They all started forward, but the flashing of the razor pumped faster than the eye could follow and blood burst from Challoner’s torso and throat.

That was the end of their lead, of their hope, of the little man’s life of service.

The crowd parted, yelling and screaming, leaving a clearing into which the body fell. There stood the Ripper. It turned to face Ross and the others.

Was that it? Was that all it was here for? Challoner had been a loose end to tidy up, a thread that could lead back to Vincent. But what about them? Had Vincent tried to access their dreams, never found them asleep, and started to wonder if they’d guessed his secret? Was the Ripper actually him or someone, something, he’d hired or created? The shape of the body didn’t look right for Vincent, if that meant anything. If he was in communication with, or actually was, this assassin, he’d just realized that they’d found Challoner, that they were that close to Vincent himself.

The Ripper took one decisive step towards them. Then another. It seemed to be hesitating. Ross could see the silver pouring down its face now.

‘He’s losing a lot of silver,’ said Sefton. ‘Maybe he’s not doing so well.’

‘You reckon we could take him?’ said Costain.

‘With what?’ asked Ross.

The Ripper launched itself forward. It had its arm raised, the razor ready to strike. It moved in a blur.

Ross found herself stepping into the way in reaction, like returning a tennis serve. She hadn’t thought about it. She flinched, expecting an impact—

But the Ripper had stopped. It had no momentum. It had halted like a cartoon. It was poised above her, arm back, ready to strike. Its mask was a mass of silver. It looked contorted, almost expressing emotion. It slowly raised its left hand, as if balancing itself, willing itself to attack. The skin of the hand, Ross was close enough to see, looked desperately human, wrinkled.

Ross suddenly understood why it might have stopped. Why, like a character in a video game, it was slowly starting to work itself back and forth now, trying to edge around whatever prohibition was stopping it from attacking her, to get to Costain and Sefton. ‘Tony, Kev,’ she said, ‘get behind me.’

They did so. The Ripper stopped trying to jerk forwards.

‘It doesn’t want to attack women,’ said Ross. ‘Not Mary Arthur, and not me.’

The Ripper seemed to vibrate with tension for a moment. Then, with a movement so swift that Ross couldn’t see in which direction it had flown, it was gone.

They sagged together for a moment. They composed themselves. They looked around, making sure it wasn’t going to come back from another direction.

It didn’t. They were safe. For now.

What did they have now? Did they have anything?