glowed in the phone's eyes.

Jesus. That was low.

POLICE. YOU NEED HELP? the floating head asked.

Yes. Yes I did.

POLICE. CAN WE HELP? repeated the voice, growing impatient. I was finding it hard to speak, and I knew just why. This was the first time, in all my life, that I'd actually called the cops.

"I was just wondering...," I managed.

YOU HAVE AN ENQUIRY, SIR? LET ME PUT YOU THROUGH.

Noises in the wave wires like the kissing of the sea. The eyes telling me I had only seven units of call left.

DATA. CAN I HELP? A man's head replacing the woman's.

"Yes, please," I said. "I would like to know the situation regarding a Mr Tristan Catterick. He was arrested yesterday. Could you tell me please?"

HOLD THE LINE, SIR. I'LL GET THE RELEVANT FILE.

"I've only got four units left," I said, but the line was playing the national anthem, whilst the head smiled benignly.

So I waited.

The voice cut in again. WE ARE RETRIEVING THE FILES, SIR. WE'LL GET RIGHT BACK TO YOU.

"I've got two units left!"

No response.

One unit.

HOLD THE LINE, SIR.

The music playing, and then the eyes glowing from cream to blue again as the units came back on. Two units. Flicker. Four units. Flicker. And then upwards until I had ten units left. Somebody was feeding units in, and it wasn't me. Must be coming from the other side, from the cops, trying not to get me cut off.

They had a tracer on!

A glimpse of Takshaka's tongue flickering over the wires.

I pulled the feather out, doing a bad jerkout job. Shit! Time to move.

We rode down Fallowfield hill like demons, down into Rusholme, past the Platt Fields, towards the curry chute. Every car that we passed had flags waving from the windows. Pakistani flags. Inside each car, families of Asians were laughing and shouting, and the cars were sounding their horns.

What the fuck was going on?

Now the traffic was slowing down, and we came up close to the old flat, the Rusholme Gardens. It gave me a bad feeling, seeing where we had come from, and how far, and I thought the Beetle was feeling the same because I could hear him cursing. Except it wasn't from nostalgia. It was from the cops. I'd clambered up to sit next to him, and I could see them there; working the road, diverting the cars down Platt Lane.

A real heavy cop presence.

"Stay tucked up, Bee."

"I'm boiling, Scribb."

"You're a shining example to us all, Beetle, but right now I reckon you should keep it tight." I slipped the gun and the feather into my pockets. A shadowcop flickered onto our number-plate, but that's okay; that old ice-cream van was innocent. The Beetle kept himself well back in the shadows of the cab. A traffic cop waved us through, left onto Platt, taking it slower

now, jammed between the Asian cars. Mandy came forward, poking her head between us.

"What's happening, Mandy?" I asked.

"Eid, baby," she answered.

Oh right. What a night to pick.

"It's the end of Ramadan. The end of fasting. The people go a bit crazy, and sometimes it kicks off. That's why the cops are here. They seal the curry chute off, but it just spills over."

Gangs of Asian kids were lining the pavements, cheering the cars and the flags, so Beetle found the button that worked the van's music. The kids really freaked out then. They waved us on like we were some kind of ice-cream chariot of the gods, dancing to the tune of Popeye the Sailor Man, played at fever pitch.

We got through okay, and then a slow right onto the Yew Tree Road. Cops were out of it by now, the roads were quiet. Right from Yew Tree, onto Claremont Road. I told the Beetle to slow it even more. He did so, with a sure hand, taking us to a gentle crawl, between the rows of terraces. Way ahead, at the top of Claremont, you could see where the cops had sealed off Wilmslow Road. Hundreds of Asians moving beyond the roadblocks.

"Kill that Popeye shit as well," I added.

Silence coming in as the music faded.

"What number we after, Scribb?" asked Mandy.

There's the one," I said.

The van came to a smooth stop.

Karli started to whine.

Here we are. Sunday evening, the 1st of June. Ten thirty on the night of Eld.

The road was pretty much our own now. The house was three storeys tall, over the top of a junkshop called Cosmic Debris. A tight alley opened up between this house and the next, barred by a wooden gate, topped with wire. Dogfluff fluttered on the barbs.

Karli was really howling now, feeling something.

The house was dark but for the weak spluttering of a candle in a top floor window. "Bad dogs, real bad dogs," said Mandy, "they don't like the light."

This is it. This is where we come to.

"You want to try the back, Bee?" I said. Because who would invite this shining man into their household?

"Love to," he answered.

"We go in first. Got that? No heroics."

"What, me?" His colours were very beautiful. They always are, just before the death.

"You're doing fine, Bee." I said.

"I do feel good." Maybe he knew it. The ending. He wasn't letting on.

"I just wanted to say..." I started. But the words wouldn't come.

"Don't bother," the Beetle replied. Cool as ever, right to the end.

"I'm proud of you, Beetle." Managed it.

"Me too," said Mandy.

Beetle took off the sunglasses. He looked at me, smiled, then over to Mandy.

He kissed her. It was sweet, and it lasted.

Then he turned back to the house. "I haven't got all night. Let's do it."

Oh. Beetle.

"Are we really here, Scribble?" asked Twinkle from the back of the van.

I looked back to find her, but all I saw was Karli. The robobitch was down on her stomach, rubbing the van floor like a snake. Her forelegs were stretched out flat, her hindlegs were raised up tall, tail aloft, her arse on view, pink and pouting. "I think she's smelling something," whispered Twinkle. "I think she's on heat."

Yes. We're here. And we're all on heat.

TURDSVILLE

Twinkle and Karli went to the door first. There was a kind of alcove, with the door to the shop on one side, and the door to the upstairs flat on the back. Above the door someone had pinned a printed notice saying PURE FREE ZONE. Below that was tacked a piece of paper with the words -- you not got dog, fuck off! -- scrawled in thick clumsy letters. Above the letterbox was an ornate iron scrollwork sign that said CHEZ CHIEN in a Gothic script. Below the box someone had felt-tipped the message -- Turdsville. Watch where you tread. It was written in a human hand. Just to the left of the bell was a sticker, a photo of an Alsatian on it, and the words -Go ahead, make my day! Somebody had glued two blue human eyes over the dog's.

Twinkle pressed the bell.

You couldn't hear the bell, so you just had to believe it was working.

No response to that.

Mandy was standing behind Twinkle, and I was behind her. The Beetle was still sitting in the van, watching us through the window. The gun felt hot in my pocket, but that didn't stop the fear. I just couldn't stop shaking. Twinkle pressed the bell again, keeping her finger down this time.

Still no answer.

"Maybe they're not in," said Mandy.

"Keep pressing, Twink," I said.

Twinkle pressed.

No answer, so she lifted the letterbox and shouted through, "Anyone at home?"

Nothing.

Until the door came open a little, held back by a heavy chain. Two dark, wet eyes stared out at us. "What want?" the deep voice growled. "What want?"

You could see the slaver dripping as he spoke.

Twinkle rose up like a true star to the occasion. "We've got a young bitch," she said. "You want to buy some?"

There was a pause. The dog's eyes flicked up to stare at me. I smiled back.