“I’m going to find the truth, with or without you. Either way, you’ll be seeing a lot of me in the next few weeks and months. I’m going to follow you wherever you go.”

“I don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m going to trail your friends.”

“I don’t have any.”

“I’m going to photograph every single person to enter and leave this tattoo parlour.”

Finbar rolled his eyes. “And they’ll hate that, because people who get dragons drawn on their backs are normally so shy about other people noticing them.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Finbar.”

That tongue, pressing against the lip ring. “I can’t help you,” he said at last. “But I know someone who might be able to. His name’s Geoffrey.”

“What does Geoffrey do?”

“You can ask him yourself, if he meets with you. Three o’clock today, outside Bruxelles on Harry Street.”

“How do I know he’ll be there?”

“I’ll give him a call. If he wants to meet you, he’ll be there.”

“If he doesn’t show up, I’m coming back.”

“Well, if you come back, I might not open the door.”

“The door’s always open.”

“Then I’ll get the lock fixed,” Finbar retorted. Kenny waited to see if Finbar had anything to add, but he obviously didn’t, so he left him alone.

Kenny had lunch in Milano’s, then walked up to Grafton Street. He wasn’t going to be late – not this time. He got there at half two and sat outside in the sunshine. At a little before three, a small man in khakis wandered up. He had a gentle face, beads in his beard, and hair the colour and approximate texture of wheat. He had many bracelets on his wrists and rings on his fingers.

He joined Kenny at his table.

“You’re Geoffrey?” Kenny asked.

“Indeed I am,” said the man. “And you must be Mr Journalist.”

“Kenny Dunne, hi, pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“I really want to thank you for meeting with me. I’ve been having a hard time getting anyone to talk about this stuff.”

“I can’t really blame them,” Geoffrey said with a chuckle. “This kind of talk gets people killed.”

Kenny frowned. “You’re talking about Paul Lynch?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”

“He was a homeless man. He said he had visions of the apocalypse.”

“Which one?”

“Sorry?”

“Which apocalypse? There are a few.”

“Uh… there was one where these old gods came back…”

“The Faceless Ones, yes. What about the Remnants? Did he foresee that? Last Christmas?”

“The Insanity Virus thing? With all those slices of darkness? They’re called Remnants?”

“Don’t worry about them, they’re all locked away, safe and sound. Did he foresee the Death Bringer?”

“Who’s the Death Bringer?”