Ten To One newsletter - January 2014

This is the newsletter for the exciting collaborative writing project from Pigeon Park Press in which ten writers will create a novel together. This newsletter contains the latest chapters for you to read and provides you with instructions on how to vote for which writers (and characters) stay in the novel.

1) NEWS

2) HOW TO VOTE

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

1) NEWS

Sixth Round Results - The sixth round of chapters for Ten To One were shared 4 weeks ago and the public were asked to vote for their favourite characters/writers. The votes from Facebook and e-mail were combined with the judges' scores and Livia Akstein Vioto, creator of the character Shaun, was voted out of Ten To One. As part of the process, Livia has now been invited to join the panel of judges.

Although we still have three and a bit months left until the writing of the Ten To One novel comes to an end, we're already gearing up for the next stage of the project: editing. But, as this is a collaborative novel, we want people to collaborate on the editing process. With this in mind, we've set up a beta-reader group/event on Facebook. The beta-reader page is the forum by which readers can discuss what they liked and didn't like about the Ten To One novel. There are already some questions and discussion points on there so get over there and get involved: https://www.facebook.com/events/653605708023136/

2) HOW TO VOTE

We will be posting the chapters, piece by piece on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel)  but the easiest way to read them all is in this e-mail newsletter. Once you have read all the chapters, you will need to go to our Facebook page which is https://www.facebook.com/TenToOneNovel. You will need to have a Facebook account to access this page.

We'd like you read the chapters and then 'Like' your favourites. You can vote for more than one chapter if you wish and we don't have a problem with that.

We will be handing out points (from 10 down to 2) to the authors/characters based on how many likes they get.

Oh, and do remember, we are now voting on chapters 7.1 - 7.5 (excluding 7.3 which is Mabel's last chapter).

You have until midnight on 8th January to cast your vote.

Happy reading!

3) LATEST CHAPTERS

Below are the fifth round of chapters for Ten To One. If you have not read the earlier chapters, you can find them here:

Round 1 - http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/6pfbY/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_July_2013.htm

Round 2 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/4mFPo/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_August.htm

Round 3 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/9fDQz/h/Ten_To_One_Newsletter_September.htm

Round 4 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/8As.z/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_October.htm

Round 5 -

http://archive.aweber.com/idlehands/PatLD/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_Late.htm

Round 6 -

http://archive.aweber.com/tentoone/O.JzH/h/Ten_To_One_newsletter_December.htm

And now, round 7...

7.1 - MUNGO

Mungo marched down the Promenade with great purpose.

It was a cold Easter morning and his breath plumed out in front of him, as if he were a dragon. He certainly had fire in his belly. Mabel might be in danger and he had to get to her before Mihai, that gun-wielding, tattooed Romanian thug. Mungo just hoped he hadn't delayed too long.

To the right of Mungo was the usual row of chippies, greasy spoons and seafront shops but they were all deserted. Skegness was a ghost town today. The locals would be at home gorging on chocolate eggs and the tourists would be nursing hangovers in their respective B&Bs. That suited Mungo just fine. The board was cleared of pawns. It was time for the final few pieces to make their move and finish this game once and for all.

To the left of Mungo lay the enduring sea which stretched off into the glowing horizon. The sun took its time rising, casting fresh light over the lapping waves and turning them into molten gold. The wind turbines punctuated this vista, lining the horizon like sentinels. Their silent blades turned over and over, indifferent to the sunrise against which they were silhouetted.

The turbines reminded Mungo of the windmills from Don Quixote. The delusional, chivalric knight-errand from Miguel de Cervantes' tale had famously tilted his lance at windmills believing them to be giants. It was the origin of the phrase 'tilting at windmills' which was now used to describe somebody showing signs of madness.

Mabel herself had once compared Mungo to Don Quixote. He certainly felt like Don Quixote now: awkward, past his prime and engaged in a task beyond his capacity. In many ways, Mungo was worse off than his literary doppelganger. Quixote had help. He rode the long-suffering horse Rocinante and had the faithful Sancho Panza to accompany him on his adventures throughout La Mancha. Mungo, on the other hand, was alone in his mission. He also had no money, no armour and no weapons, unless you counted the plastic trout in his briefcase.

But he was sober and that counted for a lot. Well, technically he was hungover but at least that was heading in the right direction. Mungo was also determined to see his task through. This was his Fourth Life. He was done being a victim, a performer, a slob. In this life, he would be a soldier. Mungo suspected it would be his shortest life but it would also be his finest hour.

There were dangerous people in Skegness and Mungo would see them brought to justice. 'The removal of so foul a brood from the face of the earth is a service God will bless,' said Mungo, borrowing words from Quixote himself. The ingenious gentleman had said that to Sancho before tilting at the windmills and Mungo himself would tilt at anyone who dared to harm Mabel.

Skegness was his La Mancha. Mungo rode on.

* * *

'Stop you fiend!'

Mungo arrived at Castle Boulevard to see a car squealing off into the distance. Mabel was driving and did not look happy. Popescu, the Artist Formerly Known as Marku the Magnificent, rode shotgun and looked equally distraught. The source of their displeasure was clear. Mihai sat in the back-seat with his gun levelled at Mungo's fellow circus survivors. Mungo ran after the car shouting and shaking his gloved fist but it was a futile effort. He was never going to catch up with a moving vehicle, especially in clown shoes. He had a better chance of flying after Spitfire the seagull.

'Now what?'

Mungo decided to head upstairs to Mabel's flat which sat above Barron's Convenience Stores. Perhaps he would find an indication of where Mihai might be taking them. The door was wide open so he let himself in. There was no sign of a struggle. He found two mugs of untouched tea which suggested that Mabel was entertaining Mihai up until the moment of the kidnapping. Mihai had gained her trust. He was a manipulative snake.

Speaking of which...

Whilst he was here, Mungo decided to arm himself with all the tricks and terrors of Mabel's performance arsenal. He filled his spotted briefcase with her daggers and fire-breathing gear and the handcuffs from her escape-artist routine. Regrettably, he had to leave the sword she frequently swallowed because it was too long to conceal. He suspected the Lincolnshire police would not take kindly to a clown strolling around Skegness, armed like a samurai. However, Mungo did find a weapon even more lethal than Mabel's sword.

He picked it up with both hands and smiled. 'I am going to name you Sancho.'

* * *

The old Mungo would have wallowed in defeat, sat on a bench and drank himself into oblivion. But this was the new Mungo. He was on a clown on a mission and would not be deterred so easily. His next move was an obvious one.

