Archive of Our Own

The October sky brooded over Belfast, leaden and oppressive. Heavy cloud lay reflected in the dark waters of the Lagan, matching the black smoke that poured from factory chimneys.

Yet neither autumn's fading strength nor the pervading gloom nor the penetrating chill could still the beating heart of the city's industry—Harland & Wolff, one of the world's great shipyards.

It was approaching the luncheon hour when the yard's chief metallurgist, Mark Muir, burst into the drawing office. One hand thrust into his pocket, the other stroking his moustache, he went straight to the dark-haired, olive-skinned young woman at one of the central desks.

'Miss Silvestri, I shall require you today. Several drawings need to be made.'

'Dr Muir!' The office manager, Eddy Hatton, called out from his desk. 'Miss Silvestri is far too occupied with her proper duties to continue working for you. Forgive me—I ought to have informed you sooner. Mr Sullivan will assist you in her stead.'

'But I need Miss Silvestri specifically!' Mark protested, bristling.

The draughtsmen and copyists glanced up from their work with undisguised curiosity. A scandal in the offing! Young Muir was hot-tempered and suffered no contradiction; he'd fly at anyone who crossed him like a fighting cock. Still, should it come to blows, Eddy would be the favourite—a head taller than Mark, considerably broader across the shoulders, and possessed of formidable fists. Mind you, they were hardly likely to come to fisticuffs here in the office. Dismissal would follow swiftly for both.

'Mr Sullivan draws every bit as competently,' Hatton replied, scarcely troubling to conceal his satisfaction.

'How dare you! Who are you to—' Mark flew at him, but Hatton didn't so much as rise from his chair.

'Dr Muir, this is Mr Andrews's personal instruction. If you wish to dispute it, you must take it up with him.' Hatton's tone made it clear the matter was closed.

Muir bolted from the drawing office, slamming the door violently, and fled to his laboratory. Why was Andrews treating him so cruelly? By his behaviour, he simply didn't care in the slightest! Or... no, perhaps he did care after all? And this instruction was, in truth, a sign of something quite different?

* * *

'Good evening, Mr Andrews!'

'Until tomorrow, Mr Andrews!'

'Until tomorrow!'

Thomas walked towards the exit of the administrative offices, trailing surprised glances in his wake. Everyone had grown accustomed to the managing director and chief designer remaining at work until all hours. But lately this had become exceedingly rare—Thomas made a point of leaving promptly at day's end.

'Perhaps his wife gave him a proper dressing-down?' they gossiped at the yard.

Stepping outside, Thomas turned up his coat collar, pulled his hat lower, and, shivering in the bitter wind, hurried towards his motor-car.

He would have been glad if everything had remained as before! But since the Olympic's accident*—something had imperceptibly shifted. The shipyard, his second home for so many years, had begun to provoke an obscure, inexplicable unease. Each morning Thomas forced himself with difficulty to drive to work, avoiding deserted and unlit corners. Walking about the yard, he often found himself glancing about for some unnamed danger. He assured himself there was no cause for alarm, that nothing in particular was occurring—and indeed, nothing was! Yet the attacks of irrational dread would not abate. On the contrary, they intensified as the autumn days shortened and the sun showed itself less frequently.

Perhaps he simply needed rest? But there was no prospect of leave in the foreseeable future. The Olympic's repairs, though being executed at breakneck speed, were catastrophically disrupting the Titanic's construction schedule. Making up the lost time seemed impossible, yet White Star Line would not hear of postponing the Titanic's maiden voyage.

He gave the starting handle a sharp turn. The engine purred obediently.

Darkness had already fallen, so Thomas, settling into the driver's seat, switched on the headlamps—and sensed rather than saw some strange shadow flit across the motor-car. Or had it been merely a trick of the evening murk?

'Just a cloud. Or a bird—a gull, perhaps.' He tried to reassure himself, with little success. 'Perhaps I ought to say a prayer?' Yet even the Lord's Prayer, repeated twice, brought no peace of mind.

'What utter nonsense!' He was furious with himself for such childish nervousness. Really—like some infant convinced of monsters lurking beneath the bed!

The motor-car rolled forward through the yard gates. Thomas kept his attention on the road: the evening rush was in full swing, and the streets teemed with life. Trams rattling past, pedestrians darting between vehicles, motor-cars jockeying for position, carts trundling along—the congested thoroughfares demanded constant vigilance.

At last the grimy industrial quarters and the clamour of the city centre fell away behind him. Thomas opened the throttle, musing that a few more bridges across the Lagan wouldn't go amiss—when that malevolent shadow overtook him once more. His hands clenched the wheel, leather gloves creaking with tension. The apparition clung to him, persistent as a curse. Only when the motor-car drew level with Fisherwick Church did it finally release its hold.

There—the familiar turning onto Windsor Avenue. A few minutes more, and his beloved Nellie and little Elba would be there to greet him. Light, warmth, supper. Home.

He steered under the shelter, cut the engine, and made for the porch at a brisk pace.

* * *

Next day, Thomas tried his utmost to leave at a reasonable hour, but it was hopeless. Work had piled up alarmingly, all of it urgent. His office table—an enormous affair that dominated the room—had vanished beneath a chaos of drawings, diagrams, calculations, and memoranda. Thomas had buried himself in it, his anxieties temporarily forgotten—when a sharp knock at the door made him start in fright.

His heart gave a sickening lurch, and he found himself clutching a pair of dividers—a drawing compass with sharp points on both legs—like a weapon, both points aimed at the doorway—before recognising Muir's figure and exhaling with relief.

'Ah. It's you, Mark. Come in.'

'Expecting someone else, were you?' Muir's mouth quirked. 'Who might that be?'

