetween sharp practice and corporatefraud is the delicate territory Phipps &Wexman regularly treads. As Ashok tellsclients in his presentations: ‘After acatastrophic PR shock, our job is toensure nothing like that ever happensagain anywhere on your global team,because it won’t need to. Phipps &Wexman has the best investigative brainsin the business. And we have the successstories to prove it. Sanwell, the GoCorporation, Quattro, GTTL, Klein andMason: all companies whose reputationshave been definitively recast by ourprofile makeovers.’ I have heard thisspeech eighteen and a quarter times. Ieven feature in it. (‘Hesketh Lock, our

cross-culture specialist, who has analysedsabotage patterns from Indonesia toIceland.’) Ashok has that easy Americanway with audiences. ‘Nobody at Phipps &Wexman claims to be saving the world,’he continues, ‘but we’re sure as hellpouring oil on its troubled waters.’ Italways stimulates the clients, this notionthat we’re healers. Shamans, even. It wasthe brainchild of Stephanie Mulligan, abehavioural psychologist with whom Ihave an excruciating history.They clap and clap.Hardwood trees are slow to grow, andprices have skyrocketed in recent years.There were logging restrictions, evenbefore the weak anti-deforestationprotocols. But where there’s a will,

there’s a loophole. And a panoply ofcrooks. The fraudulent trading ofhardwoods culled from protectedforestland is a global business lucrativeenough to have spawned countlessmillionaires. Jenwai Timber’s bosses andtheir suppliers and shippers among them.The week before my visit to Taiwan, ananonymous source had sent the Taipeibranch of the police’s Fraud InvestigationOffice a set of documentation relating tothe purchase of hardwood for Jenwai’stimber factory from a Malaysian supplier.These impressively produced forgerieshad served to whitewash a raft of illegaltransactions concerning wood sourced inLaos and marked, for good measure, withapparently legitimate stamps. Thepaperchase that followed the first police

aid triggered further investigations, andwithin a matter of days, the entire Laos–Taiwan element of an extensiveinternational logging scandal wasexposed. Detectives, environmentalcampaigners and the media were alreadybusy writing up their reports. But my ownassessment would be of a very differentnature.As investigators affiliated to a multinationallegal firm, we’d been hired byGanjong Inc., the parent organisationunder which Jenwai Timber traded. AtJenwai Timber, the main playersconsisted of corrupt NGO staff, Laotiantraffickers, Thai middlemen and Chinesefactory managers. And one employee witha conscience. My mission was to find him.In most organisations, whistle-blowing

is seen as a form of sabotage. But it’simpolitic to say this publicly. Phipps &Wexman’s brochures delicately classifythe phenomenon as ‘a sub-story in a widerDavid and Goliath narrative of workplaceunrest’. Officially, I was in Taiwan toidentify the whistle-blower, pronouncehim a hero and award him a generousfinancial package or ‘golden thank you’for alerting Ganjong Inc., via the police, tothe corruption it had – unwittingly, itstressed – presided over. In reality, I wasthere to do a situation autopsy, as a part ofa wider damage-limitation exercise.The Taipei branch of the national FraudInvestigation Office, a modest low-rise tothe south of the city, had the feel of a hugewalk-in fridge. Here, over the course of

several hours, kept awake by coffee, Iheard several theories about the whistleblower’sidentity from the police and asharp-featured young journalist who hadcovered the case for his newspaper.Although they were curious about hisidentity, their main concern was the crimeitself, and the domino effect of itsexposure. They seemed puzzled thatGanjong should have called in a Westernpersonnel specialist.‘It’s known as the Outsider ImpartialityEffect,’ I tell them. ‘My presence here isGanjong’s message that it rewards honestyand condemns corruption. Standardstrategy.’The sharp-featured journalist made aface I interpreted as ‘wry’ and said,‘Cover your ass, right?’ And they all

laughed. He went on to speculate that themystery man was in fact female, and thewife of a Jenwai manager who had beenhaving an affair with a bar-girl. Thisprompted further theories: a shop-floorgrudge, a power tussle between seniormanagers, a rival company’s attempt tobring Jenwai down, infiltration by ecocampaigners.I spent the rest of the dayprobing deeper, only to find the actualevidence was either thin or non-existent.It’s often the case, at the beginning of aninvestigation, that you spend eight hours inan over-air-conditioned office, learningwhat seems barely one level up fromrumour. It’s only later that you might spota stray detail that’s part of a biggerpattern, and things fall into place. Over 80per cent of the time, that doesn’t happen.

The next morning I was at the timber planton the outskirts of Taipei by 8.25 for mymeeting with Mr Yeh, the only Jenwaimanager untouched by the scandal: at thetime of the illegal wood-traffickingtransactions, he’d been on sick leave withcolon cancer. The air was humid, andpulsed with the heavy, electric heat thatheralds thunder. Undulating lines ofaltocumulus castellanus and altocumulusfloccus patterned the sky.The plant itself was a functionalwarehouse building in a high-fencedcompound. In the office section near thefront gates, the skeletal Mr Yeh welcomedme with a dry handshake and weexchanged business cards. I accepted hiswith both hands according to custom. The

skin of his scalp, which was thedistinctive yellow-grey of Dulux’s 1997River Pearl, looked alarmingly thin anddesiccated.‘I am pleased to meet you Mr Lock.You are very tall,’ he said. Then helaughed. In Chinese culture, amusementdisplay can mask embarrassment.‘One metre and ninety-eightcentimetres,’ I told him, pre-emptively.‘But I’ve stopped growing, I promise.’This is a joke I have learned to deploy to‘break the ice’, but Yeh didn’t laugh, asWesterners tend to, so I inclined my headand told him in Chinese that I washonoured to meet him. This worked better:he broke into a cadaverous smile andcomplimented me on my facility. I toldhim languages were a hobby of mine,

though my Chinese was unfortunatelyrudimentary.‘Call me Martin.’ His English wasassured and American-accented.‘If you’ll call me Hesketh.’‘Hesketh. Unusual name.’‘Originally Norse. It means horseracetrack.’‘Horse-racetrack?’ He laughed. ‘AndLock is a Chinese name. But spelled L-O-K. In Cantonese it means happiness. Joy.Good name. Lucky name. Lucky-Lok.’ Hepaused. ‘So if you should bet on horses,you win. Ha ha.’ Then his face changed.‘As soon as the current orders arecompleted the factory will close. It is aterrible situation, Mr Lock. Hesketh. Itpains me.’ He touched his chest, as if toshow me precisely where it hurt. In the

cottage, five to the left on Shelf Three, Ihave a book of da Vinci’s anatomicaldrawings. The valves, aortas and arteriesof an ox heart are on page eighteen. ‘Bythe way. I am sorry for the way I look. Iknow it is shocking.’‘No, I’m interested. I like seeing newthings.’There was quite a long pause which Idid not know how to fill. Then he noddedtowards the door and said, ‘Well,Hesketh. You didn’t come here to talkabout death.’In his office, we settled on either sideof a desk littered with wood sampleslabelled in both Chinese and English. Ittook half an hour to get through my list ofquestions. He answered diligently,checking dates and figures on his

computer. It all added up, and he appearedclean. As for the four femaleadministrative staff, they had already beeneliminated by the police: none of them hadaccess to the relevant files.‘I’d like to see round the factory,’ I toldhim.‘Of course. Our operations managerwill be happy to show you.’He made a call and within minutes, aslight man he introduced as Sun-kiu‘Sunny’ Chen appeared in a hard hat. I’dbeen curious to meet Sunny Chen, not leastbecause one of the fraud officers hadreferred to him as ‘an oddball’, a termwhich always piques my interest. Hehadn’t gone into details, but just tappedthe side of his head in the internationalgesture denoting madness, and said I’d see

for myself. The others had grinned.Sunny Chen’s movements were jerky andpuppet-like. I couldn’t tell his age. Midfortiesperhaps. He was diminutive, withmuch darker skin than Martin Yeh(Monsoon River) and a hectic look. Thetwo men conversed briefly: I missed mostof what they said, but their body languagetold me there was respect between them.Sunny Chen and I shook hands. We beganin Chinese, but I found myself struggling,so after two and a half sentences weswitched.‘You know, my father worked here,until he retired. My grandfather too, andfour uncles. Jenwai was a good company.Moral. Trustworthy.’ Sunny Chen wipedhis brow, which bore a sheen of sweat.

Martin Yeh sighed. ‘If I had been here .. .’ He didn’t finish his sentence, butshrugged and began a new one. This wasabout needing to go home and rest. Iresponded that this seemed wise, given hishealth status. After I’d seen the factory, hesaid, Sunny would take me to lunch on hisbehalf. The two of them had a swiftexchange in Chinese, about the name andlocation of the restaurant. Then we saidgoodbye and I followed Sunny Chenoutside.The courtyard faced the factory entrance,which was festooned with warning signsand surveillance cameras. In the shade ofits concrete flank, Sunny Chen offered mea cigarette which I declined. He lit one forhimself and inhaled deeply. His fingers

were stained with nicotine. He jerked hishead towards the building. You could hearthe machinery inside working at full tilt.‘So what do you make of the whistleblower?’I asked.‘He deserves to die,’ said Sunny Chen.‘In fact, I would like to kill him myself.’Then he laughed. His teeth were an ivorycolour – somewhere between Silver Birchand Musk Keg.‘Why?’‘He has brought us shame.’ This remarkindicated he was more bothered bycorporate loss of face than by thecompany’s intrinsic rottenness. Did thismake him a traditionalist? I made a mentalnote.‘Have you any idea who he is?’His head gave an abrupt twitch. ‘The

police asked me the same thing. And I saidyes. But they didn’t listen. Please come in.I will show you inside.’In an antechamber near the entrance, weput on fibre face masks and overalls. Minewere far too small. Sunny Chen gave me ahard hat like his own with built-in earmufflers. I like wearing headgear. Theskull feels pleasingly cushioned.‘We will have to shout in there,’ hesaid, waving me in.In the vegetable world there’s no realtime of death. In the right conditions,flowers can last a week, irradiatedstrawberries a month, apples or onions ayear. Technically, a tree is killed when itis chopped down. But its aroma – of bark,of sap, of dense, massed fibre – lingersfor decades afterwards. It is a smell that

attracts me in the same way as certaincolours, shades of violet and green inparticular. Inside the factory, the trunksthat were being processed were freshlyfelled, so it was overwhelming: thick andheady and mixed with machine oil.Parallel rows of conveyor belts fed hugetree trunks into mechanical saws whichsliced them as effortlessly as a knifecutting through cheese, then dropped themon to another belt system which bore themto the far end of the warehouse, wherethey were sorted according to width andmechanically stacked. It was a cleverlyconstructed system that required minimalmanpower. The fifteen workmen I sawticked off checklists, swept bark andsawdust from the floor, drove forklifts andrighted skewed planks on the conveyors.

The loading of the trunks and the shiftingand transportation of the cut wood, Chentold me, was done outside. Like allmanifestations of mechanical efficiency,the process was mesmerising to watch,despite the searing noise. And even thathad its merits: it was regular, and it meantsomething. Everything was powdered in alayer of fine, dark wood dust. Standingthere in my comfortable helmet, I felt verycontent. I was Lucky Lok.‘Pencil cedar,’ shouted Sunny Chen inEnglish over the racket, pointing. ‘FromIndonesia. Over there is Malaysian kauriand teak.’He indicated another section of the shopfloor, where wide planks of a darkerwood were being sliced to the narrowerwidth typically used for decking and

garden furniture. The offcuts and shavingsfrom the closest sawing machine fell on toa conveyor belt, which transported them tothe overhead funnel of the machine in frontof us, which stood about four metres high.Sunny mouthed something I couldn’t hear,and directed me to the wide serviceladder. By the time we reached the toprung I was sweating and high on theatmosphere. Peering over the metal rimthat curved downward like a hanging lip,we gazed far down into the dark whirringhole of its innards.‘Long way to fall!’ Sunny Chen shouted,pointing down. The pulping mechanismworked like a giant food processor,accepting whatever it was fed andchomping it into a coarse mash ofwoodchips. ‘Turn you into hamburger!’

His face mask hid his features. I’m notgood at second-guessing people’semotions but his eyes didn’t seem to besmiling. The flayed wood was collectedin a vast skip below. ‘We use this tomanufacture chipboard,’ he yelled. ‘Thesawdust is re-used also, so nothing’swasted, all recycled.’I stared at the jostling blur. Repetitivemovements snare me. As a child, I wouldhappily watch the washing machine for anentire cycle.‘So you said you knew who exposed thecorruption?’ I yelled at him when we hadclimbed back down to the bottom.He didn’t answer directly. ‘I showedthe police something important here, butthey didn’t take it seriously.’ His brow

was beaded with sweat. He pulled off hismask and wiped it with his hand, leaving asmear of wood powder. ‘Messy place.’Still no smile. ‘Come with me.’I followed him round the base of themachine to the side nearest the wall,where he pointed to what appeared to be asmall, blurred hand-print low down onone side of its steel flank. You had to benddown to see it properly. ‘Evidence.’‘Of what?’ I asked. But he just shookhis head and fiddled with his piece ofwood. Perhaps I had misheard him. ‘MrChen, Mr Chen, Mr Chen! What are yousaying?’ I shouted.‘It means they come here to wreckthings. They hate us! They hate everythingwe do!’ He seemed agitated.‘Who do you mean?’ My throat was

drying up from the wood dust.‘The ones that made this mark. The onesyou are looking for!’‘Campaigners?’‘No! Not campaigners. Just verydesperate and naïve people.’This was making no sense to me. ‘Whatdid the police say?’ I yelled.‘They say it’s nothing. Just a handmark.Can’t get finger-prints.’This didn’t surprise me: I could picturethe detective dismissing it, and see why hecalled Sunny Chen an ‘oddball’ and madethe international madness gesture. WhatSunny showed me was nothing more than acrude smear with a bit of wood dust on it,as if someone had slammed a dirty handagainst the machine’s steel side.‘They say the CCTV doesn’t show who

made it.’ He pointed to the overheadsecurity camera. This didn’t surprise meeither. It might have been there for weeks,and those images are typically on a threedayrecycling loop. ‘But it is important,Mr Lock!’Everything has an explanation. It’s justa question of identifying and deploying theright analytical template. The frustration Ifelt was with myself.‘Is it a message?’‘Maybe. Yes. Yes, a message.’‘So what’s it saying, this message?’He shook his head and said, ‘I don’tknow. You just need to note this down fordoing your job right, OK? I say the samething to police.’‘But what do you think it means?’ Ipersisted.

He shook his head. ‘It’s bad. Like awarning. Like a stop sign. I am telling you,it’s evidence!’I don’t know much about unbalancedminds, but I do know the importance ofmeticulousness. I hadn’t travelled all thisway to miss something. If Sunny Chen saidit was evidence then I’d treat itaccordingly. I took out my camera andphotographed the little smear of filth onthe wall. Since it was only three feet or sofrom floor level, I had to crouch down toget a decent angle on it. If it was a handmark,whoever had made it was veryshort, or had assumed an odd posture.‘I’ll take a sample too,’ I called to him,and he nodded vigorously. I scraped someof it off and folded it into some origamipaper for analysis. It was crystalline and

coarse. A brown close to Cinnamon Stickwith a few darker grains. It looked likemud and salt, with traces of fibre. I sniffedit and noted a faint vegetable smell with atouch of iron to it.When we’d disposed of our protectivegear and come outside, the sky wasdarkening and grumbling with thunder. Wewalked to the main road where SunnyChen flagged down a taxi. As we drove,flashes of sheet lightning began to scaldthe sky. The restaurant was in a square atthe edge of a public park: we reached itjust as the rain began to fall. Huge,swollen drops, silted with fine grit,hammering the formal flowerbeds.Picnickers, roller-bladers and childrenwith kites rushed in all directions across

the concrete prairie. I like to be incountries where everyone has black hair.The running people resembled matchesbeing scattered by a giant hand. SunnyChen whipped out an umbrella andbeneath its shelter we sprinted towardsthe nearby park and up some steps into agarish, soy-smelling place with FunfairCrimson tablecloths and matching napkins.The wind coming in from the openbalconies set the lanterns overheadgyrating: I had to tear my eyes away fromtheir spin. Sunny ordered for both of usand we sat contemplating the antics of thesky outside, lavishly lit one moment, anddark the next, the deluge lendingeverything a neon brashness. The greensof the foliage seemed to vibrate.As we waited for the food, Sunny

Chen’s mood shifted. His eyes roamed therestaurant, as though he was expectingsomeone to appear. At one point hereached for the salt dish, took a pinch ofcrystals and put it on the end of his tongue.This struck me as strange, and I speculatedit was due to a residual nervousness. Toreconnect to him, I asked him a fewquestions in Mandarin which he answeredpatiently, using simple phrases I couldunderstand. I learned that he had a wifewho was a teacher, and three daughters,two still at school and one at university.When he asked about my own domesticarrangement, I told him I had recently splitup with Kaitlin (for simplicity’s sake Icalled her ‘my wife’) and I now livedalone. I told him about Freddy, that Icollected foreign-language dictionaries

and paint-colour charts (here I used thetranslation app on my phone) and madeorigami. At this latter news his eyebrowsshot up. People have trouble believingsomeone big can do something delicate.Small dishes of spicy Szechuan foodarrived: squid in black-bean sauce,chicken and chilli, wonton soup, jasminerice, green tea. He explained them to mein both languages and I memorised thenew vocabulary. Then we filled our soydishes and began to eat. We both got lostin the food for a while. It was excellent.‘Would you say that the mark youshowed me is a hand-print?’ I asked afterfour minutes.‘Yes,’ he said, putting down hischopsticks. ‘It appeared after Ghost Day.You know Ghost Day?’

‘Yes. It falls on the fifteenth day of theseventh moon of the lunar calendar.’ Hiseyes narrowed. I’d aroused curiosity. ‘Ihave a good memory for anything I’veseen written down,’ I explained.‘Especially facts involving numbers.’I hadn’t mentioned my PhD in theanthropology of belief systems: as far asSunny Chen was concerned, I was just acorporate troubleshooter.‘Well you know then, that’s the day wehonour the hungry ghosts, in the monthwhen the gates of Hell are opened.’ Inodded. The term Hungry Ghosts was alsoused to describe the starving victims ofthe famine caused by Mao’s Great LeapForward. ‘The spirits wander the earth.They are restless. They need help. Theyexpect us to give it. They scare us. So we

do what they want.’ As he spoke, herefilled his soy bowl with sauce, theliquid shooting from the bottle in tiny darkspurts. Like the gyrating lanterns above us,the movement was mesmerising. At onepoint he picked the little bowl up andtipped its contents directly on to his rice.This seemed to me very un-Chinese: moresomething a Westerner might do. Soy isvery salty, so I wondered about his bloodpressure. ‘They can be family members.But they don’t have to be. They need tosay something, or they need you to dosomething for them. Then they appear inyour sleep. That’s called tong-mong. Youknow this?’I nodded. ‘Through dreams.’There is no Heaven in Chinesetradition. Just different levels of Hell. The

spirits that come out around Ghost Monthare from the lowest levels of theunderworld. Sunny Chen was looking atme intently, as though he had saidsomething momentous which would leadme to a specific conclusion. It didn’t. Ican’t play the game where you must guessand guess. I put my chopsticks down andset my small digital recorder on the tablebetween us. The detective at the FraudOffice was right: Sunny Chen’s theory, ifI’d read between the lines correctly,certainly fitted with the descriptionoddball. But the anthropologist in me wasstirred, and I have learned that whenpeople have something important to say,they often spiral their way into it. Ipressed Record.‘Please, carry on.’

He took a deep breath. ‘The spiritsdon’t always want the best thing for us,’Sunny Chen began. ‘If we don’t show themenough respect they need to be . . .’ HereSunny Chen couldn’t find the word, andset aside his chopsticks to key it into hismobile translation app. ‘Appeased.’ Iwaited for more. He grabbed the salt dishand sprinkled a blizzard of coarse crystalsinto his bowl. ‘That’s why we visit theirgraves and burn Hell notes. Pay them off.Very different from the West.’I said: ‘Beliefs are more global thanmost people realise. Every society has itsways of trying to calm the spirits. Orwhatever you want to call them. TheCatholics have favours. They’re a downpaymenton sins not yet committed.’‘But do they get punished, if they do

wrong? If they . . . wait. I must find theword.’ He keyed in another Chinesecharacter, and held the little screen out forme to read.Commit a sin/Transgress.‘Yes. But they can confess and seekatonement. Mr Chen, did someone atJenwai commit a sin slash transgress?’He didn’t answer directly. ‘You pleaseone and then you offend another. It’s likebeing torn into small pieces, youunderstand?’ I didn’t. Professor Whybrayalways advised: when in doubt, saynothing. So for a while we ate in silence.Sunny Chen continued to add more salt toevery mouthful he took. In between hesipped green tea. ‘I think we make a bigmistake about ghosts,’ he said suddenly.‘We think they are from the past. We think

they are all dead. But they are alive. Andsome of them are not even born yet. Theyare travellers.’‘Travellers?’‘Yes! They move about.’ His voicecaught in a strange choke. ‘They gowherever they like. They enter your bodyand make you do things.’I’m not proud of my reaction, whichwas to register his welling tears and lookaway.Through the window, forked lightningcleaved a blinding white slash across thesky’s deep grey, chased by the cymbalcrashof thunder. A tourist coach drovepast, headed for the National Museum: Irecognised the ideograms on itsdestination plate. Chen’s raw emotion wasvery desperate. And for me, awkward to

contemplate. A behavioural psychologistsuch as Stephanie Mulligan would haveknown what to do or say. I did not. So Ireached in my briefcase for the lime-greenpraying mantis I’d pre-creased on Arranand started constructing at Manchesterairport. While Sunny Chen recoveredhimself and paid the bill, I did the lasttwenty-eight folds and presented the paperinsect to him with both hands and a smallbow of the head.‘A gift.’It seemed to cheer him. ‘I want to takeyou somewhere,’ he said. ‘I will showyou what I mean about the spirits.’Outside, we caught another taxi: he hada brief conversation with the driver andwe drove through dense Taipei traffic.The rain stopped and the sky cleared.

Chen seemed absorbed in his ownthoughts. He didn’t say where we weregoing. The hotels and department stores ofdowntown gave way to suburbs, then anetherland of factories, silos, warehousesand repair workshops. Finally, aftertwenty-three minutes and fifteen seconds,we took a fork to the right and began toclimb upwards into the mountains thatringed the city, heading west towards thedistrict of Yang Ming Shan. Six and a halfminutes later the taxi driver asked SunnyChen a question about the precise locationof our destination and he answereddistractedly, pointing. The storm hadcleared completely, replaced by piercingsunshine. Rocky outcrops and featheredtrees and small rubbish dumps exhalingcoils of smoke dotted the roadside.

Eventually, the taxi took a left turn down anarrow side road flanked with highbamboo. After three minutes and fiveseconds we slowed and entered a gatewayinto a concrete car park with weedspushing through the cracks. The rainwaterwas evaporating in the sunshine: youcould see the rising vapour. The driverparked under a tree with coarselycorrugated fan-shaped leaves and SunnyChen told him to wait for us. I waspleased by how much Chinese I couldunderstand.The shrines hugged the earth, so it took mea while to register what we had entered.There must have been a hundred or somonuments in marble, granite and cement,scattered across the hillside overlooking

the city. Up here, we were right on theedge of the fairy ring. Distant enough fromthe sprawl of humanity to see the scaleand enterprise of it. Around us, thesunlight danced on the puddles left by thestorm.‘Good feng shui,’ said Sunny Chen,spreading his arm wide to indicate theview. It was spectacular. Beneath a bluesky streaked with wisps of cloud squattedthe great urban crater: a centrifuge ofmoney, metal, glass and cement, of mallsand sports centres and arterial roadsdotted with the pinpricks of cars,emanating a faint hum. A heat-hazescrolled over the glittering ceramicrooftops of the outer suburbs. Youcouldn’t see any human life from here, butyou could do a mental X-ray and sense

how the cityscape seethed with it. Taipeiis home to four million and counting. Iwondered: why has Sunny Chen chosen totake me to a place where the vivid livingand the unforgotten dead converge? Farbelow, black birds whirled above theskyscrapers like coarse flakes of ash.After a few moments we turned andwandered among the family shrines: low,squat constructions with wide thresholds.Some lay crumbling and neglected, whileothers were lavishly tended ancestralshowcases.? The higher surrounding wallsfeatured alcoves containing urns. Straycats sunned themselves on the crackedslabs, or nudged at the remains of foodofferings. After the air-conditioned taxithe air was sweltering. A hot breeze camefrom the west like the blast of a hairdryer,

shaking the black-stemmed bamboos andrustling half-burned paper modelsattached to shrines. Small mounted blackand-whitephotographs of the dead glintedin the sun, dotted with rainwater. Youcould see the legacy of Qing Ming, theApril tomb-sweeping festival in the formof soggy, charred incense sticks, plasticand silk flowers and the remains of burntofferings. Streams of red ants transportedancient food crumbs amid faded and raindamagedcardboard or paper replicas ofcoveted objects: miniature houses, yachts,cars and mobile phones, all fitting, Isupposed, into the cultural category knownas popular kitsch. The artistic standardwas not high.‘Is this where your ancestors are?’ Iasked.

‘Over there.’ He pointed to a shrine,studded with photographs, only two ofwhich were in colour. Most of the faceswere stern, though one woman wore ahalf-smile. The men were jacketed, andthe women wore cheongsams. None ofthem resembled Sunny Chen. ‘You don’texpect them to be dressed in rags, doyou?’ he blurted angrily. He waved hishand at the photographs. ‘You think theywill look like in the photos. Normal size.Wearing smart clothes. You don’t imaginethey smell bad. You don’t expect them toeat insects.’I waited for an explanation for thisbizarre outburst, but none came. His faceflickered in an agitated way. Then hereached in his inner pocket and broughtout a wad of scarlet paper, ornamented

with gold. Hell notes. Each leaf of thepretend currency was covered in Chinesecharacters. I recognised a few of thesimpler ones, such as ‘heavenly’ and‘respect’. BANK OF HELL was stampedacross the bottom of each in English.He handed me a note.‘Can you please make me one smallman?’ he asked. I couldn’t read theexpression on his face. ‘Let us sit there.’He pointed to a shrine shaded by afeathery-leafed tree with candelabras offurred buds.On its low surrounding wall I laid theHell note flat, folded a line and ripped itto a square. He sat next to me and watchedas I folded. The wall was dry, but thesewere still not ideal conditions. I had noproper work top and the cheap paper dye

left red stains on my fingertips. When I’dfinished, I handed him the squat figure –boxy limbs, triangular head – and heaccepted it with both hands and a jerkynod. The little man glinted red and gold inhis palm.I hadn’t done a very good job. It wasclear he thought so too, because hereached for a plastic lighter, which hadthe Chinese character for ‘good fortune’engraved on it, and angled it beneath theman. I was glad he was going to burn it.It’s exactly what I do myself, to poorspecimens. It’s what you might call acathartic ritual.But he was hesitating.‘Who is he?’ I asked.He laughed. ‘Who do you think?’ hesaid, igniting the pointed end of the man’s

leg. I would have bent it to form a foot,but in these conditions it was too fiddly. Abluish flame crept up the paper limb.‘I don’t know.’I feared he would burn his skin but hedropped the flaming paper just in time.Together we watched the little effigyblaze, shrivel to a crisp and waftsideways, disintegrating as it went.‘But you do know, Hesketh. Becauseyou are a clever man.’ He spoke urgently.I noted, in my brief connection with hiseyes, that they were so dark that pupil andiris merged into one. When people likeyou their irises grow big. When they hateyou they get small. The degree of lightmust be factored in, but dappled shade istricky to calibrate. I felt very distinctlythat this was a test. No: more than a test. A

challenge. More games. More things notsaid straight. But I’ve studied thetendencies and the rules. ‘He’s thewhistle-blower,’ I said. ‘The Jenwaisaboteur. The man you want to kill.’He didn’t say anything. His jaw wasworking oddly. Then I realised why. Onceagain he was in tears. Then it dawned onme, what he was saying, and why it wasso painful to him. Of course. StephanieMulligan would have spotted it long ago.How do you address a man who has justsymbolically set himself alight? We stoodthere for a long time, watching the ashesof the tiny paper Sunny Chen drift acrossthrough the coarse weeds.Finally I cleared my throat.‘Do you think your ancestors are angrywith you?’

The laugh came again. ‘Sure, I willhave to take the blame.’ I blinked andwiped my brow. An intense, laser-likeheat can follow thunder in this latitude. Iwished Stephanie Mulligan had notentered my head. But now here she was,judging me and finding me wanting. Andbehind her, somewhere, was Kaitlin.Different women, both making the sameassessment. ‘But it wasn’t my choice.Something can get inside you.’ He wasbecoming animated. ‘Sometimes it’sasleep. But when it wakes up, it’s incharge. You can’t make the decisions anymore. You are a clever man Hesketh, but Iam sorry, I don’t think you are the kind ofperson who can understand what is goingon here. How they make you do things.You are –’ he whipped out his mobile and

looked up a word. ‘Too rational.’He’d made a confession. He’d come toseek atonement. And I was his witness.But capitalism employs me, via Phipps& Wexman. Not God.I am not sure what ‘too’ rational mightmean. But Sunny Chen was right; I have arespect for facts, and the logic systemsthat connect them. Which is why what hesaid was immediately unsatisfactory.While whistle-blowers tend to have aninflated view of their own importance,Sunny Chen’s ego was virtually nonexistent.I admired him for standing up forthe rules. But he didn’t match the profile.‘I’m going to record this,’ I say. ‘Formy report.’He shrugged. I pulled out my device,

settled it on the marble slab between usand pressed the button. ‘This is very badfor me,’ he said.‘It’s not bad at all,’ I countered quickly.I was on safe ground here: this wassomething I had rehearsed, though not, I’dthought, for him. ‘You’ll get a reward. Agenerous one. That’s why I’m here. You’llbe a hero.’‘The last thing I want,’ he said in a flatvoice.When I computed this statement it madea kind of sense. He’d brought down hiscompany. Inevitably he felt torn. Publicly,he’d receive a financial reward as a facesaverfor Ganjong, and be hailed as aneco-warrior, a crime-fighter, a corruptionbuster,a champion of honesty. But inreality, small, insecure, tormented Sun-kiu

‘Sunny’ Chen was none of these things.‘So why did you do it?’He looked uncomfortable and fiddledwith a Hell note. ‘I didn’t want to. I can’texplain. Even to myself. I was not incharge.’‘You respect the tradition of ancestorworship.Do you have any other beliefs?’He shook his head absentmindedly andtook a drag of his cigarette. ‘No.’‘How does your respect for yourancestors relate to your exposingcorruption at Jenwai?’‘I can’t explain.’‘Try.’‘I can’t. Just ask me another question.’‘The mark you showed me at the timberplant. Who made it and why do you thinkit’s relevant?’

‘I made it,’ he said. ‘That’s why Iwanted the police to take fingerprints.Evidence. But they refuse.’‘You mean those are your ownfingerprints?’‘I am not sure. I would like to know.’‘But you just said the hand-print wasyours.’‘They make you do things. From theinside.’ He touched his chest.‘Who?’‘Them. They’re our blood, but they hateus. They blame us. I can’t explain.’I decided to try another tack. ‘Do youconsider yourself a moral person?’‘Not really.’‘Do you have views on deforestation?Or the environment?’‘No views,’ he said, gazing into the

middle distance. He took another deepdrag on his cigarette and shook his head asthough to get rid of a fly. ‘I’m just anordinary person.’‘Ordinary people can have views.’He blew out a stream of smoke. Whensmoke mixes with air it obeysmathematical rules. ‘So as an ordinaryperson I don’t especially care about theenvironment.’‘So why did you do it?’‘Pressure.’‘What kind of pressure? Who from?’‘I told you! The spirits! Them!’He shook his head, stubbed out hiscigarette and lit another one. We sat therefor a while. Two metres away, a tabby catwith a kinked tail was nursing a litter ofblack, white and tortoiseshell kittens.

‘Do you fear that there will be areprisal of some kind?’ I asked after amoment. ‘That the Jenwai staff who wereexposed might attack you in revenge?’He made a noise with his mouth, as ifhe were stifling more choking. ‘It’s nottheir business. It is nothing to do withthem. You see, it was not me that did thisthing. They come in. I don’t know how.Maybe you eat the wrong thing and theyget in your blood. Like a parasite. Andthey make the body disobey the mind. Doyou understand?’‘Not yet. But I’m here to try. That’s myjob. So I can write my report.’He reached for my recorder and turnedit off. ‘No. Sorry Hesketh. We finish thisnow.’ He blew out a thin stream of smoke.‘I can’t. I don’t understand it myself. I’m

not in charge of anything, you see. I amjust a . . .’ he trailed off.‘Just a what?’He flicked some ash off his sleeve.‘Just a little man made of paper.’Then he stood up. I did too, and made tofollow him, but he signalled for me to staywhere I was. So I sat down again andwatched as he walked stiffly back to thefamily shrine where he took a wad of redHell notes from his pocket, knelt to placeit on the stone, fanned it out and set fire toit with the plastic lighter. Then he fishedin his briefcase for some incense sticks,bowed three times, then placed theincense in a small jar and lit it. Hisshoulders were shaking.The smoke drifted towards me: I smelled

sandalwood. I recognised it instantly. LastChristmas when Kaitlin and I rented acottage in Devon, Freddy insisted onlighting sandalwood joss sticks in everyroom. Kaitlin’s moods tended to becapricious, but on this occasion theatmosphere was positive. She had drunkfour glasses of wine and there was a sheento her skin that made me want her urgently.My body has a mind of its own and I havelearned that when it comes to sex one neednot fight this because sex has its ownrules. That night she was very receptiveand for once she shut her eyes too. But Imisunderstood why. I thought she wasgiving me something, finding a way to joinme in what she called the Fortress. But itwasn’t that. The truth was, she’d alreadybegun her affair.

I was actually present when they met. Itwas a Phipps & Wexman reception. Theytalked all evening. I saw that theystimulated each other. One minute they’dbe serious. The next they’d be laughing.Ideas were bouncing around. It was thekind of exchange I struggle to participatein. It was classic courtship behaviour, butI failed to identify it as such. Later Kaitlintold me this was because I’d been‘complacent’. I had ‘made assumptions’,and ‘failed to appreciate’ her sexualappetites. I had taken her for granted. Ishould have been jealous and I wasn’t.I asked her: ‘Are you saying I’m toblame for your having an affair?’‘Don’t twist what I’m saying.’‘My intention is to understand the logic.Not just of what you did, but why you hid

it from me. I need to know why.’‘Look. Not everything can be explainedby some damned behavioural flow chart,OK? And not everyone shares your rulebook.’‘It’s not a rule book. It’s just morality.’‘People change, OK? They evolve overtime, they want to explore who they mightbe, as well as who they are!’‘They should just be who and what theysay they are.’‘Well one of us failed to do that, OK?One of us committed the apparentlyunforgivable crime of changing.’Her body language and facialconfiguration told me to leave it there.A flock of green birds flew overhead,squawking, then disappeared into the

smog coiling around the mountainside.Parakeets. I went and joined Sunny andwe watched the glowing tips of theincense sticks.He said, ‘Thank you for making me theman. And the insect. What is its name?’‘A praying mantis. It’s called thatbecause it rocks to and fro like someonepraying.’I like to rock too. It soothes me.‘Ha. A holy insect.’‘Not really. The females devour themales after they’ve mated.’He shifts a little, and glances at mesideways. ‘Not my business, Hesketh. Butyour wife—’‘Girlfriend. Ex. Met someone else.’ Imight as well learn to say it aloud.He studied his hands. ‘Very sorry. I

should not ask.’‘Later she regretted it and wanted us tocarry on like before.’He looked up and smiled. ‘So the bestman won!’ he exclaimed, play-punchingme on the arm, American-buddy style. Buthe might as well have shot me. He meantwell of course. He wasn’t to know theappalling nature of what happened.‘You’re the best man,’ he continued. ‘Shesaw that, so she wanted you back.’‘But I couldn’t trust her any more.That’s why I live alone.’‘Man of principle. Good.’ I knew hewas looking at me. ‘But you miss yourson.’‘Stepson. Freddy’s hers. From beforewe met. He doesn’t know his real father.’‘He still needs you. You know,

Hesketh, families are with us all the time.’He gestured at the shrines. ‘Dead andalive. The ones from the past and thepresent and the future too. They’re livingin us. We can’t escape them even if wewant to. They send us signals. This iswhat holds us together. Blood. DNA,Hesketh. It’s very strong.’‘Freddy and I don’t share DNA.’‘Then you are lucky. DNA is cruel. Itmakes demands.’ He leaned down andstubbed out his cigarette in a driedpomegranate shell. ‘Hesketh, I am glad itwas you they sent.’His eyes were glittering again. I lookedacross and met them for a second. Icouldn’t manage any longer. But perhapsthere was an exchange of sorts.I said, ‘Yes.’ Then in Chinese: ‘Me

too.’ I meant it.‘We will say goodbye now. I have toldyou all I can. Go and do your job. I willstay here. Take the taxi back to the hotel.’I started to object, but he stopped me. Hehad his mobile, he said. He would orderanother car when he was ready to leave. ‘Iwant to be here for a little longer. Towork out what I must do now. But becareful, Hesketh. The spirits are becomingvery active.’‘What do you mean?’‘They are angry and starving. They livein bad conditions. You like the truth. So Iwill be honest with you. This is notsomething Phipps & Wexman or any otherorganisation can resolve. The spirits willdo what they came to do. They won’t giveup. They are fighting for their survival.’

He sighed, then held out his hand. Weshook, then exchanged a small head-bow.‘It was good to meet you Hesketh. Have asafe journey. Please go now.’He called out to the taxi driver, whosnapped awake and started the engine. Weshook hands and I got in the car and Sunnywaved me off. I looked back at him, buthe’d already turned away to face the city.Hands in his pockets, shoulders high. Onthe way back to the hotel, I used myBlackBerry to let Phipps & Wexman knowI had identified the whistle-blower.Ashok’s instant reply: You’re the man.The best man, according to SunnyChen.The man who won.He wasn’t to know.

As the taxi drove off, I looked back andsaw the small figure of Sunny Chenstanding like a hunched sentinel at theshrine of his forefathers, near the blownashes of his little origami self.

CHAPTER 2Hurricane Veronica struck during thenight, devastating towns on Ireland’swestern shore before strafing its way upthe Scottish coast. I woke to its dyinghowls. When dawn broke I saw that one ofthe hawthorns had been blown down, itsbranches scattered across the moor. My

oof had lost a few tiles, and a dead sheeplay on the beach. Otherwise, there waslittle sign of the weather’s passing, savefor the sparkle of salt borne by the wind:coarse crystals winking on the slate roofof my cottage and on the granite boulder.My living-room smells of damp wool andwood smoke. I’ve put logs on the fire, andfrom time to time air pockets in the barkdetonate like gunshot. It’s already autumnup here: spider season. Because of thisyear’s wet spring they are numerous andhuge, with long legs and bloatedabdomens. The structure of each cobwebis the same, but every spider has its ownstyle, like handwriting. Sometimes I sitand watch them at work, single-mindedand fanatical. I have to tear myself away.

The lunchtime news was full of thehurricane damage and the scientific rowover whether the freshly replicated CERNresults ‘disprove’ Einstein’s theory ofrelativity. At the end, there’s a smallupdate on yesterday’s ‘pyjama killer’: thegirl’s father is still in hospital, while theremaining family is undergoingcounselling.I’ve been trying to summarise the resultsof my Taiwan investigation, but my notesamount to little more than a list of Chen’sagitated remarks about the spirit world. Ican’t quote this kind of thing in my report.Clients don’t want superstition anduncertainty: they want closure and a threepointplan. I do too. I throw more wood onthe fire and watch the sparks. I enjoy

starting these miniature contained blazes. Iuse crumpled newspaper and failedorigami figures. I am harsh on my owncraftsmanship: a bad fold, the wrong kindof kink, or a small paper tear, and it’ssacrificed. I think of Sunny Chen, burninghimself in effigy. The body can disobeythe mind, he said. How can that happen? Isit like my nocturnal bouts of Restless LegSyndrome, where the brain craves shutdown,but the lower limbs enforce theirown meaningless, agitated agenda? Theyare in your blood, he said. Likeparasites. But what do they eat, the hungryinner creatures he conjured as histormentors? I look it up. Rice, says onesource. Fruit. Soup. Sweets. Meat.Anything they can lay their spirit hands on,and stuff into their spirit mouths and

absorb into their spirit bloodstreams.Sometimes a feeling of physicalconstriction overwhelms me: to use ananalogy, it’s as if I’m trapped inside anegg and must burst free. At three o’clock Igive in to it and close the Chen file.Shucking on my anorak, I grab myumbrella and push out into open air. I havemy routines. Five and a half minutes to thegate. Nine minutes along the sheep-path. Athirty-second pause at the sheer-sidedblack boulder, then down past the bluffwhere a row of trees cringe from thewind, and down to the shore. Most of theisland is rocky and dry, but in thisparticular region the bog-land absorbs theliquid with the capacity of a sponge. Itexhales methane. The fossil gas streams to

the surface in tiny bubbles likechampagne, then ignites and dances withflickering blue tendrils of light. You cansee it now, through the massing lateafternoondark. In the old days they calledit will-o’-the-wisp and conjured goblinsto explain it. Other native beliefs: wildfairy children once roamed here.Sometimes they swapped places withhumans and lived as changelings.According to Japanese lore, if you folda thousand ozuru, you’ll achieve yourheart’s desire. Like most origamiaficionados, I’ve folded many more thanthat, but I’m no closer to knowing what myheart’s desire might be.Once, it was simply peace: to be left tomyself, as I am now, walking on a moor,with a case to puzzle over.

The boy changed all that.When we lived as a family, Kaitlin wouldwake him and then leave for work. By thetime he was dressed, I’d have Freddy’sbreakfast ready on the table. Everyschoolday for two years I prepared him abowl of yoghurt with eleven raisins on topand a four-minute boiled egg. While he atethe yoghurt I put the egg in boiling waterand pressed the button on the timer andwe’d play ‘the Egg Game’: I’d throw a teacloth over the timer and we’d each make aping when we guessed the four minuteswas up. If you missed the real ping, youlost completely. The skill lay in being anaccurate judge of time. By the time Idecided to leave, we had both becomeextremely good at the Egg Game.

‘I know your mum has already talked toyou about this,’ I said, after he’d wonagain, three seconds short of the real ping.But he must have been anticipating theconversation because he slapped hishands over his ears. I continued anyway.‘We’ve decided not to live together anymore.’ It had to be stated. By me as wellas Kaitlin. ‘But we’ll still see each other Ihope.’ I put the egg in his eggcup and set itin front of him. ‘Mum will pick you upfrom school today. I won’t see you tonight.But I’ll come by whenever I can. FreddyK?’He didn’t answer.We had our rituals. One of them wasthat when I gave him his egg he’d say‘Foonk-you-fonk-you-fank-you,’ in thedeep distorted voice he uses for the

archaeopteryx, and then – here was theeducational part – I’d say ‘You’rewelcome’ or its equivalent in a foreignlanguage, some basic phrases of which I’dlooked up earlier. We’d covered over ahundred countries. Then we’d talk aboutthe culture and traditions of the day’scountry, and I’d tell him one of its folktales while he ate. When Kaitlin camehome he’d try out that morning’s languageon her, or a story. He especially lovedRussian, and the story of Baba YagaBony-legs, the witch who lived in a housethat stood on chickens’ legs. Often he saidnyet for no, and da for yes.But now he didn’t even say that.He just threw his egg on the floor. Itbroke open and lay there steaming. Herefused to speak to me. I didn’t know what

to do. So I cleaned it up. A few minuteslater Kaitlin phoned to ask how it hadgone. When I told her, she said she wascoming home.‘It’s best you don’t see him for awhile,’ she said when she returned. ‘Itonly upsets him.’I went out and rinsed the mop under theoutdoor tap.It’s getting darker now, the sky rinsed bythe dregs of the hurricane. The scent ofwet gorse is vital and crude. I canrecognise several bird species now. Blackguillemot, cormorant, eider. I’ve seenperegrine falcons too. Here’s what I’d tellFreddy, about birds. I saw some greenparakeets in Taiwan, flying over shrinesto the dead. In cities, some bird species

have begun to imitate electronic devicessuch as car alarms and doorbells, andeven incorporate them into their songpatterns. When it comes to ringtones, theyfavour Nokia. Then I’d ask him: but whatif they start to copy a ringtone that is itselfa bird-call? Then you might get blackbirdsposing as toucans and marsh waderspretending to be mynah birds. Which inturn would copy something else.The boy would like that. He’d laughand you’d see his little teeth. There’susually a gap somewhere, with a new onepushing through. He doesn’t like brushingthem, so to cajole him into it, I used tostand next to him in the bathroom andwe’d do it together, trying to hit a kind ofsynchrony. We’d end up pulling grotesquefaces, gurning at the mirror and spitting

toothpaste.Sometimes we pretended we hadrabies.My phone vibrates. I pull it out of mypocket and press answer without looking,expecting it will be Kaitlin. I’m hopingthat when she’s finished demanding that Ifetch the rest of my stuff – something Irefuse to do unless she lets me see Freddy– I’ll get to talk to him. As I’m notofficially Freddy’s stepfather, Kaitlin isaware of the power she wields.But it’s not Kaitlin.‘How’s it hanging, Maestro?’ AshokSharma.Odd. Normally Phipps & Wexmandon’t call me on my mobile: they have aface-to-face policy, and favour Skype.

‘It’s hanging well, thank you, Ashok,’ Itell him. I assume the ‘it’ referent is penisrelated,in origin. I picture him the way Iso often see him on the screen,shirtsleeves rolled up, feet on the desk,slightly pixellated and time-lagged. Heonce described his skin colour asStarbucks latte, but when I put a colourchart to his wrist he was forced to agreethat Sanderson’s Burnt Umber, from the2003 range, was more accurate. Hismother’s family was originally fromMumbai and his father is Kashmiri, butAshok, whose name means ‘withoutsadness’, was born in Florida and callshimself Yankee to the boner. This is apun.‘Er. Reason I’m calling is the guy youinvestigated on your Far East trip. The

Taiwan whistle-blower?’Sunny Chen. I quicken my pace.I say, ‘You’ll have my report by latetomorrow.’Ashok says, ‘About that.’I once overheard a colleague referringto Ashok as ‘an irritating jerk’. But I likehim. I like his leather and aftershave smelland his playful if somewhat childishnature, and I don’t mind that he calls meMaestro or Spock. When I’m in London,we’ll sometimes go for a drink together bythe Thames, where he introduces me as thePussy Magnet and himself as the PussyMagnet’s Horny Sidekick, and in betweenbuying drinks for women he wants to havesex with, he tells me about his latestlosses on the stock exchange, which heseems to find amusing, like a spectacle

he’s not involved in. He sees it as achallenge to make me laugh, and when hesucceeds, he punches the air with his fistand shouts, ‘I win!’ and demands that Imake him an ozuru as a ‘humour tax’. I’veworked with Phipps & Wexman for fiveyears and he now has thirteen of them on ashelf next to his family portrait: a set ofparents and a big-eyed sister with herhusband and four kids. He likes to amusevisitors by pretending to feed the origamibirds confetti collected from holepunchers.‘We’ll have to do some rethinking,’says Ashok. ‘I’m sorry to lay this on you,but Sunny Chen’s dead.’ I mentally selecta sheet of origami paper. I make a frogbase. This I double-sink fold, then blintz.‘You still there bud? You hear what I

said? Sunny Chen. Your factory-managerguy. He’s eaten it. I didn’t know how totell you, so I just thought hey, what can Ido. I’ll just come right out with it.’I can hear my boss chewing rapidly. Sohe is eating it too. But Ashok and SunnyChen aren’t eating the same thing. Thething Sunny is eating is dust, as in ‘bitingthe dust’. Whereas Ashok has beenpsychologically dependent on chewinggum since he gave up smoking: ‘eating’ inhis case involves spearmint and agelatine-based product derived from pigs’trotters. But Sunny Chen is dead. I can beslow to absorb things. Something like thiscould take a long time to sink in.I ask, ‘When?’‘Today. Our morning, his afternoon. Atthe timber plant. I’m sending his folks

flowers on your behalf. It’ll beappreciated, since you hung out with him.’I fold some more paper mentally, athigh speed. I must be extremely upset. IfKaitlin could see me now, she wouldn’tcall me ‘a robot made of meat’. But shemight call me an unusually fast walker.Sunny Chen in overalls and a white hardhat showing me round the factory. SunnyChen in the restaurant, piling on the saltand using the soy bottle like a littlewatering can. Sunny Chen at the shrines,burning the effigy I made him from theHell note and talking about badly dressedancestors eating insects. Sunny Chen’seyes with tears in them. How I looked at ayellow and blue coach instead, and thenfolded a praying mantis. I do not knowhow to behave or what I feel. Perhaps I

don’t feel anything.But I do feel something, of course. Theusual suspects: confusion and overload.It was Martin Yeh who was supposedto be dying. Of cancer. Not Sunny Chen, of– what? A heart attack. Of course. I seethe da Vinci diagrams. An artery blocking,a ventricle in spasm.‘How did it happen?’I’m aware of Ashok taking a deepbreath. ‘Sorry to lay this on you too – butthe guy killed himself.’ He pauses. ‘As in,suicide.’ I must have made a noise ofsome sort – a sigh or sob or groan orsomething. ‘You OK there?’ says Ashok.‘No.’‘Jeez. Like I say, I’m sorry. Take yourtime, my friend.’‘Yes.’ We are not actually friends.

