Crowds scream and part around us, like the ocean before an angry Moses as we move through halls of ancient totem poles pillaged from the Pacific, past cloaks of shell taken from the backs of dead American priests. He jumps and is a she, she jumps and is a child, it jumps and is a man again as we pass monuments to the dead, ancient images of gods who faded when their worshippers forgot, carved tokens to speed departed souls on to the afterlife or sink their bodies into the embrace of those loving oceans whence they came.

There are policemen after us, security, but who knows who to pursue? A man who was Galileo is tackled to the ground; a woman who three bodies ago ran now stands and screams as guns are pointed in her face, who are you, who are you, why did you run? Run where? she gasps. Run why?

A figure in grey, Galileo is a child, straight black hair, pale beige skin, grey uniform and knee-length socks. In one hand he holds a satchel, half-open to reveal the schoolbooks within; papers spilling from the bag as he runs down the hall.

A woman ahead. She’s got a gun, the veil across her face is dishevelled. I can see bare skin about her wrists, eyes and throat, but she doesn’t seem to care, raises the gun, levels it at

not the child

at me.

Pamela, back on her feet, I scream. “I’m Kepler, I’m Kepler!”

She doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t seem to perceive the child running towards her as she raises the gun and

fires.

I throw myself to the ground. I am policeman. I wear body armour, build up muscle tone, take long walks around my local beat… or perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I drive everywhere and live on doughnuts, and my heart is going to give out any moment. In all the fuss I didn’t really have time to check. Either way, a bullet is a bullet, and we’re all out of time.

I drop.

Zeus stares down at us, full of anger and sorrow at the deeds mortals do. Aphrodite combs her marble hair, Ares grapples with a raging warrior, Hercules strangles a snake, and two-faced Janus, god of gates, doorways, endings and times, laughs from one side of his face and weeps from the other, and I? I am cowering beneath a statue of Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, her face turned down in a serene smile, already knowing who will win.

Pam stands in the centre of the hall. She has followed the sound of gunfire, which makes her brave or foolish or otherwise emotionally involved. She doesn’t fire again, but enough has already been done: people are running, fleeing from the gallery, pushing and shoving their way to the exit. Someone, somewhere has sounded an alarm, and an evacuation is under way, just like the NYPD wanted. On a stairway behind me someone falls, someone cries, someone sobs, and I remember Taksim station, where this all began, when I ran from a stranger’s gun as Galileo runs from mine.

I am policeman.

I am meant to be obeyed.

I shout, “Everybody out!” but everybody has gone.

My hands are sweaty where they hold the gun, but my recovery time is impressive, heart already slipping down into steady double figures inside my chest.

“William…”

A child’s voice, sing-song. “Oh William!”

Who the hell is William?

(My Will, dead on a Miami dock.)

Ah yes.

I was a William once.

A long time ago.

I peep round the side of Athena, and there he is.

The schoolboy, Galileo, barely nine or ten years old. He’s smiling, one hand in Pam’s, the other still clasping his satchel. She stares at nothing, face greyer than her scarf, the gun still in her right hand, limp at her side. Of course. She came here without any gloves and now stands there, a picture of motherhood holding a child, and that child is Galileo.

I level my gun at the child, then turn it towards Pam.

The boy tuts. “But which one am I now?”

The boy staggers. Pam blinks, then smiles, her fingers tightening around the child’s little fist. “Which one do you want me to be?” she asks, then she too sways as the child grins, pressing Pam’s hand against his cheek like a cat brushing itself against its master’s legs.

“Shoot me…”

“or me?”

“Which one…”

“first?”

He is she, she is he, clinging to each other, and in the moments when she is not he, she is terrified, tears rolling down her cheeks, and in the moments when he is not she, he is pissing his pants, a child lost and confused, clinging to a stranger’s side and not knowing how he got there.

I stand.

The gun trained on some point between them both–best chance if I’m fast and they’re slow.

I am New York’s finest, called to the scene of the crime.

I am armed.

I am come to kill the child, Galileo.

Will, dying on a Miami dockside, the blood popping in his chest.

Johannes Schwarb, burned alive for all to see.

Do you like what you see?

I said, “I killed you before; I’ll do it again.”

Galileo grins, and as soon as the expression comes, it goes again, and, rubbing one eye with a fist, he stammers, “B-b-b-but please, sir, don’t hurt the little boy.”

I tighten my grip on the gun, level it at his skull. “I don’t know you,” I reply. “It will be a moment. That’s all. Just another moment, and done.”

My finger tightens against the trigger.

A shot.

Not mine.

Something slams into my back, into the bulletproof vest, knocking me down. I land on my hands and knees, gasping for breath, head ringing, Galileo before me. The shot frightened him and he must have jumped, because now she’s standing there, breathless, gun raised ready to fire, a two-handed grip, and at her side the child is crying, standing bewildered, doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t understand.

Footsteps behind, approaching, by my side.

I half-turn my head, ribcage screaming at even that little movement, and Coyle is there, above me, a gun held tight, pointing at Pam, who tightens her grip and points straight back. “Remember me?” he asks. Galileo’s head tilts on one side, curious. “Remember me?” Coyle’s voice shook round the empty hall, off the sad smile of mother Hera, through the twisted limbs of raging Poseidon, into the cold white stones of the museum.

I tried to stagger up, and thought better of it, remained on my hands and knees, sucking in air. My jacket had stopped the shot, but not the shock, and now my ears rang and my tongue tasted of bitter adrenaline.

“Coyle…” I wheezed.

“Shut up,” he barked, eyes still fixed on Galileo. “Do you remember me?”

“No,” she said. “Who are you?”

He draws in a breath. Is this hurt? Had he imagined his murder meant something to a creature like Galileo? “Boy. You!”

The child looked up.

“Get out of here.”

The child didn’t move.

“Run!” Coyle’s voice echoed off stone walls, off statues of gods and monsters, and the child ran, leaving his satchel behind, slipping on the papers strewn across the floor.

Coyle kept the gun trained on Pam; she kept her gun trained on him.“Well,” she said at last. “What now?”

Coyle’s hand was shaking, but his voice shook more. “Santa Rosa. You wore me there. Do you remember?”

“No.”

“I killed a woman–you killed her in me. Do you remember?”

Galileo shrugged.

Coyle’s hands shook around the tight fist of the gun. “You stuck a knife in me. How can you not remember?!”A scream in the hall.

I think: you’re getting hysterical, Nathan Coyle. Nothing.

Galileo remembered; she didn’t remember.

Either way she didn’t care.

“Nathan… please…” I tried to crawl to my feet, made it to my knees, made it to one knee, my hand shook as I reached for his gun. “Give me the gun. I’ll do it. Give me the gun!”

“Oh! Do you love me?” Surprise, delight in Galileo’s voice, she beamed at Coyle now, studying his face, her shoulders straightening, head coming up, delighted, a princess on display for her prince. “Do I love you too?”