The sergeant nodded. ‘Aye, and there’s always the stairs.’

‘You’re right.’ Will powered down his Palm Thrummer and slipped it back in its holster. ‘Sergeant, take enough men to search the whole Network level. The rest of you, watch the exits.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Jo, you picking this up? DS Cameron, can you hear me?’

‘Not so loud! I hear you. God my head hurts…’

‘Glad to hear you’re feeling better.’ Will stepped back into the lift, his finger pushing the button for the thirteenth floor. ‘Can you describe the man who attacked you?’

‘I’m kinda fuzzy. I came out of the doors and…and I think there was a halfhead sitting on the seats…And I…I remember going to see if it was OK…Next thing I know: you’re standing over me and my head feels like it’s splitting open.’

‘You didn’t see anyone else?’

‘Just the halfhead.’

He froze as the lift doors slid shut. It couldn’t be…could it? He stabbed the ‘hold’ button and dragged his Thrummer back out. It was a stupid idea, but he could have sworn he’d seen the expression on its face change: as if it’d been expecting trouble that didn’t happen. He squeezed through the doors and ran out into the lobby. There were people milling about everywhere, but no sign of the halfhead with the disposal buggy.

‘Where are you?’ Will pushed his way through the crowd to the middle of the floor and hopped up onto one of the seats.

‘Hey, get down from there!’

‘Shut up, Peter, can you no’ see he’s got a gun?’

Will ignored them, searching the throng for the familiar truncated features and orange and black jumpsuit. There: over by the drinks machine! He jumped down from the chair and saw another halfhead before he’d even hit the floor. And another and another. Suddenly the foyer was full of them, all slouching their way towards the exit.

‘What the hell?’ He barged his way to the front doors.

There were even more of them outside, all shuffling off the back of a bright-yellow Services Roadhugger. It had pulled in, right under the hospital’s portico, keeping out of the rain, and a fat man in dirty grey and blue overalls was man handling more halfheads down from the tailgate. Will grabbed him, spinning him round.

‘Hey, get yer hands aff me, ya bampot!’ The man puffed and flustered, smoothing away imaginary creases in his uniform.

‘I want you to keep your halfheads away from the hospital ones!’

‘Aye, that’ll be shinin’. It’s changeover time, James, this lot have tae go in an’ sweep the floors an’ pick up the jobbies.’

‘Just hold them here!’ Will stuck his ID under the man’s nose and watched the assembling halfheads.

‘Well, well.’ He took Will’s ID card and squinted at it. ‘Hey Dougie, look at this: it’s a bigwig fae the Netwurk!’ The fat man turned and showed it to his colleague, the one dishing out the mops and buckets. ‘Are we no’ honoured?’

‘Oh, aye, I’m honoured all right.’ Dougie laughed, showing off a random collection of lopsided teeth.

Will snatched his ID back. ‘Fancy a three-week holiday in the Tin? Because that’s what you’ll get if I do you for obstruction!’

‘Aye, aye, keep yer wig on, James. There’s nae need tae get a’ huffy.’ The fat man waved a hand at his partner. ‘Douglas,’ he said in a mock Morningside accent, ‘be so good as to line all oor guests up against the truck so that they does not mix wi’ those ruffians ower there.’

‘Aye, aye Mon Capitan. I’ll just shoogle ‘em over here oot o’ harms way.’ He gave an elaborate salute and shoved his charges back against the Roadhugger’s side. ‘Come on ma wee darlins, let’s be havin’ ye.’

‘There ye go, James, all present and correct.’ The fat man added, ‘Sah!’ then clicked his heels and grinned. Will came within an inch of punching him on his squint, sarcastic nose.

The halfheads from the previous shift were beginning to get restless. Every evening they would drift out of the hospital and onto the Roadhugger, go home to the depot to be fed and washed. They lived by their routine and the change was making them nervous. One by one they abandoned their wheelies and their buggies; milling about, looking distressed. Will tried pushing them into some sort of order, but it was like juggling cats: they wanted to get onboard the Roadhugger and there was going to be no standing still until they did.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Put the bloody things on the truck.’

‘Keep them aff, pit them oan, dae the hokey-cokie…’ The fat man executed a courtly bow to his friend with the awful teeth. ‘Douglas, would you be a dear an’ help oor passengers aboard th’ good ship Lollypop?’

‘My pleasure, Captain!’ He turned and made a megaphone out of his dirty hands and irregular mouth. ‘All aboard the Mudlark!’ To Will’s surprise the halfheads started shuffling forwards. ‘Come on ladies an’ gentlemin, lets be avin’ yeeeew!’

They brought their mops and their buckets, their buggies and their brooms with them. Dougie relieved them of their burdens, then Captain Fat and Sarcastic helped them up the back step and into the Roadhugger. Will stood at the tailgate, looking into their faces as they were pulled onboard. Searching for some sign of life. There was no way to tell if any of them were the halfhead in the lift; they all looked alike to him. Every single one of them seemed to be brain-dead.

‘Ye happy now?’ asked the Captain, when they were all on board and strapped into their bays.

‘How many did you bring with you?’

‘The same number they gave us at the depot. Whit is it wi’ you?’

‘How many?’

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the ones lined up along the side of the truck. ‘That many.’

‘You must keep some sort of records-’

‘Look, Mister, we ain’t their keepers. We just picks them up and drops them off. OK? Gie’s a break!’

Will dropped off the tailgate and stared at the line of new halfheads, all clutching their cleaning materials and waiting for instructions. This was madness: they were halfheads. Between them they wouldn’t have enough brains left to break wind, never mind assault a Bluecoat officer and evade a Network security team. It wasn’t just unlikely, it was impossible. He was just making a fool of himself.

‘We all done here, James? Entertaining as this is, Dougie an’ me gottae go dae some actual work, but.’

Will gritted his teeth, forcing out the words, ‘Thank you for your cooperation.’ Then he turned on his heel and stomped back into the hospital, doing his best to ignore the derisive laughter that erupted behind his back.

She watches him leave: face all crumpled, shoulders all slouchy. Poor thing. What he needs is a woman’s touch. She gets a warm feeling inside at that. A woman’s touch, with a very sharp blade.

It was easy to change lines, to become one of the incoming domestic slaves, rather than the outgoing.

When the line snakes away from the Roadhugger and in through the hospital doors she goes with it. They all line up like good little soldiers, then a bored-looking orderly assigns them their tasks.

She tries to look completely bereft of intelligence as the bored man tells her to go and mop the floors in the mortuary. As she slouches off towards the lifts she sees the orderly get to the end of the line and examine his clipboard.

‘We got one too many…’ He frowns, then shrugs. ‘Ah well, waste not want not.’

Dr Westfield catches sight of the big glass and bronze clock hanging over the reception desk. It’s not even five o’clock yet. She still has six hours to go.

Six hours and a head full of bees and broken glass.

Peitai…

She will find herself a nice private room and have a shower. A long, hot shower to cleanse away all the dirt and filth and menial labour of the last six years.

Then she’ll be nice and clean for Dr Stephen Bexley. He’ll give her back her face and her life, and she’ll take his. Then she’ll pay that nice man from the Network a home visit.