'No one. I assumed everyone had left for the evening.'

Mark noted Thomas glancing nervously at the wall clock with a slight frown. Beyond the windows, it was fully dark, the lamps had been lit hours since.

'Lucky I caught you, then. You've been making earlier nights of it lately, Thomas.'

'I decided to spend more time with my family. Besides, I've been rather overdoing it.' Thomas pressed his fingers to his temples. 'But today there was simply no escaping it.' He gestured wearily at the paper-strewn table. 'What's kept you so late?'

'I wanted to ask you something. Something rather personal, actually. Just between the two of us.'

'Good God, Mark, must this be tonight? You can see the state I'm in...'

'It won't take a moment,' Muir cut in. Andrews capitulated with a nod.

'Why did you instruct that Sofia should no longer work with me?'

'I thought I'd made that abundantly clear in our previous conversation.'

'Oh yes, I remember. Religious division; her community may find out—and she's in trouble, what else? Oh, right, gossip, questions of propriety, subordination, and so forth. All that nonsense. Or is there rather more to it than that?'

'I'm afraid I don't follow.'

'Don't you? Admit it, Thomas—you're jealous. That's what this is really about.'

'What? Jealous? Of whom, precisely? Muir, what are you even talking about? Have you been drinking?'

'Answer me!' In one swift movement—forgetting himself entirely—Muir closed the distance between them, seized Thomas's arm, and slammed him against the wall. Thomas jerked violently, more bewildered than afraid.

'Muir! Have you run mad? Let go of me!'

The pressure on his arm eased abruptly. Mark stepped back, and Thomas wrenched himself free, tugging his jacket straight with sharp, angry movements.

'Mark, I haven't the faintest idea what's got into you, but I've no intention of discussing it now. Go home. Sleep it off. Tomorrow you can explain what possessed you to carry on like this. And if you've taken to drinking at your workplace, you're sorely mistaken if you think I'll turn a blind eye.'

'I haven't touched a drop! And you still haven't answered—' Muir began hotly. Thomas pressed his hands to his head.

'Enough! That's quite enough.' He grasped Mark by the elbow and propelled him insistently towards the door, pushing him out onto the landing.

'I'm going home. We'll discuss this tomorrow—when you're in your right mind!'

'Wait! You can't just—' But Thomas had already slammed the door in his face.

***

The promised discussion never took place. Next morning, Muir telephoned the yard requesting several days' leave, which was granted without fuss. He offered no explanation beyond vague mention of 'urgent personal business'.

During Mark's absence, events at the yard accelerated at a truly alarming pace.

A month earlier—immediately following the Olympic's incident—both Thomas and the shipyard's head Lord Pirrie had stumbled upon an unwelcome truth. The chief metallurgist and Mr Morgan's appointee, Mark Muir, was not the man he'd claimed to be. The revelation had come from an unlikely source: Eddy Hatton.

Eddy's friend on the police force had uncovered Mark's carefully guarded secret whilst investigating an incident that had left visible marks on Muir's face—though the bruises and abrasions had healed with quite remarkable speed. Eddy harboured a profound dislike for 'Dr Muir'—he was hardly alone in that—and had anticipated the impostor's swift dismissal with unconcealed relish. But Pirrie and Andrews had thought otherwise. Muir remained. He wasn't even demoted. Eddy received a stern warning from Thomas and crystal-clear orders: not a word to anyone.

Despite these precautions, murder will out. What three men knew inevitably became common knowledge. Eddy had let something slip—not to drunken companions in some pub, but to the Stokeses, father and son. Stokes senior owned a coal supply firm and sat on the shipyard's board of directors. His son Ashley had his own reasons for despising Muir—reasons both numerous and personal.

The news spread like wildfire. Within hours, the entire board knew that an impostor had wormed his way into Harland & Wolff's management. The rest of the yard learnt soon after: the supposed Protestant and chief metallurgist Mark Muir was in fact the Catholic Marcus Malone, who had secured his position through a tissue of lies that had fooled Lord Pirrie, Mr Andrews, and Mr Morgan* himself.

The board's verdict was near-unanimous. The moment 'Dr Muir' returned from leave, he would be informed of his dismissal. Mark's career at Harland & Wolff—indeed, in British shipbuilding generally—had just jumped the tracks at full speed and was even now tumbling down the embankment in a spectacular wreck.

But the professional scandal was merely the beginning. Through Eddy's police connection, rather more sordid details of Muir-Malone's past came to light. Years ago, just before departing to study in London, Mark—or rather, Marcus as he'd been then—had seduced a young woman from his native Catholic quarter. Such youthful indiscretions could easily be remedied by marriage, but matrimony had apparently never crossed Marcus's mind. The unfortunate girl had been left to face the consequences alone. Her family, in their fury, had packed her off to a convent, where the poor creature had soon perished.

* * *

'Mr Andrews!' Eddy appeared in the doorway, breathless and flushed.

Thomas glanced up from yet another tedious missive from the Board of Trade, his expression distinctly unwelcoming.

'Yes, Mr Hatton?'

'Might I have a word? Privately?'

'More revelations about Dr Muir, I suppose?' Thomas's voice could have frozen water. 'Haven't you done enough damage already? Or have you conveniently forgotten what I said about betrayal?'

'Sir... I know you're angry with me—I know it. But this really is urgent. Please. Just hear me out.'

Eddy wasn't wrong. Thomas was furious. He'd warned him explicitly: breathe one word of Muir's secret to another living soul, and Thomas would consider it a personal betrayal. Yet Hatton had done precisely that. How could he possibly be trusted now?

Still—to be fair—the information Eddy had provided so far had all proved depressingly accurate.