More colleagues.I stop walking and start to rock. Myheartbeat changes. I rock more urgently. Ican get overwhelmed.‘How do you know it was suicide?’‘Seems there were witnesses. AndCCTV footage. Plus he left a note for hiswife. Jeez, man. I’m sorry to break it toyou this way. Wish I was there to, I don’tknow. Buy you a beer or something. Offermy condolences.’ I turn my face to thewind and breathe in wet air. ‘So what’syour gut feeling here?’I don’t have gut feelings: I have oftentold Ashok this. He calls me pedantic. Healso refers to me as ‘the in-house Martian’though he always stresses that he means it‘with love, my friend’. But I do haveinstincts. These are different from gut

feelings: they are a component of thedeductive process; a form of recognitionon the subconscious level, of somethingthe conscious has not yet processed. Atrick of the mind. But a useful one. ThatSunny Chen was an unhappy man I don’tdoubt. If there’s CCTV footage, does thatmean he killed himself in public view,deliberately? If so, did he intend it asanother ‘grand gesture’, despite hisdiscomfort in the role of hero? Mostsuicides are private. Unless they’repolitical. The bombers. The selfimmolators.The cries for help that gowrong. I need to know how he did it. I metthe man and watched him agonise abouthis ancestors and pour soy sauce directlyinto his rice bowl in a very un-Chineseway. I told him about Kaitlin and Freddy.

This doesn’t mean nothing. This meanssomething, even if I don’t know the wordfor what it means. His cigarette lighterwith ‘good fortune’ printed on it. Theblack-stemmed bamboos, the feral cats,him saying, ‘I am glad it was you theysent’ and me saying I was too, in Chinese,because it was true.‘How did he do it?’He lets out air from his mouth. ‘Look.Are you quite sure you want to know thegory details, Maestro?’ I straighten myback to spread the weight that’s settled onmy shoulders.‘Yes.’‘I mean, it’s not something you’d wantto dwell on and analyse too much andstuff. You’re all on your lonesome upthere in your Scottish croft, right?’

‘Ashok. Just tell me.’‘Er, Jeez. Well. You’ve been to thetimber plant, right? Seems there was ahealth-and-safety issue with access to oneof the machines . . . Hey, you still there?’We peered down into the metallic roilof blades. Long way to fall, he said. Turnyou into hamburger . . . It’s like beingtorn into small pieces. When he showedme the pulper, did he really want me topicture what would happen if he threwhimself in?‘Yes. Still here.’‘The question is why. D’you have anykind of answer?’I think. ‘Normally suicide is connectedto some variant of depression.’But that’s inadequate. Sunny Chen’smental pain was a highly focused and

particular form of derangement. He had aconviction that he was unable or unwillingto fully convey: a story about hungryspirits that for whatever reason he founduntellable. The cargo on my shouldersshifts, then resettles in a new way. Did myinvestigation trigger his suicide?‘Anyway, bud, you’ll need toincorporate something on his death in yourreport. Stephanie Mulligan can give yousome input, if you want the psychologicalangle.’‘No thanks.’ I say it too quickly andwith too much force.Stephanie Mulligan has been withPhipps & Wexman for four years. She is acompetent and extremely ambitiousoperative who will probably be runningthe Psych Department within a few years.

She is generally considered to beextremely attractive despite her bra sizebeing probably no more than 34A. I try toavoid her. Whenever I think about her noamount of mental origami can counter thedamage she inflicts on my nervous system.My attitude towards her is complex forreasons I don’t enjoy going into.‘She’s done some work on workrelatedsuicide. Could be of help to you.’‘If I need it, I’ll look it up.’ Too fast,again.He sighs. ‘Whatever. But turn it aroundquick.’ I trudge along the muddy path, myanorak brushing against wet swatches ofbroom, wishing Ashok hadn’t mentionedStephanie Mulligan. I thought I’d relegatedher to the past. ‘So how are you doingotherwise, Maestro?’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve been enjoyingnature. And I have a goldfish.’‘Good. Sounds like a start. So. Clearyour head, then finish that report and callme when you’re done. It’s a tough call Iknow. Don’t think I’m unsympathetic. ButI’m counting on you to deliver.’He knows I will. When ProfessorWhybray recommended me to Phipps &Wexman it was Ashok Sharma whospotted my talent for identifying andtracking patterns, ‘like one of those Frenchpigs that root for truffles in the forests ofla Wherever-the-Fuck’, as he put it. It washe who took me on.After we’ve said goodbye I switch off myphone and breathe in deep lungfuls ofdark, saturated air. Sheep are scattered

here and there, white blobs in a murk ofcollapsed bracken and heather. I turn andhead back for the black granite boulderthat marks the turn of the sheep-path.Seagulls wheel overhead.‘Sunny Chen is dead. Sunny Chen isdead. Sunny Chen is dead.’If I say a thing aloud it can sound likesomeone official speaking, and then I canbegin to believe it. I walk faster,visualising the pulping machine, and theheap of woodchips and sawdust in theskip below, stained red from SunnyChen’s blood. Sunny Chen mashed tohamburger. I have to go through the wholeprocess with him. I don’t know why. Notjust once, but again and again, with hisheart and his da Vinci aortas andventricles sliced through by the whirring

lades, and the crimson blood splatteringagainst the stainless steel walls of themachine.When I first asked Sunny Chen how hefelt about the whistle-blower he’d said, Iwould like to kill him. Later, when heburned himself in effigy, he was showingme he planned to do just that.I missed it. But someone else might nothave.In the absence of anything you couldcall a body, the police would have had toscoop up the pulped sawdust to verifySunny Chen’s DNA. They’d probablyhave used an ordinary shovel. Then they’dhave put the material into a Ziploc plasticbag for analysis.A company can lose millions of poundsthrough an act of sabotage or through bad

publicity generated by a disgruntledworker. It will need a completerebranding, and may have to relocate.Profit is an end product of a motivatedworkforce. It would be absurd to expectall employees to be happy all day long.But when the seed of discontent is sown, itcan spread like contagion. With SunnyChen’s suicide, the negative PR impacthas been amplified.In my dealings with him, he didn’tstrike me as a brave man so much as adesperate one.Yet it was Sunny Chen who blew thewhistle and became an international –what?A star, some will say. But he’s gone. Sotechnically, a more accurate analogywould be ‘comet’.

Phipps & Wexman protocol defines himas a saboteur.While to the police, he’s now somered-pink mush in a bag which will bestored in a refrigerator unit along withsimilar bags containing parts of otherChinese people, all clearly labelled usinga standardised numerical code linkingeach specimen to a police case file. Everydiscipline has its own methodology, butthis at least is what I imagine happening toSunny Chen’s pulped remains, which willlater make their way into a traditionalChinese coffin.They make the body disobey the mind,he’d said. The spirits had got inside himand made him act against his will. They’reour blood, but they hate us.

The French term un acte manquédescribes a form of self-sabotage wherebythe unconscious sets about wrecking – forwhatever reason – what the conscious hasbuilt. Could it be that one version ofSunny Chen sabotaged Jenwai whileanother turned a blind eye? And that whenhe’d returned to normal and seen what‘they’ had done, he’d panicked and feltsuch remorse that his only recourse wassuicide?Mental breakdown explains bothChen’s suicide and the uncharacteristicbehaviour that preceded it. That’s the slantI’ll use in my report, to explain his arrivalin the Ziploc bag. For now, it’s the closestI’ll get to the true answer.But if the Sunny Chen case were a pieceof origami I would flatten out the creases,

work out where I went wrong, and startagain.Outside, the moon is a thin, luminousscrape and the stars throb weakly abovethe sea. I switch off my computer andswivel my chair from side to side inrhythmic arcs. I can hear the gulls screech.Is human hamburger a foodstuff that ahungry ghost might crave?

CHAPTER 3Sometime at the end of the twentiethcentury there was a breakthrough in theworld of origami. Before then, it wasconsidered impossible to fabricate ananimal or other form that had a large bodyand thin appendages from a single sheet ofpaper. This limited your range of designs.

Anything like an insect with feelers, forexample, was out of the question. But then,thanks to mathematical computer modelspioneered by the physicist and origamistRobert J. Lang, which involve dividingthe original piece of paper into circles andthen sub-dividing the circles into creases,you can make just about anything withprotrusions. A millipede. Mating locusts.A spiked sea urchin. Or Lang’s famoushermit crab, which I am tackling now. Theback-coated kozo paper I have chosen istough, but thin: Indian Violet with a blackdot pattern. I began it when I moved hereand it is now one-third complete. It’s ajob requiring both paper clips andtweezers.On balance, I’m glad I have to recast the

Taiwan report. Chen’s suicide means thatsome of his more cryptic behaviours – thedark references to ‘the pressure’, thepreoccupation with the muddy smear, theancestor-talk – can be seen as symptomsof his breakdown. But my own culpabilityis another matter. I’ve never previouslyknown anyone who committed suicide.Will it take the rest of my life to processwhat has happened? I don’t know.If Freddy were here, he would say,‘Yet’, as per the rules of a playful accordwe have concerning unacquiredknowledge, whereby if one of us said theydidn’t know something, the other had tosay ‘Yet’. And then the other one – usuallyme – would provide the missinginformation, or we’d look it up, or justspeculate.

But it is untested ground.It’s Tuesday 18th September. My laptoptells me the forecast is for more rain, andhighs of twelve degrees. After two hours’work on the hermit crab with Dvor?ák onthe speakers I’m interrupted by Skyperinging.Caller: Ashok Sharma, Phipps &Wexman. Time: 08.18.That’s early, for Ashok. I’m tempted toreject it, but I can’t. Working from homewas a right I campaigned for after thingsdeteriorated with Kaitlin. Ashok agreed inthe end, on condition that I staycontactable at all times. I turn downDvor?ák and press answer. Ashok’slooking tired and dishevelled and a shadepaler. I focus on the door handle which is

visible behind his left ear. I don’t do eyecontact, but I have ways of hiding it.‘You there bud?’‘Yes. Working on the hermit crab.’ Ihold it up to show him.‘Cool, man. Look, things are turningweird on us. It’s happened again.’‘What has?’‘Just had another case like Chen’s.Sabotage followed by self-harm, take two.The world of finance this time. Employeeof Sverige Banken, the Swedish bank.They’re the client.’I settle the hermit crab back on the desk.‘Go on.’‘Guy called Jonas Svensson.’‘Ashok, Ashok, Ashok. Scandinavianlanguages have a soft J. So it’spronounced Yonas.’

‘Whatever. The good news is, ourfriend Yonas is still alive. But only just.They pumped his stomach and induced acoma. When he wakes up – we’re talkingtomorrow or the day after – you need totalk to him.’‘What did he do?’‘Deliberately screwed up some coffeefutures deal. Lost the bank millions.Didn’t deny it. Wouldn’t explain. Orcouldn’t. I’ve mailed you the details.’Ashok’s PA, Belinda Yates, appears witha steaming cup which she places on thedesk next to him. ‘Thanks babe.’ He postsa piece of nicotine gum into his mouth thenpoints at me. ‘OK. Your wish is mycommand. What’ll make you happy?’Freddy, I think. Freddy here, with me.But I don’t say that as it’s inappropriate to

the matter in hand, so I say, ‘I want to seeSunny Chen’s suicide note.’Ashok says, ‘Cops in Taiwan say itdoesn’t make sense.’ I see the white blobin his mouth as he speaks. ‘Turns out it’snot a note. Much weirder. Some littledrawings and a hand-print. Chen’s wifesays he can’t have done it. She’s veryinsistent. But she found it next to a shrinething they have in the kitchen, where theyleft each other messages. So sounds likewishful thinking to me. Didn’t know theChinese had shrines in their kitchens.Something new every day, right?’Sunny Chen said he’d made the handmarkin the timber factory himself. But atthe same time he’d wanted the police totake fingerprints. Why?‘I need to see the note. Have they taken

fingerprints of it?’ I reach for my Swedishdictionary, and flip through it. I have ahabit of underlining words that appeal tom e . Utveckling. Olika. Näktergal.Talartid.‘Doubt it. But I’ll check. By the way,got something to cheer you up. Whybray’sin town.’‘Professor Whybray? You’re sure?’ Iclose the dictionary. The professor retiredafter Mrs Whybray died. He moved toToronto. He called it a city after my ownheart. ‘What brought him back?’‘The Home Office.’ I have known theprofessor for fourteen years and sevenmonths. But it’s three years and twomonths since I saw him in the flesh. Not aweek has gone by when I have notremembered something he taught me, and

applied it. Last Christmas he sent a card.To the young and bright from the old andwise. I could hear him saying those wordsaloud. I follow your work with interest.His voice is high and reedy and alwayssounds a little hoarse. Congratulations onsolving the Hungarian conundrum. Withaffection, Victor. I never called himVictor. He used to tease me about myinability to drop the formality of his title.I’m excited. I can feel chemical changes inmy brain.‘What’s the project?’ It must besomething big to have brought him back.Something to ‘get his teeth into’. That’show he’d put it. He could never resistchallenges.‘It’s hush-hush. But he asked after youand hinted at a contract for us. Wanted to

know if you’re still Venning. So I saidwhat’s Venning. And he said get Heskethto educate you.’‘He was referring to Venn diagrams.They’re a very effective device foranalysing patterns of unity anddifferentiation. Named after themathematician John Venn, whoincorporated them into set theory in the1880s. If you’re looking for a speedycategorisation tool that’s highly visual andcomprehensible at a glance, and flexibleenough to accommodate an infinite numberof new factors, you can’t do much better.They consist of overlapping orinterlocking circles. You can incorporateU-shapes too. And the S-form. Dependingon complexity.’‘Get out of there! So when I see you

doodling a bunch of amoeba fucking,that’s what you’re up to?’‘Yes.’‘And there was I thinking, ask not thereason why. Hesketh is Hesketh.’‘Who else would I be?’‘No one. And they only made one ofyou. Which is why you’re packing forSweden.’‘I want to go by train.’ I like trains.‘I anticipated that, bud. Belinda saysit’s do-able if you can get to Edinburghtonight. Svensson should be out of hiscoma by the time you arrive. Find me thepattern. Love you, my friend. Bye.’He gives his signature dismissal – headdown, a fist-clench high in the air, like asportsman – and then he’s gone.When Ashok says ‘love you, my friend’,

he doesn’t mean it. It’s a florid form ofexpression, of the type Kaitlin onceclassified for me as ‘the vernacular ofdick-swinging’. When I say to someonethat I love them, however, I mean it. Forsomeone aged thirty-six I have not said itvery often. Three times in two years, tothe same woman. And when I stop lovingthem, I say: ‘Kaitlin, I don’t love you anymore and I can never love you again.’She confessed to her affair on Saturday5th May. By tacit agreement, myworkroom was my territory and she andFreddy never came in. I don’t know howlong she’d been standing in the doorwaywatching me work.She said, ‘Hesketh. I made a mistake.You and I can go back to normal. It’s

over.’I was doing a tricky blintz fold at thetime, on a moth. It demanded all myconcentration.‘What’s over?’But she didn’t reply. When I finishedthe next fold to my satisfaction and lookedup, I saw her staring at me urgently, as ifexpecting a response. As if I weretelepathic: as if I, of all people, shouldhave guessed that she had been leadinganother secret life, in parallel to the onethat was on show. I have no radar for lies.Why would I suspect that her yoga lessonswere not real yoga lessons, or that her‘late conference meetings’ masked anothertype of rendezvous?I said, ‘Whatever it is, you’re going tohave to explain.’

And so she did explain. And then Iunderstood.She’d had an affair. It had lasted eightweeks. And now it was over. That’s whatshe meant when she said we could ‘goback to normal’.But we couldn’t.Two species of bird feature in theglossary of cuckoldry. First, the cuckoo,which lays its solo egg in another bird’snest, leaving others to do the nurturing. Inthis reading, the ‘cuckold’ is the cuckoo’svictim: the non-biological father ofanother man’s offspring. The second birdis the cockerel, which echoes ‘cuckold’linguistically. Some accounts claim thatthe origin of the ‘horned cuckold’ datesback to a time when cockerels werecastrated, and their spurs sliced off and

stuck through their combs where they weresaid to implant themselves and grow,giving the impression of horns. As thecockerel had been castrated, the ‘horns’became an obvious symbol of the bird’simpotence. From a physiological point ofview, the implantation seems unlikely.Meanwhile, the whole notion of hornsrepresenting men who have been sexuallybetrayed is also puzzling, because horns,being of a phallic shape, prominent onmales, and often used for fighting, aregenerally associated with potency.These were some of the things thatpassed through my mind when Kaitlin wastelling me the story of her liaison, the factof which eventually led to our parting ofways. When she had finished, shedeclared that it was my ‘impenetrability’

which made her seek comfort in a lover.That’s when she called me ‘a robot madeof meat’.But I am not a robot made of meat.In that moment, though, I wished I was.The early part of the train journey toStockholm is long and pleasantlyuneventful, through the dusty post-harvestlandscapes of Belgium and Germany. Ispend the first few hours reading thecomplex financial documents Ashok hassent. The day after his sabotage wasrevealed, Jonas Svensson swallowedmore than a hundred aspirin. If his teenageson Erik had not come home from schoolearly and found him, he’d have died.There’s a ferry to the Danish island ofZealand, then another train to the Central

Station in Copenhagen, where I changetrains. The next part of the journeyinvolves crossing a long and elegantbridge with a view of wind turbines. I likewind turbines, both from an engineeringand an aesthetic standpoint. In Swedenitself, the geography is monotonous andrain-washed, with oceans of fir forest. It’sa centralised nation with a largely urbanpopulation: now I’m seeing for myselfhow this translates visually. There are fewtowns and vast tracts of land which, savefor the railway line itself and a fewisolated farms, are unmarked by anyhuman presence. I have brought mySwedish dictionary. Suicide is självmord,meaning self-murder. Sabotage issabotage, just as it is in many Europeanlanguages, deriving from the French word

‘sabot’: in the eighteenth centuryprotesting workers would fling theirwooden clogs – sabots – into a factory’smachinery to wreck the productionprocess. I know that in Sweden they haveadvanced public services and a solidwelfare system. Crime is low, but modernSwedes are preoccupied with its genesis,a preoccupation which has spawned muchpopular fiction. The theory is that ifsomeone breaks the law, their actions areseen to represent a wider societaldysfunction. Like the parents of waywardchildren asking themselves how theyfailed their offspring, the focus is not onwhat the criminal did wrong, but on howSwedish society could have prevented ithappening.

The morning after my arrival in StockholmI discover that Jonas Svensson’s bossLars Axel is in this sense a classic Swede.He wants, urgently and desperately, toknow the explanation for Svensson’sinexplicable act, and the distress whichled to it. The Svensson and the Axelfamilies were friends. They cross-countryskied together. His office overlooks alarge and elegant square. The interiorwalls are white and the furniture is blackapart from a lamp whose metal shade Iidentify as Weathershield’s 2011 AutumnMustard.‘We are relaxed in this organisation.And open,’ he tells me, leaning back in hischair and scraping the hair off hisforehead to reveal the shape of his skull,which is strong and majestic, in contrast to

the smaller and more delicate features ofhis face. ‘If Jonas had a problem withcoffee futures, or anything else, why didn’the tell me?’‘He may not have known how toarticulate it.’He shrugs. ‘Well he certainly wasn’thimself. To commit sabotage on this scale,and for absolutely no reason, after all thehard work he has done, and then try to killhimself . . .’ He trails off, as thoughexhausted, and inspects his hands. I thinkagain of Sunny Chen’s acte manqué. Asingle oddity is a one-off. Two is thebeginning of a Venn. ‘He wouldn’t talk tome after he’d done it. He was avoidingme. I didn’t know what was happening atthat point, of course. But when it came out,I think he felt ashamed. Or at least very

confused.’‘Is there no explanation?’‘None that makes sense.’‘Tell me anyway.’‘Annika, that’s his wife, she says heclaimed he was bullied into it. I said toher, who would bully him? Nobody hereat work, we are all like a family, it’s veryinformal.’ His voice is cracking. ‘She saidit was kids. Kids! He must have beenhaving a breakdown.’ He gulps and shiftsin his chair, offering me a three-quarterview of his features. They’re struggling,and water is welling in his eyes. ‘Hisson’s eighteen. They have a goodrelationship. He’d never bully him or gethis friends to. And what do kids knowabout futures markets? What do they care?Hesketh, I’m so sorry. I—’

Lars Axel has started to cry. Huge sobsdisrupt his body. He leans forward andhides his face in his hands. Swiftly, I startto fold paper in my head. I know I shoulddo something else, but I’m at a loss. Then,before I can even begin to configure theetiquette of the situation, he has sprung upand walked out of his office, openlyweeping. Through the glass panelling, Iwatch a female colleague attempt toconsole him. A man joins her. Thentogether they lead him away slowly andwith great gentleness.I stay where I am for a long time. Then Iopen my briefcase and take out someorigami paper, and select a sheet ofClassic Ivory.Japanese tradition requires one, on afirst visit, to present a gift to the host. I’m

not Japanese and nor is Lars Axel, but Ithink: Lars Axel will see that I wanted tomake a gesture of some sort, to mark hispain and my awareness of it: a memento ofthe few awkward moments that we spentin one another’s presence. I know thatSunny Chen appreciated his prayingmantis. I make a lotus flower, and balanceit carefully on his desk. It’s not much byway of consolation, I suppose. I realiseI’m not talented in this department, in theway Lars Axel’s Swedish colleagues are.But nor am I ‘a robot made of meat’.Then I leave.Back in the hotel I sift through thefinancial files a second time and sort theminto piles according to their relevance. Iread more on the acte manqué, which

leads me into medical descriptions of thepsychogenic ‘fugue’ state, in which part ofthe mind can ‘dissociate’ from the rest andmake its own independent decisions.Trauma or heavily suppressed negativeemotions such as guilt, jealousy,resentment and rage can play a role intriggering the mind going behind its ownback in this way. Most interesting to meare those cases which involve selfsabotage,such as the man who sends ananonymous letter to the police, accusinghimself of his wife’s murder, and thendenies he ever wrote it, or the nurse whoinjects the wrong drug ‘by accident’ tofive different patients on the same day andcannot explain why, or the bride who setsfire to her wedding dress as she preparesfor the ceremony. I sketch out some Venns.

If I am on to something, my blood feels itbefore my brain and I get very hungry. Iraid the mini-bar. Dried fruit. Saltedcashews. The inevitable Toblerone. As Ieat, I shut my eyes and wait for theconnection to materialise.But instead, along comes Freddy. Hedoes this more and more.I open my eyes and check the time. Hewill just be home from school now.My body-clock remembers hisschedule.For my birthday back in February he gaveme the dinosaur that subsequently becamemy one souvenir of him. It has toilet-rollcardboard legs and goggly egg-cartoneyes. Its skin is a crude layer of papiermâché painted green with red spots. When

I asked him what it was called, he said, ‘aHappybirthdayosaurus’. Children have noinhibitions about inventing words. TheHappybirthdayosaurus stands on my deskat home next to the semi-assembled hermitcrab. Freddy’s exceptionally good withhis hands, for a boy of his age. Kaitlincame up with the idea of getting him a bigwork-table for his bedroom, and a specialchest of drawers which he filled withfeathers, conkers, cardboard toilet rolls,scraps of fabric in different textures,sequins, busted jewellery, screws, nails –anything that could be fashioned intosomething else. He kept his tools in theretoo. I used to bring home odd bits ofpackaging and polystyrene chips, defunctcartridges, and broken computer parts forhim to add to his collection. He likes to

invent, and get messy. He is a fan of woodglue. He always has some on his hands.He peels it off at mealtimes. He calls it‘dead pirate skin’.When I call Kaitlin’s home number,nobody answers. This is usually whathappens. She keeps her answerphoneswitched off. I hang on anyway, countingthe rings.I’ve made seven mental ozuru and I’mbeginning an eighth. I’m just about to hangup when, on the fifty-ninth ring, someonepicks up.‘Hello Freddie Kalifakidis speakingwho is it?’ His voice is breathless andloud: he must have been running.‘Hello Freddy K! It’s me.’ I am sosurprised to hear him that I stall

completely. But he doesn’t.‘When are you coming back?’I hesitate. ‘What did your mother say?’‘She said you went abroad and wewon’t see you again for ages and ages.’I start to rock gently. I gather that one ofthe rules with children, in the world I amnot completely part of, is: ‘spare them thetruth’.‘Well I am in another country. But Idon’t live here. I have a cottage on theisland of Arran in Scotland. So she gotthat wrong.’‘What do you do there?’‘I work. And I’ve got a goldfish. In anold bathtub.’‘Cool!’ Freddy has always hankeredafter a fish.‘Maybe you can visit, and help me

choose it a name.’ He is very keen onchristening things. ‘Where’s your mother?’‘In the garden. We were pulling updandelions, but she got mad furiousbecause I ate a woodlouse and she said Ihad to brush my teeth and it wasdisgusting, that’s why I’m here to wash itoff cos I’ve still got mud and stuff in mymouth, woodlouse blood.’‘You ate a woodlouse?’‘Actually lots of woodlouses. Maybe ahundred. You touch them and they roll intoa ball. And then you eat them like peanuts.I found them in the ground, there was awhole nest under a stick. Some of themwere smaller than a . . . a grain of pepperor an ant’s bottom.’‘Freddy K. Irregular plural. So it’swoodlice. Did they taste good?’

‘Nyet. Crunchy. A bit sour. And theysmell weird.’‘So what else have you been doing,apart from eating woodlice?’‘Making papier-mâché stuff. Mum saidI could use your origami paper.’‘Of course you can. I was thinking ofgetting you a new Lego model. A big onethat we can work on together.’‘Cool. A ship.’‘OK. I’ll find one. How’s school?’There’s a noise in the background andhe breaks off for a moment. When hecomes back his voice is different. ‘Mum’shere . . . She says she can’t talk she’s gotmuddy hands.’ I hear her hissing who is itat him. He tells her. ‘She says she’ll callyou back . . . I have to wash my face andbrush my teeth because of the

woodlouses.’ His voice has changed. I’mlosing him.‘Freddy K—’ I rock harder.‘Remember the irregular plural. Lousebecomes lice.’I hear his mother say his name sharply,and he says, ‘Got to go. Bye Hesketh,’ andhe’s hung up.I check the Svensson file again and drawup a mental list of questions to ask himand his doctors. Kaitlin doesn’t call back.Freddy will be interrogating her about me,I am sure. He’ll want to know why wecan’t see each other and she’ll come upwith a new lie which she will justify bysaying it’s a ‘white’ one.Dulux has many whites in its range.Lily, Ivory, Orchid, Ice, Barely Grey,

Pacific Mist.We argued about Freddy before I left.‘I’m the only adult male he’s ever beenaround on a regular basis,’ I said. ‘Hethinks of me as his father.’‘That’s exactly the problem,’ she said.‘So you’ll just go and find him a newone?’She didn’t say anything. I did a mentalflow chart which brought me to theconclusion that this might already havehappened.It’s six o’clock and I have gone down tothe hotel bar where a woman is sittingalone drinking white wine. She is flickingthrough a demographics journal. Thisattracts my attention, firstly becausepopulation distribution is a fascinating

field of study and secondly because thejournal is in German, a language I speakpassably. I like to practise it, so Iintroduce myself to the woman in German– guten Abend – and we get talking. Shetells me she is an academic attending aconference on statistical projections in thewake of the UN’s recent warning. It’sc a l l e d The Perfect Storm: Climate,Hunger and Population. She shows me agraph whose growth curve I am familiarwith: it is applicable to any biologicalspecies with no significant predators andfinite resources. I ask her when she seesthe exponential growth phase beingreplaced by stationary and death phases.She replies that it is unlikely to be laterthan 2100 and could be sooner than 2050.‘Human civilisation faces a 90 per cent

isk of collapse if the population rate isn’theld in check. We’re a species out ofcontrol. Do you realise, the world’spopulation has more than doubled in mylifetime?’I do a swift calculation. She’d havebeen born around 1960. ‘You must beabove fifty, then.’ Her eyes change shape.‘That’s OK. I like older women.’Although she has no distinguishingfeatures by which she can be readilyrecognised, she is reasonably attractive. Ihaven’t had sex in two hundred andsixteen days and I feel the need with asudden urgency. So I ask a few personalinformationquestions by way of a warmup:where do you live, etcetera. I learnthat she is based in Geneva but travels agreat deal, which means she can’t have a

dog. But she would like one. I ask whatbreed and she says a King Charlesspaniel. I tell her I have an as-yet unchristenedfish. When I ask her if she’dlike to join me in my room, sheunderstands what I mean immediately, butclaims she is ein bisschen überrascht, ‘alittle taken aback’, and suggests we haveanother drink first um sichkennenzulernen, ‘to get acquainted’.I thought we’d done that. I don’t wantanother drink, but I buy her a second glassof wine and wait for her to finish it.‘Don’t you want one?’ she asks. She isdrinking her wine rather slowly.Apparently I hadn’t made myself clear.‘No. I just want you. I like older women.And sex too of course. I like sex. Wewon’t reproduce.’

This prompts the blush reflex and shelaughs. ‘Not at my age, no.’She looks down at her hands. Then shelooks up and says, ‘Hesketh. You’re anincredibly good-looking man. But I expectyou know that.’I do, as women have often told me sobefore. ‘My ex used to call me the tall,dark stranger,’ I tell her. ‘But she didn’tmean it as a compliment.’She smiles. I run my finger up the insideof her wrist, one of my favourite places onwomen. Then she finishes her drink in onegulp and we go upstairs and I get tosample some of my other favourite places:the nape of the neck, the breasts andnipples, and, of course, the mons venusarea.The sex starts well, but just as I’ve

established a definitive momentum myphone makes its text-message noise, whichis the cry of the peregrine falcon. I regretprogramming this in. Some rhythms are notmeant to be broken, and certain sounds areparticularly disruptive, so this causes asetback. The Swiss demographer gets megoing again quite expertly, but once mypenis is back in her vagina it’s all overafter twenty-two thrusts. She hasn’t had anorgasm, and although she at first declinesmy offer to give her one, she then changesher mind and guides my hand and mymovements. Every woman seems to haveher own bespoke requirements here, and Iconsider it polite to pay heed to this. Theygenerally appreciate my respect for therules of reciprocity.Afterwards, she suggests we have

dinner together, but I decline.‘Sorry. In other circumstances I would,but tonight I have to work.’‘I could come by later when you’vefinished. Stay the night.’ Perhaps shewants another orgasm.‘No, that’s not possible.’ Here I switchto English because I lack the vocabulary Ineed. ‘I have RLS. That’s an acronym forRestless Leg Syndrome. It means I kickwomen. In bed. By accident, of course.’ Iswitch back to German. ‘Don’t worry,’ Ireassure her, as she finishes dressing. ‘Wedon’t need to see each other again.’Her mood must have shifted becauseher smile vanishes. I’ve observed thisbefore with women, post-sex. They wantto linger, but they can’t spell out why.‘Do you make a habit of this?’

‘No, but I’d like to,’ I tell her. ‘It’s justthat I’m not good at being with otherpeople for long. I know I don’t have—’Once again I can’t find the German term Ineed, which annoys me. So I say it inEnglish. ‘People skills.’She switches to English. ‘I noticed.’She is fiddling with a silver bangle on herwrist, decorated with a pattern of feathers.Indian, at a guess. I realise I haveprobably hit the wrong note again, but Idon’t know how to remedy it. I haven’tmemorised the phrases for it in anylanguage. ‘Tell me,’ she says, ‘isn’t aproblem with social interaction quite ahandicap in your field? Didn’t you say youwere an anthropologist?’ Her English isfar superior to my German. I must take thetime to study harder.

‘When it comes to gauging humanbehaviour, it’s an asset. It’s like colourblindpeople being deployed by themilitary to detect camouflage,’ I reply.‘They look for the shapes rather than thecolours.’ This line is tried and tested.Her features relax into a more forgivingconfiguration. All of a sudden, she seemsto understand. Usually they do. I reach formy laptop and fire it up. She stands in thedoorway watching me for a long time, justas Kaitlin used to.At some point she gives up on me andleaves the room.Kaitlin did that too. It was always arelief.It’s only later on, when I’m setting myphone alarm, that I see the text that

interrupted sex with the demographer.You have left Freddy very confused.He’s not your son and you are out of hislife now. If you want the best for him,then please leave him in peace and let’sall move on.Kaitlin Kalifakidis is a lawyer: we met ona case. I was instantly attracted to her. Iliked her Greek surname, but it was herwild hair that struck me most. It seemedmessy and a little unprofessional, givenher sober job. Even tied up, there was –and is – a huge amount of it. So that’swhat I registered first: that confusion ofBurnt Cedar hair piled high. I liked hermouth. The full lips, lipsticked a good,forceful red. Wide-set, animated eyes, asmall neat body. There are certain colours

I dislike intensely, so it suited me that shewas largely a monochrome dresser.Blacks, whites and shades of cream orbeige: she wore nothing that shouted.Everything was discreet and suited her.The only bright colour was on her lips: therest of her make-up was a variation of herown hair colour and skin tones. ‘Easier tomake decisions,’ she explained once.‘Anyway clothes should showcase you.Not the other way round.’ I liked that inher: the choice to limit her wardrobe towhat worked, and ignore fashion. Herpracticality.When the case was over she told meshe found me very attractive and invitedme out to dinner. Over this meal I learnedshe’d been brought up bilingual, so I triedout some Greek phrases on her. This made

her smile, and led to her questioning memore, and what she heard seemed toexcite her. She already knew all aboutPhipps & Wexman and she’d heard ofProfessor Whybray’s work on masshysteria. She was impressed that I’dworked so closely with him, and that he’dbeen my mentor. When she invited meback to her home after dinner I didn’t needto draw a mental flow chart to know whatthis would mean. She had already told meabout Freddy: he was five at the time. Shedescribed him as ‘born fatherless’, butchanged the subject when I asked how thatwas technically possible. She did not havemany taboos, but I quickly learned thatFreddy Kalifakidis’ paternity was one ofthem.Kaitlin employed a live-in au-pair girl

who had already fed the boy and put himto bed when we got in. This young womanthen melted discreetly into her room.Kaitlin and I had sex that night and againthe next morning. She had warned me wehad to do it very quietly because ofFreddy and the au pair, but silence isalways fine by me. I find that women oftenmake distracting noises during sex, right inone’s ear, necessitating the deployment ofvarious coping mechanisms. I likedgrabbing her Greek hair in my hands. If thelack of eye contact bothered her, shedidn’t mention it.I discovered that Kaitlin was verystraightforward and businesslike aboutwhat she wanted, in and out of bed. Aftera few dates, I grasped that I was beinginterviewed for a job I had not considered

applying for. She told me she wanted aman in her life who could be a role modelfor her son, who respected her lifestyleand her work, who was compatible withher sexually and whom she could grow tolove.‘Is that how it works?’ I asked. It wasnot what I had gleaned from popularculture and empirical observation, or fromanything Professor Whybray told me whenhis wife Helena was dying. When Iexpressed my doubts, she suggested a trialrun of three months. I didn’t ask how manyother men she had considered or why shewanted me. But she did. The trial periodworked: Kaitlin liked the way Freddy andI fitted together mentally. I did too. I felt atease around him from the start. And he feltthe same. He liked watching me make

origami models. He liked the folk tales Itold him, and he enjoyed pulling at thehairs on my arm, and being swung high inthe air, and testing his strength against me.We had arm-wrestling matches anddeveloped a game involving the hurling ofcushions which Kaitlin called ‘dailyviolence’. He had been starved of malecompany.I put up some shelving for my things,folded Kaitlin a Hot Crimson Kawasakirose with a Jungle Khaki stalk and leavesand moved in.There is a popular theory that when awoman falls in love with a man, she fallsin love with two men: the man he is, andthe man she wants him to be.It soon became apparent that I could notbecome that man.

By now I have studied Sverige Banken’sfinancial documents closely enough tohave established that Jonas Svensson’scostly act of sabotage required him tomake only five keystrokes on hiscomputer. In or out of a dissociative state,it was the work of no more than eightseconds. More likely three. Tomorrow Iwill seek confirmation of this, andinterview him accordingly. Pleased tohave made progress, I allow myself therelaxation of watching the final part of adocumentary on BBC World aboutNapoleon’s pyrrhic victory over Moscowin 1812. It’s followed by the late-nightnews. A disturbing murder has rockedFrance. A boy of ten shot his two uncles atpoint-blank range, in a forest. One died,

the other survived with severe injuries.He used his father’s rifle. They were outhunting wild boar. It was not an accident:eight witnesses – including the boy’sfather and some cousins – saw him do it.There was no obvious motive.Unsurprisingly, it’s being linked to thecase of the Harrogate child now known tothe public as Pyjama Girl.But to me she’s Child One. And theFrench boy is now Child Two.All night I kick.

CHAPTER 4When Ashok skypes me in the morning theimage is unclear. It gives him a cubistlook which suits him. Whenever I think ofthe cubist movement, I think in particularof Georges Braque, because of all itsadherents, he strikes me as the mostmathematically aware.

‘How’s Sweden?’ Ashok wants toknow. My screen tells me it’s 9.12 localtime. It’s Thursday 20th September. Thiswas my mother’s birthday. Had she livedshe would now be seventy-one.‘See for yourself.’ I angle my laptop toshow him the view of the waterfront frommy window, where ships, ferries andboats gleam dully under a low sun. ‘Theforecast says it’ll be cloudy with light rainshowers and a high of twelve.’‘Neat,’ he says. ‘Must go theresometime. What are you up to then,Maestro?’‘I had sex with a demographer.’ Thatwakes him up.‘Well they don’t call you the PussyMagnet for nothing. She Swedish? I hearthey’re hot.’

‘Swiss–German. Attending a UNconference on the population crisis. Whatare you supposed to do when someonecries?’‘You made her cry? You big, crazyheartbreaker!’‘No. I’m talking about JonasSvensson’s boss. Lars Axel. He criedwhen I interviewed him.’‘What did he say?’‘Not much. He cried. So what do youdo, when it’s a man?’‘Jeez, Hesketh. Same as a woman. Youpat them on the arm or squeeze theirshoulder or their hand or you might givethem a hug. You tell them you understandthis is a difficult situation and suggest youtalk another time. Did you do any of that?’‘No. But I think his colleagues did. He

left the room crying, so I made him a lotusflower. Then later his PA called toapologise.’‘OK. Well I just talked to the wife.Annika. Very dignified lady. She says youcan visit Jonas in hospital this morning.She’ll be there. But she says she won’tguarantee you’ll get any sense out of him.He’s been in a confused state since hecame out of the coma. Mental breakdown,whatever. But get what you can. By theway. Lotus flower: nice touch.’After he has said goodbye, this remarkpuzzles me. The lotus is a perennial plantthat grows from a thick rhizome inaltitudes up to 1,600 metres. It is almostentirely edible, and is seen in someEastern cultures as a symbol of purity, orthe movement of the human spirit towards

a state of enlightenment. Was thissymbolism what Ashok was referring to,when he said, ‘nice touch’? If so, hewould be wrong. I constructed a lotusflower for Lars Axel because apart fromozuru, I work through my repertoire oftwelve basic models on a rota system, andit was the turn of Model 8.Outside, altocumulus and cirrocumulusclouds drape the sky. At ten o’clock, I takethe fourteen-and-a-half-minute walk frommy hotel to the hospital. It’s an eightstoreymodern structure with polishedfloors. There’s a huge courtyard with abronze sculpture of a lion, surrounded byglass-sided lifts. It doesn’t have thesickly, claustrophobic smell of the Britishhospitals I visited during the years of my

parents’ physical decline, or later, whenMrs Helena Whybray was dying and Iaccompanied the professor to help him‘keep a grip’. This is an environment inwhich one can imagine people gettingwell at speed, where broken bodies arerepaired and serviced by high-qualitymachines. At Reception I’m told thatJonas Svensson has been placed on thepsychiatric ward where he is still beingassessed. If he is deemed to be a danger tohimself and others he will be moved toanother unit. If not, he’ll be allowed home.Svensson has a room to himself, which Iam directed to by a black male nurse withtribal markings on his cheeks. There’s awoman sitting outside it, angled oddly ona chair, like a perched ozuru. Annika

Svensson is probably in her mid-fifties,and quite wrinkled. She is wearing ajacket in a green I particularly like:Bamboo Classic. When she sees me sherises, all long limbs and hinge-like joints.My height is often a useful barrier to eyecontact. Not on this occasion: she isexceptionally tall, so I focus on herearring and greet her in Swedish. Peopleare always glad when you address them intheir own language, I have found, eventhough your knowledge may not extendfurther than what you have memorisedfrom a dictionary or phrase book. AnnikaSvensson has very clearly been crying,and her left cheek is bright red. She mustsee me noticing, because she puts her handto it. Her fingers are very long.‘How is your husband doing?’ I ask. ‘I

hope you don’t mind speaking English.’‘I went in there a minute ago and he hitme in the face. He’s never done anythinglike that before.’Abruptly, through the door, we hear aman shouting something and a woman’svoice trying to calm him.‘What’s he saying?’ I ask. I caught onlyone word: fan, or ‘devil’. Scandinavianswearing is very tame compared to itsAnglo-Saxon equivalent, which is whythey import words like ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’into their vocabulary. They use themliberally and with far less inhibition thannative English speakers.‘It’s all nonsense,’ she answers. ‘It’slike he’s gone back to childhood. He sayskids forced him into it.’ She shrugs. ‘Thisis not the Jonas I know. He was never

violent. Never. He’s become anotherperson.’‘Can I go in?’‘Ask Dr Aziz. She’s in there with him.But keep away from him, he’s verystrong.’I knock. No one answers, so I go in.A young black-haired woman whom Itake to be Dr Aziz is standing by the farwindow, speaking rapidly into a phone.She looks distressed and I can see why:Jonas Svensson, who is seated on the bed,is wearing nothing but a pair ofsunglasses. When I saw his photo at thebank, he was not stark naked. He was cladin a quiet grey suit. And you could see hiseyes: blue, like his wife’s. The glasses area ski-style wrap-around design withmirror lenses. I am not cut out for this kind

of encounter. His bare skin is almosttranslucent, in the same way as amaggot’s, and mapped with blue veins.The pale hair on his limbs and genital areacatches the sunlight. His penis rests on histhigh, flaccid. He has a small pot belly. Ahospital nightgown lies on the floor. Hehas apparently just removed it. Dr Azizshakes her head and again points at thedoor, indicating I should leave. But justthen Jonas Svensson turns his attention tome, shouting something in Swedish andmotioning angrily at the chair. He wantsme to sit. I hesitate. I don’t mind nothaving eye contact with him. But hismirror sunglasses are distracting. I haveno wish to see my own alarmed face. Ilook at the floor and say, ‘I came to seeyou from London. I’m investigating what

happened at the bank.’‘So sit down.’ His Swedish accent isthicker than Annika’s.‘I’ll let you stay for a moment,’ says thedoctor, breaking off from her phone call.‘But as you see he is very agitated.’ I nod,and she returns to her conversation. I siton the plastic chair next to the bed, but Idon’t know where to look.‘There is a gang of them,’ says JonasSvensson. He seems manic. ‘Anyway theyare disgusting creatures, they just took myclothes off, those . . .’ He can’t find theword. Then he does. ‘Trolls.’‘Trolls?’‘Yes. Little kiddie trolls. I must’veswallowed one. That’s how they get in,right? I’m just guessing. Like a tapewormor something. They stink. Look at my

hands. Do they look a normal size to you?Or do they look like they belong on astinking kiddie troll?’He shoves his huge hands towards me,clenched into fists. I recoil. On a paralleltrack, I’m folding paper in my head. Ispeed it up, but I can’t do it fast enough toget the effect I need.I say, ‘They look a normal size. In factthey are on the large side.’‘On the large side, is that what youthink? Well think again man,’ he says withwhat seems to be contempt. ‘It made mefuck things up. I didn’t want to! Don’t yousee?’ He’s shouting now. ‘It’s in me! It’susing me like a puppet!’‘Sir, you should go,’ says Dr Aziz.‘What’s using you like a puppet?’ I ask,hesitating.

‘The fucking . . . creature. It’s still inhere.’ He thumps his chest. ‘It’s going tokill me.’‘We won’t let that happen,’ says DrAziz, in English. Her voice is reassuring.She is preparing a syringe. ‘You’re safe inhere, Jonas.’He laughs. ‘You think they came all thisway for nothing? You think they’re justhaving fun? Ha!’ He whips off hissunglasses. I wish he hadn’t. My breathcatches in my throat. His eyes are sobloodshot that there’s no white to be seen.Just two pale blue irises swimming in asea of red. They are leaking a kind of glue.‘And how do you think it feels to go blind,ha?’ he asks.‘You’re not going blind. You just havea bad infection,’ says the doctor. ‘And a

pressure build-up. The antibiotics willhelp, you’ll see.’ She addresses me. ‘Whydon’t you come back another time whenhe’s calmer?’Svensson puts a fist to his brow next tohis bulging right eye, then suddenly opensup his hand. It’s a baffling gesture. I thinkof a spread starfish. ‘That’s what happensnext. Pop. Do you think we like what youdid to us? Do you think we wanted to bethe last?’ Dr Aziz addresses Svenssonfast, in Swedish. I understand none of it,except ‘du’, meaning ‘you’, and ‘nu’,meaning ‘now’. He shoves his sunglassesback on then lifts his hands high above hishead, splays his fingers again, and with aswift movement catches hold of my upperarm and digs his fingers in deep. The painis shocking. I cry out sharply and the

doctor buzzes an alarm. ‘You fuckinggrown-up,’ he says.‘Security’s coming,’ says Dr Aziz,trying to pull Jonas off. But he shakes heraway and tightens his grip. I start rocking.As I rock, I can see my own face movingback and forth in his distortive mirrorlenses. My mouth is open, as if I am tryingto shout but can’t. He’s remarkably strong.I can feel the tip of each finger digginginto my flesh through the fabric of mysleeve. He digs in deeper and hisses, ‘Doyou think we like starving, and fightingover food? You fucking lap-sap.’I freeze. Lap-sap isn’t Swedish. It’sCantonese. It means rubbish. Just then thedoor opens wide and a tall blond securityguard enters with the black nurse. At thisJonas utters a yelp, releases his grip on

my arm, jumps up and dodges past theguard. The nurse grabs his hand, but hebreaks free and hurtles through the opendoor and out. Dr Aziz slams at a button onthe wall and the wail of an alarm sets up:the guard has already gone. Outside thedoor, I hear Annika screaming at Jonas tostop.Dr Aziz rushes out and I follow.There’s no sign of either Jonas or thenurse or the guard, but the swing doors areclosing as Annika Svensson reaches them.She pushes them open again and burststhrough, still calling after Jonas: Hold opJonas! Hold op!When Dr Aziz and I reach Reception acluster of people is pointing through therevolving door and staff are yelling intowalkie-talkies. Annika speeds out and I

follow. Outside, others are chasing him:some wear white coats. The nurse withtribal markings is crouched on the ground,groaning and clutching his stomach. Jonasmust have punched him. Then I see him,far off, racing across the parking area in azigzag sprint, his pale buttocks jiggling ashe manoeuvres past the cars, occasionallyducking and popping up again. Everyone’sshouting. Jonas is still well ahead ofeveryone else, and clearly heading for thevehicle exit and the road beyond. I am afast runner, but I know it’s hopeless tryingto close the gap. I keep running anyway.Up ahead, Annika screams again.A different kind of scream.I have never seen a traffic accidentactually happen before.The truck is a big one, with eight

wheels. Dirty. Underneath the dirt, it’s redand yellow. It must weigh eight tons.There is a high screech of brakes as thedriver sees Jonas and swerves to avoidhim. He fails. The noise when it hits him:BAM or possibly KERTHUNK. Theimpact hurls Jonas sideways and upward,on a diagonal trajectory. He could be oneof Freddy’s Action Men, flung gaily aside.I don’t see him land. But I see the trucksmash into the wall on the opposite side ofthe road. There’s a huge reverberativethud and then the engine dies.In the silence that follows, my mindgoes blank. I stand there rocking. I registera security guard shouting into a walkietalkie;Annika Svensson sinking down onto the bare tarmac; paramedics rushingpast with a stretcher; a man taking a photo

on his mobile phone. Within seconds, bluelights are flashing everywhere and the siteof the accident is seething with people.There’s nothing I can do, so I walk athigh speed back into the hospital and finda bathroom where I vomit copiously. Whatcomes out is dark because I ate Swedishcrackers for breakfast, and these are madeof rye. I also had smoked salmon, plussome fresh blueberries and redcurrants.There are traces of those too, making for arepellent colour mix.Back at the hotel, I call the hospital to findout the news, then take a long shower. Ithink about how I’d tell Freddy the storyof Jonas and the truck.A Swedish man said that kiddie trollsmade him ruin his work. He tried to kill

himself with poison. When that failed hewas locked away in a safe place. But itwasn’t safe enough. He ran under a truck.They’re operating on him now. He hassuffered massive blood loss. The driver ofthe lorry has a broken clavicle andfractured ribs. And here’s what I knowabout Scandinavian trolls, Freddy K. Theysteal people and carry them off into themountains. The English expression ‘offwith the fairies’ stems from that belief.Trolls can change shape. Some can appearvery dapper. Troll-women seduce men,but they can be spotted because they areonly facades: they never show their backs.They come in all sizes. Some have tails.They never divulge their names.I Skype Ashok and fill him in briefly onmy abortive interview with Jonas

Svensson and what followed. When I tellhim about Jonas’ prognosis – not good –he puts his head in his hands. When helooks at me again, his hair is sticking outat odd angles.‘Jesus. You’re sure earning your buckson this one, Maestro.’‘In the Chen file, there’s an envelopecontaining a specimen. I think it’ssomething mineral. Can you have itanalysed?’‘Sure. Might take a few days.’‘And the suicide note?’‘Is just some weird little drawings. I’vesent you a PDF. Stephanie Mulligan’s gota theory. About Chen and Svensson. Wantto hear it? Belinda, get Steph in here, willyou?’‘Sure,’ says Belinda, picking up the

phone.‘No. Don’t,’ I say.‘Why?’ says Ashok.‘It might cloud my judgement.’‘You’re not thinking straight.’ He leanscloser to the screen, but I can’t make outhis expression. ‘And you could do with ashave. You’ve missed some on your neck.You need to keep it together, bud. A lot’sriding on this. Hey, Steph.’ He turns as sheenters. ‘Come join us.’If he had any idea what Stephanie hasbeen to me, and perhaps still is, he wouldnot be doing this.I’m aware of the pale hair, the stark,unadorned face, the white neck, the eyesdemanding contact. The small, meanbreasts I have often fantasised about,against my will, and which, in

combination with other things, havebrought me to orgasm forty-seven times todate. I focus on her hairline. She raises ahand, smiles and says ‘Hi’. She can bevery professional. By this I mean she isvery good at pretending. She is popular atwork. People call her ‘modest’ and‘insightful’. I nod back. She pulls up achair next to Ashok, who adjusts thescreen so they are both visible.‘So, Steph. I was just telling Heskethyou have a theory.’I shift my eye line to the rim of thelaptop.‘You’ve probably thought of thisyourself already Hesketh,’ she begins.‘But here’s my take on it, for what it’sworth. What strikes me is that there’s sucha big split between the men’s actions and

their personalities that something’s got tobe going on behind the scenes. Some kindof outside pressure.’ The connection is abad one: her voice is patchy. ‘Chen andSvensson are what I’d call the drone type.They’re conscientious about their workand they’re loyal to their firm. They don’tfit the saboteur profile. We know that fromyour report on Chen, and from whatAnnika Svensson told Ashok about herhusband.’‘Who just threw himself under a truck,by the way,’ Ashok tells her. ‘Heskethsaw it happen. Guy’s fighting for his life.’She pulls back slightly and her facechanges. Her voice too. ‘Hesketh. I’m sosorry. Perhaps we should talk anothertime. You must be in shock.’‘No. It’s a bad connection, but let’s just

get it over with.’ They look at each other.‘OK,’ she says. ‘So someone’s got tothese men, and forced them into doingsomething that went against their nature.They felt manipulated. Like they were atthe mercy of someone or something.Suicide was their only way of protestingand taking back control. Does that makeany sense?’I start sketching a new Venn on the hotelnotepaper in front of me. I press too hardand the pencil lead breaks.‘Yes. As far as it goes.’ She hasn’tmentioned the possibility that Chen andSvensson’s subconscious minds were inactive rebellion against their consciousselves. I could raise the notion ofdissociative fugue myself, but I’m notgoing to. This is my investigation.

