‘Please, don’t thank me,’ said Gaiman, turning to look at him. He had the oddest expression on his face: a deliberate solemnity.

‘Well, you saved me, didn’t you?’ said Quill. He went to open the car door. But it was locked. ‘You planning to let me out so we can go and get a drink? Or are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

The author had refused to answer questions as he’d driven the car at high speed, presumably thinking the Ripper might be after them. He’d only been distracted by sending a text message when they’d stopped at traffic lights. Gaiman just kept looking at him, his mouth a straight line of tension. Then it suddenly dawned on Quill what might be going on here. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘You’re helping him.’

*   *   *

The glowing figure burst through the car door.

Gaiman made himself watch. Quill screamed as he tried to move, to fight, but the razor flew back and forth supernaturally fast, slashing into the man’s torso. Quill kept screaming. Gaiman desperately wanted him to die quickly, but that was such a terrible, selfish thought. The slashes reached Quill’s neck and the sounds suddenly stopped.

The Ripper flew from the car. Silver splattered on the window. The remains of Quill’s body fell in a heap across the seats.

Gaiman took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he switched on the engine once more, checked the rear-view mirror and drove off.

Chapter Twenty

TWENTY