'Very well. But make it quick.'

Eddy slipped inside and shut the door carefully behind him. Thomas jerked his chin at a chair.

'My friend on the force—you remember...'

'Eddy, please tell me you're not about to trot out that tired hobby-horse again.'

'Sir! You promised to hear me out!'

'Fine, fine. Go on.'

'Do you recall—must be ten years ago now—a young woman's body was found? Practically drained of blood?'

'Cannot say I do. I'm not quite the devotee of the crime pages that you are.'

'A Catholic girl. Very young. Found dead beneath the convent walls. The police never worked out what happened. They searched everywhere for bloodstains—found nothing. There were odd marks on her neck, though. As if she'd been stabbed with something sharp. The police decided'—Eddy's voice dripped with contempt—'that she'd taken her own life. By some elaborate method they couldn't identify.'

'And this is the urgent matter you were so eager to discuss with me immediately?'

'Sir, that young woman was Siobhan Doyle. Marcus Malone seduced her. And then he murdered her.'

Splendid. Just splendid. And Eddy had always struck Thomas as a sensible fellow—if somewhat too fond of talking.

'Eddy... Muir may well have cause to reproach himself over the girl being sent to a convent. All the more so if she took her own life. But to suggest he deliberately murdered her—that's absurd. How? And why, for God's sake?'

'The why—I haven't worked that out yet. But the how's simple enough. He pierced her neck—or bit it—in several places, and then—'

Thomas raised a warning hand, cutting him off.

'Eddy. Stop. Your dislike of Muir has clearly addled your wits. Is that everything?'

Eddy leant forward conspiratorially across the desk.

'Sir, do you remember Danny Crowley?'

'Crowley... the riveter? The one I dismissed after he assaulted that girl?'

'That's the one. Well—he's dead. My friend told me in confidence. They found the body a few days ago. And I'm certain Muir's behind it.'

Dead. Thomas's mind conjured the last time he'd seen Crowley—barely human beneath the bruises and swelling, his eye puffed shut... and the girl from accounts, weeping, dishevelled, her blouse half torn from her shoulders. Thomas had draped his own coat over her. He'd wanted desperately to strike Crowley—right in that swollen face—but he'd understood that if he did, the other men would fall on Crowley like wolves and beat him to death on the spot. So he'd restrained himself. Simply dismissed the man, ordered the foreman to see him paid and escorted out. Crowley—held fast by two burly lads—had spewed threats and curses at Thomas, at the girl, at everyone present and their families besides.

And now he was dead. Thomas tried to summon some shred of sympathy for the man. Failed utterly. The only thought in his head was cold and hard: Served him bloody well right.

He grimaced, turning a pencil over and over between his fingers.

'Good God, Eddy—why Muir? Everyone there wanted to throttle Crowley. He threatened to drop that sack of rivets on my head! But I don't suppose you're suggesting I murdered him?'

'Sir, all Crowley's blood was gone. Drained out. At least, that's what the police think, because there wasn't any left in his body. He was lying in some bushes—no bloodstains anywhere nearby. But there were these small punctures on his neck. Like a scalpel. Or teeth.'

'Some animal attacked him, presumably. A large dog, perhaps...'

'Sir, you didn't hear how viciously Muir spoke about Crowley!'

'What's surprising about that? How else should anyone speak of him? Those chaps who gave him a proper beating dragging him off that poor girl weren't exactly complimentary either.'

'It was different with Muir. He sounded like he wanted to savage Crowley himself. And... he bared his teeth. He does that often. Have you noticed how large his canines are?'

'Eddy, I must insist that you cease examining our colleagues' dentition.'

Hatton flushed scarlet. Thomas sighed.

'Look. I know you've a talent for ferreting out information—I value that. But you've clearly been overdoing both the detective novels and the personal grudge. Hard facts are one thing. Wild accusations of murder are quite another.'

'I understand, sir. But you can't deny I was right last time.'

'No, I can't. Nevertheless, Eddy—whilst all you have are theories, kindly keep them to yourself. I trust you can manage that simple task this time. It's in your own interests, incidentally. Dr Muir—'

'Malone!'

'I said Dr Muir!' Thomas snapped, then continued more evenly. 'He could bring a slander case against you. And he'd win it handily.'

Eddy departed in a sulk. Thomas sat staring at nothing, his thoughts churning. Muir—a murderer? Preposterous. Two coincidences, nothing more—and Eddy was constructing an entire Gothic melodrama from them. Certainly, both that poor girl at the convent and that bastard Crowley had died horribly—deaths you wouldn't wish on anyone. But Mark hadn't killed them.

The stories themselves were probably true. Eddy had already proved he could be relied upon for facts. But everything else was pure imagination—the product of a mind that had devoured too many detective stories, worshipped Poe and Conan Doyle a touch too fervently. Nothing more than that.

* * *

Thomas encountered Sofia Silvestri in the corridor and was shocked by her appearance.

Lately, the young woman had become a pitiable sight. The revelations about Muir had struck her like a thunderbolt. She still held herself upright, still performed her duties with the same diligence—but she grew paler and more withdrawn by the day.

Understandable enough. Learning so much terrible news would shake anyone. But to such a degree? The once-vivacious beauty looked positively spectral. You could practically measure her for a coffin. Was she being consumed by some illness? Or—and here was an uncomfortable thought—was it some more delicate feminine condition? If so, Thomas would personally march Muir down the aisle.

Despite the building's heating, Sofia was huddled in a long woollen scarf. Had she caught a chill as well?

'Miss Silvestri, are you quite all right? Perhaps you ought to go home?'

