He opened his eyes again. Everything around him was normal. There was a moment when he didn’t believe anything strange had just happened. He was stressed out and grieving and exhausted. But what was he if not someone who did mad things because of something that might be a dream? That was a definition of what he had to be if he was going to go any further into knowing the power of London.

Slowly he got to his feet. He contemplated what was being asked of him. It would be a sacrifice. It seemed to hold the potential to wash him clean of Barry Keel’s blood. It seemed to hold the possibility of doing due honour to Quill. It was something right for him and how he lived. Finally, he had a way forward in his hands. He looked up, then down, because he wasn’t sure where Brutus’ ‘outer borough’ could be said to be. He said thank you, silently.

He went to his holdall, intending to see what defences he could take with him on his journey. As he looked through it, he realized there was something missing – several things. He emptied the bag out onto the floor, and found that a bunch of items he’d kept because of their potential as protective devices: a box of London-made matches with what seemed to be occult symbols in the trademark, some salt from an ancient source actually within the metropolis, a horseshoe used in the Trooping the Colour … they were all gone.

He looked around the Portakabin, wondering what could get in and do that. The same thing, presumably, that had entered their dreams.

He put down the holdall and understood that he should do this without help. He headed for the door. He knew where he was going. He wanted to call Joe, but, no, he decided, he didn’t want to frighten him.

*   *   *