'All roads lead to Sammy's,' he told himself. 'Where the Nighthawks roost.'

Mabel worked at Sammy's cafe where Popescu played chess daily. Both would have friends there. Mabel often mentioned an American waitress, Nell, and Popescu supposedly played against a young lad. Maybe they could offer some suggestions as to where Mabel had been taken. If not, perhaps they knew something about Mihai. After all, Mihai had attacked Mungo right outside of Sammy's. Had the Romanian thug been hanging around the cafe during the day? He intended to find out.

Mungo booted open the door of Sammy's like a gunslinger entering a saloon. The effect was less dramatic than he had hoped. No drinks were dropped in surprise. Nobody reached for their shooters. The honky-twonk piano keys were not slammed to score his arrival with a dramatic dummm. None of this was surprising considering Sammy's was empty.

Of course, realised Mungo. It was Easter Sunday and Sammy's was closed. So why is the door unlocked?

'You must be Mungo,' said an American voice. Mungo jumped. A woman appeared behind the counter where she had been washing blood from her hands. This must be Nell. If she was surprised at this Auguste apparition walking through her cafe door then she hid it well. 'Mabel speaks highly of you.'

'It is Mabel that I wanted to talk to you about,' explained Mungo, electing to ignore her bedraggled appearance and the bloody cloth in her hands. 'She has been kidnapped by a Romanian thug called Mihai.'

'What?' Nell leapt over the counter and grabbed Mungo by the waistcoat. 'How do you know this?'

'I saw them driving off together just now,' blurted Mungo, disarmed by her reaction. 'The thug was pointing a gun at Mabel, as well as an old man called Popescu, a former friend of ours.'

Nell looked frantic. 'And Mihai is Romanian?'

'Yes,' said Mungo. 'Well, I assume so. He called me a fool in the Romanian language.'

'Okay,' nodded Nell. 'We have had a few encounters with Romanian thugs ourselves. You better take a seat.'

We? thought Mungo. Who else is here?

And then another person sat up in one of the booths where he had been lying, previously concealed by the table. It was a bloody and bruised black man, covered in sand. He was big and terrifying and glaring right at the clown that had gate-crashed his private party. Mungo almost turned and ran right there and then. Instead, he followed Nell to the booth where they both sat.

'Bobby,' said Nell to the black man. 'This is a friend of Mabel's. She was just kidnapped by a Romanian thug called Mihai. He might be one of Andras' men.'

'Is that so?' Bobby was pale and hurt. This explained Nell's bloody cloth. She was fixing him up. It also explained why he could barely muster any interest in the situation, although some of that might be due to the bottle of whiskey in his hand.

'Christ,' said Nell. 'You both stink of alcohol. First things first, I'm going to fix us some coffee. We could all do with some.'

And off she went to the kitchen. That was how Mungo found himself alone in a booth opposite Bobby. He gulped. Bobby slouched back into the booth, nursing the bottle and appraising his new companion. After a while of this eyeballing, Bobby jerked forward and Mungo yelped. Bobby laughed, pleased by the reaction he had caused.

'You are a long way from Springfield, Krusty,' said Bobby.

'My name is Mungo, Sandman,' retorted Mungo with a nickname of his own.

'Sandman? Careful clown. I'll gladly put you to sleep.' Bobby narrowed his eyes. 'Why are you dressed like a clown?'

'Because I am a clown,' Mungo answered honestly enough. 'Why are you covered in sand?'

Bobby glared at Mungo, as if deciding whether to answer. He took his time taking another swig and appeared to decide that he had nothing to lose by answering. 'I was looking for something on the beach.'

'Did you find it?' asked Mungo.

'Nope.'

'What did you lose?'

'My mind.'

Mungo nodded. 'I know the feeling.'

Bobby tipped back the bottle once more by way of a response. Mungo's eyes were drawn to the whiskey. Bobby saw him staring and offered him the bottle. 'Help yourself.'

Mungo was transfixed by the bottle. Look at that golden liquid. Such sweet nectar, sloshing around inside the glass like honey, catching the light in all the right ways. It would taste delightful on my tongue: sticky, viscous, dancing on my taste-buds, warming my throat as it seeps down into my belly to soothe, to heal, to strengthen my resolve -

'No,' Mungo had to sit on his hands to stop himself from reaching for the bottle. 'No, no thank you,' he mumbled, as much to himself as to Bobby. 'Not today, not tomorrow, not ever again. This is the first day of the rest of my life and I intend to live it in sobriety.' Mungo was more than aware that his rebirth as a recovering alcoholic was occurring on Easter Sunday, a celebration of that other famous resurrection. He was not sure whether to take comfort in that comparison.

'Suit yourself,' said Bobby. 'I find it numbs the pain.'

'It certainly does,' said Mungo, reflecting on the past twelve years. He thought it was best to change the subject away from alcohol. 'What happened to you?'

'Romanian gangsters are looking for me,' explained Bobby. 'They might know this Mihai bloke of yours. I took the liberty of chewing off the ringleader's face but he didn't see it as an improvement. He is after me. Perhaps Nell too. We spent the night on the beach, crouching in the darkness so his men wouldn't find us. It goes against my nature to hide but I had to think of Nell.' His face then twisted. 'No more though clown, no more. I won't spend another night like that. If they want a fight then I will save them the trouble of looking for one. I will go to them.'

Bobby slammed his fist on the table. 'Are you scared of me?' asked Bobby, leaning forward.

Mungo nodded.

'I have hurt people, clown,' he growled. 'You should prepare yourself for that eventuality if you want your friend back. This is war. Nell and I cannot have a soft, flabby clown getting in the way. Are you prepared to hurt people? Are you prepared to kill?'

Mungo leant forward himself to meet Bobby's challenge. 'I killed seventy-nine people and twelve animals, including my father.'

That was met with silence. Bobby raised his eyebrows. 'You killed your father?'

'I fired a cannon at him.'

Bobby seemed impressed. 'Bloody hell.'

A rattle and a hiss cut Bobby short. His attention was drawn to Mungo's briefcase where the noise appeared to originate. Mungo casually draped an arm over it and looked at the ceiling.

Bobby frowned. 'Is that what I think it is?'

'Coffee!' announced Nell, returning from the kitchen and slamming down a pot of thick black tar. 'Drink up gents. We need you both sober for whatever comes next.' She snatched the bottle from Bobby's hands to his annoyance. Mungo suspected few people had snatched from Bobby and lived to snatch again. Mungo realised the gangster must feel strongly about Nell. His two new companions were in it together. And Mungo was in it with them.