'No, Mr Andrews, I'm perfectly...' She swayed, steadying herself against the windowsill. Her head drooped. Every trace of colour drained from her face. Thomas caught her elbow, ready to hold her upright if necessary, but she bit her lip, straightened, and gently pulled away.

'Come to my office. Can you walk?'

'Yes. Yes, I can manage.'

Thomas looked at her doubtfully but didn't press the point.

'Excuse me, Mr Andrews. I seem to have... fallen ill. I feel so weak...' Sofia lowered herself carefully into one of the office armchairs.

'Forgive me for raising a rather indelicate matter, but...' Thomas kept his voice low. He'd left the door ajar—no sense inviting gossip—which meant he had to tread carefully. 'Are you... that is to say, might you be in a delicate condition?'

'What? No! Nothing of that sort, Mr Andrews. I understand what you're suggesting, but no. Nothing happened... I don't think. No, I...' She pressed her eyes shut. 'I don't know.'

'You don't think? Forgive me, but I'm trying to understand. Is it possible something might have occurred... without your knowledge?' Thomas felt himself tense. If Muir had taken advantage of this young woman whilst she was helpless, then he was no better than that animal Crowley.

'I've fainted several times when Mark... when Dr Muir and I have been alone. I can't think why. But only for a few seconds at a time. Surely nothing could happen in such a brief moment?' Sofia gave a sickly laugh that dissolved into coughing.

'And you haven't consulted a physician about these fainting fits?'

'Mr Andrews, doctors are terribly expensive. I can hardly run to one over every little thing...'

So much for the ardent, devoted Mark! The careless fool. Before his very eyes, the woman he supposedly loved was falling ill repeatedly—and he'd paid no attention whatsoever. If Nellie had started fainting inexplicably in Thomas's presence, he'd have summoned the finest physicians in Belfast. The finest in the country, if need be. Yes, Sofia's means were limited—but Mark had money enough. Thomas would have sharp words for him about this. Gentlemen didn't conduct themselves in such a fashion.

'I have... lapses. In my memory. Sometimes I can't recall what happened even quite recently.' Sofia moved her head carefully and winced as though in pain.

'Miss Silvestri?'

'My neck hurts. I must have caught a chill—hardly surprising in weather like this.' She wrapped the scarf more tightly about herself.

Her neck. Her neck was hurting. And only yesterday Eddy had been going on about Crowley and that girl—both of them with marks on their necks... Why had that suddenly popped into his head? Utter rot. Still... it wouldn't hurt to check that Sofia had nothing similar. If only to quiet his own apprehensions.

'Miss Silvestri, forgive me, but would you mind removing your scarf? Just for a moment. Please.'

Sofia raised hunted eyes to him, but nevertheless began unwinding the scarf, revealing a white throat traced with delicate blue veins. Thomas leant closer—and froze. Upon the pale skin, several small, paired wounds stood out distinctly.

'Where did these come from?'

The young woman covered her face with her hands and forced out through muffled sobs:

'I don't know, Mr Andrews... At first there were only two, but then more kept appearing... These aren't all of them... there are others, but I can't show you those.'

Was it possible some unknown assailant had now selected Sofia as his next victim? At this rate, she wouldn't last long. She needed hospital care immediately. And they'd need the police—perhaps unofficially at first. Thank God Mark was returning tomorrow. He could stay with her, protect her, comfort her. For now, best she knew nothing—she was barely clinging to consciousness as it was. No sense frightening her further.

'Miss Silvestri,' Thomas began carefully, 'I'm afraid you may be rather more seriously ill than you realise. You need hospital care.'

'Sir, I can't afford a hospital!' Sofia shook her head, then grimaced in pain.

'Please don't concern yourself with that. I'll see to all the expenses.'

'Sir, it wouldn't be proper... I couldn't possibly repay...'

'Miss Silvestri, please. Simply accept my help and don't trouble yourself about it.'

Within the hour, Sofia Silvestri had been taken to hospital. Thomas watched the motor-car disappear down the road, then turned to Hatton, who stood beside him.

'Eddy. Contact your friend from the police. At once, please.'

* * *

The routine morning meeting at the yard had concluded. The other participants had dispersed. Thomas remained alone in the conference room, gazing out of the window once more. He knew Muir had returned—the light in Mark's laboratory had been burning for two hours already. He ought to have gone to speak with him at the very start of the working day... but Thomas simply couldn't overcome some internal resistance. Still, delaying further would be downright dishonest, and avoiding the unpleasant conversation wouldn't improve matters.

He collected his coat and hat from his office—the laboratory wasn't far, but a bitter wind was blowing outside that cut straight to the bone, and he'd no desire to catch his death—and set off.

'Hallo, Thomas! Delighted to see you!'

'How was your leave, Mark? Did you accomplish everything you needed?'

'Oh yes! Everything! I've completed all preparations for a most important event!' Mark was positively glowing.

'He's going to propose to Sofia,' Thomas thought. 'Which means he doesn't yet know she's in hospital. More bad news awaiting him, then. A morning of nothing but bad tidings.'

'Well then—my congratulations.'

'How've you all managed here without me?' Mark enquired cheerfully.

'With varying success. We need to talk. Certain matters have arisen during your absence.'

Muir's expression sharpened.

'You recall what Lord Pirrie and I warned you? Should anyone else at the yard unearth your past, we'd be powerless to protect you.'

'I remember. What of it?'

'The board of directors knows everything.'

'But how?' Mark's fists clenched.

'That no longer matters. The essential point is that they know. And it wasn't from Pirrie or myself, believe me.'

'So. What now?'

'You're being dismissed. They wanted to haul you before the entire board and fling accusations of fraud in your face, but I insisted on informing you myself. Without unnecessary witnesses.'

