“Yes.” I try to smile reassuringly, but the twitching tic in my cheek probably undermines the effect. “I might be jumping at shadows”—I really don’t want to tell him what Angleton told me, because that kind of knowledge is dangerous—“but it’s good to be sure, isn’t it? So I’m officially declaring this the first meeting of the, um . . . Let’s find an unassigned codeword.” Clickety-click. “Ah, GREEN LIME is free, so we’ll use that. Yes, this is the GREEN LIME committee. Circulation: restricted, no reporting. Budget: bill to Bob Howard, discretionary funding authorization pending approval. Initial membership: Bob Howard, Andy Newstrom, Peter Wilson, and, uh, Spooky the Office Cat. Remit: to examine archival resources for evidence supporting the hypothesis that one or more PHANGs have been operating within the Laundry and working to conceal signs of their own existence, and if so, to identify the blood-sucking mole. Hopefully we’ll draw a blank, but if not, it’ll give me some ammunition when I escalate it to the next level.

“You’re drafted. So how about we work up a plan of action, then hit the archives?”

13.

VAMPIRIC MANEUVERS IN THE DARK

“HI, HONEY, I’M HOME!”

I needn’t have bothered calling: the house is dark and cold, the heating turned down. I pick up the two crates and trudge inside. One of them complains vocally, the other reeks silently. That one can live under the stairs. The loud one I carry into the kitchen, where it moans like a particularly deranged ghost as I hang my coat and gloves up in the hall. Then I turn the lights on, fiddle with the thermostat, and let Spooky out of her carrier.

“Waaow?”

I remember to close the kitchen door just before the little fuzzball wanders out into the hall, then set my backpack down and start unloading supplies: food bowl, water bowl, kibble. There’s a thudding sound behind me: I whip round in a hurry and am confronted by a mad, black-eyed stare from atop the kitchen table. “Hey, cat, what are you doing there? Get down—”

Spooky levitates as if a poltergeist has just grabbed her. She comes down on top of the kitchen unit, a good two meters away, then leaps again, for the precarious gap between the top of the storage unit and the ceiling.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” I pause. Why the hell am I talking to a cat? I wonder, resolving to ignore her. She’ll come down when she’s hungry or needs the litter tray or something. It’s been a long day and I do not find it relaxing to chase an antigravity-enabled predator with a butterfly net. So I finish unpacking provisions instead, listen to the radiators gurgling away as our ancient central heating system struggles to emit a trickle of hot water, then haul out my battered netbook to spend some quality time anonymously stalking my relatives on Facebook.