"No," he said stupidly. "But I have a professional obligation."

He turned and crossed the road. She watched him walk away. His tweed jacket was ripped at the back, the seam under the arm was coming apart, ruining the line of it. His shoes were handmade.

She trotted after him. "Listen, can you hang on for a minute? I need to get something."

She meant for him to wait outside but he followed her into the newsagent's. Not wanting to be seen with him, she moved over to the magazine rack, leaving Angus standing on his own by the books. She might be able to get out of the shop without talking to him. She picked up a chocolate bar and took a pint of milk out of the fridge, wasting time by checking the sell-by date. Angus was at the far side of the shop – he didn't want to be seen with her either: he had pulled his hat down and was facing some posters. Next to him a tidy queue of pensioners waited patiently under a red sign. Suddenly the sign came into focus and she realized that they were in the post office. She moved over to the counter quickly, paid for the chocolate and the milk, shoving the money at the bearded man behind the till, and walked out.

Angus followed her onto the pavement and took hold of her elbow, pulling her round to face him. "They do have a fax machine," he said, looking at her with his eyes half-closed.

"Yeah, and I told you it's broken."

"It didn't have a sign on it or anything."

She thought about the day she went back to the Rainbow, how he had called her Helen and pretended not to know her. He'd recognized her the moment she'd opened the door and handed him the coffee; she could tell he had, but she'd suppressed her discomfort, mistaking it for embarrassment at being forgotten. He'd pretended not to know her when only a few days before he had been creeping around her house in a blood-soaked cagoul, planting footprints and cutting off Douglas's soft bollocks. "Do you need to send a fax?" she said, seeming confused.

"No."

They stood and looked at each other.

"So… what?" said Maureen.

Angus jerked his head away and looked over the bay. "Nothing," he said. "I just… I don't know."

She checked her watch. She had better get him off the street before it kicked in. "I'm sorry, Angus, I don't know what you mean. D'you need to contact someone? There's a phone upstairs if you need an ambulance for Siobhain."

"Okay," he said uncertainly. "That'll be all right, then."

"We're at number six," she said, and walked on. She led him up the steep stairs, not daring to look at the front door on the first landing in case he saw her. She blinked hard, willing Siobhain and Leslie to stay inside. Angus followed her up to the top flat.

She waited until he was standing on the top landing with her before she took the keys out. She positioned herself at an angle to the door, with her back to the wall, as she slid the key in, turned it and waved him into the flat in front of her. Angus stepped back gallantly and gestured for Maureen to go in first. She couldn't insist without arousing his suspicion. She stepped into the pink flowery hallway. Angus followed her in and shut the door carefully, quietly. She heard him slip the button on the lock, sealing them into the flat together. Maureen stepped forward toward the living-room door. Angus was moving behind her, standing too close. She shoved the living-room door open, banging it against the wall in her hurry to get away from him, and a burning wave of heat billowed out into the hall. "Jesus," said Angus, blanching. "What's going on in here?"

"It's very hot," said Maureen.

She walked into the living room as though she were looking for someone.

"Yeah, but why is it so hot?"

"It's the heating. Hello?" she called softly.

"Where's Siobhain?"

"She doesn't seem to be here."

Angus dropped his bag and hat onto the floor and took off his jacket, resting it over his arm. Two dark rings were forming under his arms, he wiped his glistening forehead with his hand.

Maureen looked at him and smiled. He smiled back, slightly confused, panting lightly in the unbearable heat. He rolled his head back a little and gathered himself together slowly, reminding himself that the bag was on the floor. "Maureen," he said, sliding toward her over a mile of carpet, "I like you." He reached for her wrist but she whipped it away from him.

His skin was burning, the heat was trying to escape from his body any way it could, he could feel blood spots bursting on his back, the size of two-pence pieces, bright, red and burning. A lava rush of sweat ran into his left eye. He pulled off his glasses and jerked his arm up to wipe it from his eyelid but something was moving on his shirtsleeve. He looked at it. He was on fire. Tiny jagged flames leaped on his arm, cartoon flames with red eyes and wicked sharp-toothed smiles. He looked more closely. They were real flames, orange at the base with blue tips, like a gas pipe. He tried to breathe in. The hot air dried his throat and mouth, burning his windpipe. His shirt was melting, sticking to his skin. He tried to lie down and roll the fire off but couldn't move properly and fell onto his knees, leaning his head and shoulder heavily against the red wall.

She was pulling his flaming hair, pulling him by his hair, dragging him away somewhere. She clicked a metal bracelet onto his wrist. He was attached to the bed now and pulled as hard as he could but the bed followed him, biting his wrist, making it bleed heat around the bangle.

"I'm on fire," he said tearfully.

She took his jacket and hat and glasses from the floor and put them on a chair. She undid his shoelaces and slipped his shoes off, unzipped his trousers and let them fall down, pulling them out from under his stockinged feet. Riffling through the pockets she found his wallet. She left the money untouched and took anything that could help to identify him – library cards, cashpoint receipts, credit cards. She slipped the Basildon Bond note to McEwan into the wallet and put it in Angus's trouser pocket, folding the trousers and laying them neatly over the chair.

"You know…," he said into his chest, "you've know. "

She carried the portable television in from the living room and put it on the floor, plugged it in and switched it on.

"Where's Siobhain? Why can't I see her?" Tears drizzled down his face. "Let me go?" he said.

"You were Benny's therapist, weren't ye? You blackmailed him about the credit-card thefts. Ye threatened to shop him and ruin his law career."

"Yes. Please stop this."

"Did you get him to plant the knife back in the flat?"

"Yes. Please… make it stop."

"Did he tell you about my cupboard?"

"Yea…" Angus was murmuring nonsense, his head lolling heavily on his chest.

"I want you to know," Maureen said slowly, so that he would remember, "this is for Siobhain and Yvonne and Iona and the others. And this is for Douglas and this is for Martin."

"I don't know who Martin is," he said innocently.

She stood still and looked at him. A little bent man sweating in his underwear. A string of thick saliva fell from the side of his open mouth, landing softly on the front of his shirt.

"Martin is the guy you killed at the Northern."

"The porter."

"Yes, the porter."

Angus raised his head. His eyes were open wide, too, too wide. "You know it!" he shouted, suddenly coherent. His face was red and his voice tight, strangled, as if he was shitting. "That's why the dreams. You said his nail ripped you but he fucked you. You know it. He fuckt you."

She ran two steps forward and head-butted him. She felt more than heard the crack. She stepped back. Blood was running into his open mouth, his nose was swelling rapidly. He drawled, spluttering through the blood, "Fuckt."

She butted him again. He shut his eyes and was suddenly calm. "Are you going to kill me?"