'Well... thank you for choosing to spare my pride. You're quite right—the fewer witnesses the better.' Something odd flickered in Mark's tone.

'I'm sorry it's come to this. I'll write you the finest reference imaginable. I'm certain you'll find new employment quickly—though I'm afraid it won't be in Belfast. Word gets round.'

Thomas spread his hands regretfully. Mark watched him steadily, tracking every movement. Under that gaze, Thomas felt strangely uncomfortable. He wanted to leave—quickly. Yet he'd not said even half of what he'd come to say. He turned away, pacing about the room, feeling Muir's eyes boring into the back of his neck.

'But I don't wish to leave Belfast!' Mark burst out after a pause.

'I'm truly sorry, but I'm not certain there's another option.' Thomas sighed. 'There's something else you evidently don't know yet. Miss Silvestri has fallen ill. I've sent her to hospital.'

'What? You? You sent Sofia to hospital?' Mark leapt from his chair.

'Yes. She could barely stand. Pale as a ghost, practically melting away before one's eyes. In the end I was afraid she'd collapse right at her desk, she was so weak.'

'But why you specifically?' Muir's eyes narrowed.

'Mark, I confess I'm surprised you didn't do so yourself. She told me about those fainting spells she's been having. They occurred in your presence.'

'How remarkably intimate you seem to have become! And how long has this been going on?' Mark's voice dripped venom.

Thomas felt irritation mounting. What a foolish boy—choosing this moment for a jealous scene! Nearly thirty years old, and behaving like an adolescent. If only he'd enquire after the young woman's condition!

'Mark, contain yourself. This isn't the time. Sofia urgently needed help—I fear her life may be in danger.'

'In danger? What's she so gravely ill with?'

'She has strange marks on her neck. Small but deep wounds, as though she'd been repeatedly stabbed with something like a knitting needle or a slender blade. Or savaged by some beast with sharp fangs. But she has absolutely no recollection of what happened—no idea where the injuries came from.'

Mark laced his fingers together, shifted in his chair, and asked distrustfully, looking somewhere past Thomas:

'These marks on her neck... you saw them yourself? She showed them to you?'

'I did. That's why I arranged for her admission to hospital, where she'll be under constant supervision. If this is the work of some madman, he can't reach her there.'

Mark fell silent, apparently deep in thought. Then he rose abruptly from his chair.

'Thomas, will you come with me to the hospital to see Sofia?'

'Yes, certainly. When d'you want to go?'

'Now. Immediately.'

'Now... very well. I'll just telephone the office to say I'm stepping out.' Thomas turned towards the telephone, intending to ring his secretary.

But the receiver yielded only dead silence. Thomas thought with annoyance that Muir's telephone line had evidently been disconnected already. He replaced the receiver in disappointment—and then noticed that the cord extending from the apparatus had been severed.

He stared at it in complete bewilderment—and then that familiar premonition of danger crashed over him like a wave. Only now it was immeasurably stronger than before, overwhelming, drowning out any shred of reason.

He glanced back at Muir—and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Mark was blocking the door, breathing heavily, gripping a knife. The electric lamps went out without warning. Beyond the windows, the misty twilight seemed to thicken and darken, though only moments before the morning sun had been shining brightly.

Thomas bolted in blind panic towards the far exit, yanking frantically at the door handle. The heavy door began to open slowly—then he was seized as though in a vice, so tightly he couldn't move.

'No need to rush, Tommy.' A hoarse, excited whisper sounded above his ear. In the same instant, some pungent cloth was pressed to his face, and Thomas plunged into darkness.

* * *

When he came to, Thomas found himself lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. Thank God—fully clothed.

He felt slightly sick. He tried to recall how he'd got here, but drew a complete blank. The laboratory... Muir with a knife... then nothing. What devil's work was this?

'Oh, you're awake already?' Mark's voice. Thomas tried to sit up hastily but was immediately forced to sink back—his head swam. Muir settled beside him on the bed, looking down at him.

'Muir, for pity's sake—what the hell is this? Where have you brought me? Why? What was on that rag of yours?'

'Don't you know? All's fair in love and war.'

'You've declared war on me, have you? Over the dismissal? Make war on the board of directors. Or on windmills.'

'Hush, Thomas. You're disregarding the bit about love.'

'So you're so consumed with jealousy over Sofia that you decided to abduct me in revenge? I've never had anything with her...'

'I see you've understood nothing. And I had such hopes. No—I've never been jealous of Sofia on your account.'

'Then what is this entire circus even for? You yourself accused me of...'

'Thomas, I have no need of that foolish girl. Nor of any other, for that matter. I need you.'

'What?'

'I need you. I want you to remain with me always.'

'What sort of idiotic jest is this, Mark? You've had your fun—that's quite enough.' The dizziness had subsided somewhat. Thomas rose from the bed and made for the door, but Mark barred his way. A heavy silence descended.

'Muir, I give you my word—if you release me now without further nonsense, this entire foolish escapade will have no consequences for you.' Profoundly unnerved, Thomas attempted to maintain at least some semblance of control.

Mark showed no inclination to move. His light blue eyes had darkened. His avid gaze was fixed on Thomas. Perspiration beaded his brow. 'He's gone mad,' Thomas thought, horror flooding through him. Had he truly fallen into a lunatic's power? And what did Muir want from him so desperately that he'd resorted to abduction?

'Will you at least explain what you want from me?'

Instead of answering, Mark reached out and tried to stroke Thomas's cheek. Thomas managed to evade him.

'He's quite definitely deranged. I must escape from here. Somehow outwit him...'