Ashok says, ‘In the meantime, we’vewarned all our past clients that if they getany motiveless sabotage, in view ofwhat’s happened we’re offeringsurveillance and counselling. Stephanie’sidea. Nice touch, eh?’‘Sounds lucrative,’ I say. Stephanielooks away.The careless way she stirred up my life.Ashok grins. ‘All part of the eliteservice we offer. Look, Hesketh. We’vegot two clients so far. But I’ll be frank.Word’s going around, there are others. Alot. There’s some seriously weird globalshit going on. I’ll send you some outlines,if I can get them. But for now just do yourthing. Usual strategy: describe, process,prevent slash eliminate.’Just as Stephanie starts to say something

else the image freezes. So I say, ‘You’rebreaking up,’ press End Call, downloadAshok’s PDF and go offline.I open the file. Sunny’s suicide drawingsare striking. I can see why Mrs Chenrefused to associate this odd legacy withher husband. I can’t picture him producingthem either. Their boldness and brashnessseems out of character. The three imagesare large and crudely executed in broadink strokes. Freddy could have done them.There’s a human eye with what mightbe rays of light shooting out of it,reminiscent of the all-seeing eye depictedon top of the pyramid on an Americandollar bill.There’s an ellipse that resembles anecklace strung with elongated beads.

Their tips are spiked, like narrow bones.And at the bottom right of the page,where an artist would put his signature, isa hand-print. The fingers are together,with only the thumb separate from the rest.The effect is that of a stop sign.Have the police checked thefingerprints against Sunny Chen’s? Hiswife may have demanded it. She hadinsisted, after all, that the drawings couldnot have been left by Sunny. The jaggedellipse and the eye are large in relation tothe hand. I pull the Jenwai folder back onmy screen and call up the image of thesmear that Sunny Chen was so keen for thepolice to fingerprint at the factory, yet soreluctant to discuss: the smear he laterclaimed he’d made himself. He’d called it‘evidence’. I stare at it for a long time.

Then I text Ashok asking for thedimensions of the original ‘suicidedrawings’. If I know the scale, I’ll know ifthe hand-print is a normal size for a man.If it is not, then how could Sunny havemade it? He said ‘they’ had pressuredhim, and made his body disobey his mind.And Jonas claimed ‘little kiddie trolls’used him as a puppet to sabotage thesystem. He thought he might have‘swallowed’ one. He used the analogy ofa tapeworm.They are travellers, said Sunny Chen.They go wherever they like.They came all this way, said Jonas.Who did? And from where?Later that evening, I go on the net. There’sbeen another attack, this one in southern

Spain. The culprits are twin boys, agednine. Child Three and Child Four, as Iimmediately think of them, pushed theirfather off a stone staircase in full view ofthe rest of the family, who were gatheredin the courtyard of their farmhouse for ameal, celebrating a younger child’sbirthday. Afterwards the boys would notspeak. Again, there was no apparentmotive, but on the morning of the attack,they told their parents that they had wokenabruptly in the night, from the samenightmare.The father died.I reach for a pencil and sharpen it withsix turns, inhaling the scent of the long,pristine shaving that emerges. Pine andgraphite. It’s very pleasing. Then I reachfor a pad and start drawing.

Men attacking institutions that they love.Children turning on their families.Two overlapping circles, withirrational violence at the intersection.What else connects them?Something has lured my old mentor outof retirement. Mass hysteria is ProfessorWhybray’s field. Something hush-hush atthe Home Office, Ashok said. He hintedat a contract. Is the old man thinkingalong the same lines as me?At 8.15 I go to the hotel restaurant fordinner, where I learn the Swedish wordfor crayfish: kräfta. When I come back Isee there’s a message from AnnikaSvensson. They are still operating. She’sgoing to fetch her son, then go to thehospital and wait. She’ll call me if there’sany news.

My upper right arm hurts where Jonas dughis fingers in. I run a hot bath, hoping toease it. You can adjust the temperature onthe taps: I set it to forty-one degrees.Steam fills the room. I slide into thescalding water. It’s cramped; in order tolie with my arms beneath the surface, Ihave to stick my legs out the other end. Iinspect the bruising, exaggerated by thewater’s heat and the bright lighting of thebathroom: it’s Victory Purple in thecentre, and there are several shades ofyellow, from Soft Butterscotch to OchreBisque at the edges, nudging into the greenrange. The pattern of the oedema isunusual. Jonas’ grip spanned much of myupper arm. But the marks – foursurprisingly small blotches made by his

fingers across the bicep, and a thumb-printon the triceps – are condensed into anextremely limited area.If you didn’t know that a grown manhad gripped me there, you’d think thebruising came from the clutch of a child.

CHAPTER 5Before I go to bed, I call Ashok andupdate him on Svensson. As I talk, hekeeps raking his fingers through his hair,which he always does when he is rattled.‘Did you get the dimensions of SunnyChen’s suicide note?’ I ask.‘Yep, it’s A4.’ He shifts the chewing

gum in his mouth. Numerous studies haveproved gum to be a useful concentrationaid.‘Which means that the hand-print’s toosmall to be Sunny Chen’s. So his wife wasright. Someone else made it.’‘Well I’ll be happy to hear where thatleads. Looks like a blind alley to me. Inthe meantime, here’s the thing. Tomorrowyou’re heading for the airport.’‘I’d prefer the train.’‘That won’t work for where you’regoing.’ He removes a wad of gum from hismouth and squishes it into a Post-it note.‘Dubai. New case. I told you there wereothers. Construction industry. Guy namedAhmed Farooq. Killed himself yesterday.The client’s his employer. EasternHorizons.’

Two thoughts cross my mind. The firstis that I don’t have my Arabic dictionary.But I only voice the second. ‘At least he’salready dead.’Ashok cocks an eyebrow. ‘No moreugly surprises, right? I hear you. Let’shope Svensson pulls through.’‘Tell me about the new one.’ I’mstirred.‘Straight sabotage. Farooq removed awhole string of zeros from some vitalsales agreement after it’d gone past thelawyers. Managed to screw up hiscompany’s business across fivecontinents. Seems totally random. Nothingin it for him. No motive. If he hadn’t killedhimself he’d have gone to jail. Got atheory yet?’‘Humans have a highly evolved

neurophysiology of self-deception. Underpressure, the subconscious can take chargeand force you to succumb to your truedesires. The deep ones that yourconscious mind rejects. Dissociationenables you to commit acts that yourconscious mind won’t acknowledge.Later, you’ll turn a blind eye to whatyou’ve done. To deploy a metaphor.’‘So how does that work? You’reawake, but sleepwalking?’‘Yes. I think Sunny Chen was in adissociative state when he sent thedocuments exposing Jenwai. JonasSvensson claimed he sabotaged the bankagainst his will. This sounds similar.’‘So that’s what you’re working on?’‘Part of it.’‘So what’s the rest?’

‘I anticipate that you’ll object to it onprinciple.’‘Try me.’Sure enough, I’ve only just begun myline of speculation when he pronouncesthat I am ‘barking up a seriously wrongfucking tree’. He thumps his desk foremphasis, and I see Belinda Yates jump inthe background. ‘Just go there and youmake some sense out of this mess thatdoesn’t involve . . . what d’you call it?’‘Indigenous belief systems.’‘Yeah them. I don’t care if you’ve got aPhD in it. Our clients are internationalcorporations run by grown-ups. We’ve gotrivals out there. So no fucking littlepeople.’ Ashok is a child of the Age ofReason. As such, he cherishes the notionthat we have cast off the superstitions and

fears which dominated the lives of ourmedieval forefathers. ‘Got it? Don’t letme down on this one bud. You’re paid tothink out of the box, but not that far. Alot’s riding on this one.’‘When humans dare to think in newways they are set free,’ I tell him.‘Come again?’‘That was Kant’s motto in theEnlightenment. But we’re not completelyenlightened, Ashok. There will always bedark corners. Humans like to believethey’re rational. But the capacity forsuperstition is part of our DNA. It can’t bepurged. All the things we fear – all thelittle people, if you like – are as presentas they ever were. But they’re no longerexternal. They’ve been chased indoors.Where we can’t let them go.’

He sighs. ‘OK. But bottom line, they’renot popping up in Phipps & Wexmanreports. So no Harry Potter bullshit and nogoddam . . . ectoplasm. Got it?’In bed, I scroll through the news. Aheadline catches my eye. In Seoul, a boyof nine tied up his grandfather, turned onthe gas and left him to die in the kitchen. InArgentina, a girl of seven dropped aflowerpot from a fourth-floor balcony onto her aunt’s head, killing her instantly. Aleading child psychologist is calling for aninternational conference on ‘thisunprecedented phenomenon’. He says thatbefore their attacks, many of the childrenreported vivid dreams or nightmares.Afterwards, they either remained silent, orclaimed to have no knowledge of what

they had done.The Venn diagram in my head burstsinto rapidly expanding life. I need to talkto Professor Whybray. He’s more of alateral thinker than I am and less of anincurable materialist, so he’ll have gonefurther, and faster.He and Freddy never met. But they’dget along.Together we’d make a satisfyingequilateral triangle.It’s Annika Svensson who takes me to theairport the next afternoon. She has beencrying again. I tell her she should not bedriving, and offer to take the wheelmyself, but she insists. She is going thereanyway, to meet her sister Lisbet. Lisbetis flying in from Minnesota to help Annika

prepare for the funeral and afterwards tosort out the family’s administrative andfinancial affairs in the wake of Jonas’death. Yes, Jonas died. So today, Friday21st September, is Annika’s first day as awidow. He survived the operation, but anhour later he suffered a catastrophic heartrupture. Technically speaking it wasn’tJonas’ blood that flooded out of his burstaorta. It was somebody else’s, or to bemore precise a mixture of several otherpeople’s, because he’d received atransfusion.She says, ‘I just want to know why. Whatit was for.’ I don’t answer because I can’tthink what to say. I do believe, however,that everything must mean something. Thateven the most random events have

significance, on some level. ‘Somethinghappened to Jonas to make him act thatway. I told you, it wasn’t him. He behavedlike he was someone else. Someone . . .possessed. And he’s not the only one. Iknow that, Hesketh. Isn’t that why youcame here?’She must have heard rumours aboutother cases. ‘There are always a thousandconnections when you look for them,’ Isay. We’ve reached Departures. ‘The trickis to work out which to follow up andwhich to reject.’ She still recalls theelegant ozuru I first saw outside Jonas’hospital room. But suffering has alteredher angles and folds.‘Please, Hesketh. Find out why all thishappened.’‘Can you try to note down everything

Jonas said about why he did it? Even if itmakes no sense?’She draws in a long breath. ‘He said alot of things. I’ll talk to my son and I’llsend you a mail.’We say goodbye, first in English andthen in Swedish. She hesitates, then plantsa dry kiss on my left cheek. She turns and Iwatch her walk towards Arrivals.I text Ashok.Request Jonas Svensson autopsyreportI buy the New Scientist and while queuingfor the security check, read an articleabout the threatened extinction ofhoneybees. Colony collapse disorder isaffecting swarms worldwide. Therepercussions of the species disappearing

would be catastrophic for farming – themeat and cotton industries in particular –and wildlife. The isolation of unaffectedhives is posited as one solution. While Iam deep in Marie Celeste syndrome,which refers to hives found inexplicablyabandoned, a woman in a red coat – whatDulux, in 1984, called Carnation – comesup to me.‘Well this is quite a coincidence,’ shesays, waving a passport case. ‘I’m leavingtoday too.’I look around. ‘Well so’s everyone inthis queue,’ I say. ‘It’s for Departures.’The woman’s smile looks crooked. Ican’t identify the emotion it correspondsto.She looks familiar, but I’m not goodwith faces. I return to the article: the group

dynamics of social animals alwaysinterest me.‘Ingrid,’ she says. I am not good withnames either.‘Hesketh,’ I say.‘I know.’It’s only when she puts her hand up toflick back her hair – women often do thatwhen they’re anxious, I’ve noticed – and Isee the feathered pattern of her Indiansilver bangle, that I remember who she is,and smile.‘Got it!’ I’m happy to have placed her.‘The Swiss demographer. Wednesday.The Perfect Storm conference. Climate,Hunger and Population. You’d like a KingCharles spaniel. We had sex.’She takes a step back and her facechanges shape.

‘Well, enjoy the rest of your life,Hesketh Lock,’ she says.Then she walks away very fast towardsthe other queue for departures. If she’daddressed me in German, or worn theCarnation coat in the hotel, I’d haveknown her straight away.‘Auf wiedersehen!’ I call after her. Butshe carries on walking and doesn’t lookback.There’s a five-hour stopover at Charles deGaulle in Paris, where I’m changingplanes, so I go to an airport hotel gym andrun ten kilometres on a treadmill, then buysome new clothes: sandals, cottontrousers, three white shirts. In DeparturesI eat a meal (I choose the ‘menugastronomique’), do forty-seven sudokus

and download the new document Ashokhas sent.In Dubai the native population believein djinns or ‘jinn’. A djinn is an evil spiritwhich taunts people and renders theirlives intolerable. It can possess themwithout their knowledge, and cause themto behave out of character. Like SunnyChen’s Chinese ancestors, djinns needplacating and appeasing.When I told Ashok that I considered itlogical to suspect that the Dubai casewould involve somebody losing theirreason and blaming some kind of nativeevil spirit, i.e. a djinn, or a demon child,he shut his eyes and breathed out and saidoh man.‘I am sure Farooq will have mentioneddjinn.’

‘And what kind of fucked-up weirdoplace does that take us, Maestro? Do wetell the client his construction empire’sspooked?’‘No. We tell them that somethingcaused one of their employees to regressand invoke negative childhood archetypes,and that this behaviour’s part of a masshysterical phenomenon we have yet tofully identify. Sunny Chen. JonasSvensson. Same pattern. In order toexplain what they did in the dissociativefugue state, they conjure manifestations ofindigenous belief systems. Ancestors inChen’s case. In Svenssson’s, trolls. InFarooq’s, I predict djinns.’That’s when he banged on the desk andmade Belinda Yates jump.But sure enough, according to the police

eport on Farooq’s death, which Ashokhas very typically not bothered to readthoroughly, I now discover that AhmedFarooq did indeed mention djinns. It isright there, in his wife’s statement.Halla Farooq claims he worried that adjinn ‘who looked like a small beggar’had ‘possessed’ him. Annika Svenssonalso used that word. Unlike her husband,Halla Farooq did not claim to see thedjinn herself, but the natives of the UnitedArab Emirates – known as Emiratis – arevery superstitious, and she believed in itas fervently as he did. It was the djinn, sheinsisted, that made him behave oddly anddrove him to his death.If I believed in the resting of cases, Iwould rest my case. I know what Ashokwill say when I tell him.

He’ll shout, ‘Jesus Christ, Hesketh.Fucking Arab goblins. This is all I need,man!’And he will bang on his desk and scareBelinda Yates some more.It’s an overnight flight to Dubai. On theplane there are several children, someworking their way through the airline’scomplimentary puzzle books. I amcongenitally incapable of coming across apuzzle without trying to solve it, butFreddy can take them or leave them. Hisimagination is big and free. If he werehere, he’d draw dinosaurs and talk tohimself in his favourite dinosaur voice,the archaeopteryx. ‘Hulooo, aya am aflooing fossil and aya weigha fifteenfoosand zillion tons.’

The little bruises on my arm ache whenI press them.Freud once said ‘sometimes a cigar isjust a cigar’. He was making a point aboutwhat is or is not significant.He was a wise man.I take a sleeping pill and fall in and outof that insubstantial, restless aeroplanesleep that fails to nourish.When I told Kaitlin I was leaving, I knewI would not miss her. We did each otherno good. If our relationship were anorganisation, Phipps & Wexman wouldclassify it as dysfunctional, toxic or‘hollow’. Her good looks no longerattracted me. In fact, illogically, they didthe opposite. For her part, she had becomeimpatient of aspects of my behaviour that

she once claimed to find endearing.But Freddy had done nothing wrong.Once, driving home from thecountryside, we hit a rabbit. Freddy hadbeen staying with Kaitlin’s mother – thiswas before her cancer – and I’d gone tofetch him. The creature darted out of ahedgerow into the road and was under thewheel before I could react. The crunchwas soft and decisive. I hoped Freddyhadn’t noticed – he’d been watching aDVD and seemed on the verge of sleep –but he saw it and yelled out. I wanted tokeep driving, but he insisted that we muststop.‘We have to help it, we have to help it!’In the time it took me to reverse back,he’d made wild plans: he’d nurse itsinjuries, keep it as a pet, give it a name,

keep it in a cage, find it a mate, let it havelitters of baby rabbits, and then they’dhave babies and soon there’d be thousandsof them and we could sell them to petshops. He had the creature’s whole lifemapped out. But of course when we gotthere and inspected the lump of mashed furit was stone dead. The hind quarters werecompletely crushed, but there wassurprisingly little blood. Freddy cried andstroked its ears and stared into its deathglazedeye, and I rather helplessly tried tocomfort him with some head-patting andshoulder-punching and calling him FreddyK, Freddy K, Freddy K, over and over.But he wouldn’t stop crying. Finally, alittle desperate, I suggested staging afuneral. Immediately, he brightened up:we had a project. I found a plastic bag in

the car and we put the dead body in it, stillwarm, and resumed our journey. He wasnow full of energy: the idea of a ceremonyhad galvanised him.‘I’ll bury it and put a cross on the graveand say some words.’‘What kind of words?’ I was curiousabout what notions he might have, at six,of burial rites.‘I don’t know.’‘You don’t know when?’He laughed. ‘Yet. So go on then. Tellme.’ Freddy didn’t realise it, but hischild’s perspective provided me with acognitive path to the world we both livedin. So I quoted him the ‘ashes to ashes anddust to dust’ lines of the Christian burialrite, and explained how in other countriesand religions they say other things. But

how a lot of the words are very similar nomatter where you live, just as the types ofprayer are, and the things people pray for.Then he wanted to know how long itwould be before the body became askeleton which he could dig up and gluetogether, to keep in his bedroom. Iexplained how dead bodies rot in theearth. How insects and maggots wouldcome and eat the rabbit. We went into lifecycles and protein and the food chain andhe fired more questions at me. Thosestraightforward exchanges of informationabout the world always made me feelmore at home in it. Who and where, howand why, when and what. Nothingslippery. No double meanings.‘So it rots and it feeds the earth and theearth feeds the plants and then the plants

grow and then we eat the plants,’ hesummarises.‘Yes, Freddy K. Correct.’‘So why don’t we just eat the rabbit?’‘Good idea. Rabbit stew. We can find arecipe.’ That took us on to knives andblood and skinning techniques. We’d lookup how to do it. We’d remove the guts,and inspect them. We might see its heart,and we could compare it to the one in myda Vinci book, which he loved. We’didentify and dissect its liver and itskidneys and its brain too.Back in London, Freddy burst into thekitchen brandishing the plastic bag andgabbled the story of our adventure and ourintentions to Kaitlin. She was in a goodmood. She was glad when we did whatshe called ‘boy things’ together. The

creature’s skin came off like a coat. Wecured it by staking it to a piece ofchipboard and covering it with salt andthen leaving it on the car roof in thesunshine to dry. Then we butchered themeat and Kaitlin made a stew with prunesand Armagnac, which Freddy declared‘epic’, but left largely on his plate.I wake in time to see the sunrise over thecity as the plane comes in to land. It’sSunday 23rd September. I don’t know theweather forecast, but I can guess it willreach well above forty degrees later in theday. Sprawling next to a glittering sea,pincushioned with construction cranes, thecity gives the impression of an unfinishedand unfinishable project.Outside, it is indeed hot. My taxi driver

is Afghan, so I try out a few words inPashtoun. On the drive to the hotel, I getthe impression of a city of gleaming, sunbakedglass and metal, of broad highways,improbably green lawns, of vast cleanmalls and building sites at every turn. Iknow that virtually nothing that I seearound me is made here: that virtuallyeverything except the sand is imported,and that in one of the shopping malls thereis an indoor ski slope. The tall palms thatline the roads are kept alive by water fromdesalination plants. Dubai uses morewater than any other city in the world. Itconsumes more carbon per capita. It ishome to the world’s tallest structures. Theslender needle of the 800-metre-high BurjKhalifa rears into the sky, the sun glintingpinkly off its glass and steel. It is

magnificent. It looks like CGI.I remember a story from Arab tradition.A young man falls in love with aprincess. He marries her, but when hetouches her on their wedding night sheturns into a pillar of flame. It turns out thatshe is not a princess at all, but a djinn indisguise. Djinns are created fromsmokeless fire. The fiery djinn-bride iscruel. She burns the young man’s flesh topunish him, but he never finds out what hiscrime was, and why he was so viciouslybarbecued on what should have been anevening of sexual passion.The story does not tell us, so we canonly guess.From the hotel, I email Annika Svenssonmy further condolences. Sunday is a work

day here, so at 8am local time I contact thelegal team at Eastern Horizons’ lawyer toask for the translated transcript ofFarooq’s confession. I am told that thiswill take longer than the rest of thedocumentation because it containscomplex technical terminology. I then visitthe company’s headquarters and talk toseveral of Farooq’s colleagues – largelyEuropeans, Indians, Americans andAustralians – who all express their horrorat his act of sabotage and subsequentsuicide. The phrase ‘out of character’ isused eighteen times. After witnessingAnnika Svensson’s grief I am notenthusiastic about meeting Halla Farooq,but I press for an interview nonetheless.This is refused so adamantly that I suspectI have made a gaffe with respect to her

grief, or that Eastern Horizons isembarrassed by her ‘small beggar-djinn’allegations. Or both. However, thisafternoon I have an appointment withFarooq’s immediate deputy, Jan de Vries,who has agreed to my request to see oneof the current construction projects AhmedFarooq was in charge of when he died.I have time to kill before this meeting, so Ireturn to the hotel and sit by the infinitypool – nineteen storeys up, with a viewacross the waterfront – and read about thecrisis in particle physics. Since theJapanese verification of CERN’s famousneutrino experiments the furore, withstring theory at its centre, has been ragingon an epic scale. ‘Einstein’s laws of causeand effect have so far meant that time can

only travel in one direction. But now thatis questioned, the paradoxes flood in,’says a theoretical physicist. ‘Maths hasknown for decades what physics is onlyjust discovering: that there are dimensionswe can’t see, and possibly never will.’I like this idea, but it unsettles mebecause how can one get the measure ofsomething that’s apparently destined toremain immeasurable? I would like todiscuss it with Professor Whybray.The article ends by quoting a joke:The barman says, sorry we don’t serveneutrinos.A man goes into a bar.It takes me a little while to ‘get’ it. Butwhen I do, I enjoy its cleverness inobeying the rules of the classic ‘man goesinto a bar’ joke format, while

simultaneously upending it. When thewaiter comes to ask me if I would like adrink I consider trying it out on him, butdecide against it because I am not anatural joke-teller and I fear it may fallflat as he may not have read enough aboutparticle physics to appreciate it.I order a Coke. Most of the hotel staffcome from the Philippines. On theconstruction sites they tend to originatefrom Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka,India or Afghanistan. Ninety-seven percent of Dubai’s ever-shifting population isnon-native. So only a small percentage ofthem will be familiar with djinns: theywill have their own spirits. Howsignificant this might be I do not know.While the neutrino experiments have

shown that there are dimensions that wecannot yet grasp, because they operateoutside the membrane we inhabit, I havenever fathomed the notion of faith, orrecognised the dividing line that thetraditionally religious draw to distinguishtheir own belief systems from those ofsuperstitious people who believe inancestors, goblins, djinns, trolls and otherlegendary manifestations. Anthropologyshies away from juxtaposing religiousfaith and non-religious belief. But to me,there is no difference: irrational belief isirrational belief, no matter what the creedor how much money its followers canraise to build and maintain their houses offaith. Perhaps it is precisely because ofmy immunity to belief systems that theyfascinate me. Having studied those in

thrall to non-existent forces which theygenerally claim represent either good orevil, I know that there’s always apragmatic explanation for their terrors.But often it’s one they’d rather not face.So if their baby has altered beyondrecognition it won’t be thanks to a blow tothe head, but because he’s a changeling. Ifthey lose something, a goblin stole it. If awoman gets pregnant when she issupposed to be a virgin, it’s holyintervention. Superstitious conviction isborn of an unconscious decision, in theface of the unthinkable, to fabulate.This is something I could never do.‘Which is why you chose to study it,’Professor Whybray said, when I told himof my decision.He was usually right.

At 10.30 I am heading upwards in a shakyconstruction elevator to the thirty-firstfloor of a half-built multi-storeyskyscraper with Jan de Vries, who smellsof stale beer, partly masked by aftershave,and who is now talking to me about hisboss Ahmed Farooq: Ahmed Farooq whois dead, who swallowed rat poison on thealleged provocation of a small beggar-likedjinn, and therefore died in extreme agonylike Gustave Flaubert’s fictional antiheroineMadame Bovary.The nominal ban on alcohol in Dubai hasthe effect of turning most of its Westerninhabitants into moderate drinkers, but Ihave read that there are still plenty ofalcoholics. Because of the smell of beer

on his breath, I suspect the blond-haired,red-skinned Mr Jan de Vries to be one ofthem. His South African accent is verythick. He calls me ‘man’ a great deal,which he pronounces ‘mun’. He is anAfrikaner from Cape Town, he tells me inthe elevator we share to the building site.When it finally comes to a shaking halt onthe thirty-first level of the skyscraper-inprogress,de Vries and I step out on to thefloor where the construction continues.The site is open to the sunlight, with verylittle shade. I count twenty-six very darkskinnedworkers in thin vests and hardhats at work in three separate areas. Manyare small and wiry: Sri Lankan, I guess.Others look more like they are fromPakistan. Eleven are pouring cement andsand into a row of concrete mixers, while

the rest are erecting and dismantlingscaffolding. Concrete has its ownparticular smell, and here it manifestsitself in a variety of forms: raw powder,sand-mixed, wet, damp, drying andhardened. This part of the floor is inshade, thanks to a stretched whitetarpaulin. But bizarrely, Jan de Vriesseems to prefer standing in the sun.It must be heading for fifty degrees.De Vries waves at a man who isstanding apart from the others, consultinga chart. ‘Foreman,’ he says. ‘Pakistani.’The foreman waves back. ‘So, Hesketh.Take a look.’ De Vries points towards theedge.‘I can’t. I get vertigo.’‘That’s too bad. It’s quite something.’He strides over to the edge, leans his

meaty bulk against the security rail andgazes out at the panorama. I shift a littlecloser, near enough to catch what he says,but not so close to the drop that I can seewhat’s below. The rail is made ofaluminium so it must be burning hot, but hedoesn’t seem to notice. He hasn’t stoppedtalking since we met.‘Ahmed was a goddam diamond, I tellyou,’ he calls to me, continuing the themehe began in the lift. ‘This just was notAhmed. Not one single element of thisbloody mess was him, mun. I mean, hewasn’t a saboteur, no way. Plus, bloodyrat poison, what kind of shit is that, mun?If he had to do it what’s wrong withValium or paracetamol?’ De Vries is oneof those men who become aggressivewhen they are upset. He sweeps out his

ig muscled arm to show me ‘the world’smost fantastic city. It’s just gonna keep onexpanding and expanding. Why not, eh?D’you realise we have the most advanceddesalination technology in the wholegoddam world?’No, I tell him. But it comes as nosurprise.De Vries speaks very fast, so I have toconcentrate. His eyes are hidden behindvery dark sunglasses that cling tightly tothe bridge of his nose, making the fleshbulge to either side. I find myself almostlip-reading him, focusing on the rapidmovements of his fleshy mouth. Above it,the moustache pours from his nostrils likeblond lava. I am faint-headed from jetlag.‘Sure, we had a bit of a dip in theeconomy, and we were reeling for a while

there, I mean truly reeling. But look at itnow, it’s all happening. This is ahappening place, a vibrant place. Ahmedwas part of that big vision, mun. I justlove this city, mun. Lived here twentyyears. I mean how can you not be crazyabout this place?’He says this is just one of fifty-sevenconstruction projects managed by EasternHorizons. Farooq was personally incharge of it. As De Vries grips thescaffold-rail and expounds on Dubai –‘This city. It’s what the future looks like,mun’ – I begin to feel thirsty. The sun isunbearably hot. ‘I don’t know what bloodyFarooq got into his head. I just don’tknow. So much to live for, mun. Theworld was his oyster. And his wife, howd’you think she’s feeling, mun? Gorgeous

lady, Halla. Very traditional. Can youimagine what it was like breaking thenews to her? It tore me apart, mun.’I want to tell him: Halla Farooq thoughther husband was possessed by a smallbeggar-djinn. She believed that the djinndidn’t wish her husband well, just asSunny Chen believed the ancestorsstamped their curse on him with a tiny dirtsmear and Jonas Svensson believed thatsmall creatures – ‘kiddie trolls’ – hadused him as a puppet. And I have abaffling set of bruises on my arm.There is a pattern, you see, Mr Jan deVries.The problem is, it’s so outlandish that itmakes no sense to any logical, rational,scientifically inclined mind. I am thinkingspecifically of my own.

As Jan de Vries carries on moving hisfleshy mouth and saying things in avehement manner I am asking myself, asper Ashok’s angry instructions: what areyour other lines of inquiry, the ones thatdon’t have something to do with ‘fuckinglittle people’ who are menacing enough tomake men resort to desperate measuresafter doing something against their will?Death by wood-pulping machine, death byoncoming vehicle after a failed attemptwith aspirin, death by rat poison: I see noconnection there. What about timber,finance and construction? Money linksthem all, but money is as vague andpervasive as oxygen. Taiwan, Sweden andDubai: again they have nothing obvious incommon except in my own mind, where

they feature as recent additions to a list ofplaces I will not rush to visit again.Now we are up here, Jan de Vries is keento show me the other Eastern Horizonssites. You can see four from here, he says.‘I want you to see them in the context ofthe whole Dubai project.’The land around the building siteresembles a dusty, clogged tray of catlitter. I have read that many of theimmigrant workers live in giant metalcontainers stacked like cages. I personallylike confined spaces, but not everybodydoes. The air is far hotter than anything Ihave experienced beyond a sauna. Despitemy sunglasses, my eyes hurt. I’m trying toblock out de Vries, but his presence isinsistent and I can’t concentrate on my

l i ttl e ozuru. His voice seems to bespiralling higher and higher in pitch untilhe’s almost screaming. Desalination andthe future.Fucking miracle, mun.The world has so much to thank thiscompany for. Proud to be here, proud tobe part of Dubai’s future. Think of ourgrandchildren and their children, they’lllook at us like we look at the pharaohs,have you been to Egypt, mun, have youseen all that amazing shit over there?Magic.Something is wrong. His voice isgetting higher and higher. The pitchbecomes unnaturally elevated. I’m too hot.I start to rock. I can’t think straight whenpeople shout or screech at me in a highunnatural voice. I get overloaded. I am

overloaded now. I rock harder and harder.There is something out of kilter. The noisede Vries is making does not sound normal.And now, suddenly, he is doing somethingas grotesque as it is incomprehensible.He is licking his bare forearm.He is still making the screeching noise,but it’s muffled by his lips meeting hisown flesh. The gesture isn’t human: itreminds me of a dog gnawing at a boneand growling, or a parody of a kiss. But itis not a bone, or another mouth, it’s thehairy flesh of his own arm. It’s as if deVries has a small motor inside, operatedinexpertly by another person, ormalfunctioning. I can’t be alone in gettingthe impression that something is awry withde Vries because just then one of theworkers comes up with a hand raised,

signalling at him to stop. The little figureis different from the other workers. Nohard hat. And long hair that reachesbeyond the shoulders. From this angle,which must be immensely distortive, itseems no bigger than a child.I lift my sunglasses for a moment, butthe glare of the sun scalds my eyes and Ishove them back. I blink rapidly and lookagain.It is a child. Dressed in rags.Male, I thought at first—But no.Female.A small girl. In filthy, torn clothing. Herdark round eyes stare at de Vries,unblinking.When de Vries catches sight of the ragged

child he stops licking his arm, he catcheshis breath and then spits out a word, or arepeated series of words, that soundJapanese – toko-loshi-toko-loshi-tokoloshi– and his face distorts like achimpanzee under attack, with a terriblepleading grimace that reveals his teeth andgums.‘You can’t come in!’ he screams. It’snot clear if he’s talking to her. Or if he is,what he means. ‘You are not coming in,you fucking creature!’The child’s eyes narrow. Then, withoutmoving her mouth, she starts to make asound: a high insistent noise that has toomuch of an edge to be musical. Amonotone humming.Why would they allow a child up here? Is

she the daughter of one of the workers?Just then, still humming, she puts her fistnext to her eye and opens it out in asudden starburst, palm out.This has a dramatic effect on de Vries:with a sharp, pained squeal he lurches hisbig body around so that his back is to me.A cry goes up from the group of workerson the other side of the building, then moreurgent shouts.Jan de Vries’ meaty hands grip the raildecisively.He is still screaming as he lifts hisentire body up – it looks effortless – andvaults over the protective railing.He does it like men in old films leapover gates in the English countryside, in asingle smooth and gymnastic movement.And then he is gone.

Later, when I am being interrogated byDetective Mazoor, I will call his suicideleap ‘surprisingly elegant’.His vanishing is clean and complete. I amtoo far from the edge to see him fall. Notthat I would wish to.I stand where I am, rocking.There is more shouting among the men.Then one of them – I recognise theforeman – yells an order. They clustertogether, arguing and gesticulating. Abovetheir cries I can hear the hum of trafficthirty-one storeys below.There are sections of my brain that arestupid. By which I mean slow andsometimes quite incapable of spotting theobvious. Belatedly, it strikes me that if deVries jumped over the railing then – ergo

– he must now be dead. Jan de Vries isdead, Jan de Vries is dead, Jan de Vriesis dead.I sink to a crouching position and holdmy head. I’d like to crawl into a confinedspace, but there’s nowhere to go in thisplace of ferocious light and heat and softcruel breezes. So I stay where I am androck.I don’t know how much time passes. Iconstruct three ozuru in my head and sendthem fluttering up into the searing hot air. Irock. My mind is blank. I rock harder.After a while I become aware of theforeman shouting at me and pointingdownward.Jan de Vries is dead.‘I didn’t push him,’ I say. ‘I didn’t push

him. I didn’t push him.’ I say it again andagain and again. I can’t seem to stop. I’mvery overloaded.‘I know,’ he says, approaching. ‘Calmdown, sir. Take deep breaths.’ It’s a goodsuggestion. ‘I saw it happen. I saw him goover. You were nowhere near, sir. Icalled the site boss. He’s called thepolice.’ His phone rings. ‘Excuse me.’While he talks I think about Tom andJerry. Freddy and I are fans of thiscartoon. When an animal hits the ground,in Tom and Jerry, its body is flattened bythe impact. But in real life, this doesn’thappen. When an object drops verticallyfrom the sky, the speed of its descent willbe slowed to some extent by airresistance. I wonder if a height of thirty-

one storeys is enough for a falling objectto achieve terminal velocity. I imagine deVries’ skull will be split open like acoconut, with the brains exposed andperhaps a quantity of blood poolingbeneath. Blood would dry fast in this heat:a skin would form, like a membrane. Itscolours would travel through the chart:Gala Day, Postbox, Shepherd’s Delight,Mombasa, Heritage Maroon. Will deVries’ body break open likewise, or willit remain intact? Death at the moment ofimpact would be instantaneous. They usethe carcasses of pigs to determine exactlywhat happens in violent accidents. Orsometimes real human bodies. So beaware that if you donate your corpse toscience it may be dropped from a greatheight, to test what happens to it. It won’t

matter as you’ll be dead. But some peopleobject to the idea out of squeamishness.Or on aesthetic grounds.The foreman has finished his call.‘What happened to the little girl?’ I ask.‘I don’t see her.’He takes a step back. ‘What?’‘There was a child. Half your height orless. She scared Jan de Vries. He told hershe couldn’t come in.’He looks at me, but I can’t work outwhat his face means. ‘Sir. It’s just you andme and the workmen over there.’ He nodsat them.I start counting. They’re in a largecluster, and engaged in energeticargument. This involves much pointingdownward at the street below, and at the

ail de Vries sprang over. Others arekneeling on their haunches, their headsdown, apparently praying. One standsalone, sobbing and wailing. When Iarrived there were twenty-seven,including the foreman. Plus me and deVries. That makes twenty-nine. The girlarrived and de Vries jumped so we shouldstill total twenty-nine. But we are twentyeight.‘You see?’ says the foreman.‘But I know what I saw.’ I count again.Still twenty-eight. ‘She was right in frontof me. She made a noise. A kind ofhumming. And she gestured at de Vries.You must have seen her too.’ He licks hislips, but he doesn’t speak. He’s sweatingheavily. ‘Good Muslims don’t lie. Nowdid you or did you not see her?’ I seem to

e shouting.I don’t usually shout. I also want toshake him.I grab him: he blinks rapidly, then putsa hand on top of mine. It’s gentle.‘Take a deep breath, sir. Easy. Calmdown.’ He lowers his voice. ‘OK. I willlevel with you. There appeared to be agirl. But the heat often makes people seethings.’ He nods his head in the directionof the construction workers. All are smallcompared to me, but none is child-sized.The crying man is being comforted byanother. The child has gone and so has theperspective from which I saw her. Or didnot see her.I am confused. This is confusing.I say, ‘She was here. She must havejumped.’

‘No. I just talked on the phone to theboss down there. Just one body. Mr deVries’.’He jerks a thumb towards the securityrail. Far below, there will be peopleclustering around that big, beefy shape bynow. The site boss he mentioned. Thepolice. From here they’d all look like antsaround a big crumb.‘So where is she?’His jaw fights before he speaks. ‘Sir.Like I said. We must have all made amistake.’ He blurts it. ‘There was nochild. Let us go down now, sir. The policewill want you and me down there first.For statements. The men will wait here.They’ll get statements from them too.Come this way.’The breeze wafts through the bars of the

construction elevator. Its slow shakingprogress down the side of the buildingsoothes me. It is a limbo I could happilystay in.‘If we didn’t see a child, then what didwe see?’ I ask the foreman.He looks at his shoes. They’re leather,and coated with a fine film of cement dust.‘The men say it was an evil spirit. I don’tknow.’‘There’s no such thing as an evil spirit.’‘I know, sir. But the men, they believein them.’‘You saw her too.’‘ I thought I did. But the light and theheat, they play tricks. Create falseimpressions. Very common here in Dubai.A lot of people imagine things that are notthere.’ He shrugs. ‘Fifty degrees plus does

that to you.’‘But I never imagine things that aren’tthere. Not even when I have a fever. Whatelse did they think they saw?’‘Some of them saw the child jump orfly.’‘Jump or fly where? Over the edge?’He is still looking at his dusty shoes.‘Where? Where, where, where, answerme!’He wipes sweat off his face. ‘Into him.’Jonas Svensson said, I must’veswallowed one.‘That’s not possible.’‘I know. And it can’t have happened. Iam just reporting what they said. But thereis no evidence.’ He is speaking very fast.‘I will be very honest with you now, sir. Idon’t like to tell lies. As you say, it’s

against my faith. And it’s not in my natureeither. But I will not mention this little girlin my statement to police. The others willdo the same. Nobody wants to be calledcrazy and lose his job. It looks bad for usto say we have seen something we cannotprove. Understand this, sir? That’s wherewe stand. You will have to do what youlike and follow your own conscience.’‘Did you see her or not?’‘I saw her. But I am sorry, sir. If youtell the police this, I will deny it. Please.Understand me here. My men think thisskyscraper is haunted. This is going to bea big problem for me.’‘Did you see Mr de Vries lick his arm?’He nods. He looks very distressed.‘Yes I did, sir.’‘Why do you think he did that?’

‘I cannot understand. He was behavingin a very strange way sir. I do not knowwhy a man would lick his own arm. Anurge must have come upon him.’‘Just before he jumped he said, Youcan’t come in, and then he said someforeign words. They sounded Japanese.Did you hear that?’‘No. I didn’t hear anything. I was faraway.’He said toko and he said loshi. I amsure of it. ‘And what about AhmedFarooq. Did he behave oddly, last timeyou saw him?’He looks at his feet again. ‘Yes. He did.Very oddly, sir.’‘How?’‘He asked one of the workers for somewater. The man gave him his own bottle

and he crumbled something into it. He hadit in a plastic bag in his pocket. Then hedrank it down. I asked him what it was,and he said medicine.’‘Did it look like medicine?’He makes a face. Disgust, distaste,something like that. ‘No. I recognised it.The desalination plants produce it likethat. In blocks. It was salt.’At the police headquarters I call Ashokbut he is in a meeting, so I leave amessage with Belinda Yates explainingwhat has happened. She expresses shockand sympathy.‘My God, poor you, Hesketh! Look,shall I get one of our psych people to callyou?’‘No.’

‘Stephanie Mulligan! She’s specialisedin workplace suicides.’‘There’s nothing she can help me with,’I say. ‘Do you have Svensson’s autopsyreport yet?’‘It’s just come in.’‘Good. Send it. And I’ll need you to gethold of Jan de Vries’ too.’ And I hang up.Salt is born of the purest parents, wrotePythagoras. The sun and the sea. It’s theonly kind of rock we consume, the thingwe cannot do without. Salt deprivation, aswell as a salt excess, can cause medicalconditions. ‘Sodic soil’ or ‘dry-landsalinity’ is on the increase, due to salt inthe water table being drawn to the surfaceby the sun’s heat. Shakespeare based KingLear on an Italian folk tale about a king

with three daughters. One said she lovedher father bright as sunshine, the secondsaid she loved him wide as the sea, butwhen the third said she loved him as meatloves salt, he banished her. But shereturned in disguise and gave the king abanquet in which the food contained not asingle grain of salt. When he complainedabout the taste, she revealed herself. ‘Justas meat is tasteless without salt,’ she toldhim, ‘so is life without my father’s love.’And they were tenderly reunited.Atmospheric change over the last fiftyyears has caused chemical imbalances inthe world’s oceans, causing bothincreased acidity and ‘a large-scale, rapidrise in salinity, particularly in tropicalregions’. Some marine species arereported to be adapting. Most are not. In

India, a gift of salt brings good luckbecause it is solid when dry, but invisiblewhen dissolved. Jesus called his disciples‘the salt of the earth’.The purest parents.It has a melodious cadence to it.I spend the afternoon with DetectiveMazoor, who questions me gently,mercilessly, sympathetically, aggressivelyand in many other styles. Arab men areoften very masculine-looking, with a greatdeal of hair on their wrists. I focus on hisRolex watch as he speaks, and observe thetiny second hand tick through therevolutions. His professional life must belacking in excitement, because he wantsme to confess to murder, which I presumewould afford him kudos. If I had pushed

de Vries then Mazoor could solve thecase, and get the glory for it. And I wouldgo to jail or even be executed. This wouldbe a big ‘feather in his cap’.One of the studies Professor Whybraygenerated – it linked into what heaffectionately called ‘the Paranoia Index’– mapped the stress levels of innocentdetainees according to time held incustody and faith in the justice system.Predictably, there were impressivevariations according to culture. Thanks tothis study, and news reports I have read, Iknow enough about the Dubai justicesystem to have cause for alarm. Yet I donot feel nervous under Mazoor’sinterrogation. The mesmeric second handof his watch has a role to play here. So dothe facts. I did not push de Vries, and if

Mazoor has not already heardcorroboration of this from the otherwitnesses, he soon will. Because of thedetective’s intense focus on myhypothetical guilt, it is very easy for me toomit any mention of the ragged girl whosignalled to de Vries and scared him intovaulting into the blue sky. When theforeman told me that he and the workmenwould not mention her in their statements,I did not doubt him. Those men wouldhave families back home. Losing theirjobs would have catastrophicrepercussions.But I saw the child. She was probablyno higher than my waist, and she wasdressed in rags. The sight of her made theworkmen agitated and she scared de Vriesso badly that he killed himself. That’s how

it seemed. And I heard her too. Shegenerated a high, tuneless humming thatgrated on my ears.Her presence didn’t frighten me.But the impossibility of it did. I have nostrategy to deal with something that soadamantly defies categorisation,quantification and logic; something that sostubbornly refuses to fit into any of thediagrams I’ve been constructing in myhead.As Mazoor interrogates me, I rock in myseat as gently as I can, so that he doesn’tnotice. I keep calm and I do not getoverloaded. There is a plastic waterbottle in front of me. I reach for it andunscrew the top.‘You have children,’ he says suddenly,

changing tack. This throws me.‘A stepson.’‘Hmm. A violent little boy.’‘What?’‘Like you maybe.’‘No. I’m not violent. Nor’s Freddy.Freddy’s a great kid.’‘Oh, but I think he is violent.’‘What do you mean?’ He reachesacross and shoves my shirt sleeve a littlehigher to reveal the bruise on my arm. Iregret not wearing long sleeves. ‘Thatwasn’t Freddy.’‘How old is this Freddy?’‘Seven.’‘So who grabbed your arm?’‘A man in Sweden. A mentallydisturbed man.’Mazoor puts his hands on the desk and

observes them, then looks up at me.‘You are lying, Mr Lock.’‘I don’t lie.’‘So how do you explain those bruises?’‘I’m not violent. I never touched deVries. If you’re implying we had a fight,then you’re wrong. Ask the others.’He laughs. ‘I am a detective, Mr Lock.Not a fool. That bruise is at least two daysold. So whoever made it does not concernme. Though as you guessed, your violentnature does. I will ask you again, why didyou push de Vries off the edge?’‘I didn’t push de Vries off the edge, orthreaten him in any way. I was never alonewith him. There were twenty-six workmenplus the foreman on the rooftop at the time.I am sure they can all corroborate mytestimony. He vaulted. It was surprisingly

elegant.’‘Elegant?’‘Yes. Elegant is the word I would liketo use in my statement.’‘Poetic,’ says Mazoor. ‘You are fond ofyour language.’‘Yes, I am. My own, and others.Especially when coaxed into a rhythm.’He smiles and leans back. He has asmall gap between his front teeth. InAfrican cultures such a gap is consideredlucky and a sign of sexual potency. ‘Soquote me some English poetry.’I clear my throat.‘“Who would have thought myshrivell’d heartCould have recovered greennesse? Itwas goneQuite underground, as flowers depart

To the mother-root, when they haveblown;Where they togetherAll the hard weather,Dead to the world, keep houseunknown.”It’s from “The Flower” by GeorgeHerbert. I can also quote you someShelley.’‘Go on.’‘“My name is Ozymandias, King ofKings.Look on my works, ye mighty, anddespair.”’‘Well, Mr Lock. You certainly keepinteresting things up your sleeve.’ He nodsat my arm. He means the bruise. He hasmade a joke. I force a smile, but can’tmanage a laugh. He shifts in his seat, sighs

and shoves some paper at me. ‘OK, that’senough entertainment. Draw me whathappened.’This I can also do. I show where I wasstanding in relation to de Vries. It’s clearhe wants to hear the story yet again inorder to spot an inconsistency. So for thefifth time, as I draw, I tell Mazoor aboutde Vries’ strange behaviour at the site: thescreaming and the arm-licking and the factthat he had clearly been drinking alcohol.‘In conclusion, in my opinion Jan deVries was inebriated. He was also upsetabout Ahmed Farooq’s suicide, andhaving to break the news to his wife. Ithink he was having a mental collapse thatnobody spotted or foresaw.’He comments on the excellence of mysketches. He is right to. My 2-D

epresentations are highly accurate. If wewere in a different setting I might tell himabout my admiration for da Vinci’sanatomical drawings, shared by my nonviolentstepson Freddy. But we are in thissetting, and his mission is to find a hole inmy story. He is probably used to dealingwith drugs cartels and alcohol smugglersand political assassinations, not stories ofalcoholic Afrikaners who get ‘tipped overthe edge’.‘But there must have been a trigger,’ hekeeps saying. ‘Something that happened.’He is no fool.I shrug. ‘The symptoms of mentalimbalance are always unpredictable. Mrde Vries started behaving oddly. Heworked himself into a crescendo. Theelegant vault was part of that crescendo.’ I

am thinking of toko and loshi.‘It is a strange situation, do you agree,Mr Lock?’ asks Detective Mazoor.‘I agree that it’s strange. But as I said.Disturbed people behave in unorthodoxways. It’s well documented.’Next he questions me about the natureof my consultative work for Phipps &Wexman and I explain a little aboutbehavioural patterns in the workplace, andmethods of targeting anomalies. I list someof the multi-national corporations I havedealt with over the years and he nods inrecognition.‘Specialisedtroubleshooting,’ I summarise. This beingpart of his job too, I detect the beginningsof an understanding. He leans forwardattentively as I tell him about the directionmy investigation has been taking, and the

speculations it has led to.‘I believe de Vries’ death fits into apattern involving indigenoussuperstitions,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t know ifhe believed in djinns, but the look on hisface before he jumped over the edge wasone of terror. Farooq certainly believed inthem. And his wife apparently thinks hewas possessed by one. It’s in herstatement. Jonas Svensson talked abouttrolls. And Sunny Chen was afraid that thespirits of his ancestors were angry. Allthese men feared something which theywere convinced was absolutely genuine. Isuspect this is all part of a global outbreakof hysteria that goes well beyond the casesI’ve investigated.’At this point Mazoor shakes his headand the corners of his mouth turn down.