He drank the coffee - black, bitter, brutal - and felt good. For the first time in twelve years, he found himself part of a troupe.

7.2 - BOBBY

"There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."

   --Genesis, 6:4

"He rebukes The Light even in his agony," Bobby said, awed.

"He's delusional. He's been nailed to that damn cross for days. Let's take him down," Marcus said.

"He wouldn't thank us for it, nor would it be allowed, I think," Bobby replied, nodding at a lone figure standing behind the cross.

"Uriel," Marcus said. "He would send the one with no sense of humour."

"Could be worse," Bobby said. "He could have sent Metatron."

"Uriel never speaks and Metatron never shuts up. You're right. It could be worse. Still, I won't watch him suffer any longer." Marcus turned on his heel and began trudging down the hill.

"Did you ever have any?" Bobby asked abruptly, stopping Marcus' retreat.

"Children?" Marcus asked. "One. One was enough. A warrior. Little fellow killed him with a rock."

Bobby gawked at his friend.

Marcus nodded grimly.

"I had two," Bobby offered. "Girls. Healers. Their lines continue."

"Could you watch them suffer like this?"

"No, but The Light does not constrain me."

"What in the hell does that mean?"

"See the woman at the base of the cross?"

"The Whore?" Marcus asked.

"She was redeemed but, yes, The Whore," Bobby replied tersely.

"What about her?" Marcus asked.

"She is of my line, also a healer."

Marcus snickered and received a backhanded slap to his head that knocked him to his knees for his trouble. Bobby towered over him, murder in his eyes.

"That was ungracious of me, Sergeant. I beg your forgiveness," Marcus mumbled, eyes to the ground.

"Enough. Forgive my temper, brother. I am ready to leave but for one thing. Go chat with Uriel if you will," Bobby said and set off toward the woman kneeling at the cross.

Marcus picked himself up and watched Bobby go. He'd pay for hitting him, but at the moment he was more interested in what his sergeant was doing. Bobby was capable of subtlety when the mood struck him.

At the moment, though, he seemed to be simply standing behind the woman, gazing at the sorrowful man hanging upon the cross. Then he leaned down, whispered something in the woman's ear, and placed an object in her lap. He nodded to Uriel, who ignored him, made a rude gesture to The Light, whose glare promised a future of unimaginable torments, and walked back to Marcus.

"Time to leave now, Corporal, and a bit of haste wouldn't be out of order," Bobby said. "There's a garrison town on the edge of this empire we might find interesting. Londonium, I think it's called."

"What did you give her, Sergeant?" Marcus asked.

"A cup. Just a simple cup, Corporal. I thought she might be thirsty. Now, if you're not coming with me then get out of my way."

And he was gone.

Marcus sighed and set himself in motion. Someone had to look after the crazy bastard and it seemed to be his burden. Besides, he owed him one for that slap.

The man on the cross, who was both witness and witnessed, slowly opened his eyes, smiled the faintest of smiles and whispered, "Congratulations on your promotions, gentlemen," before closing his eyes again.

****

Bobby's eyes snapped open when the door to Sammy's rattled. Someone was trying to get in. Bobby fervently hoped it wasn't anyone in need of immediate killing. He hoped it so much he decided to let Nell take care of it. After all, he'd spent the night on the beach inflicting just enough bloodshed on Andras' men to keep them from rushing them. He'd found it strangely invigorating. His little three inch K-Bar was perfect for nipping and slashing and by the time the sun arose the three men were terrified of their own shadows. Bobby hadn't had such fun in ages.

But instead of turning the intruder away, like a sane person would and letting him get a bit of well deserved rest, it seemed she was letting him in. Maybe she wasn't of his line, after all (a thought that came to him from a quickly fading dream in which he watched a man being crucified).

Bobby sat up in his booth and surveyed the new arrival.

"Reinforcements, Bobby!" Nell tried to sound cheery.

Bobby groaned and lay back down.

"The only reinforcement I need is Marcus and when I find him we're burning this cesspool to the ground," Bobby shouted. "And I goddamn don't need any clowns following me around!"

An akward silence ensued.

"Is he determined to get himself killed, Nell?" Bobby asked from his prone position on the booth.

"He seems more or less set upon it, Sweets," she answered.

"Well, send the clown over and let's see what he's made of," he ordered.

The man walked over and Bobby managed to sit up and get a look at him. "You're definitely a clown," he said.

"Sit. Have a drink. Helps numb the pain if you feel it anymore," he offered the clown the bottle he'd been working on.

The man sat but didn't touch the bottle.

"Problem with it, I see. No shame in that. Bad day to give up the sauce though, but who am I to judge? Seriously, Clown, who exactly am I to judge?"

"Christ, you're not a mime are you? Alright, doesn't matter if you are, really, I'll tell you everything you need to know about yourself. You're a murderer. You're a patricide. You're a fool, but many murderers are. You're obsessed with the sword swallower or something close to that and you want to help her. Am I right?"

The Clown nodded.

"You also have something in that case that I don't want to know about. Keep it to yourself. Want to know the truly fucked up thing? You think you just told me all these things but you really haven't even opened your mouth. Dwell on that for a while and then maybe that bottle might seem more appealing to you," Bobby said, lying back down in the booth.

"Oh," Bobby said from his prone position, "welcome, Private, to the Independent Auxiliary Angelic Horde of Skegness. First standing order, avoid Nell's coffee at all costs. All she drinks is Nespresso."

"You'll learn the rest as I make them up."

*****

"Bobby, you're healing too fast," Nell said as she pried the whiskey bottle loose from his hands.

"Gods, woman, find something else to complain about," Bobby replied.

"You've met Mungo, I see."

"Yup, good man for a clown. On the wagon at the moment but I don't expect that will last. We need to get to my flat and get you two kitted out for what's coming."

"And what's coming, Bobby? asked Mungo.

"Death, of course, Mungo the Speaking Clown," Bobby replied. "The question is on what scale it's coming. Your friend is in a great deal of trouble."

"Do you know where she is?"

Bobby nodded. "A dead man by the name of Andras has her in a meat packing plant in Alford. He tried to take me there shortly before I relieved him of the lion's share of his face."

"Is she still alive?" Mungo asked.

Bobby shrugged. "We'll know soon enough."

"I found these in the cash register, Bobby," Nell said, waving a sheaf of loose paper in front of his face. "Do they mean anything to you?"

Bobby snatched them out of her hand. "Not sober they don't," he said.

Nell reluctantly returned his bottle.