'Are you afraid of me, Tommy? Don't be.' Mark smiled broadly, his upper lip lifting to reveal sharp canines.

* * *

'So it was you who killed Crowley?'

'Not killed—punished.'

'You fancy yourself judge and executioner? He behaved abominably towards that young woman, but you still had no right...'

'Thomas, I don't give a damn about that girl! I was defending you. Crowley threatened you—surely you remember. And was punished for it. I'll never permit anyone to harm you.'

'Stop this...' Thomas was already being turned inside out by this inconceivable, delirious conversation.

Since regaining consciousness in this cottage, an hour had probably passed. An hour that had merged into one continuous nightmare without end or limit. He desperately sought some means of tearing himself from the monster's clutches—the monster that had until now been concealed beneath Mark Muir's guise. But his abductor wouldn't permit his prisoner a single step without supervision. Worse still, he constantly contrived to touch him—taking his hands, embracing his shoulders, twice managing to stroke his head. Thomas evaded with all his might, yet Mark persisted. And now he'd placed his palm upon Thomas's shoulder. Thomas shook it off and retreated to the far corner. In response, Mark smirked—a vile little smirk that sent ice down Thomas's spine.

'And your lady friend?'

'Siobhan?'

'Yes. She trusted you. Loved you...'

'Oh, enough. She didn't love me nearly as much as she ought to have done. But I didn't kill her—I simply became too engrossed. I'd only just been transformed then. Didn't yet know when to stop.'

'But why didn't she become... I thought that...'

'Become as I am?'

Thomas nodded mutely.

'It's all fables—that anyone bitten by a vampire becomes one in turn. Far too great an honour that would be. For a human to transform, there must be powerful desire on the part of the one effecting the transformation. Such as I possess—for you.'

'And what of the consent of the one being transformed?'

'That's superfluous.'

'Most illuminating.' Thomas frowned. 'And even should you be plainly told they don't wish it...'

'You'll understand everything afterwards. And appreciate it. And... thank me for it.' Mark smiled lecherously.

Thomas turned away, biting his lip. He could no longer bear either to see or hear this villain. But there was nowhere to go.

'I'll bring you something to eat.' Mark rose from his chair. 'You must be famished.'

At last—alone, if only briefly. Thomas set about examining the windows carefully. Three of them, all small, with latticed interior shutters fastened with padlocks. Bright light penetrated through the lattice—the day was at its height.

Thomas retrieved his pocket watch, which Muir had mercifully left him. It was functioning properly and showed half past one. He checked his other pockets: wallet, small notebook, pencil, handkerchief—everything in place. So Mark hadn't searched him. Or had prudently replaced everything. Thomas shuddered with revulsion at the thought of Muir rummaging through his pockets, unfastening his clothing, feeling him over whilst he'd been stupefied by that noxious brew...

At the yard they must have missed him by now. But how long would a search take? And had anyone witnessed this madman abducting him? If not—it wouldn't occur to anyone to connect Thomas's disappearance with Muir. He himself, the utter fool, had told no one he was going to the laboratory. But how could he have foreseen falling into such a nightmare?

He examined one of the padlocks closely. Robust enough in appearance—yet one might try wrenching it off with, say, a poker. Or more simply, break out the shutters themselves?

'Forget it, Tommy.' Muir's mocking warning came from directly behind him. Thomas, caught off guard, started violently. 'Don't even think about it.'

Mark set a full pan of mutton stew with potatoes on the table, along with a kettle and two plain earthenware cups. Thomas surveyed it all sceptically. He was considerably hungry—but what if Muir had laced the food with something? It would be just like him.

'I trust you've mixed nothing into it?'

'How mistrustful you are, Tommy! A veritable doubting Thomas.' Muir laughed. 'You suspect me constantly of everything.'

'And naturally without the slightest grounds,' Thomas observed with heavy sarcasm.

'I've added nothing anywhere. Calm yourself. If you wish, I'll swear an oath.'

'I do wish it. Swear, then.'

'I swear I've mixed nothing into your food.' Mark proclaimed it solemnly, placing his right hand over his heart.

Thomas regarded him searchingly. Could one trust this individual in anything whatsoever? Indeed, was he even an individual?

But he'd sworn an oath. Thomas drew the pan towards himself and set about the stew. Mark poured tea into the mugs.

'Have you never considered becoming normal again?'

'Normal—meaning what? An ordinary mortal? Of course not. Do I look deranged?'

'Emphatically so,' Thomas confirmed drily. 'But is there such a means?'

'I've no notion. Why d'you ask? Already calculating how to escape from me and reverse everything? And do you believe I'll permit you? Do you truly think so, Tommy?'

'Well, my opinion—as I've already grasped—is utterly disregarded.'

'Tommy, my dear...'

'Don't you dare address me thus!'

'Thomas, my dear.' Muir grinned. 'I'm bestowing upon you a priceless gift. And you turn up your nose at it!'

'Mark, I've said this repeatedly: I don't wish it.'

'That's foolish, Thomas. The greatest folly of your life—to let slip such a gift of fate. Pure recklessness. But never mind—I'll preserve you from error. You'll thank me yourself afterwards.'

Silence reigned for a time. Thomas finished the stew and, reaching for his mug of tea, felt a wave of drowsiness. 'Hardly surprising after luncheon,' he thought.

He scrutinised Muir more closely. Everything as always: ordinary nails on ordinary fingers, no bloody vessels in the eyes, the skin white but humanly white. Please—let all this prove to be, however stupid and cruel, still only some elaborate jest.

'Mark, I simply cannot comprehend... You walk about in sunlight with perfect ease. You cast a shadow—I've seen it myself more than once.'

