An aluminium tripod stood in the middle of the floor, its camera silently tracking Greg as he ducked round the hanging baskets full of busy Lizzies and fleshy trailing nasturtiums. Twin fibre-optic cables fell from the back of the camera, snaking across the abraded brown limo to Royan's nineteen-sixties vintage dentist's chair; they terminated in the black modem balls filling his eye-sockets.

Greg sensed the gag-reflex of Eleanor's mind as she fought to control her revulsion and shock, barely managing to contain a phobic groan.

He forced himself to grin and nod at Royan's bloated, T-shirted torso. Royan didn't have any legs; and his arms ended just below the elbows, their stumps capped with grey plastic cups which sprouted fibre-optic cables, plugging him into various 'ware cabinets about the room.

All the screens went blank. Then words began to form, metre-high letters, phosphor-green, strangely fragmented by the reticulation of black rims.

HELLO, GREG. WHO'S THE LADY?

Royan was fifteen that night six years ago, Greg's last street fight. Set up as a march on Peterborough's council hall protesting about the latest protein rationing. The Trinities were infiltrating the crowd, thirsting for aggro. It was a big crowd, ugly. The Party called out the People's Constables.

People's Constables: a replacement for Special Constables. Greg could just remember them from his youth; weekend policemen, who used to dress up in their smart dark uniforms and make an enthusiastic cock-up of directing traffic at the Rutland county fair.

People's Constables were in a different league. A different fucking universe, as far as Greg was concerned. Recruited from the ranks of extreme-left shock-troops and black-flag warriors who'd kicked police and beat up press photographers at rallies and marches, it was the biggest case of role-reversal since Dracula turned vegan. The People's Constables came under the direct authority of local PSP committees, employed to smash heads whenever people complained about the latest drop in living standards. Basic Party militia.

Their favourite weapon was a bullwhip, with a lash of monolattice carbon. They were taught to go for the legs first.

Royan, flush with the élan of youth, was in the crowd's front rank. He was caught in the first charge. The crowd retreated leaving their downed behind. People's Constables clustered like angry wasps about each of the inert bodies, slashing with hot fury.

It was the Trinities who retaliated, prepared by Teddy and him, driving the Constables back with a berserker bombardment of Molotovs, lighting the night sky with a lethal fallout of fireballs.

Greg had dragged Royan out of the flames, far, far too late. He often wondered if he'd have done the boy a bigger favour by going for a beer instead.

"This is Eleanor," Greg said.

HI ELEANOR. YOU ARE VERY PRETTY.

"Go ahead," Greg told her. "Just speak normally, he can hear."