"Better," he said, taking a slug. "They mean a great deal to me. They're the ravings of a madman, but since I'm having a liquid breakfast with a clown armed with a claymore and a medic who cheered me on as I shredded three men into ribbons last night, I suppose I could take a closer look at them."

Nell and Mungo waited anxiously in silence as Bobby went through the pages one by one, then stood up and walked out the door without saying a word.

"Where do you think he's going?" asked Mungo.

"Hell if I know," Nell replied. "To get a bigger boat?"

*****

In a way, Nell wasn't wrong. The notes she had found were in code; an elaborately cryptic code, but nothing Bobby couldn't decipher. Most of it was superfluous, written to confuse the reader. The rest was written in Angelic Script, which meant a Power was involved.

Bobby was a Power, as was Marcus, he knew that now. He also knew that they were out of their league. Now was not the time for discretion.

He caused his body to heal itself and ran to his flat as fast as he dared, thankful the streets were relatively empty of people he might accidently run through.

The flat had been torn apart. Not in a search for something (and there were plenty of things to find in Bobby's place), but in an all-out fight meant to end in someone's death: Marcus' if his broken, mangled body was any indication.

"Ah, my brother," Bobby sighed. "I will avenge you...somehow."

"I'd prefer you just put me back together you fucking drama queen," came the response.

"Marcus? You're alive?" asked a stunned Bobby.

"I told you we're almost impossible to kill. A matter I mean to take up with that little bitch down the hall at a more convenient date."

"SHE did this to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it right now."

"I suppose that's understandable. Umm...this is a little awkward, Marcus, but we're in a bit of a rush and I haven't actually caught up on my healing skills. The best I'm afraid I can do at the moment is put you in a bag and let you sort yourself out."

"This is for bringing you to Skegness isn't it, you petty bastard?" Marcus accused.

"You're scattered all over the fucking flat, Marcus. I don't have time for this," Bobby replied, taking a heavy duty bin liner from a cabinet under the kitchen sink.

"You're going to put me in a fucking TRASH BAG?" Marcus screamed.

"I need the duffel bags for weapons and armor, brother. We're going to war and it looks like with one of the big boys."

"I trust you've at least lined up some decent reinforcements,"

"Well, we have a clown on our side and he's quite keen."

"I hate you so fucking much, Bobby."

*****

Bobby pulled his Rover on to the boardwalk, right in front of Sammy's, knocking over the occasional bench and lamp post. He vaulted out of the car and started shouting orders.

"Both of you get in. Nell, you're driving and grab that bottle of whiskey. We'll need it. The clown and I need to talk about that damn sword before he starts swinging it like a cricket bat. And whatever you do, don't look in the back. Especially if the bin liner starts talking, you'll want to ignore that."

The clown looked a bit confused to Bobby. He wished he had time to sympathize, but it was his damn girl they were off to save.

"Get in the fucking car, clown!" he screamed.

Clowns, Bobby reflected, knew how to take orders with alacrity if this one was a typical example of the breed.

"A bin liner...weapons, Bobby, did you get enough weapons?" Nell was dithering.

"Nell, love, before we're done you'll think heavy artillery is for fox hunting," Bobby grinned.

"He's not joking," shouted the bin liner.

"Oh, shut your hole, Marcus.

7.3 - MABEL

Mabel glanced at the rear-view mirror and her eyes met Mihai's. He was sitting next to a confused looking Popescu, staring intently at her.

"It will all be over soon, just drive," said Mihai.

His words were as reassuring as the gun at her back. They were approaching Alford, the low voice of the radio presenter breaking the silence with the local news.

"...the police are treating the fire that resulted in the shocking death of six-year old Grace Greenwood in the studio of prominent artist Anastasia Boty as suspicious. The Greenwood family made a public appeal-"

Images of Gracie filled Mabel's head. Such a lively little girl, Mabel thought, such a terrible fate. Nobody should die like this. I can't imagine what the Greenwoods are going through. She made a turn to exit Alford. What was she doing all alone in the studio, though? How did she get there?

"Pull up over there," said Mihai, pointing at the gates of a factory right outside Alford. The factory made onto woodland.

"What is this place?" Mabel asked as she brought the car to a stop.

"It's a meat packing factory. I know this guy, I'm sure he won't mind me using the space. Here," he handed her a key, "go open the gates and, Mabel-"

"I know. I'll be right back."

As she unlocked the gates, she realized the place was deserted. Who would be here in Easter Sunday, anyways? Only us.

Mabel got back to the car and drove to a storage shed attached to the rear of the factory. They walked into the shed in a line: first Mabel, then Popescu, then Mihai bringing the rear.

In the shed, packaging and non-meat goods were stored before the production. There were piles of wooden pallets and crates, and cardboard boxes galore.

Mihai pushed the old man to a corner, causing Popescu to fall and hit his head on a crate. A trail of blood became visible on Popescu's forehead. Mabel started running to Popescu, to make sure he was alright. Mihai, misinterpreting her, clobbered her over the head with the grip of his gun.

Everything went dark for Mabel but she still heard Mihai saying something about not wanting to hurt her as he dragged her through the dirty floor.

***

Once upon a time, the sky was striped. The whole world pulsed and breathed under a circus canopy. In there, everything was colour, perfume, and magic. But as Mabel walked through the maze of caravans and hanged cloth, she realized something was wrong: there was nobody there.

Slowly, out of the shadows, people started to emerge. They came in all shapes and sizes but they all bore the same mask. It was a mask of fire. Mabel ran the other way, frightened. She stopped, exhausted, and looked back - they were gone.

The sound of feet hitting the ground reached her ears as a group of children passed her running. They looked strange, running silently in their dark, raggedy clothes that looked like they belonged to another era. And just as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone. She started walking again, glancing nervously over her shoulder, wondering if she should call out for help, when he appeared.

Mungo was dressed in an armour, like a knight, but he still had his clown make up on, red nose and all. A green curl was escaping from beneath his helm, and he held two banners on his right hand. One of them read simply clovn, the other bore what looked like a quote: "In my beginning is my end. In my end is my beginning." Mabel pondered that the quote suited her; she too found the end in her beginning, losing her entire family when she was young. The knight Mungo winked at her and smiled, and then brought his left index finger to his lips, blowing shhh and fading into the shadows.

She tried to call out for Mungo and ask him to help her, but he was gone. She walked a bit further and then she saw Popescu. Only there were three of him.