'I also reflect in mirrors.' Muir sounded positively boastful. 'I can walk on consecrated ground. I fear neither garlic, nor silver, nor any such nonsense. All that's merely fables. Or rather, such things may occur, yes—but only with inferior creatures. Third-rate specimens, third class, so to speak. Whereas I am perfection. And you shall become likewise.'

The drowsiness intensified. Thomas passed his hand across his brow, yawned—covering his mouth—and caught Muir's triumphant gaze. What was happening? And why this irresistible desire to sleep? Could that scoundrel have nevertheless...

'Mark... you swore...'

'At lovers' perjuries, they say, Jove laughs.' Muir quoted it like poetry. 'I lied. I told you: all's fair in love and war.'

'Damn you, Muir...' His head had grown heavy, drooping towards the table. Thomas could scarcely move his tongue.

'I no longer understand—is this all some foul dream? Am I merely asleep?'

'No, Tommy. You're not asleep. Not yet asleep.' Muir smirked.

'Then you're my waking nightmare...' Thomas mumbled. His eyelids were closing. He could struggle no longer.

'Sleep, Tommy. Midnight is yet distant.'

'But what... what happens at midnight?'

'You'll become immortal. A superior being. Such as I am.'

Thomas wanted to curse Muir with the foulest oaths he'd learnt during his long years at the shipyard, but the drug gained the upper hand. His head fell onto his arms, and he slept directly at the table.

* * *

'Changeling,' the neighbours had whispered of him. 'His eye is evil. Squinting, because he's not human at all. A foundling of the fairies. A witch's spawn. Connected directly to unclean powers...'

When Marcus Malone first heard such talk about himself, he wasn't even surprised. He'd long been convinced that so perfect a creation as himself couldn't possibly have been born into the family of a simple Irish labourer.

Assuredly he was descended from noble parents! Even in appearance, it was difficult to imagine two less similar men than old Malone—with his typically Irish, rough-hewn features—and Marcus, a veritable fair-haired angel, marred only slightly by a touch of strabismus. He'd attempted to rid himself of this defect but failed. And then suddenly it transpired this was no flaw at all, but an indisputable sign of his superiority over others! He wasn't merely highborn—he was the child of mighty magical beings!

The evening following his transformation remained with him forever. Having secretly led Siobhan beyond the convent walls, he'd enjoyed her as never before. This sensation of power over another's life, of impunity and licence, had been new and intoxicating.

True, he'd rather overstepped the mark—but it had been worth it. Henceforth, however, he must conduct himself more cautiously.

The young woman's body was discovered in the morning. Marcus was suspected by no one. No accusations were made against him. Nor did he himself feel guilty of anything for even an instant. Siobhan's life held no particular value for him—indeed, no one else's life was worth a bent penny. The only person Marcus Malone—later calling himself Mark Muir—considered worthy of love and respect was himself.

He'd never before transformed anyone. Expend his strength on those wretches? Not likely. What need had such pitiful creatures of immortality? They existed solely for his benefit, his whims and diversions.

Thus it would remain eternally.

This supposed eternity ended when, after his return to Belfast, a new person appeared in Muir's life. Thomas Andrews—the shipyard's chief designer, a brilliant engineer, universal favourite—gradually concentrated all of Mark's desires and thoughts upon himself. He was close at hand—and remained utterly unattainable. For a time.

When Thomas learnt the truth about Muir but—together with Lord Pirrie—chose to keep everything secret, Mark believed this was a sign of favour. One for whom one felt indifferent wouldn't be shielded thus.

He'd formerly, on occasion, furtively and jealously observed Andrews when he visited various departments of the yard. Now, however, he followed Thomas like a shadow almost ceaselessly.

Several days ago, after Andrews had so presumptuously thrust him from the door, Mark had been consumed by a white-hot fury of rage and jealousy. Yet simultaneously he'd burned with another fire entirely: how near Thomas had been! Pressed against the wall, defenceless, lethally tempting. That pulsing vein in his neck. The warmth radiating from his body. His scent—Christ, it had been maddening. Mark could have done with him whatever he pleased, right there and then. Could have torn that accursed door to matchwood with his bare hands! Yet he'd restrained himself.

That was when he'd made his decision. Enough of this damnable waiting! Time to grasp the nettle and set his long-ripened plan in motion.

And now Mark stood beside the bed where he'd laid the unconscious Thomas, drinking in the sight of him.

'Perhaps there's no need to wait at all?' The lascivious thought crept through his mind.

He lowered himself onto the bed's edge, leant closer... Thomas mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, rolled onto his side, threw an arm across the pillow.

'Very well. Sleep, then. Soon enough you'll reward me freely.' He smiled, savouring the anticipation. 'By tomorrow... yes, tomorrow!'

* * *

Casting off the remnants of a fever-dream—he'd been hunted through fog by werewolves wearing plague doctors' masks—Thomas looked about in confusion, trying to work out where he was and how he'd got there. The events of this insane day came flooding back. Reality, it transpired, was considerably worse than nightmare.

The sun had set. The room lay in darkness. He glanced round—alone.

'How long was I unconscious? And where's that bastard got to?'

He eased himself off the bed, crept on tiptoe towards the front room, scarcely daring to breathe. Mark wasn't there either. He was alone in the house. Fortune had finally favoured him in something. He had to move quickly—God only knew how long that madman would be gone. What if he was sitting outside, keeping watch? No matter. He had to at least try to escape this devil's snare.

The front door was locked—naturally. Thomas threw his shoulder against it repeatedly, hard. Nothing.

He searched by the hearth for a poker but Muir had evidently hidden it. No other useful implements either—no axe, nothing substantial—so there was no means of forcing the padlocks. Which left dismantling the shutters themselves.

