A beep cuts the rambling off. The driver shouts: “It’s ’Arry. An’ this’d be another good example of one of them times it would be ’andy if you’d agree to carry a bloody phone. I’m still in the forest, but getting out. Uh, road southeast of the Kandel, ’eadin’ for—”

Harry Morecambe breaks off. Far back in his mirror, headlights appear, swallowed instantly again by night.

“Gawd. They’re comin’ after me. Listen: I followed ’em. I saw some of what they’re up to. Weird business. For a change. Looks like there are two more paintings still to go. But, ’old on to your ’at: I got one of the others back. Pinched it off ’em. I ’ave it with me. Remind me to blow me own trumpet later. Now, I know where the other two are—”

Harry falls silent as he spots some long, low thing behind him, shooting fast along the road on a dim bed of sparks. Then it is gone. He squints ahead. There is nothing but the shuddering patch of ground racing in his headlights.

“Don’t like the look of this. Listen. They said something about Shadow Gate. I was ’iding back in the bushes, so I couldn’t ’ear clearly, but the girl definitely said it, more than once. Does that mean anything? Shadow Gate? And two more things: it’s not—”

There is something in the road ahead: a huge, hunched figure, hands held out like buffers.

Harry accelerates. The car hits, and the world pitches and cracks and falls silent and black.

He comes to without knowing how long he has been unconscious, wrestles open his door, grabs his phone, and stumbles out. The car lies wrecked. One headlight still shines, the beam trembling with rain. Something moves in the darkness beyond, and a figure comes dragging itself into the light. A figure without a head, missing one arm and one leg, a single metal hand clawing the ground. Back along the road, the headlights reappear, coming fast.

Harry runs, plunging into the forest. Soon he is climbing a steep slope. The air quivers and whines and unseen things come flitting through the dark, slashing. He swings his arms wildly, warding them off, but he is hit, falls, crawls on through thorny undergrowth until he can go no farther. He lies listening. No sound but rain. The flying things are gone.

Harry stands, bloody, disoriented, staggers on. After a while, he glimpses lights high ahead through the trees. He remembers the phone in his hand, the call still in progress.

“Is this still on? That was close. Car’s totaled, but I think I’ve lost ’em. I’m in the forest, bit lost, but I can see lights, an’ I . . . Oh.”