The first Popescu stood tall and authoritarian in his uniform. There was a gun attached to his shinning belt, and his arm was up, pointing beyond the end of the world. There, beyond the striped sky, she could see the darkened woods. He turned to look at her but his other hand was covering his eyes. The second Popescu was sitting crossed-legged on the floor. He wore a purple turban and he was shaking his head slowly, as if in silent disagreement with the world. One of his hands was covering his mouth and the other was concealed inside his robes. The third Popescu was rocking himself back-and-forth, endlessly muttering something to himself, and covering both his ears with his hands. He looked like someone who couldn't stand the existence of the world anymore, or perhaps his own. He was Atlas defeated.

A sudden movement to the left of the third Popescu caught Mabel's eyes. There was a cloaked and hooded figure on a fence, perched like a vulture. The creature started moving towards Mabel the way a predator would. As it approached Mabel, it removed the cloak with a flourish, revealing a man. The man wore the same clothes as the running children, and there was a big and blue eye tattooed where his face should have been.

Mabel's head started to hurt, and some blinding light started pouring from somewhere. She tried to run but she couldn't, and every time she tried to move both her head and her wrists burned with pain. I'm going to die, Mabel thought as she blinked again and opened her eyes.

***

Mabel's head hurt everywhere, not just where Mihai had hit her. She tried to move only to realize that she couldn't. She was sitting on her side, propped against a crate, her wrists bound on the back with handcuffs. Her vision was blurred and she was thirsty, and for a scary moment, she couldn't remember what was her name.

Popescu was sitting opposite her, his hands tied together in front of him with some rope. He was rocking himself back-and-forth and there were three of them. Mabel blinked a couple of times, and Popescu came into focus. She could see his mouth moving but it took her some minutes to understand what he was saying.

"Once upon a time, once upon a time, once-," said Popescu, over and over again.

Once upon a time, thought Mabel, that is how it begins. But how does it end?

"Good, you woke up. And just in time, too. I feared you would miss it," said Mihai from the other side of the shed. He was cutting some of the cardboard boxes into pieces, a pile of cut cardboard by his feet. He looked focused, clear-headed, and scarier than anything else Mabel had ever seen. There was a determination in him, a kind of fervour that overtakes some men when they are about to do something really horrible and yet think it is the right thing, the only thing to do.

"You see Mabel, we are going to play a game. This place isn't an orphanage, and the woods are nothing like home, but it will have to do," said Mihai. He turned to stare at Popescu, hatred seeping through his every pour. "You will finally pay for your crimes, monstru. Judgement day is finally upon us, and you will pay. First, you will confess, then, well, then the fun starts. What I've lost...What you've taken from me...But you will pay."

Popescu had stopped muttering and lifted his head, looking like he didn't sleep for a hundred years, the very opposite of Sleeping Beauty.

"You don't understand," Popescu started, "I didn't know what was going on. If I had known they were to be transferred to a place suspected of being involved in such dark matters, taking profit trading transplant organs for rich foreigners - Brits, Germans, Americans, French - all of them rich and decaying people and nations. But maybe it was for the best. The conditions these children lived under, I mean, nobody wanted them, maybe it would have been better."

Popescu paused, slowly shaking his head in sadness and distress. Mabel was trying to make sense of what Popescu had said. Transplant organs? They killed the children to sell their organs?

"I didn't know what to do, I was so young. He wanted to get them, l'uomo nero, he wanted to harm the children. He thought they had been naughty, so he was going to get them." He turned to look at Mabel. "I wanted to help them, Cristina, you understand that don't you? Tell me you understand."

Cristina? Mabel nodded anyways. That seemed to sooth the old man. He continued his twisted tale.

"I was trying to help them, I didn't realize. The winter. I didn't account for it, the cold was too harsh, and they were too weak. I should have thought of it. All I could think was that I needed to get them to safety, away from l'uomo nero. I just didn't realize it was so cold. I wanted to save them."

Who the hell is this l'uomo nero, Mabel wondered, was he the one who wanted to sell the organs? But, they died of cold instead? Mihai's laughter echoed in the shed, interrupting Mabel's slow thought process.

"You expect me to believe that you were trying to help the children? You really did lose your mind, old man," said Mihai, lighting a cigarette.

Popescu turned to Mabel again. "You know I'd never let them hurt you, Gracie. I won't let him get you."

Now I'm Gracie? Great! I'm stuck with two lunatics, one doesn't even know who I am anymore and the other wants to see the world burn.

"It's time," said Mihai. He walked to Popescu and dragged him to his feet. "We are going into the woods, you and I, and we'll have our game, the end game." He started to walk towards the woods, pulling Popescu by the rope. "Oh! I was almost forgetting." He turned and looked around the shed, and then he threw the lit cigarette in the pile of cut cardboard boxes. He exited the shed with Popescu, locking Mabel in the gloom.

As the fire started, Mabel wondered if she would die in the same way her parents and little Gracie had died. She remembered a phrase she heard somewhere - in my end is my beginning - and hoped that would be true of her. I could be like the phoenix of the tales, or the X-men, and rise from the ashes. For a moment, she didn't move, waiting for something to happen. In fairy tales someone always come to rescue the princess, Mabel thought, but I'm no princess and no one is coming. She started to twist her wrists, trying to get free from the cuffs. If I were Magneto, I would be able to bend the metal. I was only ever able to swallow it, though.

Mabel thought of her friends, and hoped they'd be safe. The faces of Shaun, Nell, and Mungo crossed Mabel's mind. She wondered what fate expected Popescu in the woods. Into the fire or into the woods, as the smoke got thicker she thought she'd rather take her chances in the woods.

She was coughing and her eyes were tearing up but still she was fighting to get free. She thought of every trick in her father's repertoire, trying to find one that could save her. Several moments of her circus life started flashing past her eyes, a merry-go-round of memories. In one of them, Ringmaster Romero was sitting on a stool reading a book. Mabel could see the pinkish cover of the paperback, and the big red letters of the title that read As I lay dying. She never asked him how did that end.

7.4 - ANASTASIA

Robert paced the small room in Anastasia's Skegness flat with the air of a recently captured macaque suddenly confined to a laboratory cage. It seemed a long way from his natural habitat.

"We need to play this carefully, Ana," said Robert. "You see this..." He held up a copy of The Daily Mail, the headline 'Death of an Angel' over a photograph of the dead child.

'They're sick," said Anastasia.

"They're offering you £100,000 for an exclusive," said Robert.

"I won't talk to the press," said Anastasia. "Not for any amount of money."

"We are talking to the media, darling," said Robert. "Just not these tabloid vultures."

"So why did you bring these rags with you?" said Anastasia. "I feel grubby just being in the same room as this stuff."