The demographer who called herselfIngrid had this expression on her face atthe airport. Kaitlin wore it often.I have disappointed him.In my head I make a lotus flower, afrog, a pelican, a basic water-bomb, anox, a fish, a swan and five ozuru. I drinksome water from the plastic bottle. Ittastes very bland, like it’s missingsomething. I long for the island. For thesmell of burning logs and the sound ofgulls and crashing waves and the squeakof my swivel chair.‘That second piece of poetry youquoted,’ says Mazoor, after a long silence.‘Ozymandias.’‘Is that a comment on Dubai?’‘Dubai is very special. It is like a bodyon life support,’ I tell him. ‘Or a

honeybee. Serviced by a million dronesand producing royal jelly.’He laughs. ‘A good comparison,’ hesays. ‘This place is the future.’‘That’s what de Vries said just beforehis elegant vault,’ I tell him.And his face changes again.After Mazoor has finished with me I amallowed to call Ashok Sharma who says,‘OK. Being witness to a suicide, that’sbeyond the call of duty, man. You’regetting backup.’‘I don’t need it. I’m fine.’‘Too late. No argument. The client’srequested it. Oh, and listen: the chemicalanalysis on the sample from Taiwan: getthis. Human blood. Bits of insects. Legsand wings. Plus mineral deposits.’

‘Whose human blood?’‘I don’t think the machine’s thatsophisticated, bud.’‘What kind of mineral deposits?’‘Trace elements. Salt. It’s dirt. So whocares?’‘I do.’‘Why?’‘I don’t know yet. What doesSvensson’s autopsy show?’‘It’s in Swedish. But I spoke to the guywho did it. He said there was nothingchemical that would’ve provoked mentaldisturbance. He had an eye infection thatwasn’t responding to treatment. Somepressure problem. And abnormal kidneys.Congenital anomaly, he said.’‘What kind of congenital anomaly?’Ashok chuckles. ‘Seems he had an extra

one. Quite rare, though it’s on the increasein some parts of the world. Remember thatstory not so long ago? Some guy in Ohiodiscovers he’s got four kidneys, decidesto sell two of them. Easy bucks for JohnnyMulti-Organ, and everyone’s happy.’He’s waiting for me to react, but I’mthinking. The kidneys process salt. Iremember seeing pictures of Orumieh inIran: the country’s biggest lake turned tosalt. A boat marooned on a shelf ofwhiteness that twinkled like hot, hardsnow. Pyjama Girl dreamed about abeautiful white desert that sparkled.‘Ashok, Ashok, Ashok. Listen. I askedBelinda for de Vries’ autopsy report. WellI need Farooq’s too.’‘I’ll see what I can do.’‘Can you get me a kidney expert and an

ophthalmologist to consult?’‘Whoa, slow down. Is this developinginto some medical theory?’‘Again, I don’t know yet. I need moreevidence. Can you do it?’‘Hey. Glad to. Anything beats littlepeople. So finish with the police, then goback to the hotel and wait for our guy. Bythe way, Old Man Whybray?’‘Professor. Professor Whybray. That’shis name. Professor Victor Whybray FRS.What about him?’‘You’ll never guess what he’s doing forthe Home Office.’‘Yes. I can. He’s researching theepidemic of child violence.’‘So you also know we’ve been subcontracted,and he wants a meeting assoon as you’re back in town?’

This day has not been a good one so far.But it has just got better by severalthousand per cent. I remember a youngstudent thumping a table in a Cambridgepub for joy. He has just got his PhD. Nextto him sits the white-haired man whohanded him ‘the keys to the castle’. Notlong after that, the professor’s wifeHelena became very ill and I sat with himin waiting rooms. He asked me to. Henever said why. He had many otherstudents, all of whom had betterconversational and social skills. But I wasglad to help. Over the weeks, we jointlycompleted 271Times crosswords.After my phone call, it’s EasternHorizons’ turn to question me. This is amore bureaucratic affair, and it also

involves a statement, though of a morelegalistic kind. Ashok has hired a Phipps& Wexman ‘associate’ lawyer to take methrough this process. Rachid Omar is quietand soft-spoken. His features areindistinct, as though molten. You see thison antique plastic dolls. Plastic is in fact avery dense liquid: this shows with thepassing of decades. It’s a problem forBarbie doll collectors. I tick the boxes hetells me to tick and I don’t mention thelittle girl to him, the little girl whom deVries and I and the others all saw, whosepresence filled the Afrikaner with a luridfear, a fear that had the face of athreatened chimpanzee. The work withRachid Omar takes four hours and eightminutes. By the time a woman calledAngela Monroe from the British Embassy

comes to escort me back to my hotel, it’slate evening.‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible toreturn to London just yet,’ she says. ‘Butmaybe by tomorrow. There’s a lot morepaperwork to be cleared. But you canrelax now, Mr Lock.’Of course I can’t relax, I tell her.Relaxing is inconceivable under thesecircumstances. For one, I am concernedabout the hermit crab. I’ve left the modelin the cottage untouched for too long.‘Origami paper is susceptible to damp.It can suffer.’She pats my arm. ‘The good news isthat your colleague from Phipps &Wexman managed to get the midday flightout of London. She should be here soon.’‘She?’ I ask. ‘Did you say she?’

‘Yes,’ she says, consulting her iPhone.‘It says here Stephanie Mulligan.’Wait for our guy, Ashok said. Did henot even know who he was sending?A piece of paper crumples inside me.

CHAPTER 6There is an explanation for everything. Butit is not always apparent at the time.In Meno’s paradox Plato asked, Andhow will you inquire into a thing whenyou are wholly ignorant of what it is?Even if you happen to bump right into it,how will you know it is the thing you

didn’t know?In 1783, people believed the world wascoming to an end when Europe wassmothered beneath an oppressive andunchanging lid of black cloud. Theresulting social upheavals lasted the bestpart of a year, from late winter into thefollowing autumn. Crops were ruined andmany were driven to madness and selfharm.Religious mania exploded. Slowly,the climate returned to normal and thesun’s brightness returned. But it was overa hundred years before the ‘summerwithout end’ was fully explained.Meteorologists confirmed that aconjunction of volcanic eruptions nearIceland and Japan had dimmed thestratosphere, stifling Europe with aneiderdown of ash.

At the time though, there was noconvincing explanation.Just superstition and the terror it gavebirth to.Stephanie Mulligan has left me a messagesuggesting a drink in the AldeberonLounge at eight o’clock. I order roomservice and go online. Ashok has sent mea PDF of Svensson’s autopsy report, alongwith the names of a renal specialist and anophthalmologist who have agreed to beconsulted. I glance through the autopsyreport, then forward it to each of them,with a request for an assessment. There’salso a mail from Annika Svensson.Dear Hesketh,You had some questions about salt. When Ishowed your email to my son Erik he told me

that one day he borrowed Jonas’ car. Therewas a plastic water bottle in there. Erik said hetook a gulp but had to spit it out. It was salty.Like seawater, he said. Why would Jonas keepseawater in a drinking bottle? Can you alsoexplain why the garden shed is full of seaweedand jars and sacks of grain and bottles ofCoca-Cola? In the last week of his life myhusband was not my husband any more. I thinkhe was under the influence of an idea whichfrightened him and which he could not share.He said children were trying to get inside him.As you can imagine the worst burden is notknowing why this change in him happened. SoI pray that your admirable focus will shed lighton this darkness.Many greetings,Annika.There’s no hotel Bible, which is perhapsnot surprising in Muslim Dubai. So I goonline to look up a reference from thebook of Genesis in the King James

version. Lot and his wife and daughtershave been hastened away from the iniquityof the city of Sodom. And it came to pass,when they had brought them forthabroad, that he said, Escape for thy life:look not behind thee, neither stay thou inall the plain; escape to the mountain,lest thou be consumed. The sun was risenupon the earth when Lot entered intoZoar. Then the Lord rained upon Sodomand upon Gomorrah brimstone and firefrom the Lord of Heaven. And heoverthrew those cities, and all the plain,and all the inhabitants of the cities, andthat which grew upon the ground.But his wife looked back from behindhim, and she became a pillar of salt.I search for the Japanese words toko and

loshi. Toko can mean endless or barbershop or floor or bed. Loshi doesn’t seemto mean anything.In any case, where’s the logic in anAfrikaner speaking Japanese? The wordshe’d reach in a crisis would be in his owntongue, the guttural Afrikaans spoken bydescendants of God-fearing Dutchcolonialists. I do another search.But I’m wrong there too.I try again, spelling it not as two wordsbut as one. Tokoloshi.This brings success. A tokoloshi is afigure from Bantu tradition. This issomething de Vries himself could havetold me, had he lived. I should haveknown all along. It wasn’t Afrikaans thatcame to Jan de Vries’ lips just before hedied. It was Xhosa, a language spoken by

many tribes of Africa. He’d have grownup hearing it. And very possibly speakingit too. It involves throat clicks whichsound like delicate machinery changinggear. In Zulu the word is uthikoloshe. Itmeans demon dwarf. Tokoloshi are smalland humanoid. They live near pools andsprings. They like to kidnap. They hideunder beds and grab you. If you areasleep, they will bite off your toes. If youare female they will rape you.So this is what de Vries believed hesaw.He was scared into suicide not by alittle girl in rags, but by something heidentified as a demon dwarf.The Aldeberon Lounge has a Thousand

and One Nights theme with tiny halogenstars recessed into the ceiling. StephanieMulligan is already seated at a cornertable in a booth. I count seven othercustomers, all of them men. Five aresitting alone, the other two are together.All of them are looking at her, someopenly, others furtively. Men tend to dothis around her. Stephanie is slim and inher early thirties, with blonde hair. Herface is narrow and symmetrical and she iswearing an Azure blue dress and anunusual white necklace – bold and jagged– which looks familiar: I have to drag myeyes away from it. Or perhaps it’s herneck that preoccupies me, that has alwayspreoccupied me. Her skin is very pale, asthough she never goes out in the sun. Itseems to glow.

Is she beautiful? Most of my malecolleagues think so, emphatically. Theyalso claim to like her ‘as a person’.The men stare as I walk over, andanswer her hello with a hello of my own.Forcing myself to concentrate on the factthat we have a specific job to do, I settleopposite her on a leather banquette and Ibegin the mental reconstruction of thepraying mantis I made for Sunny Chen. Itis fiddly and it might just see me throughthis. Between us is a shiny lacquered tableoverlooking the blue neon of thewaterfront thirty-seven floors below.Stephanie has the reputation of being agood and tactful listener. People who feelthe need to talk a great deal aboutthemselves might find themselves drawnto that aspect of her. I’m not one of those

people. I intend to be in charge of thismeeting.‘Eastern fairy tales are often aboutyoung men who sit around doing very littleuntil huge fortunes unexpectedly fall intotheir laps,’ I tell Stephanie. ‘Aladdin’s anexample. Fate decrees that whatever shallbe shall be. Destiny versus free will is arecurring motif. You’ll also find that—’She interrupts. ‘Hesketh. Before webegin, we need to talk about a personalissue.’Where is her professionalism? ‘No.’‘I’m sorry, Hesketh. I don’t want toopen old wounds, but there really issomething I need to tell you.’ She clearsher throat. ‘Something you should know.’Stephanie puts her pale, slim hand ontop of mine, but I pull it away. I say,

‘Whatever it is, now is not the time.’ If itcomes out bluntly, I don’t care. I signal tothe waiter. I’m not as in charge as I hadintended. ‘You and I are going to have toco-operate. We’re here for one thing. Tofind the pattern, and work out what’shappening and why. So we should behavelike colleagues. Let’s just do that, OK?’I stare at her necklace. I often fixate onthe wrong thing, and I only realise itafterwards, when it’s too late. The waiteris heading towards us. He is a Filipinowith skin the colour of Dulux’s 2010Cointreau. I begin rocking. We order.Double Scotch for me. Chardonnay forher. Classic gender-based choices. Iabandon the praying mantis and get towork on a basic water-bomb.‘We do actually need to talk, Hesketh.’

I open my mouth to speak, but she raisesher hand, indicating she’s going tocontinue anyway. ‘Look, if you want tobegin by discussing the sabotages we cando that.’‘It’s why you’re here. It’s the onlyreason we’re in the same room.’‘But we will come back to it, becauseactually we have to.’ Perhaps she pitiesme. It’s a frequent mistake. Peoplemisunderstand who I am, and assume Iwant to be like them. I don’t. Our drinksarrive. The waiter arranges them on thetable with some small dishes of nuts,olives and crisps. Stephanie thanks himand I take a large gulp of Scotch. Toomuch, too fast. It burns my throat.She straightens up. ‘So. The sabotages.Ashok wasn’t very keen on your

speculation, I have to tell you. As you’dexpect. He talks about blue-sky thinkingbut . . .’ Unexpectedly, she smiles. I can’ttell if it’s genuine or what kind of smile itis. She has very regular teeth. Her lipstickis Dusk Rose.I say, ‘Ashok doesn’t hire me to tell himwhat he wants to hear. He hires me to spotbehavioural trends.’She raises her glass to me and takes asip of Chardonnay. She leaves a lipstickmark on her glass. ‘Hesketh. Please.We’re on the same side.’ I don’t knowhow to begin replying to this. Shestraightens up and sighs. ‘OK. The firstthing you need to know is that there havebeen new cases of this, everywhere. I’mtalking about motiveless sabotagefollowed by suicide. A Brazilian

pharmaceutical company. A man and twowomen. Wrecked three years’ work onsome wonder-drug. Destroyed thedatabase and trashed the lab.’ I don’t sayanything. ‘It wasn’t a joint suicide: theywere all found separately, at differenttimes of day. The man shot himself, thewomen took pills.’More classic gender-based choices.‘And the others?’‘An engineer in Namibia, installingsome big pipeline. Destroyed the wholeproject in an explosion. Then he killedhimself. With a blowtorch of all things.How does that fit into anything? AndAshok’s hearing of more every day.’I shut my eyes, focus and think itthrough at speed. I can’t not. I open myeyes and concentrate on the whisky in my

glass as I speak.‘With Chen it’s deforestation and withSvensson it’s futures trading and theFarooq case is about construction. Nowpharmaceuticals and energy. You couldargue they’re all part of the same . . .’ Tomy frustration, I can’t find the right word.She has weakened me.‘Corrupt franchise?’ she smiles. I don’tsmile back. The old wound is asbewildering and raw as on the first day. IfI don’t focus on the puzzle, I will getoverloaded. ‘If we’re looking atinstitutions or spheres of commercialactivity that people bear a grudge against,all of these might fit. But there are otherso-called bad guys. Why not them? Whatmakes this epidemic, or whatever it is,attack one organisation and not another?’

‘Maybe it hasn’t had time,’ I say.‘Maybe there’s a list.’‘And whoever is orchestrating this isticking them off one by one, as part of acrusade with no discernible message?’I don’t want to work with her.‘Anarchists, possibly.’She shrugs. ‘That makes it just plainchildish.’I say, ‘If these are just the cases thatPhipps & Wexman has heard about,there’ll be thousands of others wehaven’t.’She nods. ‘Exactly. Look at it. It’s a canof worms. Which is why Ashok’s keen tomove on. Clients aren’t going to pay forinvestigations if these sabotages turn outto be part of some mass psychosis. Orweird moral witch-hunt. Or anarchist

uprising. And there are other things goingon. Equally bizarre.’‘And equally childish?’ I ask. She looksup.‘What do you mean?’‘Those children,’ I say. ‘Pyjama Girl.And the others. The violent children andthe suicidal saboteurs aren’t two separateepidemics. They’re one. Although sinceit’s a global phenomenon, it’s a pandemic.Technically.’ She should have realisedthis by now. Professor Whybray will havedone. She stretches out her fingers andinspects them. They are thin and plain. Nojewellery.She says, ‘Go on.’‘Both groups commit uncharacteristicacts. They do so in a dissociative fuguestate so they’re unaware of what they’re

doing at the time. But when they see theconsequences, they realise they’reculpable. The children distancethemselves from their attacks by notspeaking. While the saboteurs claim theyweren’t in control of what they did. SunnyChen said the body doesn’t always obeythe mind. And Jonas said he felt like apuppet.’Stephanie takes another sip of wine,leaving a second lipstick imprint on top ofthe first. The cosmetics industry shouldrectify that sort of thing. ‘Whose puppet?’Why am I collaborating with her? Of allthe people Ashok could have sent—Or did she volunteer?‘He talked about trolls. And creatures.But mostly about children.’She takes a breath. ‘But how do they fit

together?’I grab a napkin and draw twooverlapping circles. It’s a rollerball pen:the ink bleeds into the paper.‘OK. Example. This one is childrenwho attack,’ I point to the circle on theright. ‘Call it K for kids.’ I write in the K.‘And this is families with adults whosabotage. Call it A. Both the K and the Acircles are part of a general picture ofviolence.’ I draw a third circle labelled Vto encompass the other two. I think of thetiny finger-marks on my arm. Stephanie isthe last person I would show them to. Asfor the little girl in Dubai, she has noplace in any diagram I could draw.‘Dissociative fugue could fit in there too.’I start drawing a circle called Foverlapping all the others. ‘But we don’t

know where the boundaries lie.’ I finishoff the F region with a dotted line goingthrough both K and A. ‘See? You can havedissociative behaviour without any of theviolence, so some of F must lie in theregion outside V. In Venn terms, fuguemay even be the universal, enclosingeverything else.’ I draw a stronger dottedline encompassing everything. Anotherthought strikes me. ‘But children whodestroy their own families are committingsabotage too. Maybe economic andemotional destruction are one and thesame circle.’ I sketch it out.‘So this is how you work.’‘When the problem calls for it.’We sit for a minute, not saying anything.Then she points to the circle marked K.‘The Home Office has set up specialised

Care Units for them. Drafted an army ofspecialists and volunteers. The biggestone’s in Battersea. A former colleague ofmine’s running it. Naomi Benjamin. Someex-academic hotshot came and headhuntedher.’Of course. I find myself smiling. ‘Iwould guess that’s Professor Whybray.He’s a medical anthropologist. He’s aworld expert on mass hysteria. He was mysupervisor.’Two men in a hospital ward, onehelping the other ‘keep his grip’. Yourmaterialist focus saved me, he saidafterwards. I needed to be with someonewho wasn’t going to spin me fairy tales.‘Well, his team’s based in Naomi’s unitin Battersea. Pyjama Girl’s there,apparently.’ She reaches in her handbag

for a small red laptop, sets it on the tablenext to our drinks, fires it up and stabs atthe keys. ‘This is just today’s news.’ Sheturns the screen to face me. It’s theReuters website. Children in ViolentKillings – latest. It takes me five secondsto skim through it. In a single day therehave been eight reported murders bychildren in the United States, five inKorea, two in Russia, one in Latvia andanother in Morocco. The children are allunder ten.The victims are mostly, but not always,family members. Last week in Egypt, ithas been revealed that a boy of fourstabbed his mother with a kitchen knife.Stephanie says, ‘Naomi tells me that thekids won’t talk about what they did. Theparents say they’re not the same children.

A classic distancing technique. You haveto agree: on the social observation front, itdoesn’t get much more dynamic than this.’I was thinking that too. But it doesn’tmake us friends.I say, ‘There’s another factor in all this.Which might have a bearing.’ When I tellher about Chen’s soy habit, andSvensson’s bottle of seawater, and Farooqcrumbling a block of salt from adesalination plant into a plastic waterbottle, and de Vries licking his arm, sheputs down her drink and she sits very still.‘Have you told anyone else about this?’she asks when I have finished.‘No. It’s only recently I made theconnection.’ And it’s my investigation.Not yours.‘Pyjama Girl has a salt craving. Naomi

told me last time we spoke. Her parentsfound a stash of dishwasher salt in herbedroom. If other kids do too, there couldbe other parallels. Let’s find out.’ Shestarts typing again. Her fingers fly over thekeyboard like a pianist’s. She pressessend and looks up. ‘OK done.’ She looksat her watch. ‘I told Naomi we’ve madesome connections, and asked her to callus. With your Professor Whybray, if he’sthere. In the meantime, here’s what we’vegot,’ she says, pointing at the napkin. ‘Anepidemic of some kind.’‘Pandemic,’ I correct her.‘Involving children and adults. Theyattack something they care about. Be it acorporation or a loved one. And theneither refuse to speak or blame a figurefrom their local folklore.’

‘A small figure,’ I say. ‘Child-sized.They call them trolls or ancestors ordjinns or tokoloshi or whatevercorresponds to the superstitions of theculture they grew up in. But they’rechildren. And then in the case of the adultsthey kill themselves. Having swallowed alot of salt,’ I continue. ‘A salt craving canbe a symptom of various medicaldisorders. Adrenal cortex diseases,diabetes, Addison’s. Nothing these peoplehad, that we know of. And it came on verysuddenly, in all the cases I’ve comeacross. When de Vries started licking hisarm, it resembled an animal instinct. Likea sick cat eating grass. And Farooq,’ Iremember. ‘The foreman said he called itmedicine.’ Did he and de Vries haveabnormal kidneys too? ‘So what the kids

and the saboteurs have in common is thatfirst of all, they commit dramatic acts ofphysical or economic violence. Secondly,they have no obvious motive. Quite thecontrary in fact.’ She nods. ‘Thirdly, theywon’t talk about it afterwards, except toblame children. I’m thinking of Svenssonin particular. He told his wife thatchildren were bullying him. But in generalthey can’t or won’t speak about it. Whichimplies that someone is scaring them intosilence or that they’ve wiped it from theirminds.’‘That’s certainly the case with thekids,’ she says.‘And fourthly, they crave salt. All of thesaboteurs and at least one of the kids.Possibly several. Possibly all. Chenwasn’t autopsied. De Vries’ and Farooq’s

esults I’m waiting on. It may meannothing, but Svensson had an extrakidney.’I am spiralling towards a newconnection, but I’m jolted away from it bythe noise of the Skype ringtone fromStephanie’s laptop. She pats the seat nextto her, signifying I should join her. I’mreluctant to get closer to her, but I shiftacross and she presses answer. Eightseconds later a woman materialises on thescreen. Behind her, through a window, Ican see some tiny red-clad figures millingabout. Children.She says, ‘Hi, Steph.’‘Hi, Naomi.’Naomi Benjamin has large breasts. Anda close-cropped helmet of dark hair anddark eyes. She is wearing a vivid green

sweater and a scarf of a similar greenwith gold stripes, and although it is notone of my favourite greens – there is toolittle saffron in it – the overall effect isexotic. She must be aware of my eye linebecause all of a sudden she adjusts herscarf to hide the view of her cleavage.Stephanie says, ‘This is my colleagueHesketh Lock. One of our most brilliantinvestigators. Behavioural pattern expert.’Naomi Benjamin nods and smiles, andtwo small grooves appear, bracketing hermouth. ‘Yes. Victor’s been talking aboutyou. He’ll be along as soon as he’sfinished in a meeting.’ She jerks her head,indicating the children. ‘You know, afterAngola I had the feeling that nothing couldfaze me. But I’ve never seen kids like thisbefore. It’s like they’re damaged in an

entirely new way.’ In addition to the reduniforms, some of them are wearingsunglasses or plastic goggles: this givesthem a jaunty look, as though they’re infancy dress. I can’t make out individualfaces. But I can see enough of them togauge a pattern. ‘We’re trying to figure outhow to get them back to normal. But wedon’t really understand what it is we’retrying to cure. It’s a very fluid anddistressing dynamic.’‘How many?’ asks Stephanie.‘Just over fifty at the moment, at thisunit. Ours is the most advanced. But thearrivals are accelerating and I know it’sbeen chaos elsewhere. The Home Officehas put in an order for eighty thousandmore uniforms. But it’s already lookinglike that won’t be enough. No one’s

geared up for anything like this. Themanagers are having to make it up as theygo along. There are new pressrestrictions, so you won’t be hearing aboutany new British cases. With any luckthat’ll slow it down. Whatever I tell youisn’t for public consumption.’Stephanie says quickly, ‘Of course.’The door opens behind her.‘Professor Whybray!’ I call out. ‘I’mover here!’ It’s frustrating to be 3,396miles apart because I would very muchlike to shake his hand. He’s more stoopedthan the last time I saw him. Either thecolours are odd on this screen or he has atan. But his white beard and moustacheare the same. When he sees me he breaksinto a smile.‘When the hell can I get you to call me

Victor?’ That familiar cracked and reedyvoice makes something swarm in mychest. ‘I know you’re not a hugger.’ Hespreads his arms wide in a gesture ofembrace. ‘So consider this poor substitutea lucky escape.’‘Good to see you, Professor.’ I makethe hugging gesture back – Stephanie hasto duck – and he laughs. I am happy. It’s aclean and fine feeling.‘Hello, Professor. I’m StephanieMulligan.’ She raises her hand. ‘Alsofrom Phipps & Wexman.’‘Good to meet you,’ he says, smiling.‘Ashok Sharma told me about you. You’llboth be working with me from now on, ifyou’re agreeable.’Both? Why both?‘On the single pandemic theory?’ asks

Stephanie. ‘Hesketh mentioned it.’‘Yes, I thought he’d get there,’ he says,smiling. Naomi pulls up a chair for theprofessor and he settles next to her with asideways smile. He is what the Frenchc a l l bien dans sa peau: at ease withhimself. Or literally, ‘good in his skin’.Often he used to drape his arm over myshoulder and call me ‘son’. He made mefeel bien dans ma peau too.‘So let’s get started. Children andadults wreaking havoc in a dissociativestate. Different methods, same result:sabotage. Family and wider socialstructures in one case, economic in theother. Hesketh, what do you observe in theadults?’Still watching the red-clad childrenmilling about in the background, I give

Professor Whybray and Naomi Benjamina brief summary of my threeinvestigations. When I mention the salt,Professor Whybray’s eyebrows go up.‘Well here’s what I can tell you aboutthe salt from our end. Worldwide, weknow of a hundred and twenty-fiveconfirmed cases of children who’veattacked and who have a salt craving.’Stephanie asks, ‘What form does ittake?’‘All kids go for sugar and salt,’ saysNaomi. ‘It’s fundamental. But we’retalking high excesses of whatever they canget hold of. Crisps, salted popcorn,peanuts, the usual snack food. In coastalareas we hear they’re eating seaweed.’‘Jonas Svensson collected seaweed,’ Isay. ‘And drank seawater. He also had a

food stockpile.’‘In some kids it was apparent for weeksbefore they attacked,’ Naomi continues.‘And parents are reporting finding foodhoardsand salt-stashes in their kids’bedrooms.’‘When it comes to the violence there’sa memory blank in most cases. Butinterestingly, when they learn what theydid, they seem indifferent. Possibly ashock reaction. Later they become hostiletowards adults. Or just contemptuous. Thefamilies claim they don’t recognise them.Some say it’s not the real version of theirchild.’‘Changelings,’ I say. ‘Alien possession.Exchange for a replica. A very commonexplanation for uncharacteristicbehaviours.’

‘Superstition was part of Hesketh’sfield,’ Professor Whybray tells Naomi.‘Before he moved to the dark side.’ Justthen a door opens behind them and anarrow-faced young man with a ponytailwalks in.Naomi swivels in her chair to addresshim. ‘Hi, Flynn, what’s up?’‘Sorry to interrupt you guys,’ he says,addressing us. ‘But I’m going to have todrag Naomi away. We have a situation.’‘Off you go, Naomi,’ says ProfessorWhybray. ‘I’ll fill them in on the rest.’When she and Flynn have left I askProfessor Whybray, ‘Could it be theexcess salt consumption that’s makingthem behave like this?’‘That’s the first thing we addressed interms of treatment. At the Unit we’ve

eliminated it from their diet completely.No impact so far. We can’t police theirhomes, and some’s being smuggled in.We’re seeing some very odd behaviours.Which are changing by the day. Hard tokeep up.’ He angles the screen so that weget a better view of the children in theplayground behind him. ‘So. Tell me whatyou observe.’‘Unusual patterns of movement. It looksco-ordinated by instinct. Like birds, or theshoaling of fish.’Stephanie points to the top of thescreen. ‘I can see some fighting overthere.’A blonde girl and a black boy aretussling in the background. The boy iswearing swimming goggles.‘So who’ll win?’ asks Professor

Whybray.‘The girl,’ I say. ‘If she’s blue-eyed.’Asif in confirmation, the girl wrestles theboy to the ground, tears off his gogglesand runs away. Stephanie glances at mequestioningly. ‘Jonas Svensson wore darkglasses,’ I explain. ‘He was blue-eyed. Hehad an eye infection. The fact that many ofthese kids are wearing sunglasses or eyegoggles tells me they’re either protectingtheir eyes from sunlight, or hiding signs ofinfection. Since children don’t tend to bevain, I suspect the former is more likely.And pale irises need more protection thandark ones. Any deaths yet?’ I ask. I amthinking of the autopsies.‘Still waiting.’I tell him about Jonas Svensson’s renalanomaly.

‘In normal circumstances I’d call it along shot,’ says Professor Whybray. ‘Butgiven what’s going on . . .’When hefrowns you can see the furrows. ‘Thewhole thing’s unprecedented. Anyway,I’m glad to see you’ve kept your edge,Hesketh. I’m looking forward to workingwith you again. And you too of course,Stephanie. Ashok praises you highly.’We start discussing arrangements.Today is Sunday. Our flights are open. Iagree to meet Professor Whybray and histeam at nine o’clock on Thursday.Stephanie will join us if she is back fromDubai by then. Before that, I’ll find amoment to tell the Professor I can’t workwith Stephanie ‘for personal reasons’.And he’ll agree to this because it’s me hewants. I am confident about this. We say

goodbye and Stephanie presses End Call.She takes a sip of her drink. ‘I’m glad wegot the contract. Though it’s not a classicPhipps & Wexman case.’‘Yes it is. Ashok’s a disaster capitalist.He follows the money.’ I finish my drinkin one gulp, and signal to the waiter forthe bill. I stand up.‘Where are you going?’‘To do some research and make notesfor Professor Whybray.’‘Wait, Hesketh. If this thing continues tospread, there’s a lot at stake here andwe’ll need to collaborate. So we have toclear the air on the personal front.’I sit down opposite her and reach for anapkin. ‘Five minutes. Starting now.’ Ipoint at my watch. I begin folding an

ozuru. The material is thin, but not ideal.‘Hesketh?’ Her hand is on my arm.I shake it off. ‘Don’t touch me!’ Itcomes out louder than I intend. The waiterhas been approaching: now he backs off.‘OK. OK. Please Hesketh.’ Stephanie isaiming for eye contact but she won’t get it.Kaitlin likes direct people. She admiresthem and says they have ‘guts’. I likedirect people too, but only if they arechildren. ‘We need to have a conversationabout Kaitlin.’Kaitlin Kalifakidis. The woman whoStephanie drove crazy with love and lust.The woman who told me lie after lie afterlie, and turned me into two ugly birds, acockerel and a cuckoo. At the Phipps &Wexman reception I saw them talking andlaughing together, but failed to identify

their sudden, intense camaraderie ascourtship behaviour. I hadn’t even knownthat Stephanie was a lesbian. Or thatKaitlin was, to use her repellentexpression, ‘bi-curious’.I say, ‘No. There’s nothing we need todiscuss. It’s in the past.’The best man won! said Sunny Chen, theday he burned his Hell-note effigy. But noone won. It was all wreckage.She shifts. ‘But that’s the thing,Hesketh. That’s what I’ve been wanting totell you. It’s not.’‘What do you mean?’‘Kaitlin and I are back together. I’vemoved in.’I say, ‘Oh.’She fingers the spiked shards on her

necklace. It’s still mesmerising me. Thematerial isn’t plastic. And it’s certainlynot mineral. But it has the sheen of apolymer . Varnish, maybe. It might bemore lightweight than it looks.‘When?’‘Two weeks ago. Perhaps I should havetold you earlier.’I complete my ozuru and stand it on thetable between us. It observes her with itshead cocked slightly to one side.‘No,’ I say. ‘Now is fine. Now is quiteearly enough.’The waiter slides the bill on to thetable, then melts away. She speaks quietly.‘You know there was something betweenus before. Well. We began seeing eachother again. She rang me when you splitup.’

I’m overloaded. I stand and pick up mybriefcase. The whisky has gone to myhead. I need to get out of here. Breathesome outdoor air.‘Hesketh, stay!’ she calls after me. But Ican’t.Men generally find the idea of twowomen together sexually exciting. This iswell documented. The fact that I was noexception only deepened the horror.There. It is said.

CHAPTER 7The pool is a relief. They put ice cubes inthe water to cool it down. That’s what theattendant told me yesterday. I swim crawl,sloshing the water over the edges, whichare flush with the sides. It disappearsnoisily down sunken runnels. I forgetmyself. I forget everything except the

intense pummelling of my muscles.I’ve done fifty-three lengths, almost theequivalent of 0.75 kilometres, when athought strikes me. It should have come tome before. But I was too busy reliving mycuckoldry to see Stephanie’s revelation asan opportunity.Now that I do, I must act immediately.I get out and dress hastily. Five minuteslater I’m banging on her door. There’s atray on the floor outside. She must haveordered room service. I have read thatwomen often do that in hotels on businesstrips because they feel self-consciouseating alone in restaurants. It’s half pastnine. I bang harder.‘Open up!’She opens the door a crack, leaving thechain on. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

She lets me in. Next to the bed is aphoto of Kaitlin with Freddy. It looksrecent. I haven’t seen it before. It fills mewith rage. She stole my family.She looks nervous, as though I mighthave come to rape her. Women onbusiness trips worry about that too,according to the same article. It containeda list of Dos and Don’ts While Travelling.Opening the door to me would havecounted as a Don’t.‘How can I help you?’ Her voice isvery cold.I go over to the big picture window andturn to face her. My hair is dripping: I canfeel the water running down my neck,chilled unpleasantly by the airconditioning.‘I want to see Freddy. You can make

that happen. Kaitlin’s wrong to stop meseeing him. I was a father to him.’‘Why don’t you sit?’ She indicates anarmchair, but I stay where I am. ‘Look,Hesketh. I know what you mean to Freddy.He talks about you a lot. He misses you.’‘So you admit that much.’‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’‘So admit that it’s wrong.’She takes a breath. ‘Actually I think itis. Wrong.’‘What?’ She waves again at thearmchair, but I stay standing. ‘You thinkit’s wrong? You admit it?’‘Yes. You heard me. And you mighthave heard me say it earlier if you hadn’tstormed off.’‘So why can’t I see Freddy?’She shuts her eyes for a moment.

‘Kaitlin has her reasons.’‘Name me a single one that’sjustifiable.’She pauses. ‘Kaitlin’s a good mother.But she brought Freddy up on her own.And basically, she feels comfortable withthat.’‘That’s not justifiable. And it’s not evena reason. It’s an excuse.’‘Please, Hesketh. You’re shouting. Sitdown.’She sits in an armchair and points at theother one. Reluctantly, I sink into it.‘Anyway this isn’t about what Kaitlinfeels comfortable with. It’s about Freddyand his entitlement to a father. It’s aquestion of justice.’She looks at her hands. When shespeaks, her voice is low and I have to

strain to hear it. ‘Don’t think I’ve felt goodabout all this, Hesketh.’I bang the glass table between us andshe jumps. ‘So don’t be a coward! Standup for the boy’s rights! Do whatever youwant with Kaitlin. I don’t care. But don’tlet her stop me being Freddy’s dad.’ Sheturns away, so I bang the table again. ‘Isthat a yes?’ She nods again. ‘Then say it.’‘Yes.’ Her eyes are reddening. I don’tcare.‘I’m going to hold you to that.’‘You can.’ She gets to her feet quickly,goes to the bathroom and emerges blowingher nose into a tissue. She’s carrying awhite hand towel which she chucks in mydirection. ‘Dry your hair.’ She sniffs andblows her nose again. ‘Now let’s have adrink.’ She goes over to the mini-bar and

throws open the door.‘Thanks.’ As I start towelling my hair,my head begins to buzz with what might bejoy.She comes and sits opposite me, poursout our drinks. Whisky. She hands me agenerous glass. ‘Well I’ll be honest withyou, Hesketh. Things haven’t been easywith Freddy.’ She takes a big gulp andflushes. I see that this must represent abetrayal. I am glad. ‘He’s confused,inevitably.’ I remember Kaitlin’s text: youhave left Freddy very confused. ‘I’m notkidding myself. I can’t afford to in my job.I want to do what’s right. The thing is, thething I wanted to discuss with you is,well . . . The day before yesterday he—’She breaks off and takes another bigswig. Something’s bothering her. And she

seems slightly drunk. Did she have anotherdrink after I left the bar? An image hurtlesback to me: Freddy aiming his catapult atKaitlin’s heart. And its signature noise:zoooshhh.‘Has he been violent?’ My ownquestion startles me.Her face reddens. Her neck too. Thenecklace glows white against it. ‘How didyou know?’I shrug. ‘A guess. I’ve barely spoken tohim since I moved out. What did he do?’‘He attacked a teacher. He threw a flintat her in the playground. She was badlyhurt. It was . . . pretty shocking. Fivestitches.’As she speaks, I find myself staring ather necklace again. Those shapes: bones.Vertebrae. Knuckles. Something like that.

I made a printout. A4. Sunny Chen’ssuicide note is in the side pocket of mylaptop case. I reach for it and open it. Ipull it out and when I see the thingconfirmed I feel instantly sick and shove itback. I help myself to another swig ofwhisky and bang my glass down too hard,so that some of it spills out. Stephaniewipes it with her napkin. I make a mentalozuru, and then another. I feel the horribleswoop of vertigo. I’m overloaded. Andstill too hot. There’s no breeze here. Noteven a breath of wind.‘Hesketh, who on earth gave you thatbruise?’ She is looking at my arm.‘Jonas Svensson. In the hospital. Hegrabbed me.’‘But those aren’t adult finger-marks.What’s going on? Are you OK?’

No. I am not OK.I clear my throat. ‘Where does yournecklace come from?’‘Hesketh, you’re changing the subject.’Can’t she see this is urgent? ‘I said,where does it come from?’She sighs, then reaches up and fingersit. ‘Do you like it?’‘That’s irrelevant. I need to knowexactly where you got hold of it.’ She’ssmiling. Doesn’t she realise I amincapable of making small talk? She leansforward, as if to divulge a secret. But Iknow the answer before she says it. Ofcourse I do. Even so, I feel my chesttighten when I hear it confirmed.‘Hesketh, what’s the matter?’ I pull outthe piece of paper again from my laptopcase. It’s crumpled at the sides. I flatten it

out on the table and spread it out in frontof her so she can see it properly. But shedoesn’t look. She needs to. She should.‘He’s so clever with his hands,’ she’ssaying. Then she stops and sees what I’mshowing her. ‘What’s that?’ She lookspuzzled. ‘How – did Freddy draw it?’ Shepicks it up. ‘But it’s ink. Freddy doesn’tuse ink, does he? And this hand-print here,how could he—’‘Freddy didn’t do it. Do you rememberSunny Chen?’‘The Taiwan whistle-blower.’‘He left this for his wife before hekilled himself.’ The sheet starts tremblingin her hand. With care, she sets it down onthe table between us and shifts back in herseat, as though the paper is contaminated.‘His wife insisted he couldn’t have done

it. The hand-print’s too small to be aman’s. Can you see that this pattern herematches your necklace? Exactly?’ I pointto the spiked circle.She clears her throat and begins tofiddle with the clasp at her neck.‘Help me here, will you?’ I can hear thepanic. She wants to get rid of it. She can’tdo it fast enough. ‘Please. Just get it offme.’She bows her head, and I reach over. Itfeels very intimate to look at the nape ofthis woman’s neck. This might be a placethat Kaitlin has kissed, while cuppingStephanie’s breasts from behind. Theplace an executioner’s blade would targetfor a clean kill. The clasp is the classickind, a metal one which locks on to aplain ring. Freddy cannibalises Kaitlin’s

old jewellery for beads and fastenings. Iundo it and free the necklace. It weighssurprisingly little. Papier mâché. Ofcourse. Not the pulp variety, but smallshreds of paper glued on in layers. Freddyhas tiny fingers, like the claws of a bird.The workmanship is accomplished, evenfor him. Most of the paper is plain whitebeneath the varnish, but looking closer Ican see a few yellow streaks of a differenttexture. It’s origami paper. The shapes –you can’t really call them beads, thoughthat’s their function – are reminiscent ofskeletal fingers, connected by a length ofnylon fishing line. I lay it on the table nextto Sunny’s suicide drawings.There’s no doubting it. Theconfiguration is the same.‘There’s no way Freddy could have got

hold of this and copied it?’ asksStephanie. ‘I mean, that would explain—’‘Not unless you gave it to him.’‘But I’ve never seen it before.’‘Did you look at the Chen file?’ I ask.‘I read your report, that’s all. But itdidn’t mention this.’‘No. I hadn’t seen it. Not then. Andwhen I did, I didn’t know what it meant. Istill don’t. When did he give you this?’‘Last month. For my birthday. On thetwenty-second.’‘That’s before Sunny Chen died. It’sbefore he even exposed Jenwai.’‘And what about this eye?’ she points.‘I don’t know.’‘And this hand-print?’‘I don’t know.’‘Can’t you hazard a guess?’

‘It might mean stop.’‘Stop what?’I slam my hand on the table. ‘I don’tknow!’I’m getting overloaded. Stephanie mustbe too because she just says softly, ‘Jesus,what’s happening here, Hesketh? What thehell’s going on?’And once again I don’t know. I rock androck. I don’t know I don’t know I don’tknow.

CHAPTER 8Kaitlin’s house, built in 1910, is part of aclassic London terrace of faded red brickoff Fulham Palace Road. The front door isthe same French Grey I painted it when Imoved in. But the metal containers withtrailing ivy and miniature box trees arenew, and the blinds have been replaced by

curtains. I arrive at 11.16, fourteenminutes earlier than agreed. I’ve beenstaying at an airport hotel in London sincemy return from Dubai two nights ago, soI’ve brought my suitcase with me. It’sWednesday 26th September. Temperature,fifteen degrees centigrade. Moderate tolight winds. They’re shuffling branches,stirring up dust, making litter dance.Freddy must have been looking out forme because I don’t even need to ring thebell: as I approach, he throws the dooropen wide, yells ‘Hesketh!’, launcheshimself at me like a monkey, and clings.‘Freddy K, Freddy K, Freddy K,’ I laughinto his hair. He feels heavier, moresubstantial than last time. I get a surge inmy chest, not dissimilar to pain.Wellbeing. I am bien dans ma peau. I

carry him through the narrow entrance hallinto the kitchen and sit him on the table totake a better look. I inhale the oldfashionedfloor-polish smell of Kaitlin’shouse. A brand called Pledge. My motherused it. The boy’s mop of dark curly hairis the same, but his face has altered subtly:its angles more defined, its planes cleaner,and there’s a sprinkle of freckles on hisnose, the colour of muscovado sugar.‘Hi Hesketh.’ I swing round.Stephanie’s paler than ever. ‘Kaitlin’svisiting her mum at the hospice. She’sgone all day.’ I have no idea what she hastold Kaitlin about my visit. It’s anirrelevance. ‘Why don’t you guys gothrough to the living-room while I heat usup a pizza?’ Before I left Dubai we had ashort, practical conversation about how to

proceed with Freddy. The strategy weagreed on: food; Lego; questions.‘Hey, Hesketh. Come and see what Ican do,’ says Freddy. And he’s draggingme through to the living-room to show mehis ‘nearly’ headstand on the sofa. Hemakes ten attempts, each of whichrequires a star-rating from me, on a scaleof one to six. Then he’s perched on theback of a chair almost doing the splits andholding forth in his sparky, energetic way,flexing the power of being a boy agedseven. I’d forgotten his grasshopper mind,the eccentricity of his questions. If I had todecide between being tied to an ant’s nestand being stuck in a giant spider’s webwhat would I choose? Can peoplemicrowave themselves?The Kawasaki rose I made for Kaitlin

when I moved in has disappeared from thealcove by the mantelpiece. But it’s easierthan I anticipated to function within thenew parameters.‘If you stuck your hand in a volcano,you’d get a ninth-degree burn,’ he’s sayinga little later, through a mouthful ofpepperoni pizza. ‘From the lava. It cankill you. And it’s glow-in-the-dark.Sometimes red and sometimes orange andthen it’s blue at the edges. Blue fire. Youcan get that.’ He reaches for another sliceand does the archaeopteryx voice. ‘Huloo,Froodoh, wooda you lika anootha slooceof poopporoni pooza. Yos Ploz.’ Then hethrows back his head and laughs at hisown entertainment: a throaty, dirty laugh.He spills his juice; Stephanie mops it upwithout complaint. His flow of speech is

directed largely at me.‘Did you bring me a present then?’‘As a matter of fact I did. Guess whereit is.’‘Up your bottom. Jokes. Suitcase, duh.Foonk-you-fonk-you-fank-you!’Soon we’re at work on a Lego cruise ship.Principal colours: red, white, blue, beigeand grey. It has a swimming pool, a tenniscourt and a mini-golf course. On the topdeck there are ranks of solar panels, awind turbine and a helipad. Under mytutelage, Freddy has learned theimportance of studying the instructionpamphlet before beginning a job like this,and of arranging the small plastic bagscontaining the different elements in theright order. But he likes to improvise. It’s

secretly a pirate ship, he insists. So weneed barrels of explosive. Weapons.Rigging. A flag. Potted palms. He has abox of Lego pieces from which to add tothe basic template. Occasionally, we lookout of the window and check the sky forchanges. Today there are the flattenedcumuliform elements that characterisestratocumulus. I’ve long been trying toteach him the scientific terms for clouds,but Freddy prefers his own. Baconrashers. Popcorn. Fuzzaluzz. Double blob.Mega-poo. Ha ha ha.‘It’s an ark,’ he tells Stephanie as shecomes in and settles on the sofa oppositeus. It has new cushions. There’s also alamp I don’t recognise and a rug whoseweave I identify as West Moroccan.There’s more feminine clutter than when I

lived here. ‘Look.’ Freddy points to theanimals he has lined up ready to board thevessel when it’s complete. Plastic farmanimals, mostly, scuffed from overzealousplay. But also llamas, lizards,wolves, vultures and a giraffe. A fewdinosaurs. ‘Hey Steph, is there anythingelse to eat?’‘What do you want?’‘Crosps! Crosps! Crosps!’‘Hmm. The thing is, they’re for treats,’she says. ‘I don’t think Mum would likethat.’The deep voice again: ‘Moom’s nothoyah. So gov me som crosps.’‘If you want something, what do yousay?’ She wants to please him more thanshe wants to please Kaitlin. That makessense. She already has Kaitlin.

