"You know bloody well it doesn't work like that," Gabriel said. "There are a million ways you could've dealt with him."

"Well, is he going to be all right or not?"

"I don't bloody know, some futures have him dying."

Greg shoved the dog basket out of the way and left the minder with his head propped up against the toilet bowl. Gabriel rolled up one of the jackets and slipped it behind the minder's head. He was still breathing.

"How many futures?" Greg asked.

"Some."

Greg recognised the defensive tone, and relaxed. The minder would survive.

"There's a rear belt-holster," Gabriel said reluctantly.

Greg knelt down and felt underneath the minder. Sure enough, he was carrying a Mulekick, a flattened ellipsoid in grey plastic, small enough to fit snugly into Greg's palm, with a single sensitive circle positioned for the thumb and a metal tip that discharged an electric shock strong enough to stun a victim senseless.

"We'll need it later," Gabriel said cryptically.

Greg dropped it into his jacket pocket and followed her back out into the hall.

The house would've given any halfway competent interior designer nightmares. To Greg it looked as though it'd been decorated by someone watching a home-shopping catalogue channel and picking out all the furniture and fittings which had the brightest colours. There was no attempt to blend styles.

The lounge had two three-piece suites, one upholstered in overstuffed white leather, the other done in a bold lemon and purple zigzag print. A harlequin array of biolum spheres hung from the ceiling on long brass chains, imitating a planetarium's solar system display. Dark African shields hung on the wall, along with spears, tomahawks, broadswords, and longbows. The weapons were interspaced with antique rock-concert posters, mostly from Leicester's De Monfort hall—Bowie, Be Bop Deluxe, Blue Oyster Cult, David Hunter, The Stranglers, one for The Who at Granby Hall in 1974. If they were real, and they looked it, they must've cost a fortune.

The party was in full swing on the other side of the lounge's sliding patio doors. Thirty or so people were clustered around the back garden's baby swimming pool. Led Zeppelin was blasting out of tombstone-sized Samsung speakers.

A petite blonde girl in a lime-green one-piece swimsuit shoved the patio door open. Robert Plant's fearsome vocals slammed into Greg's eardrums. She came in dripping water all over the deep white pile carpet. He caught a whiff of bittersweet air. Quite a few of the partygoers round the pool were puffing away on fat Purple Rain reefers.

"Hi," the blonde said when she saw Greg and Gabriel. "We're out of champagne again."

"Can I help?" Greg asked.

"S'all right, I know where it is." She looked at Gabriel. "You want a suit for the pool?"

"No thank you."

"We'll get something to drink first," Greg said. "Have a rap with Ade. Is he out there?"