Robert gathered the bundle of papers together and put them down on the coffee table. On the top was The Sun. How they had got hold of one of her sketches of Gracie was a mystery Anastasia did not care to contemplate.

"I've shielded you from the reptiles, Ana," said Robert. "In any case, the blood money they're offering would kill off your career in an instant. But they will pursue you until they get something. Without you this is a one day wonder, a photogenic child who dies in a fire. Sad face, move on."

"So why feed the frenzy?" said Anastasia.

"You are the story, darling," said Robert. "That's why the Mail wants you so badly. Look at their photo spread." He turned through a few pages and held the paper out to Anastasia. "You with David Tennant. You with Kate Moss. You with Boris. Celebrity, politics, dead babies, what more could they possibly want?"

"It was a charity fundraiser," said Anastasia.

"For Children In Need," said Robert. "The headlines just write themselves."

"So what do you want me to do?" said Anastasia.

"Three interviews," said Robert.

"No way," said Anastasia.

"Hear me out, Ana, darling," said Robert. "They won't all happen at once."

"I'm not talking to the tabloids," said Anastasia.

"No," said Robert, "You're not. You're talking to the Financial Times. It'll be about your work. They'll ask about this sorry business with the fire, and the child, of course, but it will be sympathetic."

"I'm not sure," said Anastasia. "Talking to any newspaper looks bad in these circumstances."

"The red tops want you," said Robert. "You talk to the FT, and it gives you control."

"You said three interviews," said Anastasia. "That's a lot."

"Wall Street Journal," said Robert, "and Vogue."

"You are not serious," said Anastasia. "Vogue? They'll dress me in Dior and Jimmy Choos. How the hell is that going to help?"

"Sit down, Ana," said Robert. He put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her gently down onto the sofa. He sat on a low chair, facing her, leaning forward. "I have thought this through. In your interests."

"You can't bully me, Robert," said Anastasia.

"I wouldn't even try," said Robert. "But there is a problem. You are an artist. You have a big show coming up. Much of the work for it has been damaged in a crime scene where a little girl lost her life."

"I intend to find out why," said Anastasia.

"That's for the police to do," said Robert. "The point is, this business has raised your profile. People are interested in your work."

"If you think I'm going to use that child's death as a marketing tool," said Anastasia.

"The centrepiece of your show is a triptych in which the child features prominently, don't forget," said Robert. "We can get a million for that now."

"Jesus, no," said Anastasia. "And what would the papers make of that?"

"The triptych will be at the centre of the gallery," said Robert, "but there'll be a little sign up. NFS."

"Thank god for that," said Anastasia.

"It's not for sale," said Robert, "because I've already sold it. The owner will loan the work for the duration of the show. There will be no public price tag."

"Nobody pays that kind of money for my work," said Anastasia.

"They do now," said Robert, "look." He pulled out a copy of the FT's glossy magazine 'How To Spend It'. "The Aesthete feature, Mikhail Kaletsky."

Anastasia scanned the article. It was a full page feature on a Russian billionaire. His favourite island, his signature cologne, his prized art collection. "That's one of mine," she said. "From the Zoroastrian studies."

"Kaletsky is a serious collector," said Robert. "He's an influential taste-maker in his circles. The FT, WSJ interviews will speak directly to those people. The Vogue interview will be some months down the line. That'll position you nicely with the oligarchs' WAGs."

"You're a bastard, Robert," said Anastasia.

"I'm your bastard, Ana," said Robert. "No one wanted a child to die, or for you to get caught up in this stuff. But face facts, darling. You've just gone from respected mid-ranking British contemporary artist to global hot property. The decimal point has just moved on your prices. If Damian Hirst was the artist of choice for millionaire bankers ten years back, you are now the name to watch on the billionaire scene."

Anastasia watched her agent drive off. She knew he was right about one thing. She was making the best work she had ever made; and that work was indivisible from the circumstances in which it had been created. That included the girl, Gracie, the old man, Popescu, and the conflagration in her studio. What she hadn't shared with Robert was the suspicion that Anastasia was not a hapless victim, but the target of the crime in which the child had perished.

Artists work through intuition, sensibility, instinct, not cold, forensic reason. Anastasia spread the newspapers out on the floor, and stood in the centre, scanning them for an understanding of what had happened, and why. She moved to the small dining table, and covered it with a large piece of paper. Picking up a pencil, Anastasia began to draw. She drew Gracie as a Slavic princess, Popescu as a monk. She sketched in other figures: the body on the beach, the clown, the actress lying in the road, the quiet caretaker constantly looking over his shoulder. Chicken processing workers wrenching the guts from birds still warm from the sheds. Birds? Of course. Seagulls everywhere, they had to be part of all this. Firefighters, too, and police officers, paramedics busily going about their duties. Anastasia stepped back. What was missing? She added incidental figures; waitresses, assistants from the corner shop, the kid with the bicycle. Anastasia had created the outline of a latter-day Hieronymus Bosch, or a damnation painting from the younger Brueghel, an unsettling mixture of the mundane and the grotesque . But where did she fit in? Was she another figure on the edges, or ought she to position herself at the centre?

The newspapers spread out across the floor suggested a different story. They had two principal actors - the child and the artist - and their roles were clearly distinguished. The child, plainly, was innocence; the artist a champagne drinking metropolitan. She was, in tabloid land, guilty as sin. Anastasia knew in her gut that this was not the story at all. She gathered up the papers and dumped them in the recycling bin; all except the How To Spend It magazine.

Kaletsky. Anastasia took the profile over to the table and added the sleek billionaire to her sketch, his Patek Philippe just visible below the handmade cuff that emerged from the bespoke Savile Row suit. Anastasia's current work was influenced by Orthodox religious iconography. Popescu was Romanian. Kaletsky was Russian. The workers at the meat factory were Bulgarian, Romanian, Ukrainian. The poor, dead girl was almost identical to the child in a photograph of a 20th Century Romanian orphanage. Could there be some thread binding these things together?

Anastasia left her flat and walked down to Popescu's door. She rang the bell, but there was no answer. It was a ground floor apartment, so she stepped outside to peer through his window. No lights burned, nor was there any sign of occupation. Anastasia looked around her with irritation. Over at the convenience store there were signs in the window, advertisements for services in Roman and Cyrillic script. Instant Money Transfer. Lebara Phone Cards. Anastasia pulled out her phone and called the number for Vassil, the Bulgarian scientist and meat packer.

Vassil came at once. As Anastasia emerged from the kitchen holding two small espresso cups, she found Vassil standing over her drawing, scrutinising it with care.