‘I say, ond som jooz. Ploz.’A moment later she’s setting a packet ofcrisps and a glass of orange juice in frontof him. ‘Foonk-you-fonk-you-fank-you.’Outside, a police siren wails, and hemimics it: weew-weew-weew-weew! thentears the packet open and starts feedinghimself. They’re cheese-and-onionflavour.Stephanie nods at me. Now. I startrocking very gently, gearing myself up.‘I’ve got a story for you, Freddy K,’ Isay.‘Cool,’ he says, shifting closer. Helikes my stories. Maybe he thinks I makethem up. But I never do. I would beincapable of it. Stephanie is sitting verystill.‘A man called Sunny Chen spotted that

some people were breaking the rules atwork. So he told on them. But then hedied. Just before he died he did somedrawings.’‘Cool. Is he good at drawing?’‘You can decide for yourself. I’ll showyou them.’ I’m about to open the folderwhen he says suddenly, ‘So did he say“AAAAGH” when he fell in themachine?’ Soggy crumbs fly out as hespeaks. The smell stings my nostrils. I putthe folder down.I ask, ‘What did you say?’Freddy grins. ‘Did he die like this?’ Hereaches for a little red Lego figure in awhite hard hat and holds it up in front ofhis face between finger and thumb. ‘I’ll bethe machine.’ Then quickly he tips hishead back, opens his mouth, still full of

half-chewed crisps, and drops the littlefigure in. It happens almost too fast for meto register. Stephanie’s face is rigid, butshe draws in a sharp breath as Freddypretends to chew on the Lego man, makingloud eating sounds. I just watch him androck. ‘Mmmm,’ he says. ‘Delicious. Nicecrunchy bones. Nyca-crooncha-boonz.’Then he spits out Sunny Chen with somesaliva and pieces of crisp and licks thesalt from his lips.I need to make some ozuru. From thecorner of my eye I can see the little Legofigure in a pool of spittle, with blobs ofmashed crisp attached. When Stephaniespeaks I can hear she’s struggling to keepher voice level.‘Freddy, how do you know how Sunnydied?’

He shrugs. ‘I just do.’She glances at me. Now you. Stillrocking, I say, ‘And then after that, anotherman died. In another country – Sweden.’No reaction. ‘Do you know whereSweden is?’‘Schwoodoon? Nope.’Freddy’s globe is on the sideboard:Stephanie gets up and passes it to me. Isettle it on the coffee table next to the ship.‘Geography lesson,’ I say. I show himTaiwan, and then Sweden. Stephanie’spaleness almost glows. She is verytalented at keeping perfectly still. Lizardsand other reptiles can do that. Freddy,apparently unaware of the impact he’smade, munches more crisps and takes aglug of juice which trickles down his chin.Stephanie tries to wipe his face with a

tissue, but he wriggles out of her reach.‘So then the Sweden man died,’ saysFreddy.‘Swedish,’ I correct him. ‘People fromSweden are called Swedish. Or Swedes.Like the root vegetable.’‘Shwoodoosh,’ says Freddy.‘Schwoods. I bet they talk like that.Hulloo, yoi um a Shwoodoosh man fromSchwoodoon.’I pass him a second Lego figure.Yellow. Still holding the bag of crisps, hesettles the man on the carpet, then rootsaround in the Lego and pulls out a greentruck.‘Here’s the road. And here comes thetruck, and here comes the Schwoodooshman. Come on da trucka-ducka, and runMister Swoodoosh over!’ The truck in one

hand, and Jonas in the other, he makesclassic noises, like the ‘kapow’ of mychildhood comics: ‘Nrrrrr, nrrr, nrrr ,vroom, ka-donk, aaagh.’ He slides themtowards each other on the floor until theycollide. ‘Oooh, ooh, the kids hate me,says Mister Schwoodoosh, I must rununder a trucka! Boof! AAAGH! Noo oi amDEAD!’‘How do you know he died like that,Freddy K?’ My voice is a croak. ‘Youweren’t there.’‘One of us was.’ He rummages in theLego pieces, then looks up. ‘Maybe theone who did that.’ He points at my leftarm, then pokes it with his small finger.‘You made us be born and then you madeus live like that. So you should go toprison.’

‘What do you mean, Freddy?’ asksStephanie.‘What?’ Suddenly his face goes lax andhis body slumps slightly. He yawns, as ifexhausted, then blinks rapidly severaltimes. ‘I don’t know.’‘Freddy?’ she repeats. He gives hishead a small sharp shake, as though aninsect is bothering him, and fingersanother crisp. ‘Freddy? Can you answerme? Can you explain what you’re saying?’‘Is there a football match today?’ heasks me. We used to watch sport togethersometimes, at weekends. ‘Cos I’d like tosee one. I’m really tired now.’‘No. But you can lie on the sofa andhave a rest for a bit. How about that?’‘No. Wait.’ He takes a deep breath anda shudder runs through him. It’s clearly

visible: a wide current working its waydown his body. Then he sits up very erect,smiles, grabs the crisp packet and downsa huge handful in a single go. ‘So whatabout the other man?’ he says. All hisenergy is back. ‘Come on. Let’s do him!’Stephanie says, ‘What other man?’‘The other man! In the other place!’Freddy says excitedly, scrabbling aroundin the Lego.Stephanie licks her lips. They seemvery dry. Her lipstick has disappeared.‘But how do you know there was anotherone?’Freddy shrugs his tiny bird-bonedshoulders. ‘I just know. There’s alwaysthree, in stories.’ This is true. Perhaps it’seven something I have told him. Threebrothers, three wishes, three chances.

Three ways to die. ‘Except there’s lotsmore. You just don’t know about all theothers.’ He grins. ‘Say it Hesketh. Go on.’He pokes me in the ribs with his tinyfinger. He means, say yet. But I don’t wantto. He picks up the little Jonas figure andthen makes the truck run over him again.And again. And again. Nrrr, nrrr, nrrr.Ka-donk! Aaagh! ‘They got scared. Wescared them. It was cool. We made themstop.’ He rummages in the box until hefinds the figure he wants. It’s brown. Heholds it up.Stephanie says, ‘What do you mean, wescared them? Who’s we?’‘And then this one died.’ He licks thecrisp salt around his mouth. It’s burned apink halo on his skin. The colour alarmsme. There’s a tightening in my throat.

Often, this is a sign that I am feelingsomething. It might be deep and terrible. Imake a swift mental ozuru. Then at highspeed, a frog, a water-bomb, a kite and alotus flower. But I botch them and theycrumple.I say, ‘What do you mean, Freddy K?’He sticks his finger on the globe.‘There.’ Freddy has left a greasy littlefingerprint on the Arabian Gulf. AhmedFarooq. ‘He ate something poisonous. Buthis eyes didn’t pop. Then the other onejumped off a tower that wasn’t finishedyet.’ He fishes a pink man out of theplastic box, sets a green hat on his headand fits a spanner in his hand. He standsthe man on the edge of the ship and tipshim off. De Vries.I ask, ‘How do you know?’

He shrugs. ‘You saw the girl with him.I’ve got that skyscraper in my bedroom.It’s called the Leaning Tower of Pizza.’He turns to Stephanie expectantly, but shedoesn’t speak. ‘That’s a joke. It’s reallycalled Pisa. It’s in Italy. Hesketh thinksshe wasn’t real.’‘Who wasn’t real?’ says Stephanie.‘But she is. She was there on theskyscraper. He saw her. She’s one of us.’I know what is real and what is notreal. I have forged a career out of knowingthe difference. Stephanie looks at me.There’s a question on her face, but I can’tanswer it.Freddy’s busy arranging another Legoman near the edge of the table. Hewriggles himself so that his mouth is levelwith it, settles his chin on the surface,

puffs out his cheeks and blows hard. Crispcrumbs come flying out, and twinkles ofsalt. The white Lego man tumbles off theedge.I ask, ‘Did Mum tell you about thesemen?’‘Nyet,’ he says. He’s tearing his crisppacket apart and flattening it out.‘Stephanie then?’ I sense her shift. ‘Ormaybe Stephanie knew about them and shetold your mum and you overheard.’‘No,’ says Stephanie. ‘That didn’thappen.’ I glance across at her. She ispaler than ever.‘Nyet,’ agrees Freddy. ‘That didn’thappen.’ Then he does the archaeopteryxvoice again, even deeper this time. ‘Thotdodn’t hoppon.’I ask, ‘So who told you about the men,

Freddy K?’He wipes his nose on his sleeve. ‘Theother kids.’‘Kids where?’ I ask.He shrugs. ‘Everywhere. We talk aboutkilling grown-ups.’‘And why would you do that, Freddy?’asks Stephanie.‘What?’ he slumps again. ‘I’m tired.You’re being a weirdo, Steph. And you’rebeing a weirdo too, Hesketh. I don’t knowwhat you’re talking about. I want to lie onthe sofa and watch football.’I pick up one of the ship’s tiny solarpanels and hold it between finger andthumb. Stephanie stays perfectly still onthe sofa. She doesn’t blink. Just thenthere’s a sound in the hallway. The frontdoor opening, then closing shut. If

Stephanie registers it, she doesn’t let itshow. Her eyes stay concentrated onFreddy.Stephanie says urgently, ‘And how doyou feel when you and your friends talkabout how to kill grown-ups?’ Freddylooks up and crumples his empty crisppacket and grins slowly. Who is he now?His eyes are panes of blue light.‘It’s epic,’ he says. ‘We feel good.’And he smiles wider. You can see all histeeth and the gaps between.The door opens. It’s Kaitlin. She sees meright away. Her voice is cold. ‘Well helloeveryone.’Raindrops glitter in her hair.‘Hello Kaitlin,’ I say. She looks olderthan when I last saw her, three months

ago. But she is still beautiful and her hairis still messy and piled high, like a bird’snest. I see some grey in it now, at thetemples. She’s brandishing a bouquet ofwhite roses.‘Hi Mum,’ says Freddy. He’s looking inthe Lego box for a plastic cog.‘Hello pumpkin,’ says Kaitlin.Stephanie leaps to her feet. ‘Hey.Lovely that you’re back so early.’She reaches to touch her, but Kaitlinblocks it by flinging the bouquet and herhandbag on to the sofa, then turning herback to remove her raincoat. She isdressed differently from usual, in brightcolours: Jade Mist and Sea-Burst. I quoteSanderson, 1993. They hurt my retinas.Stephanie must have had an influence.‘Mum and Steph are lesbians,’ Freddy

tells me matter-of-factly, still rummaging.‘Mum didn’t used to be a lesbian but nowshe is. They sex each other.’There’s a silence. ‘Yes I heard aboutthat,’ I say. My throat feels very dry. Iwould like to run away and drink water. Ina café. A large bottle of it. With ice.Kaitlin says, ‘Well it’s a surprise to seeyou, Hesketh.’‘Not for me,’ says Freddy. ‘Steph toldme he was coming.’‘Did she now?’ She addressesStephanie in a voice I know well. ‘Has heeaten anything but crisps this afternoon?’‘Pooporooni pooza,’ says Freddy in thearchaeopteryx voice. I think of the messnot cleared up. ‘And the crisps was justone packet. I wanted salt and vinegar, butI got cheese and onion. So can I have

another?’‘No,’ says Kaitlin. ‘You know the rulesFreddy.’ Outside, a police siren wails inthe distance. Freddy mimics it: ‘Weewweew-weew-weew!Nee-naw, nee-naw!’‘How was your mother?’ asksStephanie, folding Kaitlin’s coat. She isgood at appearing calm.Kaitlin looks at me again and shakesher head, then addresses Stephanie.‘Actually, I never got there. The train wascancelled. It’s chaos out there. Have youheard anything?’ For a moment I thinkthings may work out after all. If there’s anexternal distraction it might deflect thetension.‘We haven’t seen the news,’ saysStephanie. ‘But there’s something wereally need to talk about. Freddy, perhaps

you could go upstairs so the grown-upscan have a chat.’ Her mouth shapes asmile, but her eyes don’t join in. ‘Me andMum and Hesketh.’Kaitlin’s face flushes. ‘Of course. I’mvery keen to hear what you have to say.Freddy, say goodbye to Hesketh.’‘Why can’t he stay and finish the arkwith me?’‘Because it’s not something we agreed.’I’m still holding the piece of Legobetween finger and thumb. Very slowly, Iput it down.Freddy persists: ‘So when can he comeagain? When? You have to say when.’She won’t make a scene in front of him.But I can see the fury. She doesn’t speak.‘Maybe we should work out anarrangement,’ says Stephanie evenly. ‘If

Freddy and Hesketh both want to see eachother, why don’t we agree that they spendtime together whenever Hesketh is intown?’Kaitlin flushes. I know that later shewill refer to this as an ‘ambush’.‘Cool!’ says Freddy.Kaitlin puts a forefinger to the bridge ofher nose: her default ‘stress’ gesture.‘We’ll talk about it.’ She claps herhands. ‘Come on, Freddy, up-up-up! I’mcounting to ten and then I’m coming up.One. Two. Three.’ When he has run offshe says angrily to Stephanie, ‘I’m notopposed to discussing it. I’m not amonster you know.’‘No one ever said you were,’ Stephaniereplies in a low voice. ‘But that’s notactually what this is about. Something’s

come up. That’s why Hesketh is here. It’surgent.’Kaitlin makes an impatient noise. ‘OK.But whatever it is, I’m talking to Freddyfirst.’ She raises her voice. ‘Nine, ten!Freddy, I’m coming!’‘I could do with a big drink,’ saysStephanie, when Kaitlin has disappearedupstairs. I tell her I could do with one too.We go through to the kitchen. Stephaniehunts about for a vase, but can’t find one,so she shoves the bouquet into the sink andruns some water. Kaitlin must have boughtthe flowers for her mother. I jettison theremains of our pizza and wipe the table.‘Now that you’ve shown your face here,and Freddy’s had his say, she’ll comeround,’ Stephanie continues, pulling a

ottle of Australian Shiraz from the winerack. ‘But in any case, given what he’sjust told us, all that’s going to take a backseat.’ She twists in the corkscrew – itshandle is a vine root, from a vineyard inPortugal – and pops out the cork. Shepours out three glasses, but we don’t waitfor Kaitlin. ‘Cheers.’The wine is excellent. It energises me.‘There’s no way Freddy can have knownabout Chen and Svensson and Farooq andde Vries,’ I say.‘Or the girl on the tower,’ she says,taking a large gulp and looking at me hard.I don’t say anything. But she won’t let itgo. ‘Come on, Hesketh. Was there really achild up there when de Vries jumped?’‘I don’t know.’She’s still looking at me. ‘That’s not

like you.’I drink some more wine and wait for thewarmth to spread. ‘I know what I think Isaw. I think I saw a child. The othersthought the same thing. I didn’t mention itin my statement because she vanished. Shewas just . . . gone. It was very hot upthere. And stressful.’‘Why didn’t you tell me about this inDubai?’‘I hadn’t processed it. I still haven’t.’There’s the sound of movementupstairs.‘She’ll be here in a minute. We’ll comeback to it,’ Stephanie says quickly. ‘Look,we can’t keep her in the dark. She needsto know everything. If what Freddy says istrue, then kids everywhere are discussinghow to kill people. So this is potentially

huge. It’ll expand and peak. In which case—’She’s cut short by a scream.There are moments in life – so few youcan count them – when time’s perspectiveseems to shift quite literally. In thosemoments, a second can last a minute, orfreeze to near-eternity. Soldiers know this.But homes can be war zones too.The scream is so grotesquely extendedthat it seems to require more air than twohuman lungs can contain. Shooting up fromthe table, Stephanie knocks over twoglasses and they crash to the floor,spattering wine everywhere.Finally, the screaming stops to anabrupt halt and there’s a brief silence.Then Kaitlin shouts, ‘NO! Freddy, don’t!

NO!’Then she shrieks. There’s a scramblingsound then a huge thud, followed bybanging. Then more thudding. We rushthrough to the hallway. Kaitlin’s lyinghalfway down the narrow staircase.There’s no sign of Freddy.Stephanie groans and says, ‘Oh myGod.’Everything about Kaitlin is wrong. Ifshe were origami, she would be a writeoff.She is trapped transversely on thestairs, with her legs splayed at an oddangle. Being vain, she would not like to beseen like this, with her staring white faceand her hair in a tangled cloud streakedwith grey. Her brightly coloured OceanicRange clothes, and the fact that her skirt

has flown up around her neck, disturb me.Her eyes are wide open, as if she’stransfixed. She doesn’t blink.Stephanie rushes over and cradles herhead. She presses her finger to Kaitlin’sneck and begins to whimper. I am about toask if Kaitlin is dead when somethingmakes me look up.A movement at the top of the stairs.‘Hey, Hesketh.’There, as rigid as a little Lego man,stands the boy I love.He still has a sore pink halo round hismouth where he licked the salt from hislips. He doesn’t seem to notice his motherlying sprawled and motionless on thestairs. Or Stephanie holding her head.‘I’m still hungry.’I can’t speak.

‘I said I’m hungry!’ he shouts. Then heshifts to the deep archaeopteryx voice.‘Hoskoth, oi sod oi om still hongra!’It’s a command.Due to the unexpectedly high number ofemergencies, we can respond only tolife-threatening situations. Check thatthe situation you are calling about islife-threatening. If it is not, you musthang up. If you stay on the line, your callwill be put in a queue.I lived in this house long enough toknow that normally at this time on aSunday there is a loose pattern of activityin the street. You’ll see the last shopperscoming home, the first cinema-goersheading out, a few kids on bikes andskateboards in the sinking light. But when

I go to the window I see only one person:a large woman standing in the middle ofthe street swinging her head heavily fromside to side. She seems distressed. A carswerves to avoid her. To confirm thatyour situation is urgent, press the hashbutton. I press it and begin to rock. Beaware that any hoax or non-urgent callswill result in prosecution. Please hold.Some narcotic music comes on: Irecognise Josef Strauss’ Sphärenklänge,The Music of the Spheres. If its intentionis to soothe, in my case it fails. I put thephone on loudspeaker, shove it in myjacket pocket, shut my eyes and visit thesame inner panic room I went to on theconstruction site in Dubai. I don’t knowhow long I stay there.‘Hesketh.’ It’s Stephanie. ‘Hesketh.

Look at me.’ I take a breath, open my eyes.‘Listen. I’m going to phone Felicity. Mysister. She’s a nurse. Get Freddydownstairs. Keep him in the kitchen tillthe ambulance arrives.’Yes. Freddy is not a stranger or atokoloshi. He is Freddy K and he ishungry and the part of me that can functioncan go and supervise him until helpcomes. Stephanie punches at her phoneand goes into the living-room.‘Come down now, Freddy!’ I shout. Hemust have gone back to his room. I shoutagain and he reappears. He looks verysmall. His face is flushed and pink. Iwonder if he has a fever. Might a feverexplain what has happened? What he did?‘Come down. You’ll have to step pastMum. We’ll get an ambulance for her. I’ll

make you spaghetti. Out in the kitchen.’He hesitates and says in a small voice,‘OK.’He looks disoriented as he picks hisway past his mother. He doesn’t stop tolook at her or glance back. He is pantingslightly by the time he reaches the bottomof the stairs. He glances from side to side,as if unfamiliar with his surroundings.‘This way.’ I put my hands on hisshoulders and march him into the kitchen,where a message interrupts the Strauss inmy jacket pocket: you are now numbertwenty-nine in the queue. I startcalculating, then give up. I don’t knowenough about the local healthcareinfrastructure to guess what numbertwenty-nine might mean, in waiting terms.‘Stay here,’ I tell Freddy.

‘OK,’ he whispers.Back in the hall, Stephanie has finishedher call. The muscles in her face aredrawn tight. I watch her lips move as shespeaks.‘My sister says we have to move her ormore blood will go to her head. We justhave to hope there’s no spinal injury.Come on. Let’s do it.’Wordlessly, we shift Kaitlin as thetinny music – in normal circumstances anoeuvre of distinctive beauty – cracklesaway in my pocket. The stairway isnarrow and manoeuvring Kaitlin’sunresponsive body is hard work. At onepoint, she kicks out, then goes limp again.A sign of life, surely: of a body stillresponding to the pump of blood. We layher in the recovery position.

Stephanie says, ‘My sister says it’s notjust Freddy. It’s other kids too. They’reattacking people.’ I begin moreimpossible calculations. Epidemics canadhere to certain models, but masshysteria can’t be mapped. ‘I’ll see toKaitlin and you deal with Freddy. Justkeep him right away from both of us.’When I go back into the kitchen Freddyis sitting on the floor with the contents of acardboard box spilled on to the tiles. Hisusual paraphernalia: empty toilet rolls,pigeon feathers, felt pens, paper clips,blobs of Blu-Tack. But he seems uncertainwhat to do with them, or even how tohandle them. It strikes me that he’s evenmore spatially confused than he seemedearlier. His eyes zigzag across the ceilingas if searching for something. He squints

at the light fixture, then opens his eyeswide and blinks repeatedly. He grabs atube of wood glue, clutches it to his chestand spins around on his bottom, like ahuman compass finding north. When hestops again, his face is completely blank.‘Freddy K?’Then out of the blue, he’s crying. Bigangry sobs that shake his small frame. Hisface is smeared with snot and tears. I stepover to him, crouch down, put my handson his shoulders. He falls against my chestand put his arms around my neck. We staylike that. I pat his back and he sobs.‘Freddy K, Freddy K, Freddy K,’ I say.‘Let’s sit at the table and talk about allthis. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I loveyou. We’ll work out what to do.’But for reasons I can’t fathom, this jolts

him into another mood. He pulls awayfrom me and leaps to his feet. ‘I’mhungry!’ I grab his shoulder: with a roughand surprisingly strong movement hesquirms free. ‘I said I’m hungry!’ Hisvoice wobbles, but it’s forceful. As ifthere’s anger in it. Or some kind ofviolence.I hunt in the food cupboard, find thespaghetti and think about sauce. Theminutiae will save me. Lipids, proteins,fibre, sodium. Ingredients: wheat flour,water. Put water in pan. Turn on gas.Bring to boil. At some point the Strauss isinterrupted by a voice and I speak tosomeone from the emergency services. Ianswer the questions she asks, assure herit’s serious, give the address, say can youhurry. Please hang up now sir. We are

doing our best. The hot water goes milkyand forms a gelatinous scum. Carbonara.He likes carbonara. I find a packet ofbacon. I tear it open with a blunt knife andget my hands covered in grease, whichbrings me to the edge of panic becausethere are certain textures I find it hard toendure. I throw it in a pan then separatethe yolks and whites of two eggs over thesink. I make what my mother would call ‘ahash’ of it. When I finish the sauce I mix itwith the spaghetti and put a plateful on thetable and point to it. I provide a bowl anda fork and knife and spoon and a glass ofmilk. I might vomit.He reaches for the salt and pours it onin a steady stream. Ssshhhhhhew. I don’tstop him. I feel an inner vertigo.Child One dreamed of a sparkling white

desert. Is that what he wants? Is hewaiting for something in the world to tip,something that will send civilisationhurtling back into a dark age of djinns andtrolls and tokoloshi and vengeful ghosts,of what Ashok called ‘fucking littlepeople’? Or forward into a new kind ofdarkness? What does the boy want? Hespills his milk. I don’t mop it up. I’m gladhe doesn’t say anything. What could therebe to say? He is a seven-year-old boywho falls asleep listening to CDs ofCaptain Underpants. He drops spaghettiall down his T-shirt and smears it all overhis mouth. I don’t tell him to wipe it. Bythe time the doorbell rings – ding-dong,kapow, aagh, kapow, aagh, kapow, aaagh– I am fighting down a ball in my throatthat is a stopper for noise. Perhaps

sobbing, perhaps cartoon noises.Stephanie opens up and I hear two menasking her questions, and the murmur ofher answers, and the sound of equipmentbeing manoeuvred. Freddy shows no signsof interest. I hear Stephanie talking indistress and then a man – Southeast Asian,possibly Malay – puts his head around thekitchen door. He seems shocked to see Ihave been cooking, but I point at Freddy.The man says, ‘Just to tell you we’reoff. We’re taking your friend Stephaniewith us, is that what you agreed?’ Hethinks I am Kaitlin’s husband. I see nopoint in correcting him. ‘Normally thiswould be a police matter. But they’resnowed under. I understand your son’scommitted a serious crime. That meanshe’ll go on the list and be assigned to a

Care Unit. In the meantime there’s acurfew on all kids below twelve. Thenet’s down, so I’d keep the radio on, if Iwere you, sir. Listen out forannouncements.’I look at the clock. It has been an hourand ten minutes since we found Kaitlin onthe stairs. I am not an expert in medicalcrises. But I estimate that this is far toolong for any good outcome to be likely.Forty seconds later the front door slamsshut and two minutes and fifteen secondsafter that the ambulance siren has startedup, nee-naw, nee-naw. And then I am leftalone with Freddy.A new timescale begins.I sense it will have different rules.

CHAPTER 9Freddy is still showing signs ofdisorientation when I send him to bed anhour later. For once he makes noobjection. Downstairs, I turn on the TV,but it isn’t working and the net’s stilldown, so I try the radio.The Home Office has ordered a curfew

on all children under twelve in the wakeof increased domestic violence acrossthe nation, and made a plea to allfamilies to stay calm but vigilant. Publichelplines are now open to those withconcerns, and the army has beenmobilised. Care Units to house disturbedpre-teens have been established in emptyoffice compounds and school premises,and the government’s emergencycommittee, COBRA, is meeting now toexpand the conversion programme.The news continues with reports of atrain crash near Leeds that has claimedmore than fifty lives.If it’s sabotage, I think, it will beplayed down. As will subsequentincidents. But whatever censorship theofficial media is subjected to, and

however strenuously commerce andindustry stifle evidence of their crises, thescale and nature of the phenomenon –which I would guess is peaking – must bepublic knowledge by now. I have littledoubt that social-networking sites arealready awash with potent theoriesinvoking alien invasion and thesupernatural.Of course Professor Whybray cameback from retirement. How could he resista job like this? And how can I? It may bea long time before I can return to Arran, tomy coastal walks and my dictionaries andmy origami hermit crab. But while theprospect of working alongside my mentor,on the biggest challenge of both ourcareers, fills me with excitement, there’sanxiety too. It centres on Freddy.

At five, Stephanie calls from the hospital.Kaitlin is still unconscious. There is a riskof more swelling and further bleeding intothe brain which may trigger seizures. Shehas been given drugs to reduce thechances of these secondary injuries.‘The hospital’s inundated. And thecasualties are still coming in. So she isn’tgetting the care she should. I’m spendingthe night here. I reported Freddy. Naomi’sfast-tracking him into the Care Unit inBattersea.’I feel a wash of relief. ProfessorWhybray and I will work on this. Wecan’t reverse what has happened. But wewill come to understand it. And then solveit.‘Hesketh. If Freddy acted in a fugue

state, it’s quite possible he won’t realisewhat he did. But if he does ask, we haveto think about what Kaitlin would want.’Stephanie says nothing for a while. Whenshe speaks again, it sounds as if she hasgathered herself. ‘Tell him it was anaccident and it wasn’t his fault.’Quickly, she wishes me luck withFreddy, and hangs up.I am planning to wait until the morning totalk to the boy, but when I go upstairs tocheck on him he’s still awake, pinkcheekedand feverish-looking, listening toa story on headphones. A small night lightilluminates his jumble of stuff: the bigLego crane lifting a basket of dinosaurs;his crude, lively paintings of animals andbattle scenes; the bulbous shapes in dirty

plasticine and cracked clay and a few ofthe origami models I folded for him: alobster, a flamingo, a turtle, some bigwater-bombs and Satoshi Kamiya’sfiendishly complex dragon. I turn off theCD, remove the headphones, get him to situp.He grins. Three gaps. Upper rightincisor, upper lateral incisor and lowercuspid.Human teeth develop in the womb, atembryo stage, long before they pushthrough the baby’s gums. All twenty milkteeth are lined up inside, long before birth.What else has been biding its time?‘Mum’s still unconscious,’ I tell him. ‘Thefall caused some bleeding inside her skull.We don’t know when she’ll wake up

again. Or if.’The smile disappears and his eyes openwide. His mouth struggles with words thatwon’t come. When they do, he’s clearlyconfused.‘But – but Hesketh. But. I mean, Mum.What did you say about . . .’He stops, then blinks and takes a deepshuddering breath. His body gives a briefspasm before settling. Then he sits up verystraight.‘Hello Hesketh.’Hello? ‘Freddy K? Did you hear what Isaid about Mum being in hospital?’‘Yeah. Cool.’ Cool? It can’t have sunkin properly. I wait some more. But nothingcomes.‘Freddy K?’His head gives a smallinvoluntary jerk.

‘Yep?’‘It was an accident. Not your fault.’Telling a lie turns out to be easier than Iimagined. Mental preparation helps.‘Why would it be?’ He seems genuinelypuzzled.‘Well Freddy K. You were there at thetop of the stairs. You were the only onethere with her when it happened.’ Withoutsaying it more clearly, I can’t say it moreclearly. ‘Do you remember that?’ Heshakes his head. ‘So you really don’tknow why she fell?’ He shakes his headagain. On an engagement scale of one toten, if one were not engaged at all, and tenwere extremely engaged, he would score azero. Professor Whybray would expectnotes. But I don’t even have a pen. ‘Doyou remember seeing her fall? Or –

making her fall, by pushing her?Accidentally?’He wipes his nose on his pyjamasleeve. ‘Nope.’‘A skull trauma is a serious injury.’ Hegrunts and shifts his pillow, bashing it intoa new shape. In case he hasn’t understood,I translate: ‘I mean it’s bad.’‘Was it before I had spaghetti? Orafter?’‘Before. Look, Stephanie and I don’twant you to worry about her.’He yawns and reaches for hisheadphones. ‘I’m not worrying. Can youput the CD back on again?’I’m about to get up to leave whensomething in the corner by the doorcatches my eye.‘That looks precarious,’ I say, pointing.

Freddy is a collector, and tins are alwaysuseful to a child with plenty of small itemsto store. So there’s nothing unusual in thefact that he has piled them high. What’sstrange is that he hasn’t processed them inhis usual meticulous way. Normally he’dsoak the emptied tins in hot water, peelingoff the paper labels and running the tinopeneraround the edges twice, to makesure none is jagged. But these are clearlyunopened. I see baked beans, ricepudding, pineapple chunks and varioussoups. I think: an embryonic stockpile.‘It’s the Leaning Tower of Pizza,’ hesays. He mentioned it earlier. Inconnection with de Vries. He said he hadit in his bedroom. ‘It’s not finished yet. Ineed more. It’s going to reach the ceiling.’‘Then you need to build the base

thicker. You need to work mathematically.There’s a rule. I’ll show you tomorrow.’ Igo and ruffle his hair, the way I used to.‘Goodnight, Freddy K.’‘Goodnooght,’ says the archaeopteryx.‘Sloop toight, Hoskoth.’I lie awake. It’s not a good sofa forsleeping on. I dislike physical upheaval.Staying anywhere other than my ownsurroundings requires inner resources I’munable to muster tonight. I kick about onthe sofa, then give up and shift to floorlevel, battling with cushions, shuffling mywide-awake legs. What if Kaitlin dies andFreddy is left motherless, as well asfatherless? He’ll be an orphan. Who willput the eleven raisins on his yoghurt? Whowill answer his questions about the

world? Somewhere out there, Freddy hasa biological father. Does the man evenknow he has a son? If Kaitlin doesn’trecover, Stephanie is unlikely to want totake her place, after what he did to hismother. In the absence of a birth father,might a de facto stepfather become theboy’s guardian?It has taken me a long time tounderstand what I want.Freddy needs a father. And I need to bethat man.The cry of the black guillemot wakes me. Ihave installed it as the ringtone on mymobile. It’s 7.18 on Thursday 27thSeptember. Stephanie and I weresupposed to meet Naomi Benjamin andProfessor Whybray at nine. That won’t be

happening.‘Can you get on Skype, Hesketh?’ It’sAshok’s PA, Belinda. ‘Sorry to call soearly.’‘I don’t know if I have a connection.Give me five minutes and I’ll get rightback to you if I can.’I go and check on Freddy, who is stillasleep, then put on coffee and start up mylaptop. The net is working again.Forecast: thundery showers andtemperatures varying between eighteenand eight degrees. Onscreen, Belinda’sface is pale and lacks definition. I adjustthe contrast, but it doesn’t help. Finally, Irealise that the issue is not technical. Thepresence or absence of make-up canchange a woman’s face dramatically.Belinda says, ‘Hesketh. Look, can you

come in and hold the fort? Ashok’s goingto be away for a few days. He’s dealingwith a family crisis.’‘No. Not today. I have a crisis of myown.’ I tell her what Freddy did toKaitlin.As she expresses her sympathy, hervoice falters. ‘OK. I’ll ring around somemore. I was starting with the staff whodon’t have families. I’ll try Stephanie.’‘Don’t bother. She’s at the hospital withKaitlin.’ I don’t explain why. ‘What’s upwith Ashok?’My question triggers tears. WhileBelinda sobs and apologises, I take a sipof coffee and wait. Thirty-four secondspass.‘He’s looking after his sister.’ I recallthe family photo on Ashok’s shelf, next to

my paper ozuru pecking at hole-puncherconfetti. The women and girls intraditional dress, the men and boys insuits.‘Last night, the two younger kids killedtheir dad with a kitchen knife.’‘Ashok’s sister is called Manju,’ Iremember. ‘It means sweet or snow ordewdrops.’ I’d asked him to explain theorigins of all their names.‘Hesketh, did you hear me? I said lastnight—’‘The sons are Birbal – that meansBrave Heart – and Jeevan, which meansLife. And Deepak. Lamp or Light. Thedaughter is Asha. Which translates asHope or Aspiration. Her husband is Amit,which means limitless or endless.’‘Well it’s Amit who’s dead. Her

youngest two killed him.’So Amit is not endless. He has beenmurdered by Lamp or Light and Hope orAspiration. She’s looking at mequestioningly.‘Dead. I see.’ There’s a silence. ‘I’msorry. I’m slow. It’s taking me a while to—’ I stop. More silence.‘Don’t worry,’ says Belinda gently. ‘Ican’t believe it either.’ She gulps. ‘I rangthe official helpline. All the kids’ attackshave to be reported. There’s a Families atRisk register. If you take Freddy to a CareUnit they’ll take charge of him during theday. That’s what Ashok’s doing withDeepak and Asha. They can’t guaranteemore than twelve hours because they don’thave enough staff or beds yet.’ I am tryingto muster a coherent reaction when

Belinda’s eye line shifts. ‘Anyway,Hesketh. Perhaps we should saygoodbye.’ I turn round: Freddy has enteredthe room, his hair ruffled, yawning.Belinda flashes her teeth in an unlikelysmile and uses a new voice, louder thanbefore, to say, ‘So, Hesketh. Ashok maycall you later. He’s working from hometoday.’ With another sidelong glance atFreddy she adds, ‘Good luck witheverything on the home front,’ beforeswitching herself off.On ‘the home front’ the boy is tired andgrumpy. I ask him if he wants to go back tobed for a couple more hours. No, he wantsto eat, he says. He wants porridge. Healso wants eggs. Scrambled. While I makethe porridge – the habitual movements of

pouring and stirring are soothing – I try tomake sense of what Belinda told me aboutAshok’s brother-in-law. But I can’t. All Ican picture is colours. A Desert Sandcarpet in Ashok’s sister’s home, stainedHeliotrope with blood. Freddy eats hisporridge ravenously and then, when Ipresent him with the scrambled eggs,pronounces: ‘That’s not enough. I wantmore.’‘Eat them and then decide.’The eggs are gone in seconds.‘I told you,’ he says. I switch toobservation mode. He still hasn’tmentioned his mother. He jumps downfrom his chair, swings open the door ofthe food cupboard, and pulls out a can oftuna. ‘Pass me the tin-opener,’ hecommands. A moment later he has

expertly opened the tin and is reaching forthe salt-grinder: a huge, heavy cast-ironthing that Kaitlin bought in a junk sale. Sheis a magpie that way. He can barely liftthe thing, but he persists, grinding far toomuch on to his plate of tuna. He devours itfast and messily. ‘Oi woont more. Oiwoont more.’ The deep throatyarchaeopteryx voice again. He makesshort work of a plateful of mashed potatowhich I find in the fridge and reheat in themicrowave. This he salts heavily. Hechews with concentrated haste. I don’tstop him. I just watch and take mentalnotes. I wonder if this counts asfieldwork.‘Freddy K. Did you know that lots ofsalt can be bad for you?’He laughs. ‘That’s like saying lots of

air can be bad for you!’‘No. Air and salt are different.’He looks at me, head cocked to oneside. ‘I’m not the weirdo! You are!’‘How?’‘Do you want to have the wrong kind ofblood?’This is interesting. ‘What’s the wrongkind of blood?’He gives me another sideways look, butdoesn’t answer. When I repeat thequestion he asks, ‘Why are you talkingabout blood? You’re a freakman,Hesketh.’I say, ‘You mentioned it first. Not me.You said, did I want to have the wrongkind of blood.’‘Is this a game or something?’‘No.’

‘Then you are a freakman. Can I watchTV before school?’‘Freddy K, you won’t be going toschool today.’‘Cool. Why not?’‘Because we’re waiting to hear abouthow Mum’s doing in hospital.’He stops and blinks. There is a threesecondpause. Then he says, ‘OK. Can Iwatch TV?’In normal life, Freddy would becomehysterical at the thought of his motherbeing in hospital.‘No.’ I don’t want to risk him seeing thenews. ‘Choose a DVD.’He scuttles out and to my surprisecomes back with a nature series aboutdesert life called The Dry World.I call Battersea. It’s permanently

engaged. The net connection hasdisappeared again. I text ProfessorWhybray – My stepson Freddy attackedhis mother last night. I plan to observehim until we meet – and join Freddy in theliving-room, where he’s alreadyengrossed in scorpions, snakes, cacti andscuttling rodents. He settles on the sofaand I throw a rug over him, and he says‘Foonk-you-fonk-you-fank-you’. For abrief moment I begin to think normalityhas returned. But when I fetch him a glassof milk and put it on the coffee table infront of him he reacts with a cry of alarm.‘Hey! What are you doing? I don’t wantthat white stuff!’‘Freddy K, Freddy K. Calm down. It’sjust milk. You usually drink it. What’swrong with it suddenly?’

He’s looking at it with fear and disgust.‘It might be poisonous!’ His alarm seemsquite genuine.‘It isn’t. Look.’ I take a sip to showhim, but he won’t be swayed. This too isodd.‘It isn’t poisonous to you becauseyou’re from the Old World. But we have adifferent kind of blood. We need Coke orSprite or Dr Pepper,’ he insists.Again, I think of Jonas’ hoard. Coca-Cola, Annika said. We.‘What do you mean, we?’‘Kids like me.’‘What kids like you?’‘I want something from a can.’‘Mum doesn’t buy them, you know that,’I tell him. ‘So it’s milk or nothing.’‘If you eat something poisonous you go

lind!’ he calls after me as I leave.Curious, that he should make a connectionbetween poisoning and blindness. Jonasalso mentioned blindness, when he wasraving in the hospital. He had good reasonto: his eyes were alarmingly infected.I leave him with the DVD blaring at thevolume he likes it and enter what used tobe my workroom. I know exactly what’sin the boxes. Books, a set of shavingthings, three pairs of shoes, some casualclothes. Origami supplies. All useful. I sitthere for a while, just rocking, then makefive ozuru in my head. I hesitate, thenslowly create a lotus flower for Kaitlin.She always liked those.Then I get to work.I arrange my thoughts best when I can

physically touch and shape each idea, andendow it with tangible dimensions. Mywhiteboard and my paper supplies,including the large sheets of colouredtracing paper I intend to use, are still inwhat used to be my cupboard. Thougheasier to set up and faster to manipulate,computer models offer none of the sensualgratification that paper does. Withinminutes I have made decisions about thebasic set categories, and picked a coloursystem that will not jar on me. Soonenough, new connections will revealthemselves, and I will move on tocombine the templates. I feel calm yetenergetic. My best state of mind. I have aproject. I’ve brought the radio with me: Ikeep it on as I work. Every five minutes Istop and call Battersea – I need to talk to

Professor Whybray – but the line’s stillbusy. I want to know if the kids there havementioned blindness, or having ‘different’blood, or expressed a fear of poisoning.Whether their physical examinations showanything unusual. Do they mention the OldWorld?At 11.18 I call Annika Svensson. I am inluck: she answers her phone after eighteenrings, breathless.‘How are you, Hesketh? Is it as badthere as it is here?’‘Numerically speaking, it will be worsehere because we have a much biggerpopulation.’‘I was just with my neighbour. She’sbeen going crazy. Her son attacked hissports teacher last night. With an ice

shovel.’Briefly, I fill her in on what happenedwith Farooq and de Vries in Dubai, andwhat Freddy did to his mother last night.She shows her shock and horror in atypically Scandinavian way, by expressingdenial: ‘No!’‘The kids who attacked have saltcravings like Jonas. Can you tell meexactly what else he kept in the gardenshed? You mentioned seaweed and jarsand sacks of grain and Coca-Cola.’‘Yes,’ she says, still breathless. ‘Whichhe never even liked. And these big lumpsof seaweed. God knows what he wantedthat for. It’s not all properly dried out, andit’s full of things that crawl around.’‘What else?’‘There was chocolate. And sacks of

nuts. I don’t know where he got hold ofthem. And lots of seed packets.’‘What kind?’‘Vegetables. All vegetables, differentkinds. Which is strange because he wasmuch more into flowers. Hollyhocks andlupins and sunflowers. He liked the tallones.’‘You mentioned grain before. Do youknow what kind?’‘It says on the sacks. They’re importedfrom India. Ara-something.’‘Amaranth.’‘That’s it. Does it mean anything toyou?’ she asks.‘It’s high in protein. Also in lysine,which you don’t get in most cereals. It’s arelative of pigweed. Its leaves can beeaten. It’s not suitable for making raised

eads, but you can make a flatbread. Washe into survivalism?’No, she insists. He wasn’t.After we say goodbye I picture her inher Bamboo-green jacket, with herwrinkled face and her teenage son Erik,and her going-crazy neighbour and herdead husband Jonas whose penis I sawresting on his thigh, and whose death Iwitnessed, who found beauty in tall things.Back in the living-room, Freddy is curledup on the sofa, asleep, with his bottom inthe air. The glass of milk is untouched.I spread my circles on the floor andbegin experimenting with sets. After a fewmoments, tenuous connections begin tomanifest.At 12.41 my phone rings.

‘Hesketh.’ That reedy, throaty voice.‘Professor Whybray.’ I could show himthese Venns and he would grasp themimmediately. We played chess together.Battled with crossword clues. He liked totalk. He especially enjoyed running thetheories of his rivals past me, to test myreaction. But he never minded silence.‘You still won’t call me Victor?’‘No.’He laughs. ‘Good.’‘Why?’‘It means you haven’t changed. Whichis excellent. Because I require you to beexactly the same Hesketh you were before.Phipps & Wexman are officially on board.You can start in Battersea tomorrow. Idon’t just want you on the team. I activelyneed you. And if you have any clones out

there, I need them too.’ He pauses.‘Remember those times you were goodenough to come to the hospital with me,when Helena was dying?’‘Of course.’ There was a lot of waiting.We’d sit on the plastic benches and he’dmake dark jokes about botched surgeryand hospital superbugs. When he went into see Helena or her consultant I bought usfood and drinks from vending machines.‘You know why I never broke down?’‘Because British men of yourgeneration and stature are traditionallyproud and don’t show their feelings inpublic.’‘That’s true. But mostly because youstuck to the facts and never sugar-coatedanything. That’s what this task requiresnow. Someone independent who won’t be

swayed by the culture.’‘You once said I probably wasn’t cutout for fieldwork.’‘Did I? Well. I was no doubt right. Butthis isn’t fieldwork. See the Care Unit as alab. And until you come in, treat Freddy’senvironment the same way. So. How’s theboy doing?’He’s still curled up in his pyjamas likea tiny hibernating animal. I reach for theTV blanket and arrange it over him. Hedoesn’t look like a child who tried to killhis mother. He doesn’t look like a boywho would discuss murder with hisfriends.‘His behaviour’s been atypical,’ I say,moving into the hallway out of earshot.‘There was a short period when heseemed to realise what he’d done. And

there was some distinct spatial confusion,just after he attacked her. Since then, he’sbeen nonchalant. But his thinking’sdisjointed. He doesn’t remember he didit.’‘That’s the classic pattern.’ He sighsand pauses. ‘There’s been terrible . . .barbarity in response to this. Almost acounter-epidemic triggered by panic. Andspread by social networking of course.All that’s exploded as you can imagine.It’s similar to what we saw in some of thecross-species disease scares. Mostparents are desperate for their kids to snapout of it and go back to normal. But so farwe haven’t seen a single case of that.Word’s spreading that there’s no cure.Even though there might well be, if we canjust find it.’

‘Secondary hysteria?’ Is that what hemeant by ‘the culture’? It’s good to bespeaking to the professor again. Toresume the old, effective patterns ofcommunication.‘Exactly. The police are reportingthey’ve come across parents driving theirchildren out to the motorway or into thecountryside and just . . . dumping them.There are already too many cases toprosecute. If we were equipped to haveall the kids in Care Units full-time thatwouldn’t be happening. But most of themhave to go home at night, if they liveanywhere near. A lot of families can’tcope with that. Especially if there aresiblings.’ He sighs. ‘Anyway, talk methrough the overlaps.’ Quickly, I runthrough Sunny Chen’s suicide drawings

and the new permutations of the Venns.‘Blood. Violence. Eyes. Salt. Some ofthe elements seem almost Biblical,’ hesays.‘Which begs the question: if it’s ashared narrative, are they collectively reenactingan old myth, or creating a newone?’‘Go on.’‘Well I’m wondering. The phenomenonstrikes me as going far beyond thephysical. There’s a collectivesubconscious at work here, and it hassome kind of ideology or metaphysics thatwe need to identify. But the anarchisttheory doesn’t convince me. And it isn’tterrorism as we know it. Even though Ipredict it won’t be long before thatword’s used.’

‘Well the human extinction lobby’shaving a field day, of course. BetterWithout Us is rejoicing. Any morepredictions?’ he asks.I have already flow-charted it. I amsure he has too.‘There will be many more cases ofsabotage than have been reported. If theycontinue, energy and communicationssystems will fail. And there’ll be foodshortages. Whatever disaster provisionsare in place will themselves be at risk ofrandom sabotage, so I see no grounds forwhatever optimism the government mayexpress. Regarding the children, the alienpossessiontheory will have started atgrassroots level some time ago, after thefirst few attacks.’ As I speak, I roll up mysleeve and inspect the flesh on my bicep.

