'Fuck him!' Harry said out loud, bitterly.

Yes, screw him, shaft the bastard! Which had to be better than murdering him, at least.

He climbed over into the front seat of the car and took off the brake, and felt the wheels slowly turn as she began to roll. He guided the car fully on to the road and let gravity take her along. Rolling down the gentle gradient, the vehicle gained momentum.

Harry pumped at the accelerator until he could smell the heavy petrol fumes, pulled out the choke and pumped some more. A quarter-mile later he was still pumping and the car was doing maybe twenty-five, thirty. The curve was corning up fast, with its grass verge and high stone wall. Harry let go the wheel, conjured a Möbius door out of the seat beside him and slid over into it.

And two seconds later Paxton's car mounted the verge, hit the wall and went off like a bomb!

Just that moment returning from the river to the road, the esper stared uncomprehendingly at the spot where his car had stood - then heard the explosion farther down the road and saw a ball of fire rising into the night. And: 'What...?' he said. 'What?'

By then Harry was home again, dialling 999. He got an emergency operator in Bonnyrig who put him through to the police station.

'Police - how can we help ye?' The voice was heavily accented.

There's a car just burst into flames on the access road to the old estate behind Bonnyrig,' Harry said, breathlessly, and passed on full details of the location. 'And there's a man there drinking from a hip flask and warming his hands on the fire.'

'Who's speaking, please?' The voice was more authoritative now, alert and very official-sounding.

'Can't stop,' said Harry. 'Have to see if anyone's hurt.' He put the phone down.

From his upstairs bedroom window the Necroscope watched the fire steadily brightening, and ten minutes later saw the Bonnyrig fire-engine arrive along with its police escort. And for a little while there was the eerie wailing of sirens where blue- and orange-flashing lights clustered around the central leap of flames. Then the fire winked out and the sirens were silenced, and a little after that the police car drove off ... with a passenger.

Harry would have been happy to know that the passenger was Paxton, furiously swearing his innocence and breathing whisky fumes all over the hard-faced officers. But he didn't because by then he was fast alseep. Whether sleep at night was right or wrong for his character made no difference: Trevor Jordan's advice had been sound...

In the morning the rising sun scorched Harry from his bed. Coming up beyond the river, it crept in through his window and seared a path across a twitching left hand which he dreamed was trapped in one of Hamish McCulloch's kilns. Starting awake, he saw the room flooded with glowing yellow sunlight where he'd mistakenly left the curtains open.

He breakfasted on coffee - just coffee - and immediately proceeded to the cool cellar. He didn't know how long he had left, so it might well be a case of now or never. And anyway he'd promised Trevor Jordan it would be today. Jordan's and Penny's urns were already down below, along with the chemicals Harry had taken from the Castle Ferenczy.

Trevor,' he said as he weighed and mixed powders. 'I went after Paxton last night ... no, not seriously, but almost. All I did in the end was toss a spanner in his works, which should keep him out of our hair a while. I certainly don't feel him near, but that could be because it's morning and the sun is up. Can you tell me if he's out there?'

The newsagent in Bonnyrig has just opened his shop and there's a milkman doing his rounds, Jordan answered. Oh, and a lot of perfectly ordinary people in the village are having breakfast. But no sign of Paxton. It seems a pretty normal sort of morning to me.

'Not exactly normal,' Harry told him. 'Not for you, anyway.'

I've been trying not to hope too hard, Jordan answered, his deadspeak shivery. Trying not to pray. I still keep thinking I'm dreaming. I mean, we actually do shut down and sleep sometimes. Did you know that?

The Necroscope nodded, finished with his powders and took up Jordan's urn. 'I was incorporeal myself one time, remember? I used to get tired as hell. Mental exhaustion is far worse than physical.'

For a while, as he carefully poured Jordan's ashes, there was silence. Then: Harry, I'm too scared to talk!

'Scared?' Harry repeated the word almost automatically, concentrated on breaking the urn with a hammer and lying its pieces with the insides uppermost around the heap of mortal remains and chemical catalysts, so that anything clinging to them would get caught up in it when he spoke the words.

Scared, excited, you name it... but if I had guts I'd throw them up, I'm sure!

It was time. Trevor, you have to understand that if you're not right ... I mean - '

I know what you mean. I know.

'OK.' Harry nodded, and moistened his dry lips. 'So here we go.'

The words of evocation came as easy as his mother tongue, and yet with a growl which denied his human heritage. He used his art with - pride? Certainly in the knowledge that it was a very uncommon thing, and that he was a most uncommon creature.

'Uaaah!' The final exclamation wasn't quite a snarl - and it was answered a moment later by a cry almost of agony!

The Necroscope stepped back as swirling purple smoke filled the cellar, stinging his eyes. It gouted, mushroomed, spilled from or was residue of the chemical materia. It was the very essence of jinni: its massive volume spilling from such a small source. And staggering forward out of it, crying out the pain of his rebirth, came the naked figure of Trevor Jordan. But the Necroscope was ready, in case this birth must be aborted.

For a moment Harry could see very little in the swirl of chemical smoke, and for another only a glimpse: a wild, staring eye, a twisted, gaping mouth, head only partly visible. Only partly there?

Jordan's arms were reaching for Harry, his hands shuddering, almost vibrating. His legs gave way and he fell to one knee. Harry felt the chill of absolute horror and the words of devolution sprang into his mind, were ready on his desiccated lips. Then -

- The smoke cleared and it was... Trevor Jordan kneeling there.

Perfect!

Harry sank to his knees and embraced him, both of them crying like children...

Then it was Penny's turn. She, too, thought she was dreaming, couldn't believe what the Necroscope told her with his deadspeak. But it was one dream from which he soon awakened her.

She fell into his arms crying, and he carried her up out of the cellar to his bedroom, laid her between the sheets and told her to try to sleep. All useless: there was a maniac in the house, running wild, laughing and crying at the same time. Trevor Jordan came and went, slamming doors, rushing here and there - pausing to touch himself, to touch Harry, Penny - and then laughing again. Laughing like crazy, like mad. Mad to be alive!

Penny, too, once the truth sank in, once she believed. And for an hour, two hours, it was bedlam. Stay in bed? She dressed herself in Harry's pyjamas and one of his shirts, and... danced! She pirouetted, waltzed, jived; Harry was glad he had no neighbours.

Eventually they wore themselves out, almost wore the Necroscope out, too.

He made plenty of coffee for them. They were thirsty; they were hungry; they invaded his kitchen. They ate ... everything! Now and then Jordan would leap to his feet, hug Harry until he thought his ribs must crack, rush into the garden and feel the sunshine, and rush back again. And Penny would burst into a fresh bout of tears and kiss him. It made him feel good. And it disturbed him. Even now their emotions were no match for his.