I guess the bouncers saw the way it was going. Nobody was bothering us.

The crowd were showing a suitable hush. Somebody screamed, then went quiet, sudden like, as though somebody else had jabbed her in the ribs. It was a suitable hush and I was pleased with that. I was pleased with the effect I was having. It felt like release. "What do you want?" asked Dingo Tush. His voice was stretched, halfway between dog and human. Whichever; he was well scared in both modes.

"You know what, dogfucker," I shouted.

Maybe he didn't like the use of that bad word. Maybe he didn't like the way my gun was rock steady upon his face. Maybe he didn't like me betraying him like this. Maybe he didn't like the look in my eyes.

Well, neither did I. But it was there, so let's fuck it to hell.

"You can't fire that thing, baby," he said. Somebody from the crowd shouted, "Right on!" and then they all joined in, mocking my incompetence, like this was just some mad part of the show, the latest Dingo Tush gimmick; mock assassination attempts. They were calling out to me:

"Go to it, dude!"

"Fire that fucker!"

"Let's see it!"

"Kid's a loser!"

"Baby can't fire."

Other such stuff, and the Dingo was urging them on, goading them into mocking me. And something came down then, into my blood stream, filling my head with knowledge; how to load, clean, aim, fire, and kill with a pistol.

With a black jolt I was in Gun Stroker; a well-black feather, but featherless.

"Guy can't cut it!" said a crowd voice.

There was a burst of light coming out of my hands, and then the crash of air, as the bullet escaped my grip. I thought the sun had blown itself apart. It was just the mirrorball exploding above Dingo's head, a rain of glass falling down upon his bristling fur. "What are you after?" he shouted.

"Brid and the Thing."

"How would I know?"

"Dogfucker," I said, "Tell me where."

I could see a few seconds of resistance in his eyes, as he contemplated his denial. But I had the gun, and he didn't. I guess it makes some kind of difference.

"Cosmic Debris."

"No games, Dingo. The address."

"That's the lot, pure boy."

I pulled on the trigger.

Just a little, mind. Just a tiny Gun Stroker squeeze; enough to activate the red firing light. Enough to get the crowd gasping and the Dingo to start screaming; and to end the screaming with a blurted out message, the address.

I eased the trigger back into safety mode; the red light fading to cool mode.

"I would have told you anyway," shouted the Dogstar.

"Just to make sure, Dingo."

Just to make sure.

Because I already knew where Cosmic Debris was. I'd been there. I'd shopped there. We'd bought that old worm-hive settee from there.

Now we were going back. In search of some smoke-damaged shadowgirl and a secondhand Thing-from-Outer-Space.

"Stash Riders! Out of here!" I was kind of loving this.

Outside, into the swirl...

Sunday mornings, starting at five a.m., they have this car boot sale at the Fleshpot canal site, down by the Old Trafford docks. That early all the illegal dealers turn up, selling off cheap feathers and Haze. Along with various domestic items. The sale was in full swing as we rushed out of the truckers' club. People were crowding the shore, looking for bargains. It was a crash of faces and noise. Cars were pulled up, tightly packed. Whole families were out in force, buying and selling. Felt like I was staring into a kaleidoscope, searching for a single crystal. Colours were swirling. Shouts and banter from all angles were calling to me, as I led the Stash Riders through the crush, back towards the van.

I pushed some people aside but it didn't take too much effort. What with The Beetle's colours, and Tristan's shotgun, and Karli's teeth and Karli's growl, I guess we made a pretty picture. The crowd made a clear path for us, over towards where the van was parked.

I was heading for the back door, ready to let the crew in, but I was getting this bad feeling, like there was something wrong with the number-plate, or something wrong with my eyes. I couldn't fathom it. Something wrong. I was staring at the number plate, and the numbers were flickering. Like they were living numbers. Couldn't work it out.

Then I got it.

Shadowcop!

There was a beam of inpho firing onto the number-plate. I looked around and there was the Shaka, working his mechanisms.

What now, big leader man?

"Stash Riders!" I was calling. "Let's move!"

I was running through the crowd, away from the van, forcing a path. People yelling out at me, but I wasn't listening, just running on. Twinkle and Karli close behind, could feel them. And the Beetle's colours leading the way.

Where was Tristan now?

Never mind that.

Didn't know where to run to.

Except that the sun was glinting on the water somewhere, beyond where all those boats were moored.

That's where I led the Riders, not even knowing why.

There were sirens playing in the morning air.

Cop sirens.

Dozens of boats were tied up along the bank; the floating families selling off stuff, just to make a small life. Some were selling food from barbecue boats. Some were selling love, the downmarket version; cheap sluts and rabid studs on deck. And a boat of flowers; a floating garden.

I was looking all ways, searching for a way out. Cop sirens were playing my all-time least favourite tune.

I caught a broken shadow dancing along the edge of my vision. I turned to get that image fixed. There was the Shaka, floating over the market, with the shecop Murdoch close behind, gun in hand.

Man, I was getting some serious Vipers in my system.

They were parting the crowd swirl by force and daring, and the look on Murdoch's face was pure, and raging; like she was aiming for a big thrill.

"Crewcut!" said this voice, from over by the boats. "This way! Relish it!"

I turned back to the water.

"Crew baby! This way!"

I was searching for the voice, the needling voice in the boat-stack. Then my eyes were following the sound to its likely source, finding the sign on the mast-head: "Food O'Juniper. Chef Barnie."

I ran towards the boat, dragging the posse on.

Chef Barnie was on deck, waving us aboard. A young girl child was standing next to him, her fingers working the lines loose. "This way, Crewcut. This way!"

We clambered onto the swaying vessel, and I was almost certain I had brought everybody with me. Twinkle? Yes. Karli with her? Yes. Mandy? Yes. Tristan?

Tristan? You there, my friend?

Seems not.

It seems that it is not to be.

The young girl cut the line.

"Wait!" I called.

But called it late, way too late.

And as we were drifting away, I watched the Tristan stepping out from the crowd, his gun lodged in his arms, firm and solid.

"Tristan!" I screamed. Guy took no notice. He had the shecop in his sights, and he wanted payment, payment for the loss.

Tristan let loose that shotgun.

It made a pretty flame in the morning's light

Car booters were screaming and running.

A pile of house trash exploded on a makeshift trestle table as the bullet hit. Murdoch dived behind the body of a family saloon, away from the fire. Other cops were coming in. Tristan was jigging the gun mechanism, readying for another shot. Too late. Too slow.

I was catching all of this from the widening water.

Too late. Too late and too slow. The both of us.

The cops were grabbing hold of Tristan, wrestling him to the floor, holding him down. Barnie was putting some water between us and the trouble. Now the cops were beating down on Tristan with hot spikes.

All I could do was watch.

I turned my eyes away. Barnie was there, at the helm, wheel in hand, turning it upstream. I studied his perfect facebones for a full minute. "Where are you taking us, Chef?" I asked.