The tiny finger-marks are still there. ‘Theidea will first be reported in the news asan unfortunate and misguided rumour. Butrepetition, especially if it comes fromsomeone in the public eye – most likely aso-called celebrity – will normalise andratify it.’‘Go on.’‘In either case, you can be quite sureit’s already in the public domain on somelevel. Superstition evolves with the times.So we’ll hear more about figures fromfolklore. But my hunch is that amongyounger generations, aliens will come todominate. They’re more current. Have anyof the children died yet?’‘Not in this country. But two inAmerica. They’re being autopsied now.’I tell him about Svensson’s anatomical

anomalies. ‘Any eye infections among thekids?’‘No, but as you’ve seen from theirattachment to sunglasses, they seem to feeltheir eyes are vulnerable. But pursue this.Stephanie’s out of the picture for now, Igather.’‘Yes. She and Kaitlin—’‘Don’t worry. I know the, er, context.No need to discuss.’Later, Stephanie calls to say she might bestaying at the hospital again, but she mightcome home. She’s not sure yet. There isno change in Kaitlin’s condition. ‘Theywant to take her home as soon as she’sstabilised. So I’m talking to the medics asmuch as I can, finding out what to expect.Getting skilled up.’ Her voice sounds very

strained. I wonder if she is telling me thefacts as they actually are, or as she wouldprefer them to be. There is often adiscrepancy. ‘I’ve agreed to help run agroup here in the hospital for bereavedfamilies. Crisis counselling. I’ve just heldmy first session.’ She pauses. ‘It was verydifficult for me professionally. In normalcircumstances, I’d be consideredcompromised.’ She halts again and I hearher take a breath. ‘I’m struggling, Hesketh.You should know that. After what Freddydid to her, whatever his reasons, orwhatever his illness, I’m never going to beunbiased. I can’t see him the way I did.’After she hangs up, I sit and think aboutthis.I used to imagine Kaitlin vanishing fromthe face of the earth, and me and Freddy

living in the cottage on the island. Wewould build and fly kites: proper ones thatwere not lopsided. Or boats, to float inrock pools on the beach. I’d teach himabout birds and we’d get a chart toidentify edible and non-edible fungi. We’dcook. He could go to the local school. If Ihad to travel on business for Phipps &Wexman, I could take him with me.This scenario used to comfort me.So why, when I conjure it now, do I geta lurch of vertigo?Back in the living-room, Freddy haswoken and is watching the DVD. I pause it– he doesn’t object – and I slide SunnyChen’s suicide drawings on to the coffeetable in front of him without comment.Then I press record on my little machine

and wait.His eyes quickly scan the page, left toright, top to bottom, and then back theother way, tracking the circle of thenecklace, the ‘all-seeing’ eye and the neatlittle hand-print in the bottom right corner.I say, ‘Who drew this?’‘One of us.’Freddy puts his own hand over theprint. It’s a perfect fit.‘Who’s us?’He shrugs. ‘Us is us.’‘Children?’ He nods.‘And what about this shape here?’ I pullthe necklace out of my jacket pocket andput it on the table next to the drawing.‘You made this for Stephanie. Frompapier mâché. It’s just the same, see?’‘It’s bones.’

‘What do you mean, bones?’I recognise the shudder that runs throughhis body because I’ve seen it before. Itdenotes a mental switch. ‘Why are wetalking about bones? You’re being aweirdo, Hesketh.’‘But Freddy K, you just said—’He slams the crayon down. ‘Why areyou asking me all this blibber-blobber?All this lap-sap? What’s the matter withyou?’Blibber-blobber is a Freddy-word.Lap-sap is not. Jonas Svensson used it.He called me a ‘fucking grown-up’ and‘fucki ng lap-sap.’ This can’t be acoincidence.‘Freddy K, Freddy K, Freddy K.Because I want to know the answers.’ Idon’t care how angry he gets. I need to get

him out of this.‘Well I like it better when you just shutup and don’t say anything, freakman!’ Hetips out all the pencils and they roll acrossthe table.‘So the other kids. Where are theynow?’‘How should I know?’ Is he angrybecause he can’t remember, or becausehe’s confused? Or both? ‘They’reeverywhere!’I’d like to switch him off and thenswitch him back on again, forcing a basicreconfigurement. He’s still Freddy, buthe’s not functioning normally.Is he still Freddy?Would I stake my sanity on it?I go online. There are almost too many

options to choose from on the BBC’shome page. Follow us on Twitter. Send usyour stories and pictures. CrisisHelpline numbers. Watch live CCTVfeeds from your area. Worldwide, theattacks by children have lessened due toincreased vigilance on the part of parents,but the UK government has urged allfamilies with young children to observethe curfew and remain on the alert. It’sestimated that as many as one family infour is affected. Religious leaders areappealing for calm, and urging theirfollowers to pray for the children.There is nothing from the ophthalmologistin my inbox, but the renal expert Ashokhired as a consultant has sent her responseto Svensson’s autopsy. In it, she reports

that firstly, Svensson’s eye infection at thetime of death is highly unlikely to berelated to his renal anomaly. Multiplekidneys, she writes, are by no meansunprecedented. The phenomenon isdocumented to be increasing globally,particularly in coastal regions. A recent(disputed) hypothesis points to an‘evolutionary shift’ to cope withincreased salt levels due to the Earth’saccelerated water cycle, as alreadydocumented in many animal species.However, it is noteworthy that thesubject’s two supernumerary kidneys aresignificantly smaller, and in significantlybetter condition, than the ‘parent’kidneys, which are unremarkable for amale of this age.Unless the other autopsies show similar

anomalies, this information is unlikely toshed any light on matters, but I forward themail to Professor Whybray, Ashok andStephanie anyway.Naomi Benjamin has sent meBattersea’s standard admission form: itpoints out my legal requirement, as parentor guardian of the child, to accompany himslash her to and from the Care Unitaccording to the schedule agreed by theManager on arrival. The parent slashguardian must agree to supply the child’sdoctor’s name, address and practice codein order to obtain his slash her medicaldossier. Recent height and weightmeasurements of the child should also beprovided if possible. Each day-visitingchild will be provided with two uniforms.NB. Adult volunteers are welcome,

especially those with medical skills or abackground in psychology.Freddy’s height chart is still in thekitchen, with little Post-its showing hisage and weight on certain dates. Kaitlinused to record it every six months: on hisbirthday in January and his ‘half-birthday’in July. Not for the first time, I wonderabout his biological father. Whenever thathappens, my heartbeat alters pace. Howcould a man opt out of his responsibilitiesin this way?Or did Kaitlin never tell him?The former is wrong. The latter isimmoral.Why can’t I be Freddy’s real father?I fold three water-bombs.While I’m completing the form, Stephanie

calls again. She sounds exhausted, anddescribes her work with the familysupport group as ‘extremely distressing’. Itell her about Freddy’s behaviour, and thenature of our recent conversations. But shedoesn’t probe deeper.‘Are you avoiding him?’ I ask.‘Yes. Since you ask.’ She sounds verytense.‘Well that’s unfair. He’s just a boy.’She sighs heavily. ‘Tonight I’ll comehome and the three of us will talk.’‘Good. We need to.’For the rest of the day Freddy seemslistless, and is mostly silent. I can’t lurehim into conversation, so I let him watchfour Dry Worlds in a row.Stephanie comes home at six. Her eyes are

ed and when she takes off her jacket I cansee her shoulder blades through hersweater.‘Freddy’s in his bedroom,’ I tell her.She flops on to the sofa. ‘I’ll call himdown.’‘No. Don’t.’ Her voice is very flat. Ican’t read her.‘Why not?’‘Hesketh, Freddy needs to leave.’‘Why?’‘Because when Kaitlin comes home, Idon’t want him anywhere near her.’‘That’s not for you to decide. He liveshere. You can’t say that.’ I have notstopped hating her.‘Yes I can.’‘No. It’s up to Kaitlin. She can decideas soon as she wakes up. I’m going to call

Freddy down,’ I say. ‘You need to seehim.’‘No!’ she says sharply, sitting up. ‘No.No. Not now. Hesketh. Listen to me. She’snot waking up. Ever. Not properly,anyway. It’s what they call a severe insultto the brain. Common in closed headinjuries. It’s inoperable.’She breaks down.I watch as her body shudders with sobs.She reaches for a cushion and holds itagainst her belly, as though she has beenshot there and is staunching the blood.With some reluctance, I go and sit nextto her, and deploy Ashok’s strategy. But Idon’t feel comfortable with it. After awhile, she recovers a little and apologisesand relinquishes her cushion. I stop pattingher bony shoulder and fetch her a glass of

water; she thanks me for it and she drinksit down. Then she reaches in her handbag,hands me a transparent file of printedpapers and abruptly disappears upstairs.A moment later I hear the bath running.There are seven printed sheets. Normallywhen I am presented with any kind of textI scan it in its entirety, and memorise whatI deem to be its crucial elements. But onthis occasion I don’t read beyond the firstset of bullet points. It is headed: SevereTraumatic Brain Injury: What to Expect.I think about Kaitlin’s brain. A brain Ionce enjoyed knowing, along with thebody that housed it, but then stoppedknowing: a brain now traumaticallyinjured and severely insulted. Kaitlin’sbrain is no longer the same. Personality

changes often occur in patients whorecover cognitive function.Insult. The word – suggesting violentdamage – is well chosen.What happens to the rules of love whena person changes?Are mother and son still the samepeople?I will always love Freddy, I willalways love Freddy, I will always loveFreddy.Out of Page One I make a butterfly. AndPage Two becomes a frog.I will love him no matter what.

CHAPTER 10Friday 28th September. I wake at 6.18.The net’s working. Forecast: partly cloudyskies, a low front shifting westward, slightchance of rain. High of sixteen, droppingto twelve at night. The ophthalmologisthas sent me her analysis of the autopsyreport: I make a mental note of the

information it contains.I’d anticipated speaking to Stephaniebefore Freddy wakes, but she has alreadyleft. There is a brief note on the kitchentable next to the butterfly and the froginforming me that she will return Kaitlin’scar tonight, after which it is mine. Shesigns it with an S, and a PS wishing me‘all the best’.People can be very unspecific, whenthey are distracted.I unfold the two origami figures, read theinformation about brain injury andmentally file it. It’s geared to the nonmedicalreader, and neutral in tone. Butwhen I rise from the table I’m aware of anextra weight on my shoulders. It’s a veryphysical and concrete sensation, like the

pull of a fifteen-kilogram rucksack. Thisgives me pause for thought. For a man ofmy size, fifteen kilograms is bearable. Ionce loved Kaitlin. But Freddy’s love forher is active and current. So, I mustpresume, is Stephanie’s. Each, in theirown way, is an unknown quantity: Freddybecause his reality is inexplicably‘suspended’, and Stephanie because Idon’t know her well enough to be able topredict her reaction – though to judge fromElisabeth Kübler-Ross’s description ofthe grief cycle in her seminal work OnDeath and Dying, she is likely to gothrough a process similar to that of abereavement, but with additionalcomplexities stemming from the fact thatKaitlin is not actually dead. This processwill doubtless involve the classic phases

of denial, anger, bargaining, depressionand acceptance. But in what combinationswill these manifest, and in what order? Iwould expect her assessment mechanismsto be severely compromised and hervolatility to increase. She has alreadyexpressed hostility to Freddy.‘Which is irrational. Stephanie mustrealise that: she’s a psychologist. Herresentment has no logical foundation,’ Itell Ashok. I’ve managed to reach him onSkype. His hair, normally sleek with gel,is sticking up in odd tufts, giving him anagitated, vagrant look. He shakes his head.‘That’s what the textbook says,Maestro. But like I’ve been trying to tellyou, the rest of us are way off the pagehere. I’m ready to personally strangle

those two little shits who just destroyedmy sister’s entire life. And I’m feelingless forgiving with every hour that goesby. This is one fucked-up mess.’‘You’re still a little manic, Ashok.’‘Sure. Sure I’m manic. What the fuck.What else can I be?’‘There are a number of options.’‘Yeah, well you do your thing, Spock,and I’ll do mine. Either way, we’reoperating in a whole new dimensionhere.’ In quantum mechanics, the mostadvanced theories are counter-intuitive, Ithink. ‘How’s Kaitlin?’ I tell him theprognosis. ‘Jeez man.’‘Stephanie’s still with her in thehospital.’‘I didn’t think you guys socialised.’‘We don’t. But Stephanie and Kaitlin

did. In a manner of speaking.’ I shut myeyes and tell him the rest, quickly andconcisely. I am glad I practised it.‘Wow. That’s some heavy stuff. Jesus,if I’d known, I’d never have sent her toDubai.’‘It worked out. I got to see Freddy.’‘And you’re not regretting that?’‘Why would I be?’ I don’t alwaysunderstand Ashok.‘Forget it. I need more coffee. Hang onin there.’ Ashok moves the laptop and Iget to see the vast kitchen of his apartment,full of high-sided pots, cast-iron skillets,bamboo steamers, stainless-steel tongs,sieves, colanders and industrial-lookingscales. I watch him load his espressomachine. ‘You heard about that planecrash in France this morning? Sabotage.

It’s everywhere. It’s being played down.But it’s happening. You’ve seen the news.If you and Old Man Whybray are right,and this is one epidemic and not two, thenwe’re dealing with a whole new worldout there. I mean, can you believe whatthose kids did? My own flesh and blood,for fuck’s sake!’ Manju walks in to saydinner’s ready and finds Amit bleeding todeath on the carpet. The kids are justsitting on the sofa, watching, like he’s theTV. They’re drinking Coke and snackingon those mini-poppadoms. He’s gaspingand then he’s dead. Snacking for Christ’ssake, like nothing’s wrong!’ A jet of steamshoots from his machine: he removes thecoffee cup with a yell of irritation. ‘Hewasn’t a bad dad. He took them on greatholidays, bought them all the expensive

crap they wanted. There’s no way hedeserved having his throat cut with afucking kitchen knife.’‘It’s random. You know that.’‘I know that. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He’sspilled his coffee and burned himself. Hejumps about, yelling and flapping hishand. ‘Look at me. Jeez. This is nothing.Nothing! You think I’m manic? Youshould see Manju. She’s climbing thewalls.’ He starts mopping up the coffee. ‘Itook the kids to the Hendon Care Unit lastnight and handed them in. They’re keepingthem full-time. Turns out they do specialdeals on what they call multiples. Manjuwon’t go visit them. Older kids say theynever want to see them again. Our parentshave this crazy idea about taking themabroad and starting over. But I’m telling

you, they’ll feel differently when they seethem in that Care Unit. Those places, Jeezman. Imagine a trip to a fucking zoo.’‘What do you mean?’He hunches his shoulders and swingshis arms. ‘Picture the monkey cage. Hoohoo-hoo.These aren’t kids any more.They’re freaks from some other planet.Good luck working with Whybray. Butany meetings, we’re holding them here atHQ. There’s no way I’m setting foot inone of those places again.’Although Ashok has a tendency toexaggerate, I do recall Naomi Benjaminreferring to the unit environment as‘distressing’. Now I’m more keen thanever to observe the children for myself.The sight I caught of them on the screen inDubai, milling about in their red uniforms,

intrigued me.If Freddy and I were going on a trip to thezoo, which is what Ashok has suggested Iprepare for, I would take a bottle of waterand my camera and a book about fauna incase the zoo’s labelling system was substandardor inadequately informative, as isso often the case.‘Anyway what is this place?’ he asks.I look up from the map: I can’t rely onmy mobile’s GPS so I’ve been planningand memorising routes. ‘It’s called a CareUnit. It’s a place for kids who have to stayoff school for a while. The ones whoseparents or friends or family have hadaccidents like Mum did.’‘Cool!’ When Freddy grins hesometimes looks like the Cornish pixie on

page 392 of my illustrated compendium ofsupernatural traditions. Now is one ofthose times. There’s no repeat of hisearlier, brief distress about Kaitlin. But Isuspect it will come.I can’t raise a taxi, so the only option isfor me to walk and for Freddy to ride hissmall red bike. I took off the stabilisersand got him up and running as a cyclistjust before I left. He got the hang of it veryfast.It’s a dull day, with thick wads ofstratus cloud on the horizon, layered likeinsulation material. Apart from birdsong,it’s very quiet, with no planes overheadand very little traffic on the roads. Manycars are parked at skewed angles, as ifabandoned in a hurry. On eight occasionsa driver honks his horn at us. As we skirt

the vast orange ziggurat of Sainsbury’s, aman behind the wheel of a huge lorrywaves his arms angrily, as if to sweep usout of his line of vision. From a pedestrianpoint of view, the A308 is an unappealingstretch of road. Things improve on theA3220, but by the time Battersea Bridgecomes into view, we are getting tired andFreddy starts to complain that his legshurt, so I take the handlebars and stoopdown to push him from behind. Therucksack weight of his comatose mother –my psychosomatic grief symptom – is stillthere. I would like to have a discussionwith Elisabeth Kübler-Ross about thesignificance of this, and how sheenvisages it developing.On Battersea Bridge we stop on the

pedestrian walkway to sample thepanorama. Freddy rests on his bike andstares, but makes no comment when I pointout Albert Bridge to our left, downriver,the Physic Garden, and the Victorianlamp-posts that stud the bridge itself. TheThames is a dull brown, flecked withsilver. I see a man on a roof scanning thehorizon with binoculars, and make amental note to start carrying my own. Iestimate we are still 1.2 miles from ourdestination. No vehicles pass us, butthere’s a cluster of human figures on thefar side of the bridge, on the oppositewalkway, heading for the north side of theriver. As they come closer I make outthree adults and a child. Two men, onewoman. The child is a girl. I guess thatlike Freddy, she is being escorted. She is

taller, but not much older. Ten perhaps.Just as they are about to pass us, thechild stops. She looks up and her handflies to her brow, as if she is about to givea soldier’s salute. But it’s a fist she forms.Then quickly she opens up her hand like astretched starfish with fingers splayed,then closes it again just as rapidly. Twoseconds is all it takes. But it’s long enoughfor me to make a connection that tightensmy throat and precipitates an intense stormof thought.When I glance at Freddy he’s alreadyreturning the salute, closing his fist at eyelevel and then opening it.Within seconds, the little group haspassed us. I turn and stare at them. Thegirl doesn’t turn to look back, and Freddyis gazing at the river again.

‘Freddy K. That signal she gave you.That girl. You gave it back. What does itmean? What were you saying to eachother?’‘What are you talking about?’ I think ofthe ‘all-seeing eye’ on Sunny Chen’sdrawings: an eye with rays emerging fromit.‘She signalled to you and you signalledback. Like this.’ I show him. Again andthen again. My excitement is turning toagitation. I need an answer. Right now.‘What does this mean, Freddy K? Whatdoes this signal mean?’ I may be shouting.He shouts back. ‘You’re a freakman,Hesketh. I don’t know what you’re talkingabout.’‘She made a sign at you and you made asign back, I saw it! Like this!’ I imitate the

signal again. The sign of the eye.‘NO!’ he shouts. ‘I didn’t do anything!She didn’t do anything! I don’t even knowher!’ His face is pink and hot-looking withrage.I can’t tolerate lying. But I can’t provehe isn’t telling the truth.‘Come on.’ I start walking fast, foldingpaper mentally in an angry rhythm: asingle sheet that gets smaller and smallerand smaller, beyond the nine folds that arephysically possible, until it is a densecube. By the time I turn left on to theB305, Freddy’s whimpering. I don’t wanthim to cry.‘All right, Freddy K?’I reach down and hug him. The bikewobbles as he clings to me. I close myeyes. ‘It’s OK, Freddy K. I’m sorry I

shouted.’For the remainder of the journey, I pushhim on the bike.Apart from a very small sign on the outergate, Battersea Care Unit does not drawattention to itself. We park the bike undera fire escape. The building, set back fromthe road on an industrial estate, is awarehouse conversion spread over threefloors. The reception area is unmanned,but there’s a computer and clearinstructions regarding the electronicregistration system. The names HeskethLock and Frederick Kalifakidis arealready on a list marked SIGNING INTODAY. I tick the box to confirm ourarrival and scan in our identificationdocuments as prompted. I notice a CCTV

camera angled at us from the corner of theceiling. A message saying CLEAREDappears on the screen with a code number:5672. I am to use it to open the red doorand proceed with the child to the thirdfloorreception facility. We take the stairs.The walls are either bare brick or a milkyyellow that Dulux calls Sundance. Thethird floor is a large, airy spaceoverlooking an internal courtyard below,dominated by a spacious sandpit filledwith children.The swirl of cochineal bodies makesme think of swarming blood cells.Freddy is instantly galvanised.‘Hey, cool!’ He points at them and grinsand I see the dark-haired pixie from page392 again.There’s a lot of noise down there. The

ed uniforms consist of loose elasticatedtrousers and jackets that zip at the front.The children’s first names are stencilledon the back of the jackets in large blackletters. Many of them are much youngerthan Freddy. There is the usual racial mix,for London, with skin colours rangingfrom Ecru to Burnt Ebony. Many – thefair-haired kids especially – are wearingsunglasses. There is a slide and a set ofswings, but the kids aren’t using them.Those in the sandpit are diggingindustriously, raking its surface with theirbare hands, or just sitting and sifting sandthrough their fingers. Elsewhere, there aregroups clustered around the five rowantrees.‘And hey, look in there!’ Freddy hasturned, and he’s pointing to a room to our

left with a glass door, through which wecan see more red-clad kids circling, someat a run, others sauntering. When fishshoal, or birds flock, their movements aresimple to model mathematically. I canimagine the same models applying here.Elias Canetti’s classification of crowdscomes to mind too: the crowd alwayswants to grow; within the crowd there isequality; the crowd loves density; thecrowd needs direction. Two female staffin white jackets stand at the edge,supervising what is effectively a bio-massin a state of dynamic flux.‘Hello, Hesketh. And you must beFreddy Kalifakidis.’ We both turn. NaomiBenjamin is just as striking in the flesh asshe was on the screen. We shake hands.You couldn’t tell on Skype, but she’s a

few years older than me – perhaps earlyforties. Big dark eyes. Short, dark hair andfreckles. A short white jacket – it must bethe staff uniform – over a Coral Sunsetsweater and Charcoal jeans. ‘Freddy.’She squats to greet him at eye level, givingme a view of her impressive cleavage. Iwill inevitably stare at her breasts in aninappropriate manner. I may even bedoing so now. Kaitlin always accused meof being prone to this. ‘I’m Naomi.Welcome.’ She smiles and grooves formaround her mouth, which means she mustsmile a lot. But unlike me, Freddy isn’tinterested in Naomi Benjamin: he’smanoeuvring himself sideways in order toget a better look at the kids in the gymroom. ‘I’m going to take you to the nurse.She’ll ask you some questions and then

you can join the others. OK?’‘Yeah!’ He punches the air with hissmall fist. ‘Bye then, Hesketh.’ He doesn’tseem at all fazed. I feel a pang. Am I goingto lose him to this milling tribe so soon?‘In a while, Crocodile,’ I tell him.‘See you later, Constipator,’ he says.He changed the Alligator a year ago, aftera visit to the doctor.I turn and watch them walking offtogether.Naomi has a very firm-looking bottom.‘Can I let you in on something?’ says avoice in my ear. I whirl around. ‘Thereare advantages to being my age. Fewerdistractions.’‘Professor!’‘Hesketh!’

He clasps my hand. We shake long andhard, and then he hugs me. He’s wearing awhite jacket like Naomi’s. I am veryhappy to see him.‘Delighted to see you, boy. Are you stillvery keen on justice?’‘Is it something you turn your back on?’‘Then you’ll agree it’s not fair thatyou’re still looking like a pin-up whileI’ve turned into an old crock with anginaand varicose veins.’I can see that he has aged. But when hesmiles, he’s like a crinkled child. ‘Let megive you a quick tour.’ He drapes his armacross my shoulders just as he alwaysused to, and together we walk down thestairs. The Unit has been running for amonth, he explains. ‘But since Sunday, it’sbeen crisis management. There’s no

telling if it’s peaked. And there’s certainlyno keeping a lid on it any more. We figurethat if we can understand the syndrome,we can work out how to reverse it. Butit’s a race against time and right now,we’re losing.’ He glances at me sideways.‘In fact, I’ll be frank and tell you I’m nothopeful. Some of the other units areexperimenting with drugs. They’ve foundthey can suppress some of the symptoms.But these are strong medications withunpleasant side effects. They can’t be usedin the long term. And they don’t addressthe underlying cause. Whatever that is.’Freddy’s not having drugs, I think. Fullstop.At the bottom of the stairs he unlocksthe door with a card-swipe.‘Like a prison,’ I say. It’s just an

observation of fact, but the professor turnsand looks at me. His eyes are like theywere when Helena was dying: wild, withdilated irises. Have I made a gaffe?‘It i s a prison. A very necessary one.From which, as you can see, they can’tescape.’ I nod. It’s not quite sinking in thatFreddy’s becoming a prisoner. But Irealise it needs to, and that I must adjustmy perceptions accordingly. ‘We havearmy backup if we need it. But believeme, your boy’s safer in here than on theoutside. There’s quite a crackpotmovement developing. We’ve had stafftargeted too.’ His smile is a small joylesswince. ‘For aiding and abetting extraterrestrialsin their nefarious bid to rulethe world.’We enter the outdoor playground area,

where he waves at the three supervisingstaff: a thin, muscular young man – I sawhim before, on Skype – a girl of abouteighteen with one arm in a sling, a semishavedhead and a big red scar on herscalp and an older woman sitting on abench. All three have the same alert,flitting look you see on the faces ofbodyguards. ‘We have twenty medics butit’s nowhere near enough. The staff yousee here are volunteers. The young onethere: Hannah. She joined us straight fromhospital. Her sister Jodie killed both theirparents. They were all in the car. Kidgrabbed the wheel and forced them off theroad. You’d never guess she was amurderer, would you?’ He nods at a smallgirl with an angelic face and wildlymatted hair, sitting with a group of others

sifting sand through their fingers. ‘Noteveryone’s up to it. Some’ll stay a day anddecide they can’t handle it. Others don’teven last that long. Most parents wholeave their kids here can’t seem to getaway fast enough. They get emotionalwhen they see them like this.’ He stopsand chuckles suddenly. ‘Naomi let somenuns in yesterday. But it turned out theywere here to try out some sort ofexorcism. So that was the end of that.’He stops and puts up a finger: we standand listen for a moment. Some of thechildren are making low hooting noises.Others are clicking their tongues. Picturethe monkey cage. ‘Their languagedegrades very fast in here. You’ll hearsnatches of speech, but it’s prettyminimal.’

‘Glossolalia?’‘Except that I’m sure the soundsactually mean something. They’recommunicating. That’s one of the thingsI’d like you to investigate.’‘Freddy used a Cantonese wordyesterday,’ I tell him. ‘He said lap-sap. Itmeans rubbish. It’s possible he heard itfrom me. But I was surprised. One of thesaboteurs used it too.’ I wonder: Howlong before Freddy starts hooting andclicking like the others?Suddenly, the muscular man shouts,‘Hey, stop!’ and charges up to a small boywho has wandered over to the corner ofthe sandpit where he has lowered histrousers, apparently to defecate.‘That’s Flynn,’ says ProfessorWhybray. ‘He’s ex-army. Useful.’ Flynn

grabs the boy around the chest, hauls himup, and marches over to a door markedTOILETS. ‘We get a lot of that. In thedissociative state basic knowledge isabsent. Hygiene. Literacy. Speech. Takethat one there.’ He’s referring to a blonde,skinny girl aged about eight. She’sstanding still, with an alert and watchfullook, both hands poised in mid-air, herline of vision constantly shifting.Suddenly, she makes a swift grab into theair and closes her fist. ‘Hattie’s ournumber-one insect-catcher.’I think of Freddy eating woodlice.‘Does she—’ Just then the girl slamsher hand to her mouth and licks her palm.‘Strange, how when you spend timearound something, it comes to seem quitenormal. Excuse me,’ says the professor,

eaching in his pocket. ‘Phone call.’ Hewalks off to take it, stuffing a finger in hisother ear. On the other side of theplayground a door opens and a smallfigure enters.‘Freddy K!’ I call out. Naomi’sfollowing.He’s clad in a red suit too big for him.I’m expecting him to run up and greet me,but instead he peels away and heads forsome children squatting in a circle, allevidently focused on something. Withinseconds he has been absorbed into thecluster. Naomi joins me and we standwatching them. The clucking and hootingreminds me of the soft babble of hens. Asmall blonde girl seems to be theringleader of Freddy’s group: she’sclearly giving orders. Freddy looks

anxious, then joins the others in an oddmiming act involving furious diggingmovements.‘You’ll see a lot of role-play like thatin here,’ says Naomi. ‘Victor thinks itinvolves food. Hunter-gatherer stuff. Bythe way, Hesketh. I just wanted to say, I’mso sorry about Kaitlin. Poor Steph. She’sdevastated.’‘They’re lovers.’ I wasn’t planning tosay this. It just came out.‘I know.’‘So you’re a lesbian too?’She laughs. ‘I don’t see how thatfollows. As it happens, I’m not, no. As ifit’s your business.’Next I want to know if she has aboyfriend, but since this might beperceived as not being my business either

I ask, ‘Do you have children?’She shakes her head and makes a facethat might be either rueful or humorous: Iam not sure which. ‘Nope. And you knowwhat? Lately I’ve been pretty happy aboutthat.’ Is this what Freud called gallowshumour? ‘Look at them.’ She gestures atthem in a broad arc. ‘A new generation ofunhygienic, insect-eating murderers.That’s the population crisis sorted. Didyou know that condom sales have gonethrough the roof? And people are queuingup to get sterilised?’I do a mental flow chart. ‘Well it wouldcertainly be good for sustainability,’ I say,remembering some of my conversationwith the Swiss demographer. ‘But itwould be bad for the economy in the shortterm.’

She laughs. ‘A passion-killer on everyfront then.’I take another sideways look at herbreasts. D. D is good. ‘I haven’t lost thesexual urge myself.’‘So I see. Victor told me about yourunique skill set, as he called it. But weneed good staff and beggars can’t bechoosers.’ The grooves on either side ofher mouth reappear. I can’t fathom her.But I’d like to try kissing her. ProfessorWhybray comes back from his phone call.‘Some new data’s come in,’ he says. ‘Ineed to go and check it. Let’s meet in theObservation Room. Naomi, can you finishoff the tour? You can skip the staff roomand the dorms.’ And he is gone.I like Naomi. I also like what is insideher Coral Sunset sweater. Though if we

ecame intimate, we would have to have adiscussion about the palette of herwardrobe.‘The canteen.’ She points to a door onthe other side of the playground. Inside,about forty children are congregated atlong trestle tables, grabbing and jostling.They are wearing beige overalls overtheir uniforms, and scooping food directlyfrom unmarked tins into their mouths.‘They won’t use knives or forks,’ sheexplains.‘What’s in the tins?’‘A fresh, nutritious balanced diet inrecyclable ring-pull containers. The kidsinspect them quite thoroughly first. Ifone’s dented, they won’t touch it. Theyseem to know you can get botulism fromdamaged cans. Almost like an instinct.’

‘So on the one hand they’re anxiousabout food contamination. But on the otherthey’re happy to eat live, unwashedgrubs?’‘Welcome to our world,’ says Naomi.Her phone rings. She listens, then says,‘Christ. OK, I’m on my way.’ She finishesthe call. ‘Sorry, Hesketh. There’s been anincident.’‘You get a lot of those?’‘Too many to count. The ObservationRoom’s on the third floor. Catch youlater.’It’s spacious, with rows of seats facing amirrored window through which you cansee a roomful of twenty children.Microphones hang from the ceilings.‘You’ll find their interactions

emarkable,’ says Professor Whybray,turning from the control desk to greet me.He adjusts the volume and immediatelythere’s a cacophony of grunting, humming,tongue-clicking and hooting. Here andthere is what sounds like a word. ‘Recordas much as you like. You’ll be seeinggroups of twenty on a half-hour rotasystem.’‘What are the non-English languages ofthis cohort?’‘Arabic, Urdu, Gujarati, Polish,etcetera. I hereby appoint you BatterseaCare Unit’s Chief Linguistic Consultant.Among your other duties. Get started,boy.’I spend the rest of the day alone inObservation, taking notes. The staff

supervising the kids I’m observing have adesperate look, as if constantly aware ofthe menace the children represent. Iwonder how many of these youngsters arekillers. The atmosphere is one of barelycontrolled chaos. Freddy is in the lastgroup to occupy the room. It’s fouro’clock: he’s looking listless and isbeginning to yawn. Other parents arealready showing up to fetch day children.When the numbers thin further, I put myhead around the door of ProfessorWhybray’s office.‘I’m taking Freddy home now. He’swiped out.’‘Of course. Miranda’s got a car and shelives near Fulham. You’ll find her in theplayground. Ask her for a lift. Firstimpressions?’ He signals me to sit.

I pull up a seat and glance through mynotes. ‘Linguistically, the grammar’s verycrude. There’s no comprehensionproblem. In English I’ve heard over there,this way and fuck you. Lap-sap’s commonas a term of abuse. I heard dupek, whichmeans arsehole in Polish. I heard yallahthree times. It’s Arabic for hurry up, or go,or come on. Also ikenie. It’s Japanese. Itmeans sacrifice. I couldn’t work out thecontext. So we have a mish-mash of up tofifteen different languages. There’ll be awhole phrase here and there, but never awhole sentence. There’s a lot of signing.I’m trying to map it. But I’ve seen the eyegesture repeatedly, used as a greeting.Take a look at this.’ I open my laptop andshow him Sunny Chen’s suicide drawings.He points to the hand-print. ‘We see a

lot of kids making that mark,’ he says. ‘Inthe sand or on the walls. I hear from theHome Office that the police say it’s beenpopping up as graffiti in the last fewweeks. Always at child height.’‘And look at this eye.’ I point. ‘See thesimilarity to the eye gesture the kidsmake? Originally I thought it was an allseeingeye. Maybe a deity. But—’Naomi comes in and takes a chair.‘We lost three volunteers,’ sheannounces. ‘One of them seemed headedfor a full-blown breakdown.’ She glancesat the eye. ‘Hey, that’s interesting.’‘Why?’ asks Professor Whybray, alert.‘Because I just saw the psychiatrist’sreport on the Spanish twins. It said theyboth had the same nightmare, the morningbefore they attacked. It was about infected

eyes.’I jump up. ‘That fits!’‘How?’‘Because the ophthalmologist’s reporton Svensson raised the possibility of hiseye condition being connected to foodpoisoning. Apparently, some bacterialinfections that begin in the gut cancompromise the nasal cavity and putpressure on the optic orb, causing it toswell. If that swelling process isaggravated by bright light, it wouldexplain the sunglasses.’Naomi says, ‘So the signal denotesmembership of a kind of trauma club.Involving eyes that get infected and swelland then – what?’‘The word Jonas Svensson used waspop. If the eye infection’s untreated, and

exacerbated by intense sunlight, the eyecould effectively burst.’There’s silence as we consider this.Outside, the rain begins to fall, slammingagainst the picture window. Then Naomisays, ‘Since we’re into speculating,Victor. Have you tried out your BigTheory on Hesketh yet?’He hesitates. ‘I’d like to hear it,’ I say.‘OK. Maybe you’re quicker off themark than I am, Hesketh. But whereverthey think they’re living, it isn’t here. Thisbehaviour belongs to a very specificplace. A place they feel at home. Themore time they spend together here, themore they tune in, and the more time theyspend in the . . . other world.’Yes, I think. Freddy’s is another world.A parallel world with its own rules. A

world with no adults, no toilets, no freshfood, a world with its own landscape andprops, its minerals, its food sources, itsrites and rituals, its gestural password, itshierarchies, its own unassailableimperatives.Stephanie comes home late, exhausted.She heads straight for the kitchen, opens abottle of wine, and pours herself a glass.She nods at me. ‘Want one?’‘No. But there’s some dinner if youwant it.’‘I’ve brought you Kaitlin’s car,’ shesays, tossing me the keys.‘How about checking on Freddy? Hemight still be awake.’ He fell asleep onthe way home. When Miranda dropped usoff I woke him briefly to get him into the

house, then took him straight upstairs.‘No.’‘Why not?’‘Because I’m human, Hesketh. This ishard for me. Don’t expect miracles. Let’seat.’I’ve defrosted one of Kaitlin’saubergine bakes from the big freezer in thecellar. I hand Stephanie a plate. Weconsume our food in silence, not lookingat each other. But I can feel my angerbuilding.Finally I say. ‘He’s just a child. He wasin a dissociative fugue state when heattacked Kaitlin. Being a psychologistyou’ll be familiar with that? As in, he wasunaware of his own actions, and thereforenot entirely responsible for them?’ Shetoys with a forkful of food and doesn’t

answer. ‘He’s still Freddy. His DNAhasn’t altered. He’s the same boy.’ Shefinishes her glass of wine and poursherself another. ‘Take a brain scan andthere’ll be nothing new, nothing thatwasn’t there before. It’s a new phase.He’s talking less, that’s all.’She slams down her glass. ‘Christ, haveyou quite finished? Listen to yourself! Hetries to kill his mother and your onlyobservation is that he’s talking less? I’msorry Hesketh, but Freddy’s not the same.None of them are. You know that. Ifanyone’s deluding themselves here, it’syou.’‘No. That’s not in my nature.’‘Oh no?’ her face is flushed from thewine. Or rage. Or both. ‘Then how comeyou failed to include crucial information

in your Dubai report?’ She glares at me.‘Come on, Hesketh. The girl on theskyscraper site.’ She is right. I committedwhat is called a sin of omission. But Iknew I was doing it. I was fully aware. Idon’t speak. ‘And you still have thatbruise, don’t you?’ You’d think it wouldhave faded by now. But it’s as clear as afresh tattoo. ‘Which didn’t go in yourreport either. Have you told VictorWhybray that yet?’I look at the swirls of grease theaubergine has left on my plate and begin torock.Kaitlin used to call me ‘waterproof’,referring to the ‘impenetrable skin’ sheclaimed I had: a heavy rind that protectedand distanced me not just from her, but

from life itself. If I am ‘waterproof’ I amthankful for it now. But Stephanie’smention of Dubai unsettles me. She is rightto imply I am guilty of evasiveness. Orworse.I saw the child-sized figure.But was she or wasn’t she real? And ifshe scared de Vries and the others somuch, why didn’t she scare me?My contract with the world holds thatthere are no secrets we can’t unlock, withpersistence and time, because everythinghas a precedent. But now it is beginning toseem that there are two worlds: the worldI have known and inhabited all my life,and still cling to, and the world beneath it,which I have glimpsed through myth andlegend, but never perceived as a wholeand never believed to be anything other

than one of the multiple explanations mangives to ascribe meaning to his existence.But now this shadow-world – vivid,irrational, primitive – has begun to take agrip. Not just on those around me, butnow, in a way that defies all I know – onme.Awareness of the dividing line betweenfacts and conjecture, science and faith, ispart of my hard-wiring. Or has been. Ihave seen and studied the titanic power ofthe human mind to create and give succourto monsters.All I can conjecture is that whatever isshaking the foundations of the reality weknow, it is something we have summoned.

CHAPTER 11The practical side of looking after Freddywas never my forte, but when he joins mein the bathroom the next morning, afterI’ve emerged from the shower, it’s clearhe needs cleaning up. ‘Freddy K, you’dbetter wash your hair. And then brush it.It’s filthy. And it’s getting all matted.’

‘Mum does that.’I stop drying my hair and look at him.Has he forgotten what I told him? ThatKaitlin has brain damage and might notwake up again?I crouch down to his height and observehis freckles. ‘Well Freddy K, the thing is,Mum’s not here.’He shrugs and mutters, ‘Mum does it.’‘Freddy Kalifakidis. Aged seven. Oldenough to do it himself. Official.’He shouts: ‘I said Mum does it!’‘Freddy K, Freddy K, Freddy K. Whydo you think Mum isn’t here?’He shrugs. Then his lip wobbles. ‘I’mnot washing it. Or brushing it either.’ Hisvoice is shaky. ‘My mum does that. That’swhat my mum does. My mum. My mum.’I finger the tangled black mass of hair

on his head. ‘Freddy K. Mum’s inhospital. In fact, I’m going to visit herthere this morning to say hello from bothof us.’ Stephanie wants me to see theextent of the damage. Last night, duringour uncomfortable meal together, sheinsisted on it, and I acquiesced. ‘Do youremember why she’s there?’‘No!’ His eyes open wide, then squeezeshut. Big tears burst from the corners andtrickle down his cheeks. The slight curveof their surface magnifies the freckles. Hewipes his face with his hand. It comesaway covered in snot. ‘I don’t want you totell me, OK? So don’t tell me!’ he shouts.‘Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, don’t tellme!’ He covers his ears with his handsand a shudder works its way through hissmall frame.

I hug him. ‘OK. It’s OK, Freddy K. Wedon’t have to talk about it.’We do, of course. If not now, thensometime soon. He buries his face in mystomach, his body still racked with sobs.But when he pulls away after a fewmoments, he’s smiling.‘Oom not whooshing moi hoor! Ooomnot whooshing oot, oom not whooshingoot!’‘Well I’m glad you stopped crying,Freddy K.’He frowns. ‘I wasn’t crying. What areyou talking about?’‘You were crying, Freddy K.’ I lift himup, show him his face in the mirror andpoint out the tear tracks. They’re stillglistening. ‘See? We were talking aboutMum.’ I sit him down on the tiled surface

next to the basin. ‘We were talking abouthow ill she is. And you cried.’‘That wasn’t me.’ He leans across tothe basin, opens the tap, and splashes coldwater on his face.‘Who was it then?’ I ask, passing him atowel. He used to like applying theshaving foam to my face. I hand him thecan. He presses out a squirt of foam andpats it over my face, then puts a blob onhis own nose, just as he always used to. ‘Isaid, who was it then?’‘Who was what? What are you talkingabout?’I persist. ‘Who was it? You said theperson who got upset about Mum wasn’tyou.’But he’s adamant that he doesn’t knowwhat I’m talking about. A hole has formed

in his memory. I have lost him.I start to shave. I always start on the leftside and work my way up. Left chin.Awkward place under left lower lip.Upper left lip. Awkward bit under left ofnose. My father taught me to do this, justas I might one day teach Freddy.‘When do you start growing hair onyour face?’ he asks. ‘Does it itch?’And for a slice of time, it’s a normalSaturday 29th September and we are backin the world of who we once were. I amrinsing off the stubble and watching itspiral down the plughole and providingFreddy with information, and he is sittingby the washstand pulling grotesque facesin the mirror and mucking about withfoam. And then I am shampooing his hairand he is complaining about it stinging his

eyes and it is as if the clock has rewoundto five months ago and his mother isdownstairs listening to Any Answers onRadio 4 with a fully functioning anduninsulted brain.A light rain is falling. On the way to theUnit we pass a group of kids openlyscavenging in some dustbins near a miniroundabouton the A3304. Most are in T-shirts and jeans, but one stands out: she isclad in Battersea’s distinctive Empire reduniform. I tilt the rear-view mirror to lookat Freddy. He has a little DVD player inthe back and he’s been watching The DryWorld again, but I can hear he has pausedit: he’s watching the group intensely,twisting his head to stare back after wehave gone past. Some of the children have

tilted their faces to the sky and stand withtheir mouths open, catching raindrops.‘What is it, Freddy K?’‘Some of us can go wherever they like.Outside.’‘But so can you. In the playground. Andat home there’s the garden.’ He saysnothing, but folds his arms and juts out hislower lip. ‘Didn’t you like it thereyesterday? I saw you playing with Hattie.’The little insect-catcher.‘It wasn’t playing.’‘What was it then?’‘I have to do stuff for her.’‘What sort of stuff?’‘Just whatever she wants, that’s whatshe said. It’s a majd.’I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.‘Freddy K, do you know what majd

means?’I watch him in the rear-view mirror. Heshrugs. ‘Not really.’‘It’s an Arabic word. It means honour.’I’ve heard other children using it too. Italways has the ring of a threat. ‘Does itfeel like an honour, doing what Hattiesays?’ In the mirror, a look I don’trecognise crosses his face. Nervousness?Fear? ‘Freddy K? Do you know what anhonour is?’But he’s turned the DVD back on, andhe’s off in a world of lizards andscorpions. When I drop him off in theplayground, he doesn’t even turn to wavegoodbye.Half an hour later I’m at St Thomas’Hospital. The Reception area is milling

with people, most of them in what Iinterpret to be states of distress. Longqueues for specialist departments line thecorridors.It is one thing to know something. Butquite another to see it made flesh.Vegetable: a vitamin- and fibre-richedible plant product.Kaitlin is in a ward on the fifth floor.She’s lying on a high bed with railedsides, her head fastened in a paddedclamp that forces her to look straight up. Itis strange to see her in the daytime withoutmake-up. Her expression is so blank thather face seems more like a photographthan the real thing. Or it would, were it notfor the movement of her left eye, whichhas an energetic agenda of its own, itsgaze wandering about as though looking

for a place to settle. Her hair is no longerdark: it is five or six kinds of grey. Thischange must have occurred in the hospital.You hear about that, though mostly as aphenomenon in ghost stories about hauntedmansions with creaking doors. Her hairturned white overnight. A single lock,lighter than the rest – Pale Ash – snakesback from her forehead. I am reminded ofIndira Gandhi. Her skin shines clammily.It used to look like this just after sheapplied moisturiser. But I don’t think shehas done that now. She’d be incapable,and anyway, I’d smell it. Before Iofficially became a cuckold, I used to likekissing her forehead, then her cheek andthen her clavicle, before ‘working my waydown’ to more erogenous areas. Nothingcould tempt me to do such a thing now. A

snail-trail of saliva to one side of her chincatches the light. Stephanie smiles stifflyand wipes it off with a tissue. Kaitlindoesn’t react, though her left eye fastenson her briefly before veering off again.She is on a drip. Various other tubes snakeaway into plastic receptacles under thebed.‘Hello Kaitlin,’ I say. My voice catchesin my throat. Something’s blocking it.She doesn’t reply. I wasn’t expectingher to. But Stephanie has insisted I behaveas though she can understand. It is quiteclear to me that she can’t because she isthe human equivalent of a vitamin- andfibre-rich edible plant product.‘There darling,’ says Stephanie. ‘Look.It’s Hesketh.’ She strokes Kaitlin’s hand.When I used to picture Kaitlin and

Stephanie together, the images I conjuredmade me violent and ashamed andoverloaded. Not now. Stephanie is muchthinner than before, and there are newlines. She must have lost three kilos sincethis all began. We sit in silence for fourand a half minutes. All in all, there is littleto be had in the way of conversation. Idon’t feel anything. Maybe I will later.Maybe I won’t. An ex-lover becoming avegetable is not something you wouldthink to factor in, when flow-charting thefuture. Churchill was once asked what hemost feared, as Prime Minister. Hereplied: ‘Events.’I pull out some origami paper from mybriefcase – a deep strong purple calledThai Orchid – and begin a lotus flower.They were always Kaitlin’s favourite.

‘Freddy’s missing you,’ I tell her, as Ibegin folding. ‘I washed his hair thismorning. He’s fitting in well at the Unit. Ithink he’s enjoying it.’ I can’t think whatelse to tell her, so I carry on folding for awhile and when I have finished, I hold itup in front of her face to show her. ‘Thisis for you. A gift. Look, I’ll put it here,where you can see it. I’ll make you somemore at home, and Stephanie can bringthem in.’ Stephanie forces a smile.‘Freddy might make you something too.’But I do not say this with confidence, asI’d guess there’s less than a 5 per centchance of this happening.I place the lotus flower on top of one ofthe machines she’s attached to. Its lightsare winking green.‘That’s a nice gesture,’ whispers

Stephanie. ‘Thank you, Hesketh.’‘Well, goodbye then, Kaitlin,’ I say,when we have sat there another threeminutes. ‘Get plenty of rest. I’d better gonow. See how Freddy’s doing.’I am hoping that will be the end of it,but Stephanie follows me out into thecorridor.‘They’re letting her out soon. She’llneed round-the-clock care. My sister’sgoing to help me. Ashok’s agreed to giveme leave. So you and I have to discusswhere we go from here. My starting pointis, I refuse to put her in any more danger. Imeant what I said about Freddy. He can’tstay in that house.’I say, ‘Freddy’s a child. There’s no—’‘No danger? Were you about to sayFreddy’s no danger?’

I say, ‘Kaitlin won’t be at risk. I’ll bethere.’‘She was at risk before. You were therethen. The only thing that’s changed is thatshe’s now ten times more vulnerable.Christ, Hesketh. I thought if you saw her inthis state, you’d realise that.’ I watch hermouth as she speaks. Her lipstick is Plumand there is a little scrape of it on her leftincisor. ‘He nearly killed her. You’veseen for yourself what he did. She’s prettymuch a vegetable, Hesketh. Her life iseffectively over.’ I don’t say anything.‘And who’s to say he doesn’t go for youor me next?’‘He won’t.’ I turn to go. I have been inthis hospital for twenty-four minutes intotal and I am ready to leave.As I walk down the hospital corridor

she calls after me: ‘I heard today thatfifteen children have attacked a secondtime.’Humans cling to their hopes, ProfessorWhybray told me, when his wife wasdying. They forget their nightmares, ifthey can. Or at least refuse to relivethem. They tell themselves stories forcomfort.Is that what I am doing? I wonder, as Idrive back to Battersea through emptystreets. Or is Stephanie simply in thewrong? She wants to be loyal to Kaitlin.This involves trying to honour what shewould have wanted. But she has admittedherself that she is ‘finding it hard’. Eachtime I see her the tendons of her neck fanout more sharply from the clavicle. She

leaves early on her bike, long beforeFreddy wakes. She is still avoiding him,and doesn’t bother to pretend otherwise.She must be trying her best to quell herdistaste for the children, and not call themCreatures, like the public has begun to do.But later that night I overhear herspeaking to her sister on the phone. Andthat is the word she uses.She is right. Our awkward domesticarrangement cannot last.