"This is a strange picture, Ana," said Vassil.

"It helps me to think," said Anastasia. "That's why I need to talk to you. Help me to work out what is going on."

"Why do you think I know anything?" said Vassil.

"For a start," said Anastasia, "you told me you were - what was the word you used? - instructed to meet me away from my studio on the day of the fire. Who instructed you?"

"My English is not so good," said Vassil. "Maybe 'instructed' was a poor choice of word."

"Your English is better than mine," said Anastasia, "So answer the question."

"I don't know where the instruction came from," said Vassil. He sipped his coffee. "I would tell you if I did. You have to understand how things work here."

"Enlighten me," said Anastasia.

"I have been here since January," said Vassil. "Almost everyone in the factory either came in January, or they got legal employment this year. It is not an accident that we are nearly all from EU accession countries."

"Cut to the point," said Anastasia. "Someone told you to get me away from my studio when the fire started."

"You think I sat in my house in Stara Zagora and thought, OK, I'll go to Skegness and try to get a job?" said Vassil. "I'd never heard of Lincolnshire. No. It's a matter of middle men, moving people, moving goods, taking a skim off the top here, or a cut from the bottom there. The meat we pack, the people doing the packing, we were all traded in some way. If we want to keep our jobs we accept that."

"Sorry, Vassil," said Anastasia, "but that's a load of shit. You can go anywhere in the EU, work anywhere. You speak perfect English, you have a science degree. So tell me - what's your real role, and why did someone want me out of my studio on the day it was torched?"

"It's true, I'm not just a meat packer," said Vassil. "I'm numerate and I speak many languages. I assist with administration at the factory. They need me for that, because the factory is more than it seems. It fits into a more complex set of business interests. Some of these are probably not legal."

"You're telling me the meat packing factory is a criminal enterprise," said Anastasia.

"No," said Vassil, "it is what it is. But it is also more than that. When I handle invoices I can see it. Meat comes in as one thing, it goes out as another. It might come in as Romanian, and go out to Holland as British. And those invoices, they often relate to bigger sums of money than the amount of meat going in or out would justify."

"What does that mean?" said Anastasia.

"We might send out fifty pallets of meat, but get paid for eighty," said Vassil. "Once the money's in the company bank account, it's clean, and the invoices match the balance sheet."

"Money laundering," said Anastasia. "So where does the money come from?"

"I don't know. Sometimes it's in very small denomination bills, like a lot of loose change," said Vassil.

"And what's your cut?" said Anastasia.

"I get to sit in an office instead of pulling out chicken viscera," said Vassil. "I'm not supposed to notice this stuff. But I see it, and I see the men who turn up at the factory. They are the same people who recruited us from home, the same people who own our lodgings, they are people we dare not cross."

"So you know who instructed you," said Anastasia.

"I know who gave me the message, the suggestion," said Vassil. "But they'll be a middle man, to a middle man, to a middle man. Where the suggestion started, I cannot say."

"Then take me back to the meat factory," said Anastasia. "I want to meet those people."

"I cannot do that," said Vassil.

"I'm instructing you now," said Anastasia.

"It is a very bad idea, Ana," said Vassil. "You do not know these people."

"They attacked me, Vassil," said Anastasia, "and they killed a child. It feels bloody personal. And you're coming with me."

7.5 - NELL

"Jesus, Bobby - stop waving that gun around," Nell muttered, grinding his car into third gear. She looked both ways before making a right turn, her concentration spilt between the agitated armed man beside her and which side of the median she needed to end up on.

"You ever driven before?" Mungo asked. He had refused to put a seat belt on, and every time Nell checked the rearview mirror, he was fidgeting from one window to the other.

"On the wrong side of the road? No." The car whined piteously as she tried to force it into a higher gear without taking her foot off the gas. "Not a stick, either."

Bobby laughed at that and made a crude gesture for Mungo's benefit. The clown let out a sharp bark from the backseat. Nell glanced back and realized he was laughing too, in a panicky, is this the end, sort of way.

Nell forced herself to take a deep breath. She was starting to wish she could afford to leave them on the side of the road. "Do you two idiots actually have a plan, or are we going to rescue Mabel using your razor sharp wit? Because if it's the latter, I'm should probably just pull over here and surrender to the men who are following us."

Bobby twisted around so that he could see out the window. "Green sedan?"

"It's been following us for awhile," Nell said. He checked his 9mm. "Don't even think about shooting at them while I'm driving. With our luck, you'll kill the clown."

"How do you make a dead clown float?" Bobby asked.

"Add some root beer and two scoops of ice cream?" Mungo replied.

"I was going to say 'take your foot of his head,' but sure," Bobby said. "Your thing works too."

Nell held up her phone to check the map. "Shit. I missed the turn." She threw the wipers on, slammed them off again, then found the turn signal just before throwing Mungo across the backseat with a wide u-turn. "I can't believe this is the crack team Mabel's relying on."

"What could we accomplish if we knew we could not fail?" Mungo asked from where he'd been crushed against the door.

"Did you just quote Eleanor Roosevelt at me?" she asked.

"It was on a box of tea."

"Hard to believe you drink anything besides Scrumpy, if the smell is any judge." Bobby glanced back at Mungo. "It's going to be impossible to get the scent of failure out of the leather, you know."

"Can't be any harder than the blood you usually have to scrub out," Mungo grumbled. Bobby tensed, twisting in his seat to glare at the smaller man.

"By all means," Nell said, "antagonize the man with the gun."

"He started it."

"And I'll finish it too," Bobby replied, casually pointing the gun in Mungo's direction.

"Bobby." Nell reached out, her hand hovering just above his arm. After a moment, he dropped his gaze from Mungo and looked over at her. "He was teasing."

"I wasn't," muttered Mungo.

"Shut up," Nell said. "Unless you want to die in this car?"

"The clown needs to learn a little respect," Bobby replied, though the gun was back in his lap.

"The clown needs a fucking drink." Mungo sighed. "Nothing kills the chivalrous spirit of a new day like charging into battle with a psychotic gangster at your back."

"Unless the clown has untapped experience in search and rescue or neutralizing threats using deadly force," Nell said grimly, "perhaps he should stop treating the psychotic gangster like a bear to be poked."

"Or a lion to be tamed," Bobby cracked his neck. "Which one's more likely to bite someone's face off?"

Nell clenched the steering wheel. "Don't want to know."

"Who was he again?" Mungo was back at Bobby's shoulder, their squabble apparently forgotten.

