I didn't know where Spike was but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.

'What do you want?'

'Nothing much.' The man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head laughed. 'Just. . . your soul.'

'Looks like a good one, too,' said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and pointing it in my direction, 'lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run — we won't get a lot for that.'

I didn't like the sound of this, not one little bit.

'Move,' said the first man, indicating the doors.

'Where to?'

'Northside.'

'Over my dead body.'

'That's the po—'

The third man didn't finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelled of mouldy vegetables. The first man whirled round and fired in the direction of the cafeteria but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a parked car. After a few moments I peered cautiously round. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene, the night-time, the motorway services, a sense of deja vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that — I had been here before, during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman — Bowden and myself, in point of fact — were jumping into a Speedster — my Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tyre for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety catch and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover among the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding view of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.

'The tall guy is Chesney, my ex-partner from SO-17,' announced Spike as he reloaded his shotgun. 'The necktie covers the decapitation wound I gave him. He has to hold his head to stop it falling off

'Ah. I wondered why he was doing that. But losing his head — that makes him dead, right?'

'Usually. He must be bribing the gateway guardians or something. It's my guess he's running some sort of soul reclamation scam.'

'Wait, wait,' I said, 'slow down. Your ex-partner Chesney — who is dead — is now running a service pulling souls out of the netherworld?'

'Looks like it. Death doesn't care about personalities — he's more interested in meeting quotas. After all, one departed soul is very like another.'

'So—'

'Right. Chesney swaps the soul of someone deceased for someone healthy and living.'

'I'd say you're shitting me but I've got a feeling you're not.' 'I wish I was. Nice little earner, I'm sure. It looks like that's where Formby's driver Mallory went. Okay, here's the plan: we'll do a hostage swap for the President and once you're in their custody I'll get Formby to safety and return for you.'

'I've got a better idea,' I replied, 'how about we swap you for Formby and I go to get help?'

'I thought you knew all about the underworld from your bosom pal Orpheus?' countered Spike with a trace of annoyance.

'It was highlights over coffee — and anyway, you've done it before. What was that about an inflatable boat from Argos to paddle yourself to the underworld?'

'Well,' said Spike slowly, 'that was more of a hypothetical journey, really.'

'You haven't a clue what you're doing, have you?'

'No. But for ten grand, I'm willing to take a few risks.'

We didn't have time to argue further as several shots came our way. There was a frightened scream from a customer as one of the bullets reduced a magazine shelf to confetti. Before I knew it Spike had fired his shotgun into the ceiling, where it destroyed a light fixture in a shower of bright sparks.

'Who shot at us?' asked Spike. 'Did you see?'

'I think it's fair to say that it wasn't the light fixture.'

'I had to shoot at something. Cover me.'

He jumped up and fired. I joined him, fool that I was. I had thought that being out of my depth was okay because Spike vaguely knew what he was doing. Now that I was certain this was not the case, escape seemed a very good option indeed. After firing several shots ineffectively down the corridor, we stopped and dropped back round the corner.

'Chesney!' shouted Spike. 'I want to talk to you!'

'What do you want here?' came a voice. 'This is my patch!'

'Let's have a head-to-head,' replied Spike, stifling a giggle. 'I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement!'

There was a pause, then Chesney's voice rang out again:

'Hold your fire. We're coming out.'

Chesney stepped out into the open, just next to the children's helicopter ride and a Coriolanus Will-Speak machine. His remaining henchman joined him, holding the President.

'Hello, Spike,' said Chesney. He was a tall man who looked as though he didn't have a drop of liquid blood in his entire body. 'I haven't forgiven you for killing me.'

'I kill vampires for a living, Dave. You became one — I had to.'

'Had to?'

'Sure. You were about to sink your teeth into an eighteen-year-old virgin's neck and turn her into a lifeless husk willing to do your every bidding.'

'Everyone should have a hobby.'

'Train sets I tolerate,' Spike replied, 'spreading the seed of vampirism I do not.'

He nodded towards Chesney's neck.

'Nasty scratch you have there.'

'Very funny. What's the deal?'

'Simple. I want President Formby back.'

'And in return?'

Spike turned the shotgun towards me.

'I give you Thursday. She's got bags of life left in her. Give me your gun, sweetheart.'

'What?' I yelled in a well-feigned cry of indignation.

'Do as I say. The President must be protected at all costs — you told me so yourself

I handed the gun over.

'Good. Now move forward.'

We walked slowly up the concourse, the cowering visitors watching us with a sort of morbid fascination. We stopped ten yards from Chesney just near the arcade game area.

'Send the President to me.'

Chesney nodded to his henchman, who let him go. Formby, a little confused by now, tottered up to us.

'Now send me Thursday.'

'Whoa!' said Spike. 'Still using that old SpecOps-issue revolver? Here, have her automatic — she won't need it any more.'

And he tossed my gun towards his ex-partner. Chesney, in an unthinking moment, went to catch the gun — but with the hand he used to keep his head on. Unrestrained, his head wobbled dangerously. He tried to grab it but this made matters worse and his head tumbled off to the front, past his flailing hands, and hit the floor with the sound of a large cabbage. This unseemly situation had distracted Chesney's number two, who was disarmed by a blast from Spike's shotgun. I didn't see why Spike should have all the fun so I ran forward and caught Chesney's head on the bounce and expertly booted it through the door of the arcade, where it scored a direct hit on the SlamDunk! basketball game, earning three hundred points. Spike had thumped the now confused and headless Chesney in the stomach and retrieved both my automatics. I grabbed the President and we legged it for the car park while Chesney's head screamed obscenities from where he was stuck upside down in the SlamDunk! basket.

Spike smiled as we reached his car. 'Well, Chesney really lost his—'

'No,' I said, 'don't say it. It's too corny.'