CHAPTER 12‘It was a disgrace,’ Professor Whybrayfumes. ‘Human beings at their panickingand ineffectual worst.’ He’s talking aboutthe EU teleconference he participated inearlier this morning. He has anothermeeting later today at the Home Office.He looks tired: I wonder when he last

slept. ‘Posturing politicians, powerhungrybureaucrats, the press baying forblood, NATO doing some very shamefulmuscle-flexing, and scientific hubrislevels that were off the scale. Andeveryone wanting funding. Christ,Hesketh. Look at our species. Sevenbillion of us living in a fouled nest. Andnow this. If it is an anarchist uprising, it’ssucceeding. No wonder Better Without Usis doing so well.’He flicks on the news. Acutegastroenteritis in Venezuela has claimedup to a thousand lives. It’s been linked to‘organic substances’ traced to a breadfactory. The mass poisoning is beingtreated as an act of terrorism. A plane hascrashed in the United States, killing overthree hundred people. The disaster is

‘believed to be the work of anarchistsympathisers’. The wave of sabotageswhich has hit industry worldwide iscondemned by world leaders as ‘anobscene terror campaign’. In view of theincreasing disruptions, supermarkets willbe limiting sales of certain commodities toprevent a run on goods. A rationing systemis likely to be announced in the nearfuture. Meanwhile, a decrease in attacksby children in Britain, which mirrors amarked decline worldwide, has led tospeculation that that particular aspect ofthe pandemic has peaked. However, thereare new reports of violent childrenrunning wild and forming gangs of up tofifty strong.He sighs. ‘OK. The world these kidsare living in. What characterises it?’

‘They sleep a lot. Which perhapsindicates it’s a relatively safe place, inwhich they don’t fear being attacked bywild animals, or another tribe. They fearfood poisoning and eye infection. Weknow the wild groups on the coasts areeating seaweed and small soft-shelledcrabs. Ours are eating insects. They’refamiliar with tins. They have a saltcraving. Socially, there’s a stronghierarchical system. I’m hearingreferences to sacrifice and honour.Usually in a threatening context. Themerging of different languages issomething you might find if many cultureswere thrown together haphazardly. Freddytalks about the Old World. It’s the worldwe know, but the kids behave as if they’veleft it behind them. They also seem to have

a distaste for it. Contempt, even. The factthat they’re stockpiling food makes methink their mythology’s built around asurvival story of some kind. They’re veryconscious of being a community. An Us.’‘A Freudian interpretation wouldsuggest that they fled the Old Worldbecause on some level they felt they’dsinned and needed punishment,’ ProfessorWhybray proposes. ‘Perhaps it’s linked togrowing up: the fear of it. Or the urge to.They’re all pre-pubescent. Let’s say thefamily represents Eden. In destroying it,by attacking their relatives, they’ve castthemselves out and left the Old Worldbehind. Their freedom from adults is theirpunishment. Or reward, depending on howyou see it. So the question is, Heaven orHell?’

I say, ‘Pyjama Girl dreamed about abeautiful white desert that sparkled. Shesaid it looked like Heaven.’‘If it is, it’s a salty one. What have youcome up with on that front?’I glance at my notes. ‘The fact thatsalt’s been very dynamic of late. Saltlevels in most oceans have increaseddramatically over the last fifty years. Buteven more so in the last three or four.There are many countries that arereporting massive crystal deposits inlandbecause much of the water table is saltladen.Farmers have been battling it foryears. It comes to the surface by capillarytransport and when it evaporates, youhave whole deserts of it. In SouthAustralia there are already millions ofhectares where nothing will grow. They

call it the White Death.’ The professorshifts in his chair and winces in pain. Heslipped a disc after Helena died. It musthave left a legacy. I think for a moment.‘According to the renal specialist wholooked at Svensson’s autopsy,supernumerary kidneys are increasinglycommon in coastal regions. Freddy saidsomething about having a different kind ofblood. That makes me wonder if he’ssensing a physical anomaly in himselfwhich he interprets as haematological. Orif he’s imagining it so vividly that it feelsreal. So let’s hypothesise that the twoaffected groups believe they belong in ahighly saline environment. Meaning theycrave salt, and express a psychosomaticwithdrawal reflex when it’s absent.’‘It’s not altogether outlandish,’ says

Professor Whybray. ‘We’re talking aboutdramatically altered states, after all. Youjust have to look at them to see somethingradical has occurred to their whole mentallandscape. No reason why that shouldn’thave repercussions on the whole system.In fact, it might even be odd if it didn’t.My feeling is, if we can work out wherethese children believe they are, we’ll getto the bottom of who they are. Or rather,who they think they are. And who theythink w e are. Because it’s quite clearwe’re two quite different tribes.’ One sideof his mouth twists upward. ‘Each ofwhich believes its own reality to be thesupreme one. Quite a metaphysicalconundrum.’‘When Freddy talked about JonasSvensson’s death, he said, You made us

e born and then you made us live likethat,’ I say.‘So who was the you referring to?’‘I don’t know. That’s just the—’ I stopand blink. And then I see it. Of course. Iopen my laptop and pull up the Venn inwhich I’ve attempted to connect thesabotage cases. ‘This diagram. It’s amaelstrom. Too many overlaps.’ I point tothe jumble of circles. ‘The world ofindustry, the world of economics, theworld of work. Everything’sinterconnected. So any one of them mightbe the universal. But if you look at it froma child’s point of view, it’s obvious.’ Ipause as the realisation blossoms andspreads. I should have seen it before. ‘It’sthe world of adults. Grown-ups. They’reUs. And we’re Them. Sunny Chen said

they hate us. When he said they, I think hemeant children.’‘Which leads us to what conclusion?’asks Professor Whybray.I think for a moment. ‘That an unknownproportion of the world’s pre-teens havedeveloped not just a group consciousness,but a cultural narrative in which they seetheir own survival as dependent on thedestruction of a contemporary adultworld.’‘And that this collective will is tryingto force some monumental paradigm shiftin mankind’s relationship to itself. As aspecies?’There’s a shift in the atmospherebetween us. A tightening. A recognition.On the way out Professor Whybray claps a

hand on my shoulder. ‘Good work, boy.’I smile. ‘I’m thirty-six.’‘Well has the thirty-six-year-old boygot his car keys?’‘Isn’t it too early for your meeting?’ Itisn’t until two. Afterwards he’ll be joiningme and Ashok at Phipps & Wexman.‘Yes. But there’s something I want toshow you. Call it fieldwork.’Ten minutes later I’m at the wheel, andhe’s strapping himself in.‘Just like the old days, eh?’ he says.I don’t reply. It isn’t like the old days atall. We never did any fieldwork together.If, on the other hand, he is referring to ourvisits to the hospital all those years ago,the analogy is wide of the mark. Helena isdead and the professor has a new life inToronto and the world we once knew has

changed beyond all recognition. I start theignition. We drive in silence. After 1.3miles I break it by asking ProfessorWhybray if Toronto is still a city after hisown heart.He slaps his knees. ‘Excellent: apersonal question. Unprompted. Yes, son.I enjoy Toronto more than ever.’ Fired up,he enthuses about the metro system, theparks, the rich cultural life, the wide mixof races. And a ‘charming, elegant andextremely well-read’ lady auctioneer,whom he regularly meets for lunch at theArt Gallery of Ontario. ‘I know what Isaid when Helena died,’ he says. ‘And itremains true. But I didn’t bank on newthings happening. Different, but just asenriching in their way.’ He smiles. ‘Butthen that’s life, is it not, Hesketh? Expect

the unexpected. And then adapt. It wouldseem a wise adage under thecircumstances. Yet I note that in the midstof all this, you are still the same Hesketh.’‘What do you mean?’‘You’re obeying the speed limit.’‘It’s the law.’ But he has a valid point.Apart from army trucks, police cars,cyclists and the odd taxi, the streets we’redriving on are empty. Speeding cars willnot be a high priority for the police.‘Force of habit,’ I say.‘But are you really still the sameHesketh?’ he asks. ‘I’m talking about howlife has treated you on the personal front.’‘I thought Ashok filled you in.’‘You know how I feel about secondaryreports.’The rain starts up again and I turn on the

windscreen wipers. Their rhythm and thefact that we are not face to face helps meto tell him the story of the last three years.About meeting Kaitlin, and our lifetogether, and how it ended. How I neverplanned on being a father. Or technicallyspeaking a common-law stepfather. Or tobe even more precise, a common-law exstepfather.If such a thing exists. If herlegally trained brain were still functional,Kaitlin would be able to offerclarification.How Freddy changed my life, and howI fear losing him.‘These times are a true test ofparenthood,’ he says, when I havefinished. ‘And also of all the other bondsthat link the generations. Not many are upto it. I think you’re probably one of the

few, Hesketh. Hold on to that.’We’ve reached the centre now. It’s asdeserted as the rest of London. The rainhas eased off, and the sky is both brightand dark. There’s a double rainbowahead, with one foot in Covent Garden,the other to the west. The colours pulse, asif breathing. Near Waterloo BridgeProfessor Whybray touches me on the armand points.‘Over there.’On the other side of the river is amuddy sandbank dotted with the smallfigures of children. I count fifteen, butthere may be more hidden in the shadowsof the bridge. Some are up to their thighsin the river, peering into its brown water,as if searching for something. Others squatnear the river’s edge, their bare hands

thrust deep into the muddy sand. Somecan’t be older than six. Their clothes aresoaked through and streaked with mud.Two are stark naked. It’s low tide. Youcan smell the river’s heavy organic stench.He says, ‘Cross the bridge and we’lltake a closer look.’ I hesitate. I can see sixmore children now. Twenty-one.‘You knew they’d be here?’He smiles. ‘I work for the Home Office,remember. We’re tracking hundreds ofgroups. As are other . . . organisations.This group’s being picked up later thisafternoon. Come on, boy. Time for somefieldwork. The real thing.’I park on the bridge, which is desertedexcept for an empty bus. Together wedescend the steps. The rain is comingdown harder now.

‘Hey!’ calls a male voice. I glance up:a bulky cagouled figure is standing on thebroad concrete walkway above us.‘Watch out, there’s Creatures downthere!’ he calls, pointing.‘That’s why we’re here. We’re doing agovernment survey in this area,’ theprofessor calls back. ‘Thanks for thewarning, but it’s fine. We’re armed.’Armed? I am always amazed at howpeople I respect can become skilled liarsat the drop of a hat.‘We’ve got our own information if youwant to take a look,’ calls the man. He’swaving a map.‘Best keep it separate,’ says theprofessor. ‘But thanks for the offer.’‘Well you take care there. I’ll keep aneye,’ says the man. ‘There’s backup if you

need it.’‘That’s most kind. Much appreciated!’calls the professor. When we are out ofearshot he murmurs, ‘Like I said. They’regetting organised.’‘Vigilantes?’He shrugs. ‘You can call them that. Butthey tend to call themselves the public.’‘Why don’t they leave it to the army?’‘Would you, if you knew that the Forcesaren’t any less vulnerable to sabotage thanthe rest of the community? All it takes isfor one soldier to run amok with a gun.There was an incident yesterday. Anofficer with a stack of hand grenades. Fivepeople killed. It’s impossible to keep a lidon these things. I’m afraid word’s alreadyspread. In these circumstances socialnetworking’s more a curse than a

lessing.’As we approach, a couple of thechildren glance up at us, then turn back totheir activities, in the same way thatgrazing cows do when you enter a field.Engrossed in the business of foodgathering,they display neither fear norinterest. It’s no more than ten degreescentigrade, but they don’t seem to feel thecold. Every now and then, one of themstarts humming, and there’s an occasionalcry or grunt, but otherwise they are asilent group. They look peaceful andpeaceable. To describe them as ‘happy’or ‘contented’ might be going too far. Butthey give an impression of innocence. Notchildhood innocence, but the innocence ofwildlife.We’ve descended the concrete steps

and now we’re level with them. We areonly a couple of metres away from theclosest child, a little girl of about ninewith red curls and freckles. She’ssquatting in the sand in front of a deephole she has dug. With a pleased littlesqueak she pulls out a sand-worm andshoves it in her mouth. You can hear thegrit crunch between her teeth as shechews.‘Fascinating parallels,’ murmurs theprofessor. A boy a little further offsnatches something from the air and slamsit to his mouth. The rain sets up harder,plastering his hair to his face. He tips hishead back and opens his mouth, drinkingthe rainwater as it falls. We’re gettingsoaked. I pull up the collar of my jacket.Suddenly, I have a clear picture of how

two worlds can occupy the same space.Parallel existences. Minimal awareness. Iglance up at the South Bank walkway: thecagouled sentry nods back. He’s beenjoined by a second man, who also nods.Keeping an eye. I am not ungrateful fortheir presence.‘I’m curious about their speechcapability,’ murmurs the professor. ‘Let’sfind out. Come on.’ We approach thegroup with small steps, and soon we areright in the midst of them. The raincontinues to pour down. They pay it noheed, except to occasionally tip back theirheads to drink, like the first boy weobserved. Our height is a hindrance: on asignal from the professor, we crouchdown so we are at their eye level. I noticethat the little girl with red hair has turned

to look at him. I nudge him and he takes alook. He catches the girl’s eye and smiles.‘What’s your name?’ he asks. But shemakes no answer and goes back to herdigging.‘Fuck off, lap-sap,’ says a boy quietly.We swing round. He’s skinny and darkhaired.The professor’s face changes.Another boy, who is standing knee-deep inthe water, looks up. ‘Fuck off, lap-sap,’the first boy repeats. The second boycopies him. The intonation is exactly thesame, almost like something utteredautomatically in response to an adultpresence. Then from all around, a lowhumming sets up. First one voice, thenanother, then a whole chorus. A throaty,tuneless wall of sound. I remember thegirl on the skyscraper in Dubai, before de

Vries jumped. I say urgently, ‘ProfessorWhybray. We should go. Now.’He sighs. ‘Frustrating. But I supposeyou’re right. Let’s take it slow and easy.’That’s when I see that the red-hairedgirl is right next to him. Suddenly, shereaches out her small mud-flecked handand slips it into his. He stops, clearlyastonished. ‘Well look at this!’ he smiles,swinging their joined hands in delight. Butwithin seconds it becomes clear that it’snot companionship she’s after. It’ssomething else. With her other hand, shestarts fingering the cuff of his shirt, as iftrying to roll up his sleeve. ‘What do youwant?’ he asks her. ‘Do you want to comealong with us? You can come and stay atthe Unit. And your friends too.’She has undone the button, pushed up

his sleeve and is now examining hisforearm. It’s not clear why it’s of suchinterest to her. Then she lowers her face toit and sniffs.‘Let’s go,’ I urge. ‘This is a potentiallyvolatile situation.’But the professor doesn’t move. He’sfascinated. Or enchanted. The little girlopens her mouth to reveal her smalltongue and gently, but insistently, shebegins to lick his skin. Still no movementfrom the professor. He’s watching herintently. ‘She’s after the salt,’ hewhispers.‘Fuck off lap-sap,’ says one of the boyswho spoke earlier. The humming aroundus intensifies, punctuated with throatyclicking. The girl is still licking theprofessor’s arm, but now he stands up and

gently tries to prise her off. But she hangson, still licking.‘Fuck off lap-sap,’ the boy says again,and other voices join in, until it’s amounting chorus: ‘Fuck off lap-sap, fuckoff lap-sap, fuck off lap-sap.’Then, as if on an unspoken signal, theyare upon us, grabbing our arms and lickingour hands like little nuzzling animals. Thehumming is now a fierce, intense buzz. Weare bigger and taller and stronger thanthem, but they are all over us. Until now Ihaven’t felt vulnerable. But now I do. Justthen there’s a cry from somewhere aboveus. ‘Stand right back, sir!’ yells the man inthe cagoule. ‘And you! Both of you, getclear of them!’‘Come on!’ I call out to the professor. Ihave disencumbered myself and am

halfway to the steps. I see that he’s largelysucceeded in shaking off his own cluster,but when he kicks out to free himself fromthe last small hand he stumbles and falls tothe ground with a groan. I shoot forward,haul him up from the sand and drag himwith me towards the steps.‘Cover your faces and don’t inhale!’calls the cagouled man from above. We’realmost at the top of the steps whensomething hurtles past us and lands on thesandbank below. The children shriek andscatter. When we get to the top I seevapour spreading out from a canister.Tear gas.Below, the children are screaming.‘Best clear right off!’ calls the cagouledman, as we rush towards the safety of thecar. He’s with his companion: both are

donning face masks. I call out a breathlessthank you.As we drive off, in the rear mirror I seethe chemical vapour rising from the shore.I glance at the professor. His face iscrumpled and drained of colour. ‘I’dbetter get myself cleaned up,’ he murmurs,checking his watch. He turns and grinsvaliantly. ‘So. How did you enjoy yourfirst bit of fieldwork?’‘I didn’t. You could have been killed,Professor. I’m not a bodyguard.’ I driveon. Five minutes later I’m parking in frontof a faceless building off ParliamentSquare. ‘And you’re wrong,’ I tell him.‘It’s not like the old days.’Birds are hopping about on thepavement. Blackbirds, pigeons, asparrow.

He sighs and stares out at the sky. It’sstill raining.‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, Hesketh. Itwas an absurd thing to say. It was wishfulthinking, that’s all. To which, as youknow, I am highly prone.’ He looks at hishands. ‘I want you to think very hard aboutthis phenomenon, Hesketh. I want yourideas, however off-the-wall they mayseem.’ It’s time for his meeting. But heseems reluctant to leave the car.I’m still angry with him. I ask, ‘Why didyou want me working on this?’He takes a deep breath and exhalesslowly. ‘Because you understand thedifference between fairy stories and facts.Because you are a materialist who willnever be vulnerable to superstitiousbelief,’ he says.

‘The reason for that is that superstitiousbelief is extremely fanciful, Professor.And there’s no evidence to back it up.’‘You could say the same about thenotion of time travel, until Einstein’stheory of special relativity was throwninto question. For years, no one believedthat the dinosaurs became extinct becauseof a meteor. The idea was ridiculed. Antimatterwas derided when it was firstposited. So what if other theories nowhave to be reassessed?’ I glancesideways: he has covered his face withhis hands. When he speaks again, it isthrough the lattice of his fingers. ‘Not justtime, Hesketh, but space, and mankind’splace in both?’

CHAPTER 13‘Make me something I can hurl, man,’ saysAshok. ‘One of those water-bombs.’We’re in his office on the eighteenthfloor. Normally he’s proud of hispanoramic view, but when I came in hesaid, ‘Welcome to my aerial goddambunker.’

I slide some origami paper from thefront pocket of my briefcase and beginfolding. Through the picture windowopposite me, the familiar ancient–moderngeometry of London sprawls as far as theeye can see.‘I just heard from Belinda an hour ago.That fire back there.’ Ashok jerks histhumb back at the horizon, where abillowing discolouration of air in fifteenshades of black and grey indicates acolossal conflagration. The smokeexpands in the same way as a fast-growingfungus, sprouting new growth as it rises. Ithas great beauty. ‘Postal-sorting station.And someone’s sabotaged the watersupply in Manchester. So now there’sanother scare. And who knows how longthe oil stocks will last.’

I look out at the middle distance.Grubby skyscrapers. Domes and bridgesand riverboats and spires. The rigidcobweb of the London Eye.‘Earth hath not anything to show morefair,’ I quote for Ashok, making morefolds. Sometimes a line or two can cheerhim. ‘Dull would he be of soul who couldpass by a sight more touching in itsmajesty. Wordsworth.’I pass him the completed water-bomb.‘Huh.’ Ashok does not care for poetrytoday. ‘This thing. It’s worldwide, right?You see the implications? What you seeon the news, that’s just the tip of theiceberg. Factories at a standstill. Publictransport all but halted. Utilities operatingon red alert. Bang go imports, bang goexports, bang goes what remains of the

global economy, bang goes capitalismitself for Christ’s sake! We’ll be growingpotatoes on the rooftops next. Bartering.Keeping goats on balconies. Filteringrainwater and darning socks, like we’reall living in some wrist-slittingdocumentary about Ceausescu’s Romania.This is turning into a fucking war, man.The world’s most highly developednations watch like dorks as theirinfrastructures are trashed from within. Bya bunch of . . . random people claimingthey’ve been hijacked by supernaturalbeings. Who also happen to be kids.’Professor Whybray insisted he will stillbe joining us after his Home Officemeeting. And rather to my surprise,Stephanie has texted to say she is on herway.

‘I still wonder how random it really is,’I say.‘Come on. If the saboteurs all sharedsome weakness that made them vulnerableto this shit, someone would’ve spotted itby now. You and Whybray, for example.Or some other team some other place. Butthat hasn’t happened.’For a while, as I fold more waterbombs,we argue to and fro about the term‘grassroots terrorism’ that has become themedia term for the upheavals. I object to iton scientific and linguistic grounds.‘Sure,’ counters Ashok. ‘You can splithairs. But I say it’s looking and behavinglike a terror campaign, so we might aswell call it one. Ten plane crashes now.Fifteen trains. Food poisonings. Factoriesproducing fucked-up stuff, everything on

its knees. You heard about the arrests: allthose anarchist so-called ringleaders?Turns out they’re in the clear. As confusedas the rest of us. You and Whybray haveflow-charted this thing, right? Give me theworst-case.’I run through the more drasticpossibilities: restricted agriculture andmanufacture, diminished utilities, minimaltransport, little reliable news. Withforeign imports halted, Britain’s islandstatus will come into stark focus. Limitedand dwindling food supplies will lead tofurther looting, lawlessness, gang warfare,black marketeering and regionalism. Whenthe pandemic has run its course, daily lifewill eventually stabilise. But there will befundamental changes. Enforced curfews.Draconian laws. New safeguards for

industry. The opportunistic restructuringof institutions. Reinvented forms ofgovernment. A massive drop in the birthrate. A new focus on agricultural selfsufficiencyand more transparent forms ofcorporatism are also possible. Either way,the world will never be the same again. Iturn the origami paper and confirm thefirst set of creases. ‘But if it’s terrorism,that implies it’s co-ordinated,’ I finish. ‘Inwhich case, where’s the strategy, where’sthe communication, where’s thecoherence?’‘And what the hell’s the message?’storms Ashok. ‘Unless the aim is simply tobring civilisation to a halt and stopeverything in its tracks and . . . reverse allthe goddam progress man has ever madesince the Industrial Revolution. We’re

heading back to the Stone Age. At leastwith Iraq, or the Pacific rim after thetsunami, there were reconstructionopportunities.’‘We’ve got the Home Office contract.’‘Whoop-dee-do. Followed by what?The Transition to Planet Fucked contract?It’s not the kids that matter. It’s the factoryworkers, the farmers, the managers. Theadults, for Christ’s sake! Look what’shappening to growth! How can anything berebuilt, or even survive when industry’sbeing sabotaged on this kind of scale?’‘Anyone who believes in indefinitegrowth in anything physical, on aphysically finite planet, is either mad – oran economist.’‘Uh?’‘You asked a question. I replied with a

quotation. From one of JFK’s advisers.Kenneth Boulder. A wise man.’Stephanie arrives looking raddled, herhair wet from the rain.‘Half the roads are shut off. So whathave I missed?’ She’s shaking her hair andtaking off her raincoat, which is a greenthat Dulux calls Autumn Fern. She’s eventhinner than ever.She called Freddy K a creature.‘Oh, just the usual discussion of thedisintegration of the world as we knowit,’ mutters Ashok, bouncing my newlyfinished water-bomb in his palm, ‘andhow everything we thought we knew isbullshit because the rules have changed.Adapt or get screwed in the ass.’There’s a knock at the door: it opensand Professor Whybray appears.

Ashok waves him into a seat and asks,‘What’s new at the Home Office?’The lines on his forehead deepen as hesettles into a chair. ‘We had a briefingfrom the army. The ones running wild aremoving out of urban areas and into thecountryside. They’re going for woodland,mostly, where they can hide. In coastalregions they’re finding caves. A lot ofthem are living directly on the beaches.It’s unofficial for now. But the strategy isto house as many children as possible inone place. Other cities are taking a similarline. They’re converting the O2 building.’‘The Dome?’ asks Ashok. He grins. ‘Isaw Leonard Cohen play there. It has thecapacity, I guess. Ha. Britain’s biggestplaypen.’‘I advised against it. I don’t like the

way they’re headed with this. But there’vebeen some developments. In view ofwhich they feel they’re justified inrounding them up and keeping them lockedin.’‘What developments?’He waves some papers. ‘Firstly, someautopsies. Three children have now diedin British Units. Various natural causes.Nothing untoward for a cohort this size.Two had epileptic fits, one had anundiagnosed heart condition. And we’verecovered the corpses of seven childrenwho were probably murdered byvigilantes. I am sorry to say they weremutilated. But the autopsies of all of them– and there are similar cases documentedabroad – also show an anomaly of thekidneys.’ I look at him. ‘Yes. Similar to

what Svensson’s autopsy showed. In manycases the kidneys are simply larger. But ina surprisingly high number, there aremultiple organs. It’s too rare aphenomenon to be pure coincidence.Alongside that—’ he stops and frowns.‘I’ll show you.’ He flips open a folder.‘It’s utterly baffling. There’s just no wayto explain it.’ They are medical records.Names of children. Their birth dates.Their height and weight measurements.Various dates. And in each case, a graphthat defies logic. ‘We’ve been trackingthem.’I run my eyes across the charts again,one by one, then hand them to Stephanie.She takes a moment to absorb them, thenasks, ‘And these are otherwise healthychildren?’ He nods. ‘Could there be a

mistake?’‘No. Staff at sixteen other UK Unitsconfirm it. Others do worldwide. It’s notbeen made public yet, but it will be outthere soon enough.’ He puts his head in hishands.I ask, ‘Why aren’t they growing?’‘Not growing?’ asks Ashok. ‘What,none of them?’‘That’s what these figures show.They’re all exactly the same height andweight they were a month ago. In manycases longer than that.’‘But if that’s the case—’ I stop. ‘Thenwhat?’‘Arrested development?’ asksStephanie.‘But that’s crazy!’ says Ashok. ‘Sowhat happens, they just . . . stay this size?

They’re children for ever, like Peterfucking Pan?’The professor shakes his head. ‘Theycould start growing again any time. Orhave a sudden spurt. I’m getting somenutritionists on to the team at Battersea.Let’s see what they can do. But in themeantime, we have a problem that goesbeyond health. As in, ethical. Political.Moral.’Stephanie says, ‘I don’t see how amedical oddity can alter policy.’‘Me neither,’ says Ashok.Professor Whybray sighs heavily andlooks at me. ‘You’d better explain.’‘It’s cultural. Anthropologically, thechildren already fit into the barbariancategory. The unknown and fearedoutsiders. They’re seen as dirty and

diseased and backward. This medicalevidence – the kidney anomalies and thefact they’re not developing normally –suggests they might actually be differentbiologically. It’s not a small step fromthere to argue that they’re not strictlyhuman.’ I address Stephanie. ‘Intelligentpeople are already calling them mutants.’ Ipause. ‘Or creatures.’ She flushes. ‘Ifthey’re in a separate species category,they don’t have the same rights.’Ashok says, ‘Shit.’Stephanie has been very quiet. Now shesends me a look, and makes the smalldistinctive head movement – a raising ofthe chin, a widening of the eyes – which Ihave come to recognise as her version of asilent command.But I don’t respond.

‘Hesketh,’ she says evenly, ‘I think thismight be the moment to tell them whatyou’ve been holding back.’ I reach for asheet of paper. I feel ambushed. But Ican’t lie. Nor can I even try. Stephanie isstill looking at me.‘What’s going on here?’ says Ashok. ‘Ifthis is some personal bullshit between youtwo over Kaitlin—’‘No,’ says Stephanie. ‘It’s not personal,Ashok.’Professor Whybray says, ‘Is theresomething bothering you, Hesketh?’I start folding. A cockroach. Theirwings are elaborate. I say, ‘The facts. Thefacts are bothering me.’‘Go on,’ urges Stephanie. Her eyes areglittering. ‘Tell them. Tell them now.’I stand up, take off my jacket and roll up

my sleeve to reveal the bruise. It’s finallybeginning to fade but the finger-marksremain distinct.Professor Whybray says ‘May I?’ I goover to him and he inspects it withinterest. ‘I presume this was Freddy.’‘No. It was Jonas Svensson. InSweden.’‘Hmmm. He must have had very smallhands.’‘No. That’s the point. He was big. Butwhen he grabbed me, this is the bruisinghe left.’I go back and sit down again andcontinue the cockroach and wait. Nobodysays anything for a while. Then finallyStephanie clears her throat. ‘Hesketh alsosaw something in Dubai that you shouldknow about.’

I give the short version.‘So I and twenty-seven other men sawthe figure that de Vries called atokoloshi,’ I finish. I’m aware of themlooking at me. The silence lasts longenough for me to complete the cockroach.Professor Whybray shifts painfully inhis chair, then rises and goes over to thewindow. The silence continues as hestands there staring out at the cumulus ofsmoke on the horizon.Ashok has had his head in his hands, butfinally he looks up and says, ‘Why the helldidn’t you tell us this before?’‘Because you very specifically said, nolittle people.’ Ashok lets a rush of air outof his nose and drums his fingers on thetable in a way that indicatesaggressiveness. He can’t deny it. ‘But

Jonas made the bruises on my arm and Isaw a little girl.’He chucks a water-bomb up into the air.It lands on the desk, then bounces off on tothe floor by my feet. I pick it up and cup itin my palm. It’s an admirable specimen.Professor Whybray turns. His face isvery pale. He looks old.‘Hesketh. If it came from anyone butyou, I’d be sceptical. But I can’t doubt thatyou saw what you saw.’ I shut my eyesand mentally send my little cockroachfluttering up to the ceiling. ‘People withyour kind of wiring don’t lie.’ He easeshimself back into his chair, apparently inpain. The skin of his face resemblesancient papyrus. I am sure he is notsleeping properly. ‘You should have toldus earlier, that’s all. We’ll have to work

out what impact this has on our otherfindings.’‘It’ll be a very unscientific one,’ I say.‘Because it appears to make no sense.’He looks up. ‘New parameters,’ he saysbluntly.‘What do you mean?’‘He means blue skies. Out of the box,’says Ashok. ‘As if this whole goddamthing isn’t. Right?’The professor nods. ‘So to begin with,let’s hypothesise that we’re looking at ageneration whose DNA has beensomehow altered.’‘By what? And when? It can’t changeonce you’re born.’‘Not yet it can’t,’ he says.‘What do you mean?’ asks Stephanie.Ashok says, ‘Are we talking about

genetic engineering here or what?’Stephanie says, ‘Or evolution. Butmutation takes centuries.’‘No. D’you hear about those wormsthey’ve found thriving in old arsenicmines?’ asks Ashok. ‘Took them just fiftyyears to adapt to eating one of the world’smost vicious poisons. Or the Nepalese.Extra blood vessels, so they don’t getaltitude sickness. A survival mutation.’I say, ‘And according to our renalexpert, congenital kidney abnormalitiesare already occurring regularly in someparts of the world.’‘Which means that theoretically in acouple of hundred years’ time it could bethe norm,’ says Professor Whybray. Hiseyes are shining oddly. As if he has afever.

‘Stop,’ I say. ‘This is now. This is theworld we’re in. We’re not talking aboutsome . . . future scenario.’‘So the idea of a hypothetical worldpaying us a visit would be philosophicallyinteresting, but quite irrational, accordingto you, Hesketh?’I nod. ‘Completely and utterly.’ Iwonder why he even needs to ask.‘So you see no room for metaphysics?’‘If there’s rationalism and scientificallyverifiable data involved, I see room foreverything and anything. But if it’s justfanciful speculation, I don’t.’‘Even after our discussion aboutCERN?’‘Whoa there,’ says Ashok. ‘You’relosing me, guys. Why are we evendiscussing this, this . . . what is it

anyway?’‘A theoretical eventuality,’ saysProfessor Whybray. ‘Involving aparadigm shift.’‘Bring it on,’ says Stephanie. Her faceis pale and grim. ‘If this paradigm shiftinvolves waking up tomorrow morningand finding out it’s all been a bad dream,I’m in favour.’ Her phone rings. ‘Excuseme a moment.’ She pulls out her mobile,gets up and walks towards the door andfaces the wall for privacy.‘Well I suggest we drop the blue-skiesstuff and stick to the facts,’ mutters Ashok.‘Now who’s for a drink? I sure as hellneed one. I’ve got vodka or whisky. Anytakers?’But Professor Whybray isn’t listening:he has perched his notebook on his knee

and started writing very fast. So I tellAshok we’ll both have whisky and watchthe old man write. He doesn’t dodiagrams: instead, he sets out his ideas inthe form of sentences, paragraphs,headings and lists of questions. Often, theyare very elegantly phrased. I am adiagram-and-symbol man. But whatdiagram, and what symbols, can describea breed of vengeful human child thatbrings the world as we know it to itsknees?I must’ve swallowed one, said JonasSvensson.You can’t come in, said de Vries.Complex organisms like tapeworms canlive inside the body for decades. Theymake huge demands. They are in control.Like puppet masters, they call the shots.

The host and the parasite becomeinseparable. They form a ‘we’.‘Human history is a juggernaut,’murmurs the professor. Ashok shoots me aquestioning look. I take a deep swig ofwhisky. A light rain starts falling in wiresof silver outside as my mentor’s pentravels across the page, line after line. Ifold more paper. Another water-bomb forAshok. I chuck it over to him and hecatches it in one hand. Stephanie’sconversation hasn’t lasted long: she hasalready said ‘thank you’, sat down againand put the phone back in her handbag. Buther movements are a little clumsy.‘Drink, Steph?’ asks Ashok.By way of an answer she stands up verysuddenly, then staggers and sinks to herknees. Her face is not its usual shape.

Professor Whybray drops his notebook,jumps up and grabs her under the arms,just as she’s about to collapse against thedesk. He settles her back in her chair andforces her head between her knees.‘Deep breaths,’ he says, a finger on herpulse. ‘That’s good. That’s good.’Stephanie groans. It has all happened soquickly I can barely take it in. Ashok isstaring wide-eyed. ‘Oh boy,’ he says. ‘OhJesus. Oh no.’I can be slow on the uptake.It will take some time, therefore, for meto register the news that at 3.15pm thefemale patient in Bed 67 of the BrownWard on the fifth floor of St Thomas’hospital suffered a catastrophic brainhaemorrhage, and that due to severe staffshortages, lack of resources and patient

overload, no medical staff were able toapply the necessary procedures, and thatvery regrettably, therefore, the thirtyseven-year-oldpatient Kaitlin Kalifakidis,mother of one, tragically expired.

CHAPTER 14Kaitlin Kalifakidis is dead, KaitlinKalifakidis is dead, Kaitlin Kalifakidis isdead.When I told Freddy, he just nodded.That was three days ago. Since then he hasasked no questions. I haven’t pursued it.He has approximately 90 per cent of his

life ahead of him. I may have 60 per centof mine. One day, perhaps, it will sink infor both of us.But not today.I have seen nothing of Stephanie sinceshe received the call. She went straightfrom Phipps & Wexman to the hospital,then to her sister’s. When I spoke to thissister to discuss the funeral arrangements,she did not sound like the happy personconjured by her name, Felicity. Felicitydescribed Stephanie as being ‘utterlydistraught’. She also conveyedStephanie’s hope that attending hismother’s funeral might ‘bring it home’ toFreddy.I consider this to be highly unlikely.In my workroom, I locate the box thatcontains my origami supplies. I find the

Kawasaki rose in an envelope marked HL.I knew she wouldn’t throw it away. Sheknew how hard it was to make. How muchpre-creasing was involved, how muchcrimping, how many mountain, valley,squash, reverse and petal folds. It hasfaded a little. But it is still viable, and athing of beauty.It’s mid-morning on Wednesday 3rdOctober. The cemetery is in Wimbledon.The pony-tailed Flynn drives Freddy, meand Naomi there in a six-seater. ProfessorWhybray pulled some strings to bookKaitlin’s family an early funeral slot. CareUnit children are only allowed in publicplaces with official Home Officeauthorisation – this the professor has alsoseen to – and must be accompanied by

three adult minders. Naomi looks beautifulin a cream silk shirt and black skirt.Freddy is in a black school tracksuitwhich was all I could find that seemedsuitable: his red uniform would arouse toomuch attention. He’s curled up on the backseat, quietly clicking and humming tohimself. Since I don’t have a dark jacketwith me, I have borrowed one fromProfessor Whybray. But I don’t feel athome in it because it’s too short, and tightacross my shoulders. For this and othermore obvious reasons, I feel mal dans mapeau.We drive through largely empty streets,the surreal quiet broken occasionally bythe wail of a siren. There are no trafficlights working. In Wandsworth we are

forced into a wide detour: a burst watermain has turned a whole section of roadinto a lake. It’s dotted with halfsubmergedblack rubbish bags. Clouds offlies vibrate above them. The smell in thissector is overpowering. Freddy is blankfacedin the back seat.The cemetery spreads across a couple ofacres, a dusty, layered oasis in an urbanhinterland of warehouses, high-risetenements and 1980s retail parks.Subsidence has skewed the gravestones sothat barely any stand at right angles. Someare deeply sunk, as though into quicksand.At one end, a piebald horse standstethered to the gate, grazing on the drygrass that’s worn away in patches, likeold carpeting. The car park – crazed

tarmac with worn space-markings andweeds soaring through cracks – is ringedby straggling woodland and rhododendronbushes. From here there’s a path into thecentre of the cemetery, through analleyway of desiccated beech trees. Onone side there’s a drop to a railway line.A train rumbles past, a flash of blue andred behind the tall banks of Japaneseknotweed and rosebay willowherb. Flynnlocks the car and we stand for a moment,recalibrating.Ashok and Stephanie are already waitingin the car park, where the mourners of anearlier funeral are preparing to leave. Anolder and even paler version of Stephanieis with them: she introduces herself asStephanie’s sister Felicity. I guess that

since she organised this event, she is incharge of the flowers, so I hand her theKawasaki rose and tell her it’s for thecoffin. She accepts it distractedly.Stephanie doesn’t acknowledge Freddy.Nor will she look at him. This doesn’tseem to bother him. Ashok, in darkpinstripe, says, ‘Hi kiddo’, but he keepshis distance and offers none of the hairruffling,shoulder-punching or high-fivingwith which he’s greeted Freddy in thepast. He looks exhausted and tense and hisskin has the yellowed tinge of a fadingPolaroid snap.‘The others are over there,’ saysStephanie, pointing. ‘But keep Freddyright away from us, if you don’t mind.’She points out a straggle of black-cladfigures heading towards a low red-brick

uilding that must be the chapel. Thewomen tread carefully on the unevenpaving stones. The building is very smallin relation to the cemetery, andunambitious in its construction: it could beone of Freddy’s Lego models, scaled up.I am not good with faces. I didn’t meetKaitlin’s family that often, and I haven’tseen her brother Alex in a year. He neverliked me. Their mother is still in thehospice. Stephanie has told me they took ajoint decision not to tell her aboutKaitlin’s death.Without warning, Stephanie startscrying, and Felicity embraces her tightly.Naomi addresses me and Flynn. ‘BringFreddy in once the service has started. I’llgo with Steph.’‘I’ll join you,’ says Ashok.

While the others head for the group ofmourners at the chapel entrance, Flynnlights a cigarette and I read some of theheadstones. Most are crusted with lichen,the edges like the frilled coastline on amap. Kenneth Melhuish fell gently asleepin 1922. Freddy has turned his attention toa mottled yellow and white butterfly highsteppingbetween the petals of a rose. Hegrabs the insect so fast that by the time Ifully register it, he’s swallowed it downand has turned his attention to a knobbledstick, whose bark he begins to peel offlike ‘dead pirate skin’. Connie AnneKenderick passed into a fuller life aged93. There are many euphemisms for dying.At rest. Left this world. After ten minutes,the chapel doors close; a little later some

music strikes up inside: I recognise theopening chords of ‘Abide with Me’.‘OK, Freddy,’ says Flynn, after thesecond verse. ‘Me and Hesketh are takingyou in now. You can bring your stick.’We walk him between us – one armeach – and enter quietly through the heavydoor. He doesn’t resist. Everyone isstanding for the hymn, and too busysinging to look at us.‘First empty pew on the right,’ saysFlynn. We slide into the empty back rowand sit with Freddy between us. I am rightnext to the aisle.I haven’t been to many funerals. Mygrandfather’s, when I was a boy. Myfather’s and then my mother’s, at both ofwhich I read Herbert’s poem ‘TheFlower’, which I quoted for Detective

Mazoor. Mrs Helena Whybray’s. She hada humanist service, followed by acremation. When the hymn comes to anend, we sit and after a great deal ofrustling, the chapel falls silent. Naomihalf-turns her head, spots us and gives asmall nod.Kaitlin’s coffin stands on a trestle nearthe pulpit. It’s white, and bears a simplebouquet that looks home-made. My rose istucked into it, towards the centre. I amrelieved that Felicity was not toodistracted to engineer this because there isa symmetry – which I think Kaitlin wouldhave appreciated – in the paper flowerbeing my goodbye to her, as well as myhello.Among the mourners there are severalwomen wearing hats. There are a couple

of teenagers, but no young children. I get aglimpse of Ashok in the row behindStephanie, who is seated at the front withthe family.The vicar, small and bald-headed,looks sober against the vibrancy of thestained glass, which depicts theCrucifixion. He begins to speakponderously. It’s a speech about the natureand function of grief, and the value ofmemory, and about how the life of Kaitlinwas tragically cut short, in a painful andinexplicable way, and yet she will remaina cherished and beloved fixture in thehearts of all of us gathered here.‘As long as that love is felt among us,she is immortal, and present still.’Departed this life. Left this world. Fellasleep.

My belief is that when you die, that’s it.As a mature person, one should acceptthat. But despite the total absence ofconcrete evidence, billions on this planetare convinced there is more. Mostcurious.Freddy shows no interest in theproceedings. He sits next to me,concentrating on picking the bark off hisstick. After the Lord’s Prayer, the vicarnods and Kaitlin’s brother Alex gets to hisfeet. He’s naturally thickset, but fatter thanlast time I saw him. With obvious effort,he straightens up his body. He has a pieceof paper in his hand, which he isn’t incomplete control of: he holds it somedistance from his face, then shakes hishead. Someone in the front pew hands hima pair of reading glasses and he grunts his

thanks. His face is streaked with sweat.He says that it hasn’t been an easy journeyfor many of the people here today andthose who are absent convey theirapologies.‘We all know how hard it is nowadaysto travel, especially from a distance.Kaitlin would have appreciated yourpresence here today. In these tragiccircumstances. Knowing that her deathwas part of an unexplained epidemicdoesn’t make it easier for any of us. Itmakes it harder.’ He takes off the glassesand rubs at his face, then loosens his tie.He is breathing heavily. He gazes,apparently lost, at the piece of paper infront of him. It’s still shaking. ‘We allremember a lovely mother and son.Kaitlin and—’

Freddy starts clicking his tongue.Gently at first, then louder. I nudge him tostop. Flynn leans over and makes a mouthzippingsign. But Freddy keeps it up. Thewoman in the broad hat turns, sees the boyand sucks in her breath. People shift intheir seats. As he clicks, he’s still peelingthe bark off his stick, quite oblivious tohis surroundings. There are crescents ofgrime beneath his fingernails. Alexcontinues. ‘Kaitlin and Freddy. This hasbeen very hard for all of us—’‘What is this place?’ Freddy asks mesuddenly. His voice is loud enough tocause a ripple of attention.Alex hesitates, then resumes his speechfalteringly: ‘Harder than anything wecould have imagined.’Freddy again: ‘What are we doing

here?’‘It’s your mum’s funeral,’ I whisper.‘Her what?’‘We need to talk quietly Freddy K.Mum died. In hospital.’His eyes flare wide. ‘She died?’ hewhispers. ‘How? Why?’‘She fell down the stairs at home,’ Iwhisper. ‘The fall damaged her brain andit bled into her skull and nobody couldsave her. I’m sorry Freddy K.’His eyes gleam with clear, bright tears.Maybe Stephanie was right after all, aboutthe funeral ‘bringing it home’.‘But why did she fall down the stairs?’‘You were there, Freddy K. When wefound her she was near the bottom of thestairs and . . . you were at the top.’His lip wobbles. The tears are spilling.

‘No,’ he whispers. Then he stands up andshouts: ‘NO!’The effect is electric. People turn andlook. Alex stops speaking mid-sentenceand stands staring at us with his mouthopen. An agitated murmur ripples acrossthe chapel.‘What’s he doing here?’ says a bulkyman two rows ahead. ‘What’s he, I meanwhat the hell’s he—’ he stops. ‘Just getthat creature out of here!’‘No!’ Freddy shouts again. ‘Stop it!Stop it! She’s not dead!’The vicar signals for calm with an airpattingmovement. ‘May I ask you allplease to—’Flynn mutters, ‘Hesketh. This is goingto get ugly. Let’s go. Now.’Alex seems confused. Dropping the

piece of paper to the floor, he sits downheavily on the steps of the altar. The priestsignals to the organist to play, and somemellow chords strike up.Shooting up from her seat, Naomi walkstowards us fast. I grab one of Freddy’sarms and Flynn takes the other. He gives asharp cry as we pull him to his feet. Hedrops his stick and starts shrieking wildly,trying to corkscrew his way out of ourgrip.We hold on tight and keep heading out.But Freddy squirms: Flynn makes asudden gasp and stops in his tracks.Something’s happened: Flynn has losthold of Freddy. He’s doubled up in pain,clutching his wrist. There’s blood. A lotof it, dramatic against his white shirt.‘He bit me,’ he mutters. ‘Go,’ he says,

nodding at the door. ‘Go now.’A man yells: ‘Get him!’ and there is arising and rush of bodies. I charge to theexit, dragging Freddy. Naomi’s up ahead,pushing open the door.‘Now you all sit down!’ shouts acommanding voice. The accent isAmerican. It’s Ashok. ‘Sit the fuck down!Immediately! This is a funeral! The boy isleaving! He’s distressed. We all are. Buthe’s a kid. Let’s have some dignity here,guys!’People hesitate. The music continues,waveringly. The vicar chimes in with hisown more diluted appeal for calm, butpanic has taken over. Lifting Freddybodily, I barge out of the door. As Naomicloses it behind me she calls out: ‘We’llmeet you at the car!’

The daylight is dazzling after the gloomof the chapel. Freddy’s writhing furiously,but I keep my grip as I run, half-tripping,my arms round his chest, his legs flailingbeneath. I’m heading for the car park whena searing pain shoots through my groin.Somehow or other, he has freed a handand rammed me in the testicles. I crash tothe ground and for a moment everythingcollapses into blackness. There’smovement in it: a smooth sickening shift ofmass.When I regain control of myself, Freddy’shurtling across the cemetery towards therailway line, leaping over skewed graves,screaming as he runs, his black curlsbouncing. My heart bangs.‘Freddy! Stop!’ But I choke: my voice

has no power in it. My groin is thumpingwith the worst pain I have ever felt.Behind me Flynn and Naomi are chargingup, followed by Ashok. Stephanieemerges and a cluster of women formsaround her. Several are in tears. A smallcrowd of angry mourners congregates atthe chapel entrance. Struggling to my feet Isprint off in the direction Freddy went.Every footfall brings more piercing pain –but I’ve seen him and I know where I’mgoing. He charges down the railwaycutting and across the tracks, then flits intothe thicket on the other side, a few metresfrom a vast copper beech. Using the treeas a marker, I scrabble down the steepcutting in Freddy’s footsteps, through amass of nettles, thistles, knotweed andwillowherb. The voices from the cemetery

grow fainter as I plunge into thewoodland, shucking off ProfessorWhybray’s jacket as I go. No sign ofFreddy.I need a system. Trackers look fordamaged foliage. I get to my knees. At theboy’s eye level, I spot a tunnel-likeentrance in the bushes to my left. Thestalks have been trampled. I enter andstumble through, my sleeves catching onbriars. After a few metres I am standing atnormal height again, scratched andbloody, in a waste tip. A rusted car, blackplastic bags, old washing machines, apunctured Spacehopper. Nearby is astagnant pool rainbowed with oil, full ofhalf-submerged shopping trolleys andswathes of sooty bulrushes. My phonevibrates: it’s Ashok.

‘Where are you?’ I keep my voice lowas I explain. ‘Flynn’s on his way, and I’mjoining you as soon as we’ve got themback inside,’ he tells me. ‘They’re goingto resume the service. Closure and all thatshit.’This is a relief. Just then, a small darkshape scurries through the trees towards afence. ‘He’s here. I’ve got to go.’I duck as Freddy darts through thescrub. I want to catch him on open ground.At the base of a huge pylon he halts andcocks his head, as though listening forsomething. There’s a rustle of vegetation. Ihold my breath, keeping myself hidden.Something grinds in my chest. I can’t losehim, I can’t lose him, I can’t lose him.Then, through the branches – fivemetres away at the most – I see them.

