She was just standing there, in the playground, silver now streaming from the eyes of the mask. It was billowing off her, up into the sky, lit up by the street lights. She looked like a crashed aircraft. The suit looked as if it was hanging on a stick figure. The hat fell from her head. She dropped to her knees. She made gestures to try to rise. He heard faint sounds from her mouth.

He stepped out from his hiding place. She looked up at him and he flinched, ready to run again. But she made no move towards him. A great pool of freezing silver was slowly spreading out around her like blood. The melting snow woman. She was still following his programming for her, to allow the victim to see everything of his pursuer, even now, when the victim was meant to be him. She was jerking, trying to make anything work, and with every movement she lost more fuel.

He took a step closer to her, relishing his victory. He was panting with exertion and relief, alive with the blood pounding in his veins, every muscle feeling it. He was even erect. He felt the sweat between him and his shirt, felt his muscles fresh from a workout at the edge of vitality, felt the arousal of the chase, of having survived it. He silenced a laugh of relief.

She was subsiding, the material of her body dissolving. She was trying to say something to him, it seemed – some last curse. But the volume was so low it sounded almost gentle.

Now all that was left was a mask and a bagful of bones in some discarded clothes, swimming in a pool of silver. As Vincent watched, the mask and clothes began to dissolve too.

Vincent stepped quickly through the silver liquid, aware of how cold it made his feet through his shoes. He’d have to be quick. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket. If the mask would stay together, he wanted it, wanted to get himself photographed with it, the image that would sell the story that he too had been hunted by the Ripper tonight.

He squatted, reached down towards the puddle of silver, his handkerchief wrapped around his hand. He was just about to touch the mask when he saw something moving in the liquid silver in front of him.

A hand burst up out of it and grabbed his tie. It was an old woman’s hand, covered in some sort of dye.

He was about to wrench himself back in panic when her other hand rose up out of the silver. This one held the razor he had made for her.

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘No!’

The rest of his words became a long scream.

*   *   *