At the moment of his death I feel a great disturbance in the force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were silenced—well, no, actually. It’s not like Star Wars at all. (And there is no luminiferous ether either, dammit.) But it’s as if I’ve been wearing a pair of too-tight gloves for so long I didn’t even notice anymore, and they’re suddenly gone. And if I flex my mental fingers it’s like I’ve been performing resistance exercises and suddenly I’ve acquired the grip of doom.

So I’m not the apprentice trainee Junior MythBuster Eater of Souls anymore. I don’t know if you could accurately describe me as the real thing yet, but I’m the nearest we’ve got now Angleton’s gone, and I’ll just have to do my best to live up (or die down) to his standards. It’s a lot to come to terms with, especially as I’m shocky and disoriented, covered in blood and other bodily fluids, upset and disturbed by the fallout from Basil’s little party, and trying to hold everybody else on the KGB.2.YA site together.

This shit is highly distracting, even in the absence of knowing that there’s a Code Red in hand, and people keep buzzing around my head like summer bluebottles, nagging me with stupid questions. I will confess to snarling a couple of times, and one or two of the cops push back with a bit of attitude—they’re used to their authority being respected, even without the assault rifles and the Darth Vader stormtrooper gear—but it turns out that all I have to do is stare at them and they urgently remember something else they need to be doing.

And, in truth, Scary can handle this circus from now on. Basil is roadkill, Alex is gibbering and confessing to the vicar, Little Miss Serial Killer Squared is giving me a very bad taste in the back of my mouth, and there’s a Code Red in progress back at base. So I walk over to the nearest crimson BMW with Christmas tree lighting and locate the occupant, who is by coincidence conversing with Scary. “I need a ride,” I say.

The cop turns on me. He’s something senior, inspector maybe. “You wait your—” he begins, then I make eye contact and his tongue freezes.

“I need a ride,” I say, reaching deep inside myself for the power and authority that goes with my new job. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

“Uh. Um . . .” The inspector reels and looks at me like I’m the Grim Reaper: maybe I need to dial it down a notch or two.

“He needs a ride,” Scary says, not unkindly, “and he’s my boss. I reckon you should give him a ride. It’s the easiest way to get rid of him.”

“Uh, right. Where do you need to go, sir?”

I give him the New Annex’s address. I hope to hell I’m not too late.