They’re behind the tall rusty fence,packed in a huddle, their small fingersclinging to the wire, which rattles as theyshift from foot to foot. They are making asoft clicking noise. I count eleven. Severalare wearing adult sunglasses that are fartoo big. There’s a smell. Urine andsomething else. Something rotten. One ofthem – a black-skinned boy with a brokenfront tooth – puts a filthy fist to his eye andopens his hand in a salute. Freddy returnsit, then runs towards them, hopping overthe detritus in his path. Their hair ismatted. Their legs and feet are bare andthey’re wearing a minimum of clothing: T-shirts, underwear. One girl is in a torndress, another wears just a swimsuit.Their flesh is scratched and soiled.Squinting to focus, I see that one boy is

wearing a necklace like the one Freddymade for Stephanie. It’s rotten-looking.Then I see why. It’s made of bits of meat.It takes a moment to absorb what kindof meat it’s made of.I shouldn’t be surprised.I have seen footage of the feral tribes.So I have to some extent already deducedthe content of their more brutal rites. IfProfessor Whybray were here, it wouldprompt an energetic discussion. But this isnot the time to be an anthropologist. It’stime to get Freddy back.I have no doubt that I can catch him. ButI want to make sure Flynn and Ashok areready to back me up when I make mymove. Just then, the tallest boy points to ahole at the bottom of the fence. Freddynods, makes the eye-salute, falls suddenly

to his knees and wriggles through. Onceamong them he is a fish absorbed into ashoal. Wordlessly, they turn and startscrambling up a patch of higher groundwhich is divided into individualallotments dotted with garden sheds.Staying hidden, I keep up with them inparallel along the railway track below.None of them looks back. If they’reworried about an adult presence, theydon’t show it. I have no doubt that thefuneral has vanished from Freddy’s mind,and me with it. He has entered adimension in which our world is anirrelevance.Once past the allotments, they turn andhead for a parade of shops near therailway bridge. The street looks empty,

with no sign of human life. I can interceptthem higher up, if I climb the siding, andcatch them unawares. When I reach thetop, I get a clearer view of them frombehind a lilac bush. I realise that morekids have joined them. Where from it’s notclear. There must be more than twenty. It’shard to count, because they’re moreagitated and fluid now, hooting andclucking and stirring about. I’m muchbigger than any of them. But now that thegroup has swelled to double its originalsize, I hesitate. Still crouching by therailway bridge, out of sight, I send Flynn atext telling him where I am.I’ll wait for you.And that’s what I do. It’s intriguing tosee them like this, in their feral state. Anolder boy and a younger girl in grubby

goggles seem to be the ringleaders.They’re grouped in a car park next to aparade of closed shops. It’s a no man’sland. They don’t seem to have anyparticular focus, until almost idly, one ofthem picks a loose brick off the low wallof the Sainsbury’s Local car park andhurls it at the window of the store. Theglass fractures, but doesn’t break.Apparently energised by his action, thekids begin loosening more bricks andjoining in. Before long, they’ve smashed ahole large enough to get through, andthey’re pouring inside. Freddy’s still withthem, and as I lose sight of him my anxietymounts: might there be a back door they’llall escape through, and disappear? But aminute later they start emerging, clutchingtins of food. An argument starts up, with

shouts, violent elbowing, shoving andsnatching. I’m too far off to catch thewords, if there are any. More kids comeout of the shop, weighed down withconsumables, some bleeding from glasscuts. Several are clad in new eyewear, theprice-tags still attached. Freddy, clutchinga tin in each hand, seems completely athome among them, as if this were just anextension of life at the Unit. Then, for noobvious reason, the squabbling tails off.One of the kids must have some chalk,because he starts drawing the burst eye onthe end wall of a row of terraced houses,in white. A group of ten or so makesencouraging noises while passing round abottle of ketchup. In turn, they upend thebottle into their palms and smear the pasteon their hands before stamping their prints

on the wall. Then they lick their fingersand punch the sky with their fists, clickingand hooting. A baying cheer goes upacross the whole group.Where is Flynn?The sky is darkening. I remember thatthe forecast was for rain.As soon as he comes, we must both rushin and grab Freddy. We may have to fightthe others off, but they’re small, and we’restronger. It will be a kidnap operation.He’ll resist. I have no doubt of that.I’m flow-charting the repercussions ofthis when it happens.I don’t have time to think.Or move.They come up from behind, silent. Onegrabs my wrist with a small hand. I swinground and face them: it’s a new group,

comprising ten or so kids. Then there’s asqueal and suddenly the group I’ve beenwatching is rushing in towards me too. It’sa pincer movement. Then they’re all overme, pummelling as high as they can reach.I’m still trying to fight them off when Ilose my balance and crash backwardsdown the slope. I take advantage of themomentum and roll at speed. This buys mesome time, but when I stop I’m disorientedand my skin is buzzing with nettle stings.When I get my bearings I spot Freddy, atthe front of a whole swarm of thembeating down through the weeds towardsme. His eyes are gleaming with a newlight.I don’t know what his intentions are, butwhen he throws himself at me in a monkeyleap, I know what to do. Grabbing him

tight, I hurl us both further down the slopeof the railway siding in a chaotic,desperate tumble. He’s kicking andpummelling at me with his fists, but thistime I’m not letting go. The others areclosing in, hooting and clicking, whenfrom the corner of my eye I spot Flynn andAshok racing up the track, with Naomifollowing behind. Suddenly, Freddy givesa spasm, then flops like a rag doll, as ifthe breath has been shoved out of him.Rushing up, Flynn grabs him and hauls himoff me. Then, handing him to Ashok, herugby-tackles a boy with a stick who haslaunched himself at us like a missile. Justthen, something hits me hard on the backof the neck. I fight the dizziness, but fail.I’m falling and I need to vomit. Brightlights bombard me.

Then the world shrinks to a pinprickand goes black.When I wake up, I’m in the fragmentingrelics of a dream about CERN. I amworking there, looking after the ghostlysub-atomic particles known as neutrinos.They resemble airborne amoeba and myjob is to feed them and ensure they stay intheir cages. Far from travelling faster thanthe speed of light, as in the famousexperiments, they move in sluggish slowmotion. It’s not clear why they can’t justfloat through the bars and away. I find myrole as their keeper stressful.It takes some time before I realise I’mupstairs in the bed I once shared withKaitlin. A woman is with me. But it’s notKaitlin Kalifakidis because Kaitlin

Kalifakidis is dead. I don’t know why Idon’t recognise her immediately. Perhapsbecause she’s still in her funeral outfit.She is beautiful.‘Hello Hesketh,’ she says.‘I dreamed about particle physics.’She laughs. ‘I’d expect nothing less. Webrought you back to Fulham. It seemedlike the best idea. You need to rest up fora few days.’‘Did I lose him?’ It hurts to speak. Imust have cut my lip.‘No. He’s here. Asleep in his room.’I’m aching all over. My ribs hurt. ‘I’vehad a look at you. You probably have acracked rib. Then there are a few fleshwounds and a lot of bruising.’I am stark naked under the sheet.Realising this, I get an immediate erection

which forms a little tent. I don’t bothertrying to hide it.‘I want to kiss you,’ I say.Naomi smiles. ‘That would beimpractical. You haven’t seen what yourmouth looks like. You were lucky. Theycould have killed you.’I reach out and take her hand. Shedoesn’t pull away. Instead, she pats myarm with her free hand. I don’t know howto interpret this. It’s a gesture my mothermight have made. But one gesture can leadto another. I’m about to experiment bybringing my other hand into the equation,and reaching for her face, when the dooropens.‘My God, boy. You look terrible,’ saysa familiar voice. My erection vanishes assuddenly as it came. Naomi and I

disengage as Professor Whybrayapproaches the bed. He takes my chin inhis hand and looks into my eyessearchingly. ‘Are you back in the land ofthe living?’ I nod. ‘Well thank God you’resafe, boy. I came as soon as I could.’I say, ‘My apologies concerning theloss and possible destruction of yourjacket.’He waves his hand dismissively. ‘Youhad a close shave.’ He pauses. ‘I caughtthe news on the way here. They found adead child in the Forest of Dean.Butchered. Quite expertly it seems. Theinternal organs were missing. And sowere the fingers. There was evidence thatsome parts of the body had beenconsumed.’I sit up in bed, painfully. Naomi adjusts

the pillows behind my head.My mouth hurts when I speak. ‘Outthere, I saw a kid – he had that necklace.It’s made of—’ I can’t continue.Something is stopping me. A blockage. Ifrown and clear my throat. ‘It fits with theolder kids expecting the younger ones tobe their slaves. The idea of honour. Andikenie.’‘If this was a dismemberment,’ saysProfessor Whybray quietly, ‘it makes itharder to argue against rounding thechildren up and treating them with drugs. Ifeared something of this nature. I shouldperhaps have articulated it. But I couldn’tbring myself to, er . . .’ He stops. When hespeaks again, his voice cracks. ‘I couldn’tbring myself to find an appropriate term.’He still can’t. But I can. Ancient and

primitive tribes were never my main fieldof study, but I have read the central texts.And so has he.The term is ritual cannibalism.‘Let’s see the news,’ murmurs Naomi,switching on the small TV set that standson the chest of drawers. Kaitlin and I usedto lie here watching Newsnight. She flicksthrough the channels until she finds theBBC.‘In Britain, the Home Office isstepping up work on the conversion ofthe O2 building into a holding centre forchild terrorists in the southeast. Othercities are working on similarconversions in the wake of the startlingnew evidence of physical mutation.Medical findings just released indicatethe pre-teen attackers share an

unexplained anomaly of the kidneys. Thishas prompted urgent new discussions ingovernments worldwide about the bestway to handle the escalating crisis.’‘My God,’ the professor chokes. ‘Theywent public with it!’ He bangs his fist onmy bed with surprising force. I wince inpain. ‘They’ve hijacked our work! I’dnever have approved this, never.’My heart starts banging. I am gettingoverloaded. I fold a mental ozuru.‘This will appeal to the worst ineveryone,’ says Naomi. ‘They’re subhuman.Evil. That’s the message!’‘Hell,’ storms Professor Whybray.‘Why does ignorance have to be so muchmore damned powerful than knowledge?’I finish my ozuru. ‘Because it’s moredynamic,’ I tell him. ‘That’s how it fills

empty spaces faster. That’s how it comesup with theories that knowledge can’t.’Freddy K, Freddy K, Freddy K.‘You know what’ll happen when theyget them into those facilities,’ says Naomi,her face flushing red.Professor Whybray looks as broken andmiserable as he did the day Helena died.‘I fear the worst. It’s an old story,’ hesays. ‘But it’s one I never thought we’dhear again. They’re freaks now. It’sofficial. They can do anything to them.Anything.’I fold another ozuru in my head. A hugeand beautiful one, in red.I can’t let ‘anything’ happen to FreddyK.And I won’t.From now on, he’s staying by my side.

CHAPTER 15The next morning I wake in tremendouspain. It’s Thursday 4th October. Theforecast is for a high of thirteen degreesand a low of four. Naomi urged me to stayat home for the next couple of days: shecould easily arrange for Miranda to ferryFreddy to Battersea. But I want to see her.

I want to experiment with holding herhand again. I also need to get ProfessorWhybray’s advice.Freddy is in a truculent mood. He won’tdiscuss the events of yesterday. When Isuggest we stay at home for a while andwork on the Lego model he thrusts out hislower lip.‘I want to go to Battersea.’I do too.It’s eight minutes past eleven by thetime we get in the car.Despite the grey sky, Freddy insists onwearing his small sunglasses. Out of habit,I consider the structure of the clouds onthe horizon.‘Cauliflower,’ says the boy, out of theblue. Cauliflower is his version of‘cumulus’. ‘And look over there,’ he says,

pointing upward. ‘That’s lasagne.’ Hemeans stratus. Because of this sudden andunprompted return to the normal Freddy,I’m smiling when I turn the corner into theUnit’s access road.But when I see the ambulance, my smiledies. There are also two police cars andan army jeep. A cluster of soldiers standsat the facility’s entrance: one of themspots me and waves me away, indicatingthe diversion sign. Quickly, I reverse out,find a side road, and park. I don’t think thesoldier registered Freddy, but I’m nottaking any chances. I tell the boy to liedown on the floor in the narrow spaceunder the back seat. Now. Thankfully, hisreaction is of instant alarm. He whips offhis seatbelt and scrambles to the floor. Iunhook the DVD player from the back of

the seat, and hand it to him.‘Here. You stay lying down, and watchthis.’ I cover him with the blanket Kaitlinkept for picnics. ‘Put your head rightunder. It’s nice and dark. You have to stayhidden. Wait here like this till I get back.Don’t move. If you do, they’ll see you andthey’ll take you away. You won’t like that.If you stay here I’ll keep you safe. Ipromise.’ I’m struggling to keep my voicelevel. ‘Just watch the DVD, OK? I’ll beback before the end of this episode. But ifI’m not, keep watching. And if I’m still notback, just go to sleep.’I hear a muffled ‘OK.’ He soundsscared. Good. He should be. Fear willkeep him safe.I lock Freddy in the car and walkaround to the side entrance where there’s

another soldier on guard. I show him mypass. ‘What’s going on?’‘There was an incident here a couple ofhours ago. Whole load of creaturesescaped. We’ve got search parties outnow; they can’t have gone far. And noone’s going to mistake them in thatuniform.’‘Are you saying all of the children aregone?’ He nods.‘None’s left in there. As far as weknow.’‘What about the staff?’‘They’re taking the injured ones tohospital now. The rest are at the policestation giving evidence.’‘How can so many children haveescaped? This is a closed facility.’‘Sabotage I’m afraid, sir. Looks like

one of your colleagues deactivated thedoor codes.’I think fast. ‘I came to pick up somedocuments. A report for the HomeSecretary. She’s expecting it today. I needto get in.’He shrugs. ‘The danger’s past, but it’snot charming in there, I’m warning youmate. It’s a crime scene, so don’t removeor touch anything.’He waves me in. I want to run, but Iforce myself to walk. I take the thirty-sixstairs two at a time. The place is deserted.No milling kids, no clucking or hooting orhumming, no bright uniforms: just thehollow feel of a place suddenly andinexplicably deserted. I think of bees andMarie Celeste syndrome. The corridorleading to Professor Whybray’s office has

een cordoned off. Some soldiers arestanding there, blocking my view.‘And you are, sir?’ asks one of them asI approach.‘Authorised staff,’ I say, brandishingmy ID.‘Good,’ she says briskly. ‘You canidentify your colleague for us, then.’She signals to the others to step back.When they move to the edges of thecorridor I see that there’s a body on thefloor, face down.It is male and it belongs to someonetall. I am totally unprepared for this. I putmy hand against the wall to steady myself.I recognise the high-quality leather shoes.The white hair. I start to rock.‘We’ll turn him over for you, sir. Areyou ready?’ Two soldiers reach down.

No. I will never be ready. They rollhim over gently. His shirt is wet withfresh blood. His eyes are open. The leftone has been horribly damaged. There isblood under his nose and his mouth iscrusted with vomit. The skin that is not redor purple – on his neck and his left hand –is papery and translucent white.‘Is he dead?’ I don’t know why I ask. Iknow the answer. I rock harder.‘Bit of a shock for you, sir,’ says thefemale soldier. ‘I’m sorry.’I rock some more. ‘It’s OK. I don’t feelanything. Maybe I will later.’Or maybe I am a robot made of meat.Perhaps if I am, that is a good way to be,because it enables me to think and actrationally. I run a mental flow chart. Ittells me to get hold of the professor’s

notebook and then find Naomi.‘How did he die?’ I ask. It’s importantto know the facts.‘Trampled by the look of it,’ says a manin a white suit and a face mask. ‘Theyprobably attacked him in a gang. Jumpedup and down on him. Not difficult. He waselderly. Crushed out the life.’Crushed out the life. He was seventythreeyears and five months old. Young, intoday’s world. He might have lived to ahundred.‘Where’s Naomi Benjamin? I need totalk to her.’‘She’s at the police station.’‘Is she under suspicion?’She shrugs. ‘Can’t say, sir. They’re allbeing questioned.’Professor Whybray is dead, Professor

Whybray is dead, Professor Whybray isdead, I say to myself over and over as Ihead for his office. I find his notebook inhis briefcase and pocket it. I can’t risktaking anything else. Professor Whybrayis dead, Professor Whybray is dead,Professor Whybray is dead. It doesn’thelp. It doesn’t feel real. Another personwould feel something. They might cry.Instead, I think about the escaped children.They’ll catch some. But others will evadethem. They’ll live wild in forests and onbeaches and in holes. They’ll raid shopsfor tins, dig for bugs, mill about in theircochineal uniforms until they getdiscarded or fall apart and they arestinking and dressed in rags and eatinginsects. Killing, dismembering anddevouring each other and making little

hand-prints in human blood.Freddy is asleep on the floor of the car.T he Dry World DVD is still running. Idon’t bother waking him, but drive straightto the police station. If she isn’t there, I’llgo to the hospital. That is my strategy. It’sthe only one I can think of. I park and lockFreddy in. It’s a risk. There is a 40 to 60per cent chance that he’ll wake up andpanic. But I have no choice.‘I’m looking for Naomi Benjamin, fromBattersea Care Unit. I gather she’s here.’The policewoman at the reception deskscrolls through a file on the computer. Isee Naomi’s name before she does. I alsoregister the context.Charge: sabotage.Can Naomi really have deactivated the

door codes and let the children loose? Ifshe succumbed to whatever madnessovercame Sunny and Jonas and Farooqand de Vries, then maybe the answer tothat question is yes. But it’s none the lessunthinkable. Or could it be that she fearedwhat would happen to them if they stayed?I need to know.The policewoman asks, ‘Are you herlawyer?’I’m not cut out for deception. But therearen’t many options. I select the best. Ipoint to the folder I’m carrying. ‘I need tospeak to her right away.’‘Interview room’s second door on theright.’I try not to run there. I am a lawyernow. Lawyers don’t run. Not in the courseof duty. It’s mostly a desk job.

The door has a small reinforcedwindow through which I can see the backof Naomi’s head. She’s sitting in a chairopposite a female police officer who iswriting notes. I knock. The WPC looks up.She is freckle-faced and fair-haired andyoung. She can’t be more than twenty. Shesays, ‘Come in’.I enter and wave the folder. ‘I’mrepresenting Naomi Benjamin.’‘Well I hope you can get some sense outof her,’ sighs the young policewoman,getting to her feet. ‘She’s not exactly cooperating.’Naomi hasn’t turned. She is sitting veryrigidly. There is something odd about herposture.‘Naomi,’ I say. She doesn’t react, so Imove closer. She’s looking straight ahead.

No smile. I miss her smile, and the twoshallow brackets around it. I need to seethem. I want to kiss her.‘Can I have a minute alone with her?’‘Sure. You can have five. She’s allyours.’When the WPC has gone I squat next toNaomi’s chair and take her hand, butimmediately I drop it. It’s cold. Far colderthan it should be. Can shock do that? Imust look it up. I stroke her hair instead.Beautiful hair. Smooth and strong.‘Professor Whybray’s dead,’ I tell her.‘Trampled. The children did it. Theycrushed out his life.’She nods and blinks.‘Did you let them escape?’ She looksaround the room and then slowly nods.‘Why?’

‘Because there’s one in here.’ Shewhispers, pointing to her chest.‘What do you mean?’‘It got in,’ she whispers. ‘I did what itwanted. I had to.’‘What do you mean?’ I whisper back,my mouth close to her ear, her silky hair inmy face.‘Freddy was right. We belong to theOld World. Time doesn’t work the wayyou think. They’ve come back to stop us.’Slowly she pushes me back, raises herhand, and makes a fist next to her eye.‘No. Don’t do that. Please Naomi.Don’t.’ I grab her head and clutch it to mychest.But she keeps her hand there, fingerssplayed. I can’t stand this. I grab hold ofher fingers and press them to my face. Her

flesh feels well below thirty-sevendegrees. It feels cold as stone. Suddenly,my breathing goes haywire and uglynoises start pouring out of me. My eyesfill with liquid that runs down my face.It’s like another tear-gas attack. Naomijust looks at me with a very gentle smile.Both hands are on her lap now. It’s amodest pose, the pose of the Madonna inItalian paintings. She doesn’t say anything.I grab her around the waist. I want to carryher away from this place. I bury my facein her stomach, her breasts. The terriblenoises keep coming. I can’t stop them.I’m not aware of the door opening. Theyoung policewoman takes my elbow. Shepulls me to my feet and hands me a tissue.I blow my nose, then shove it to my eyes.

She puts a hand on my shoulder.‘You’re not a lawyer, are you,’ shesays. ‘I mean, you’re not behaving likeone.’‘No.’‘Then I think you’d better go.’Back in the car, I try to get my breathingback to normal. But I can’t stop thehiccuping, or the snot, or the tears thatkeep coming. Freddy wakes. I tell him tostay under the blanket until I say he cancome out. He doesn’t ask why I am crying.I sit there fighting it and losing.We belong to the Old World. Timedoesn’t work the way you think. They’vecome back to stop us. What is thatsupposed to mean?I start to drive. In the absence of trafficlights, I honk the horn at each crossing.

But I don’t obey the speed limit.Fifteen minutes later, I let Freddy comeout and sit on the back seat.‘Why can’t we go to the Unit?’‘Because it’s closed. There’s been aproblem.’‘Where are the others?’‘They left.’‘Where to?’‘I don’t know.’‘Well we have to find them.’‘I’m sorry Freddy K. We can’t.’‘Let me out!’ He reaches for the door.I slam down the child lock and keepdriving.He starts to cry.I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.I am a robot made of meat.I stop at a corner shop, get out and lock

Freddy in the car again. They havesupplies, the man says.‘I do boxes. With tins, if that’s whatyou’re after.’ He looks at me sideways.‘But it’ll cost.’I give him all my cash.I don’t notice the figure on the roof of thetower block opposite right away. I’m toobusy loading the boxes into the car.But a distinctive noise makes me lookup.SCHTUKKK.There is a connection I should bemaking, but I don’t.Then the noise comes again –SCHTUKKK – and I realise. There’s asniper. And his gun’s aimed at Freddy.The boy hasn’t noticed. He’s still on the

ack seat, deep in his DVD, in the worldof sand and snakes. I want to stay thereand rock, gathering my thoughts. But that’snot going to work. I can tell.So I yell at Freddy to get down, hurlmyself into the car and drive.My heart is banging. I am overloaded.For once, mental origami is no help. Thepaper resists me, crumpling at the firsttouch.Three hours and nineteen minutes later,when I stop for petrol on the M1, I manageto unclasp my fingers from the wheel.They are pale and stiff, as though theyhave been deep-frozen.Half an hour later, eighteen army truckspass us in the opposite direction.And I know, definitively: a new phase

of human history has begun.

CHAPTER 16I used to imagine Freddy coming to livewith me on Arran, in the cottage by thesea. I’d point out how the colours of thescrubland change by the minute, flashingtheir way through the spectrum accordingto the cast of the sun. He’d see how thesalt sparkles on the sheer granite boulder

after a storm. We’d walk beyond the coveas far as the wind turbines, and I’d explaintheir aerodynamics and engineering: he’dlisten for a bit, then scramble up the hillby the ruined cairn, shrieking into thewind at the top of his lungs. We’d makekites, hunt for edible berries and fungi,construct driftwood boats to float in rockpools, identify bird-calls, build bonfiresto grill the mackerel we’d caught, readbooks bursting with facts.But nothing’s as I thought.A month has passed since we left London:soon winter will be setting in. Mydecision to move to the island aftersplitting up with Kaitlin was fuelled by anurge to be isolated and alone. But I seenow that being encircled by sea gives us

an advantage over mainlanders at a timewhen containment is vital. Arraners havealways known how to subsist on whatthere is. Once the fuel supplies have runout and the ferry to the mainland stops,they will have no choice but to resurrectthe habits and lifestyle of their ancestors:hunting, fishing, trapping, sheep-shearing,planting and harvesting crops according tothe season.To the rear of the cottage, behind thejumble of rusted tractor parts there’s anovergrown patch of land that was oncecultivated. In the summer, the purple ballsof onion heads and potato flowers stoodtall among the weeds; now, they’reflattened and rotting. Here’s where I’llplant my amaranth, in honour of Jonas

Svensson. Here’s where I’ll experimentwith salt-resistant crops. I’m digging thesoil over, a few square metres a day,before winter hardens it. Repetitivemovements soothe me. While I dig,Freddy pulls out worms from the freshlyturned earth, or wanders further off andrakes in the heather, returning with thebones and skulls of birds, voles, weasels,rats and mice. With his agile, filthy handshe assembles them into crude necklaces,adding twigs, berries and snail shellswhich he secures on nylon fishing string orhorse hair he’s picked from barbed wire.Other times, he likes to burrow about inthe scrubland on the far side of the bluff,collecting beetles, spiders and larvae ofall kinds. Or he’ll scour the beach forcrabs, shrimp, seaweed. It would be futile

to try and stop him devouring what heforages. He knows what he needs, in theworld he inhabits.The morning after Freddy and I arrived, Ishowed him where the fish lived.Together we scooped the chickweed outof the bathtub and decanted the creatureinto a bucket. The rubber plug was stillfunctional: I pulled it free, sluicing thestinking water on to the mud below so wecould right the tub properly on itssupporting stacks of bricks. We wiped theenamel down, replaced the plug and filledthe tub with rainwater from the butt. Oncethe sediment had settled, we put thegoldfish back. There was damage to oneof its trailing fins and what looked like atumour by its eye. But it held Freddy’s

attention – or seemed to, until I suggestedwe give it a name. He used to likechristening things.But he just looked at me blankly. I mighthave been from another planet.Since then, communication has beenminimal, as if he has moved to a realmwhere he simply has no need of theconversations I offer. But there areoccasions when he’ll be preoccupied withsomething – a dried-out jellyfish, a daddylong-legs,a maggot – and I’ll catch himunawares, and get a short flow of speech.It never lasts long.The first time it happened was when Iwas digging. As I bashed flints out ofclods of cold earth, I told him about thebelief that if you make a thousand ozuru,your dream will come true. I recounted the

story of the Japanese girl who gotradiation cancer from Hiroshima.‘She folded and folded until she had athousand cranes and then she made herwish. Which was to be cured. But whenshe found out that couldn’t happen, shewished for world peace instead.’That didn’t materialise either. But Ididn’t tell him.‘I’m going to make a thousand ozuru,’said Freddy, pulling a worm from the soil.I wasn’t expecting him to respond: myheart crashed about. The worm coiled anduncoiled between his finger and thumb. Hewiped it clean.‘What will you wish for?’No reply. I asked again. But he juststood there and chewed his worm.Later, I asked myself why I hadn’t

pressed him further. Why I kept digginginstead, harder and harder, working up afurious rhythm, concentrating on what I’dplant in the spring and summer: rootvegetables, runner beans, tomatoes,aubergines, a few varieties of pumpkin,some soy.The answer is that I get overloaded. Iam slow to take things in. I know when Iam not ready.I wasn’t ready. So I dug.Soon I must acknowledge the thing hecraves so badly. He is a child. He wantsto be with others like him. According toall the books I have read bypaediatricians, it is normal for them toseek the company of their peers.But the thought of losing him again kills

me. This is, of course, a figure of speech. Iwill remain alive. But I will not knowhappiness.As for myself, I try to eliminate all but theuseful memories of what life was likebefore. By which I mean those that canprovide clues as to what has happened,and help me map out a future worthy of thename.Routines help. So does planning.I order supplies by phone. Seeds andtubers to plant, an array of animal traps, agun for shooting rabbit and deer, somesacks of seed, a good stock of tins. A manwho doesn’t ask questions drops a box atthe gate when I need him to. Byspringtime, I’ll have no further need of hisservices. There are three feral groups on

the island, he told me. All native kids.‘And we protect our own.’ It was meantas a warning – he’d seen the gun – but itcame as a relief. From the local adults atleast, Freddy will be safe.There’s no internet any more, and little inthe way of media coverage since themilitary took over on the mainland.Inevitably, things are far worse there. Thisis confirmed occasionally when there’s aphone signal, and Ashok rings. His tone isangry and unsettled. He’s frustrated thatthere’s no role for the man who couldonce shine the hot light of a business ideathrough any prism. The fact that capitalismhas become ‘a dirty word’ enrages him.He’ll find his place, I am sure of it. But itmay not lie where he hopes. He’s doing ‘a

shit-load of figuring out’ what he’s got ‘toput on the table’, he reports. ‘Things suckhere, you did well to get away. Just keepyour head down, keep Freddy safe andwait it out. The child attacks are dying off,but the sabotages, they’re rife, man. Andthe kiddie-camps are full. Nobody askswhat goes on inside them. Or what drugcombination you use against so-calledevil. Or what effect it has. And you don’teven want to know what’s happening inChina. Anyway, take care of yourself, bud.Did you hear that Steph’s taken over OldMan Whybray’s post? Let’s stay in touch.’The professor’s death has not sunk in.Perhaps it never will. The thought of hisbloodied, open-mouthed corpse lying onthe floor of the corridor at the Unit returns

to me daily, sometimes hourly. And itdoes so in such vivid detail that I couldtell you the exact shade of every elementof it.In the drawer of my desk, on top of thesheets of origami paper I have precreasedaccording to Robert J. Lang’sinstructions, lies the professor’s notebook.Sometimes I need to read his words overand over again. Other times, I am not inthe mood to, because his reflections are asdemanding and as complex as Lang’sfolds. So I work with paper instead. I canget so absorbed that I don’t notice thehours pass. This is good.Later, I’ll lie in bed trying to makesense of what he wrote, travelling mileson my restless legs.

Human history is a juggernaut. If it’s tochange direction, it must first come to a stop. Ifour visitors believe the destruction of the worldwe have built is a prerequisite of humankind’scontinued existence on the planet, no wondertheir occupation is so brutal. It needs to be.His handwriting is neat and precise: thehandwriting of one uncorrupted bykeyboard use.People think ghosts are from the past, SunnyChen said in his testimony to Hesketh. Quote:‘We think they are all dead. But they are alive.And some of them are not even born yet. Theyare travellers . . . They go wherever they like.’So where is it transmitting from, thisoccupying force? And what is its mission?Hesketh asks what mythology the afflictedones are replicating. But that begs thequestion: why should we imagine they arereplicating what has gone before? And whymust we assume it is ‘mythology’ at all?

There is a lot more in this vein. Muchof it is highly speculative and emotional.The idea of a ‘hypothetical world’ heposited that day in Ashok’s office is takenmuch further. Like me, the professor wasinterested in the neutrino experiments –what scientist wouldn’t be – but theconclusions he drew made me wonderwhether he was ill when he wrote them. Idon’t like to consider the possibility thatmy mentor became unstable. Especiallynow that he is dead and I have no way ofascertaining precisely what he meant.The idea that the children have indeedtravelled – not forward in space, butbackwards across time – is as heroic as it isunthinkable. But how else to explain theircreeping occupation of our world?

What if they are indeed a manifestation ofman’s own possible future? And that they havecome not to ‘haunt’ us (as superstitious mindsmight insist), but instead, to simply show us –in only part of its full horror – the legacy ourera will leave them, if our despoliation ofEarth continues unchecked? If so, one can seetheir arrival as a desperate attempt to avertthat future, by stopping it in its tracks.It seems counter-intuitive to salute thechildren for what they have done, given thedestructiveness of their methods. But instincthas its imperatives. And so does DNA. Can weblame them for craving survival, when thatsurvival is that of our own descendants too?When he speculated about a newparadigm that day in Ashok’s office, Idismissed it as ‘fanciful’. It never struckme that I might be wrong to. The finalentry in Professor Whybray’s notebook isvery short.

We are a species in crisis: a species on thebrink of collapse. If this is crisis intervention,then I am glad to have seen the start of it,however appalling its immediate consequences.Yet I fear that of all the people on the planet,my beloved Hesketh will be the very last tounderstand: the last to make the leap of faiththat’s needed. His need for proof blinds him.This is very painful for me to read. Healways praised my cast of mind. Yet here,in black and white, he condemns it. If a‘leap of faith’ is required, how does onego about taking one? And to where mustone leap? I would like to show thecontents of Professor Whybray’s notebookto Einstein, or Plato, or some of thephysicists from CERN or the High EnergyResearch Organisation in Japan, whosejob is charting and assessing the unseen.

But in their absence I must make do withthe only expert I have access to: a boy ofseven.‘Freddy K, go and fetch some oldnewspaper from that pile over there.’ Ipoint. He looks blank. I’m about to giveup and try later when I see him give thelittle shudder I recognise: a sign that he isswitching mode. ‘Freddy K. We’re goingto make the world. Your world, not theold one.’‘OK.’‘Are there trees?’‘Just dead ones.’‘So get some twigs.’Soon he’s at work on a hawthornbranch. While he’s busy, I fold half adozen origami men, on the same model as

the one I made for Sunny Chen. Iremember there’s a sack of sand amongthe rusted farm machinery. I haul it to theporch and spread it out by the doorstep,and sprinkle some coarse dishwasher salton top.There. A sparkling white desert thatlooks like Heaven. Freddy is immediatelyexcited. He doesn’t say anything, but herushes to gather up the origami figures andthe makeshift trees.‘So what next?’ I ask.He plants the twigs first, in clusters.‘Scissors,’ he says.When I hand them over he calmlybegins snipping my origami figures intopieces.‘What are you doing?’He digs a shallow hole and throws them

in. ‘They die.’‘Who?’‘People. They get sick. From poisonand the sun. Their eyes pop. Then they dieand we bury them in salt. And whenthey’re ready we dig them up. For eating.’He throws a handful of sand and salt overthe chopped pieces.‘That’s a sad story, Freddy.’‘It’s not a story.’‘But if it was, how would it go afterthat?’ His face changes again. As ifsleepwalking, he gets down from the tableand opens the front door. ‘Freddy K?’ Ablast of freezing air rushes in as he stepsoutside, still barefoot. He never wearsshoes any more and I have stopped tryingto make him. ‘Freddy!’ We were gettingsomewhere: I can’t let him go now. ‘So

what happens next, Freddy?’ He doesn’trespond. ‘How does the story go?’It seems like an innocent question, but Ihave said the wrong thing, because hewhips round and shouts: ‘I told you, it’snot a story! You’re not listening! Ithappens!’He runs around the back of the house,picks up a rock and smashes the ice on thebath tub, then starts hauling out the hugeshards. They clatter to the ground, fallingnext to his red bare feet. I take a deepbreath and shout back.‘What happens, Freddy. Tell me!’Frenzied, he grabs the chain and pullsout the bath plug: instantly, the freezingliquid glugs down the plughole andwaterfalls down on to the icy mud, leavingthe goldfish flipping about on the white

enamel base in a swirl of mud. Then, toofast for me to react, Freddy has reachedin, grabbed the creature, stuffed it into hismouth and run off.Indoors, freezing, I strip off and drymyself. Then I go upstairs and sit on mybed and rock.It’s not a story, Freddy said. It happens.But when, and where, and why?The soil is rock hard, but I dig it anywaybecause the fight of it soothes me.Darkness is closing in. You can see thedance of will-o’-the-wisp as the bogexhales its methane into the air, mixingwith the distant froth of the shore. I stareat the silhouettes of clouds drifting acrossthe horizon. I try to see the story Freddy istelling: the one he insists is not a story, but

eality.Once upon a time the Earth we knowwent amok: hurricanes crossing vastoceans; coasts drowned; lowlands steepedin salt; landscapes baked to desert;aquifers welling up and crystallising. Saltis born of the purest parents. Too muchsun, too much sea. White Death. TheSwiss demographer’s conference: ThePerfect Storm: Climate, Hunger andPopulation.A species in crisis. The exponentialgrowth phase giving way to the stationaryand death phases. The curve’s end: thecollapse of humankind that ProfessorWhybray wrote of in his notebook. Andthe aftermath?A place my boy knows well. A place hefeels at home. A land of insects and dried

seaweed, of stockpiled tins from a bygoneera which this version of himself nevereven knew. Poison and sun-blindness.Mass death, mass graves of salted meat.And when the last food is gone, only oneway to assuage the hunger.Majd. Ikenie.The eating of each other. And thenfewer of them still.Until – the opposite of a Creation myth:just one is left. And then none.The children’s story is the story ofman’s end on Earth.An hour later he’s standing next to me,peeling the bark off a stick. Barefoot, asusual, despite the cold.‘Freddy. The hand-print you make.What does it mean?’

‘Stop. It means we want you to stop.’‘Stop what?’He shrugs and throws down his stick.‘Everything grown-ups do. Everything youdid, when you were alive. Everything youdid before you died.’‘We’re dead?’‘You’re from the Old World. Samething.’‘You say we want you to stop. Who’swe?’He shrugs. ‘Me and the other kids. Wehave the same blood.’‘So where do you come from?’‘The place you are before you’re born.And after you’re dead.’‘But you’re alive Freddy. You’re herewith me. We’re both alive.’He shakes his head. ‘No. You’re dead.

This feels like now, for you. But it’s azillion years ago.’. . . beloved Hesketh . . . the very lastto understand: the last to make the leapof faith . . . His need for proof blinds . . .The Venns erupt in my head. Circleswithin circles. Fairy rings. Neutrinos. Ilean harder on my spade and start to rock.The CERN experiment represented aseismic breakthrough in our grasp of theuniverse. Can undreamed-of dimensionsbe fused, in times of crisis, to thedimensions we know? Can a child be intwo realms of time at once? Quantumphysics would say yes. When theprofessor spoke of an ‘occupation’ he wasbeing serious. But I dismissed it.We belong to the Old World, saidNaomi. Time doesn’t work the way you

think. They’ve come back to stop us.I remember a day in London, Ashoksilhouetted against the sky, ranting.Look what’s happening to growth!How can anything be rebuilt or evensurvive, when industry’s being sabotagedon this kind of scale?Growth. Progress. More. Newer.The Holy Grail.Look behind and you shall be turnedinto a pillar of salt.Beloved Hesketh, he called me. But ittook Freddy to show me the thing Icouldn’t see. It is not a hypothetical worldto them. It is as real as ours.The question is not how they came. Letstring theory work that out. The questionis, how could they not?

After Freddy wanders off, I stay in thedarkness for a long time, leaning on myspade.A few days later we go for the walk I willcome to think of as our last. There’s alight rain.The boy stops by the boulder that marksthe sharp turn of the sheep-path and gazesup. The sunlight refracts in such a way thatI don’t see it at first. But then I do.High at the top of the dark granite, thefamiliar image scrawled in white chalk.The eye.He has been summoned.In the weeks that follow, there’s ascenario I conjure as a comfort to myself.It comes to me when I sit at my desk,

swivelling in my chair and watching thedancing shadows of the candle that I keepburning in the window just in case.There is a sound that might be a treebranch banging against the door. But it’s aknock. I open the door, and the professoris standing there, his hair and beardspangled with rain.‘I knew I’d find you here, boy,’ he says.I remind him I am thirty-six. Then Ishow him around the cottage, warning himto mind his head on the beams. He smileswhen he sees the antique optometrist’scharts he gave me all those years ago. Heinspects my dictionary collection andapplauds my shelving system, notingwhat’s arranged on it, and in whatconfiguration. And I show him the hermitcrab.

‘It’s nearly finished,’ I tell him. Headmires the intricacy of the legs and eyestalks.The way they emerge so neatlyfrom the shiny concertinaed shell. Iexplain some of Lang’s origamiprinciples. ‘When I complete it, it’s foryou. A gift. I wish I could have done itwhen you were still alive. But I wasn’tready. I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry Iwas the last person on earth to understand.You were right. About the new paradigm.’‘I know. I’m glad you saw it. I didn’tthink you would.’‘Freddy showed me.’‘We make a good threesome.’‘He’s gone.’‘But he’ll be back. When they’vefinished what they came to do. Whenmankind has changed enough. When the

new course is set. You know that,Hesketh.’‘Do I?’‘You tell me.’‘Hoping and believing aren’t the same.’He smiles. ‘No. But you can make thembe. So when will you finish this famoushermit crab of yours?’‘When I’ve got past hoping. And seenbeyond.’More and more, I think about the neverendinguniverse of things that man doesnot know.If the old Freddy were here, he wouldsay, ‘Yet’.But there is no Freddy any more. He isoff with the fairies.And what does ‘yet’ mean, now that

time has a whole new meaning?I love him, no matter what. I know that.But what does a man do with such a love?No stories I know can tell me how thisends. But all flow charts contain a rangeof possible outcomes, so I have a set ofhopes. And some things are alreadyclearly foreseeable. The process ofrecalibration is quietly under way onArran. When people dare to breed hereagain their offspring will be fewer, andbetter cherished. This new generation willlearn that it was children like themselveswho halted the juggernaut at the brink ofthe abyss. That they did not come all thisway to destroy us. They came as saviours,bearing the undeserved and astonishinggift of a second chance. And that it isthanks to them that we discovered a new

metaphysics of being. I am not a greatcommunicator. But in the work I plan towrite, I will try to convey this. I willdedicate it to Professor Whybray, and toFreddy.I walk on the shore, alone, listening for thecry of the black guillemot.Lately, more rain has been falling,borne by a fresh spate of hurricanes in themid-Atlantic. The wind picks up moisturefrom the ocean and hurls it far inland.Then, one day, I see him. He’s just a dot inthe distance, but I know it’s him, evenbefore I lift my binoculars. I adjust thefocus. All that’s left of his clothing is apair of pants and a torn vest.‘Freddy!’ I shout. But he’s too far away

to hear me.They all are.Twenty or thirty of them are cominginto view, shoaling by the black stone,naked or in rags, with clumps of saltybladderwrack on their heads and wetribbons of seaweed or strings of bonesaround their necks. The lenses of theirdark glasses flash weakly in the fadinglight. Their little bodies are skinny andstreaked with grime. Their fingernails areblack. Their dry, sunburned skin twinkleswith crystals of salt. The crusted-up wingsof insects and the legs of miniature sandcrabscling to the edges of their mouths.The hidden internal folds of an origamimodel in progress operate like flowerbuds or the folded wings of a bird. When

you open them out, their intended shape,and their place in the whole and theirfunction, become clear and true.In that moment, when hope becomesbelief, there is enlightenment.The next morning, with the high, bright sunilluminating my desk, I complete the lastfold of the hermit crab.Outside, I turn my face to the wind andfeel the salt mist on my face.And I am filled with something I canhesitantly call joy.

AcknowledgementsNo book of mine is ever completedwithout a huge amount of help fromfriends, family and colleagues who readthe manuscript at different stages. TheUninvited is no exception. I owe a hugedebt to Polly Coles, Amanda Craig, Ginade Ferrer, Humphrey Hawksley, IdeHejlskov, Sally Holloway, CarstenJensen, Tom Jensen, Claire Letemendia,Annette Lindegaard, Kate O’Riordan,Matthew Quick and Ian Steadman, fortheir sharp critical eyes and generous

encouragement.My thanks also go to Marika Cobbold,Raphaël Coleman, Adam Grydehøj, BillHartston and Felicity Steadman for theirspecialist input on matters as varied asSwedish vocabulary, action scenes,folklore, Venn diagrams and industrialrelations.And I am deeply grateful to ClareAlexander, Lesley Thorne and Sally Rileyof Aitken Alexander, and to AlexandraPringle and Erica Jarnes at Bloomsburyfor their support, patience and inspiringfeedback during the editing process.

A Note on the AuthorLiz Jensen is the bestselling authorof seven acclaimed novels, includingthe Guardian Fiction AwardshortlistedArk Baby, War Crimesfor the Home, The Ninth Life ofLouis Drax and, most recently, TheRapture, shortlisted for the BritWriters’ Awards and selected as aChannel 4 TV Book Club Best Read.She has been nominated three times

for the Orange Prize for Fiction andher work has been published in morethan twenty countries. She lives inLondon.

By the Same AuthorEgg DancingArk BabyThe Paper EaterWar Crimes for the HomeThe Ninth Life of Louis DraxMy Dirty Little Book of Stolen TimeThe Rapture

Also Available by Liz JensenThe Rapture

The TV Book Club Best ReadIn a merciless summer of biblical heat and destructivewinds, Gabrielle Fox’s main concern is to rebuild hercareer as a psychologist after a shattering car accident.But when she is assigned Bethany Krall, violent,delusional, cruelly intuitive and insistent that she canforesee natural disasters, she begins to fear she hasmade a terrible mistake. And when catastrophes begin tooccur on the very dates Bethany has predicted, theapocalyptic puzzle intensifies and the stakes multiply. Ahaunting story of human passion and burning faith, TheRapture is an electrifying psychological thriller thatexplores the dark extremes of mankind’s self-destructionin a world on the brink.‘An end-of-days blockbuster to haunt your nightmares …Unputdownable’The TimesClick for more information

The Ninth Life of LouisDraxNine-year-old Louis Drax is a problem child. He’s bright,

precocious, deceitful and dangerously, disturbinglyaccident prone. On a family day out it seems almostpredestined that something will happen. But this time it isworse than anyone imagined. When Louis falls over acliff into a ravine and lapses into a deep coma, his fathervanishes and his mother is paralysed by shock. In aclinic in Provence, Dr Dannachet tries to coax Louisback to consciousness, but the boy defies medical logicand the doctor is drawn into the dark heart of Louis’buried world. Only Louis holds the key to the mysteryand he can’t communicate. Or can he?‘A wonderfully unsettling psychological thriller’Mail on SundayClick for more information

My Dirty Little Book ofStolen TimeIn fin-de-siecle Copenhagen, part-time prostitute

Charlotte and her lumpen sidekick, Fru Schleswig, havetaken on jobs as cleaning ladies of dubious talent to tidethem over the harsh winter of 1897. But the home oftheir neurotic new employer, the widow Krak, soonreveals itself to be riddled with dark secrets – includingthe existence of a demonic machine rumoured toswallow people alive. Rudely catapulted into twenty-firstcenturyLondon, the hapless duo discover a whole newworld of glass, labour-saving devices and hectic,impossible romance.‘Unashamedly gleeful: a kind of topsy-turvy Jane Eyrewith added time travel ... Sit back, suspend your disbelief,and enjoy’Daily MailClick for more information

War Crimes for theHomeLonglisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction

‘You know what they say about GIs and English girls’knickers,’ ran the wartime joke, ‘One Yank and they’reoff.’ When Gloria met Ron, he was an American pilotwho thought nothing of getting hit by shrapnel in thecockpit. She was working in a munitions factory inBristol during the Blitz, but still found time to grab whatshe wanted. Ciggies. Sex. American soldiers. But warhas an effect on people. Gloria did all sorts of things shewouldn’t normally do – evil things, some of them –because she might be dead tomorrow. Or someonemight. Now, fifty years on, it’s payback time. In her oldfolks’ home, Gloria is forced to remember the real truthabout her and Ron, and confront the secret at the heartof her dramatic home front story. In a gripping, vibrantevocation of wartime Britain, Liz Jensen explores thedark impulses of women whose war crimes arecommitted on the home front, in the name of sex,survival, greed and love.‘Breathtakingly coarse, wryly amusing and gutwrenchinglytragic’Marie Claire

Click for more information

The Paper EaterMeet Hannah Park, slave to the democracy machine,and Harvey Kidd, the man the system spat out. Atlantica,

a world of compulsive consumption, fervent Utopianism,emotional discovery, and love on the rocks. Torn from hisfamily, exiled from his native island, and imprisoned onthe former Disney ship Sea Hero, one-time computerwhiz Harvey Nash has found solace in the voodoo art ofpapier-mache. But as the execution date of his violentcellmate approaches, he is confronted with dailyreminders of the wrongful sentence meted out to him bythe consumer-dedicated system he once voted for. In awitty, satirical vision of the future, Jensen evokes a worldof rampant consumerism, blind obedience and virtuallove.‘Sparkling ... sharp, funny and richly imagined, this is astimely a warning about rampant consumerism asOrwell’s 1984 was about state control’Sunday ExpressClick for more information

Ark BabyShortlisted for the Guardian Fiction PrizeLonglisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction

Since the year all British women became infertile, BobbySullivan’s London veterinary clinic has been packed withprimate ‘children’ and, speaking as an alpha male, he’ssick to death of them. Hoping to reincarnate himself, hemoves north, but finds there is no escape from theDarwinian imperative – or from the sexual pull of theluscious twins Rose and Blanche. As the legacy of thegirls’ ancestor, Victorian freak Tobias Phelps, begins toconnect with a century of history, religion, andevolutionary theory, new hope looms for the nation'sfuture. Pointing the finger of destiny firmly at Bobby...‘Superb … A complex, intelligent novel which drawsupon a vast array of ideas without ever losing coherence… magnificently crowded, wonderfully funny fiction’Daily TelegraphClick for more information

Egg DancingLonglisted for the Orange Prize for FictionWith only a schizophrenic mother and a militantly hostile

sister for backup, Hazel Sugden, food-splattered mumand queen of low self-esteem, is palpably unfit to savethe future of mankind as we know it. But whenembryology, psychiatry and religion clash over themiracle designer drug Genetic Choice, the dysfunctionaltrio is propelled into action with explosively comicresults…‘An assured, hilarious and insightful novel … propelledalong by the comic rhythm of the writing, you’re carriedon a crazy journey you won’t be sorry you took’Time OutClick for more informationwww.bloomsbury.com/lizjensen

First published in Great Britain 2012This electronic edition published in 2012 by BloomsburyPublishing PlcCopyright © 2012 by Liz JensenThe moral right of the author has been assertedAll rights reservedYou may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwisemake available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, orby any means(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical,mechanical, photocopying,printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior writtenpermission of thepublisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act inrelation to this publicationmay be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims fordamagesBloomsbury Circus is an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DPwww.bloomsbury.comBloomsbury Publishing, London, New Delhi, New York and

SydneyA CIP catalogue record for this book is available from theBritish LibraryISBN 9781408830062www.bloomsburycircus.comwww.bloomsbury.com/lizjensenVisit www.bloomsbury.com to find out more about our authorsand their booksYou will find extracts, author interviews, author events andyou can sign up fornewsletters to be the first to hear about our latest releases andspecial offers