"Man that owns this meat packing plant - or at least, he's the money behind it."

"Well, I once sawed a woman in half," Mungo bragged.

"Oh?" Bobby glanced at him. "Where'd you hide the pieces?"

Mungo chuckled. "That's a good one. I'll have to remember that." Bobby just stared at him blankly. The clown eased back in his seat. "How much further is it?"

"A couple of miles," Nell said, checking her phone again.

"What do they teach you in those American schools?" Mungo sighed. "It's appalling how stupid you people sound sometimes."

"Yeah, yeah. Yanks are the worst. Dumb, fat, completely ignorant of the metric system. Real original material you're working from back there." She checked her mirror. "I don't think it's the guys we saw at the beach, Bobby." She glanced over, but he had closed his eyes. "I wonder if we picked up a police tail."

"How many cops does it take to throw a man down the stairs?"

Bobby snorted. "None. He fell."

"How many cop jokes are there?"

"Mungo-" Nell snapped.

The clown answered himself. "Just two. The rest are true."

"Could you just look at those notes Shaun left again?" Nell asked. "All we have to go on right now is your word that you saw Mabel and Popescu get into a car-"

"The man with the tattoo was forcing them in."

"Mabel knows Mihai. Maybe she wanted to go," she argued. She didn't really believe it though - Mabel would have called by now.

"What about the gun?" Mungo said, squinting at Shaun's cramped scribbles.

"Mabel told me Pop used to be on the police force. Before he was in the circus. And, you know, whatever it is he does now."

Mungo nodded to himself. "Three lives. Third one's more trouble the first two."

"Pull in here." Bobby grabbed at the wheel and spun them hard to the left.

Nell dropped her phone and shoved his arm away. "What the hell!"

"We need to take the back road in."

"Then fucking tell me that!" She swatted him away angrily when he reached out again.

"You need to relax," Bobby said. His breathing had gotten shallow again, but he still radiated an eerie calm. Nell suspected it was because he hoped he might yet have a chance to kill something today; his energy certainly seemed improve in direct relation to the human misery in his vicinity.

"I have two friends," she said softly. "And one of them is missing. When we get her back, I'll relax."

"If," Bobby corrected her. "If we get her back."

Nell pressed her foot on the brake, coasting to a stop on the side of the road. The meat packing plant was visible up ahead, but it was surrounded by a fence topped with razor wire.

"What are you doing?" Mungo demanded. He looked down at the oversized shoes he still wore. "We can't climb the fence here."

She stared at him, then at the man beside her. "Before we go any further, I just want you to understand," she said in a measured tone, "that 'if' is not an option here."

"She might already be dead," Bobby said.

"She's not," Mungo replied, patting the briefcase on his lap nervously. "She's not."

Bobby laughed coldly. "Men like this, they don't take hostages. They wrap up loose ends. Luckily for you, Andras likes games. If this Mihai is his man, we may still have time to save the bitch."

Nell stared at the 9mm. For months after his death, she'd been haunted by how her husband must have looked at the end, a pistol pressed to his temple. To think of Mabel that way, tied up and tortured, some piece of garbage in charge of whether she lived or died - it was unbearable. "If we aren't in time?"

"We burn it to the ground," Bobby said. He looked at Mungo for confirmation, and the clown nodded hesitantly. Nell just brushed her hand across her eyes and started the car again.

When they reached the loading entrance, the gate stood open as though another car had hurried through without bothering to sling the chain and padlock back into place. Nell pulled past the empty gatehouse and parked in the shadow of the plant. "What now?" she asked. "We still have no plan to speak off, and this place is huge. She could be anywhere."

Mungo pushed open the car door and grabbed his briefcase. He stood staring up at the blank windows. "No one working on Easter."

"No shit," Bobby said.

"Maybe we should split up," Mungo suggested.

"Good luck on your own," Bobby replied. "You and that raggedy ass purse." Mungo held his coat open. He'd shoved two of Mabel's daggers into his belt. Bobby rolled his eyes and turned to Nell. "What've you got?" She pulled her jack knife out. He stared at it, then up at her. "Are you kidding me?"

She shrugged. "I know how to use it."

Bobby rubbed the sweat off his head. "You two know these men - they're going to have guns?"

"I don't know how to shoot," Mungo said.

"I do." Nell told him. "If I have to." She pocketed her blade and turned to the clown, pointing at a door on the far end of the building. "See if you can get in back here. Bobby and I'll go around to the front."

Mungo nodded. "If she's not here?"

"Come back to the car," Nell said. He clutched his bag nervously, and she reached out and patted his arm. "Be careful."

His mouth twitched. "I thought you might tell me not to be a hero."

"Isn't that why you're here?" Nell asked.

Mungo threw back his shoulders. "To tilting at windmills," he saluted grimly, raising his hand in farewell. Nell watched him hurry toward the loading dock, then turned to follow the limping thug.

"He's a dead man," Bobby muttered.

"At least he's trying."

"He's got no business being here, and you know it," Bobby said as they moved along the far side of the plant. "Best we can hope for is he provides a diversion. Might buy your friend some time."

Nell shook her head. "I just don't understand how she got caught up in this."

"Could say the same about you," Bobby said. "No good reason for you to be up to your neck in this shit. And yet here you are, nursemaid to a murdering son of a bitch."

"Mabel's my friend."

"Most people would've called the police by now."

"What makes you think I didn't?"

"I know Chivers. If you'd called him, he'd be here already, white fucking horse and all." He stumbled, and Nell reached out to catch him. His face was chalky, but he pushed her away.

"You sent Louis to me, remember?" she said. "You got me into this mess."

"All the more reason to let me die." He held up a hand, and they paused at the corner of the building. In front of them, the parking lot stretched toward a grove of trees.

There was movement at the edge of the woods. "Did you see that?"

Bobby just nodded, and they took off. "Well, why didn't you?" he asked, as they paused behind the cover of a truck.

"Why didn't I what?"

"Let me die."

"I took an oath," she said. From here, she could see a trail into the forest, but whoever they'd seen had already disappeared inside. He snorted, unconvinced. "Could we talk about this later?" Nell asked.

He coughed again, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "I might be dead later."

"Then it won't matter, will it?"

Bobby shook his head. "Cold of you to deny a dying man his last wish."

"Then don't die."

"If I live through this, you'll tell me?" he asked.

"Why do you even care?"

"Information is everything in this business."

"Fine." Nell pulled her knife out of her pocket and flipped the blade out as they approached the head of the trail. "If we survive, I will."

Bobby stepped in front of her, taking the lead. "Not if. When."