Sefton finally returned with a small collection of objects that, he said, indicated both serious London provenance and the concept of things or people being kept locked out. There were keys from the Tower of London, boundary markers from royal gardens. He saw how unenthused Quill and Ross were and raised his hands. ‘It’s all I could do,’ he said. ‘I really have no idea.’ There was nothing of weight about any of the objects. ‘Before tonight, I’ll write down some instructions about putting chalk lines and salt around our beds.’

‘Sarah,’ said Quill, ‘is going to love this.’

Costain looked up at the sound of a car horn outside the Portakabin and bounded out. Quill went to the window and saw him talking to someone through the window of an ancient TR7 that looked more mud than car. The car had stopped on the road rather than come in through the gate to their makeshift car park. Costain turned, clutching something, and the car accelerated away.

‘This is a bit more practical,’ he said, coming back in with a carrier bag. He opened it up to reveal several packages of a grey powder.

‘Methamphetamine?’ said Ross.

‘Bless you,’ said Costain.

Quill looked to Sefton, who was staring incredulously at what was on the table. Had it really come to this, that they were going to break the law themselves? ‘Fuck, no,’ said Quill. ‘We keep that for when we just can’t stay awake any longer. And we don’t keep it in here.’

Costain nodded. ‘Sure. There’s a hidden compartment in my car.’

‘Oh, that makes me feel so much better,’ said Quill.

Sefton went over to the mirror and uncovered it. ‘This thing feels so completely dead,’ he said. ‘It’s as if, when the Ripper left it, it took all the power with it.’

‘Maybe that’s what happened,’ said Ross.

‘Do you reckon it could appear out of there again?’ said Costain.

‘Perhaps,’ said Quill, ‘it’s like that movie, and you just have to say his name three times, like Ripper, Ripper—’

The others all yelled at him to stop.

Quill sighed. ‘Like I would. I now work on the basis that things like that might actually be true.’

‘Maybe,’ said Sefton, ‘the scrying glass needs some other form of activation. I’m wondering if the Ripper appearing out of it was some form of what Gaiman called ostentation, if the first stirrings of protest, two years ago, somehow summoned it.’

‘That wasn’t quite how he used that word,’ said Ross. ‘There has to be an existing story about something happening, which then becomes real. Just as we’ve seen. None of those protestors was expecting Jack the Ripper to come back and lead them. It would have been, I don’t know, King Arthur or…’

‘… or bloody Robin Hood,’ finished Sefton. ‘You’re right.’

‘Put the cloth back over it, anyway, eh?’ Quill said.

Sefton did so.