That the Church of Rome should have been dropped by its corporate sponsor had come as a bit of a shock to its millions of followers, and also to Will, who had been considering giving it a go because he’d heard that a lot of nice-looking girls of an easy-going disposition frequented its youth clubs.

Tim had explained to Will that he, Tim, had been made privy to “certain sensitive information” regarding the Church of Rome losing its sponsorship, information, which came to him via “certain contacts in the know”.

According to Tim’s contacts, a serious scandal centring upon St Peter’s of Rome had caused the sponsors to pull out.

Will had listened wide-eyed and open-mouthed while Tim explained the situation. Apparently it was down to the many incorruptible bodies of the saints housed in the catacombs beneath St Peter’s, which were not altogether what they appeared. It had always been accepted by the Church of Rome that a would-be saint must have three attestable miracles to his (or her) account before his (or her) death. And upon later exhumation, the body must not have decayed: that is, it should remain inviolate and incorruptible.

The problem was that there is another order of dead person that does not rot in the grave. The vampire.

And thus it was that many of the so-called saints interred beneath St Peter’s were in fact vampires. And these had, over the years, upon their many night-time forays in search of sustaining blood, managed to infect most of the clergy. And the infection had finally reached the Pope.

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you as suspicious,” Tim had said to Will, “how over the years Popes have lasted for so long and grown so very, very old? And how when they go out in public they are always inside Pope-mobiles with polarised glass windows or heavily shielded from sunlight beneath great big awnings and suchlike?”

Will had scratched at his blondy head. “Not really,” he replied.

“Well it’s true,” said Tim. “A team of Fearless Vampire Killers, a special division of the SAS trained for such action, abseiled down into St Peter’s and the Vatican and exterminated the lot of them: the Pope, the cardinals, monks and nuns and choirboys. Of course it wasn’t on the newscasts, but these things never are. Stuff like this happens all the time; it’s just that we never hear about it.”

Will had shaken his head and shrugged. It sounded as good an explanation as any. Will wondered whether he might apply to join the SAS Vampire Division. It sounded like an exciting kind of job.

“What are you doing at the weekend?” Tim asked.

“Nothing much,” said Will, anxiously looking towards the now distant topknots of the female iconoclasts.

“Fancy something a bit different?” Tim asked.

“Not really bothered,” said Will, scooping random foodstuffs onto his tray.

“You’ll love this, a dose of the old time travel.”

“A dose of what?” Will ceased his foodstuff scoopings.

“I’ve got some Retro,” whispered Tim. “Half a dozen tabs.”

“That stuff’s illegal and it doesn’t really work, does it?”

“Keep it down.” Tim fluttered his fingers. “It does work, you can really go back into the past with it. In your head.” Tim tapped at his temple. “It allows you to access ancestral memories. They are inside your head, you see. The memories of your father before you were conceived. And your grandfather too. Depends on how much Retro you take.”

“And you really can access your father’s memories?”

“They’re inside your head, cellular, part of your genetic code. You don’t just inherit your father’s looks and hair colour, you get his memories too. But you can’t access them without chemical assistance.”

“I have my doubts about this,” said Will, helping himself to further foodstuffs. “Do you know anyone who’s actually taken Retro?”

“Well, no,” said Tim.

“And anyway, if my dad’s memories are in my head, I’d prefer that they stay somewhere hidden. I don’t want to know, thank you very much.”

“But you’d find out about all his dirty doings. Imagine, you could remember how he shagged your mum and conceived you.”

“What a hideous thought. No, thank you very much indeed.”

“Please yourself,” said Tim. “But I’ve got six tabs. That’s three each. You could go back to your precious Victorian era.”

“What?” said Will.

“It’s all inside your head,” said Tim. “Or at least that’s the theory. I’m going to take the drug on Saturday night. If you’re not interested, I’ll let you know how I get on. But you’re missing out on something special, I’m telling you.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” said Will. “But listen, can we talk later? There’s someone I have to see.”

“Don’t go near them,” said Tim. “If they even suspect that you’re listening in to their conversation, you’ll be in real trouble.”

“What?” said Will, all but dropping his tray. “What are you saying?”

“I saw you,” whispered Tim. “Those corridors down to the archive are constantly scanned. My department takes care of that. I received a memo this morning that two dignitaries were coming to inspect the archive. I was to monitor them as far as the archive security door and then erase their images from the scanning program. And I did, but guess who I caught sneaking down the corridors before they did?”

“Oh no,” said Will. “So I’m in big trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” said Tim. “I erased you too. But don’t go near them. They’re big trouble.”

“So who are they?”

“So what were you doing in the archive?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Will.

“Well I can tell you this. Don’t go down there again. And don’t go near those women. Do we understand each other?”

“We do,” said Will. “Can I buy you lunch?”

“You can,” said Tim. “And I’ll expect you at my housing unit at eight o’clock sharp on Saturday night. Try not to get yourself into any trouble before then, okay?”

“I’ll try,” said Will. “I’ll try.”

3

Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday came and went and these days were very dull indeed for Will. Dull they were, and worrying too. Will worried for the painting. Would someone uncover his hiding place? A cleaner, or a restorer, perhaps? Or would the iconoclastic women return? Might they have found out that they’d destroyed the wrong painting? Would investigations ensue? His fingerprints and DNA would be upon the Dadd. He should have worn gloves. He should never have got involved at all. Perhaps it hadn’t been a risk worth taking. Will perched on the edge of his seat in a permanent state of tension. Will worried and fretted and worried some more. Gladys worried for Will.

“You’re not yourself, little manny,” she told him, reaching forth a podgy hand to stroke at his arm. “Come out with me this evening, I’ll cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” said Will. “But no thanks.”

“But Friday night is Rock Night at the Shrunken Head. Your kind of thing, Will, Retro Rock, twentieth-century stuff. The Apes Of Wrath are playing and Violent Macaroni and Foetus Eater, and Lawnmower Death, and The Slaughterhouse Five.”

“Not my cup of coffee,” said Will. “But Tim McGregor in Forward Planning loves that kind of business. And between you and me, I think he’s somewhat enraptured by you. He keeps mentioning your name in the canteen.”

“Really?” Gladys primped at her lemonly-tinted toupee. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely,” said Will. “But don’t tell him that I told you.”

“No, I won’t.”

Will twiddled his computer rat and viewed more boring Rothko. Dull dull dull it was, and Will remained as worried.

He worried until it was time to go home. Then he went off home, still worrying.

And he did have good cause to worry. Crime was hardly commonplace in these days after the day after tomorrow. And the reason for this was the almost superhuman efficiency of the Department of Correctional Science.