'But what if there are exterior shutters as well? What then?' The thought sent a chill through him. Thomas pushed it away. Then... then he'd think of something else. One obstacle at a time. He hadn't even dealt with the interior shutters yet. Until he did, speculation was pointless. Time was bleeding away—every wasted minute brought Muir's return closer.

Thomas chose the largest window and, gripping one of the shutter panels at the top, hauled it towards himself. It gave a loud creak but held fast. He wrenched it several more times with all his strength. No better.

'Think, man. Use your head, not your muscles.' He ordered himself sharply.

Finding screwdrivers in the dark was a lost cause—but kitchen implements? Knives, forks, spoons? The cottage must have those.

Armed with cutlery, he attacked the upper fastening of one shutter. It yielded surprisingly readily. Within minutes he'd managed it and turned his attention to the lower hinge. The second shutter came free just as easily.

His spirits sank when he saw the window was fixed, composed of small panes. But there was good news: no exterior shutters. He examined the glazing bars—thin enough. They'd break easily.

He was loath to make noise—what if that accursed Muir was lurking somewhere nearby?—but there was no alternative. Thomas hefted a chair, took aim, and swung it hard against the window. Glass shattered, wood splintered. Several more blows finished the job. He knocked out the remaining shards carefully along the frame's edge—no sense cutting himself to ribbons—and climbed gingerly through.

Free! Though he hadn't the foggiest notion where he was. Still, he'd work that out as he went. He knew the country round Belfast like the back of his hand, and Muir couldn't have hauled him too far from the city.

Forest hemmed the cottage in on all sides. Only in one direction did a broad, well-trodden path lead away. Thomas set off along it at a brisk pace—it had to lead somewhere—but within minutes realised that keeping to the road, particularly the only road, was spectacularly foolish. He might run smack into Muir coming back. The very thought made his skin crawl. No. Absolutely not.

By now full darkness had descended. A thin veil of evening mist clung to the ground.

Thomas moved several yards off the path and continued parallel to it, trying to keep it in sight. The going was treacherous. Hillocks and stones lurked underfoot at every turn. He went down twice on the slick carpet of fallen leaves. His boots were soon waterlogged from the dew-soaked grass.

The cold intensified. He'd no coat and was thoroughly chilled, but he pressed doggedly onward.

The forest stretched endlessly ahead. Something wasn't right. Thomas couldn't recall any substantial woodland near Belfast. Had he got himself lost? Damn it all—he'd completely lost track of the path. Where the hell was it?

He cast about wildly. Nothing but undergrowth on all sides. Not a trace of the track. His chest constricted painfully. How in God's name was he meant to escape in pitch darkness?

Steady on. Mustn't panic. He'd managed to slip Muir's clutches—that was the main thing. Finding his way out of the forest—well, he'd manage that somehow. He needed landmarks. In this darkness, all the trees looked identical. The North Star, perhaps? Thomas squinted upwards, but the sky was obliterated by low cloud through which the moon struggled feebly.

Something nearby let out an appalling screech. His heart damn near stopped, but he forced himself to breathe steadily. Just some night bird. When was the last time he'd found himself alone in a forest after dark?

His knees were still shaking slightly, but standing about like a scarecrow wouldn't get him anywhere. He struck off in what he hoped was the right direction, fought his way through a dense thicket of alder, crossed a grove of ash—and there, suddenly, was the path again.

Was it the same path? Impossible to tell. Nothing looked remotely familiar—though in fairness, he'd not been paying attention to the landscape earlier. He'd not exactly been in a sightseeing frame of mind.

He was debating which direction to take when from somewhere to the right came a distant but unmistakable sound—a locomotive's whistle. That settled it. A railway line meant civilisation. Follow the rails and he'd surely reach a station eventually.

The path wound deeper into the forest. Soon, between the wall of trees, weak strips of yellow light became visible. Thomas quickened his pace, hope surging—only to have it die horribly when he realised the light was coming from that very cottage where Muir had imprisoned him. He even recognised the window he'd smashed.

He stood frozen, paralysed for several heartbeats. Then wheeled about and bolted back down the path at a dead run.

His heart slammed against his ribs, his legs felt boneless, his breath came in ragged gasps. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He staggered to a halt, gasping, and flung himself into the roadside bushes.

Despite putting distance between himself and that cursed house, fear gnawed at him more viciously than ever. Muir had returned. Had discovered his absence. Was even now prowling through the forest, hunting. Thomas tried to reassure himself—searching for a man in a forest at night was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Particularly when that man didn't want to be found. All he had to do was exercise extreme caution, keep the path in sight this time, and salvation would be within reach.

He crept along beside the path as quietly as possible, straining to make no sound, his head constantly swivelling. The anxiety was crushing, relentless, sapping what little strength remained. Every noise seemed amplified tenfold—leaves rustling beneath his feet, a branch snapping under his heel, even his own ragged breathing.

A broad stream—far too wide to jump—blocked his way. Fording it in the dark was out of the question. Reluctantly, Thomas returned to the path, first checking carefully in all directions. Nothing and no one suspicious. He let out a shaky breath, crossed by means of a rough log bridge, and looked back, trying to gauge how far he'd come.

'I'd no idea you were fond of midnight rambles through the forest!' The familiar mocking voice came from alarmingly close by.

Thomas jerked away in terror, caught his foot on something, went sprawling, scrambled up immediately to flee—but too late. There stood Mark Muir in the flesh. The bastard had found him.

He backed away on legs that barely functioned. Muir advanced—and vanished. Simply vanished. Thomas shook his head violently, blinked hard.

'Something in your eye, Tommy?' Muir enquired solicitously from directly behind him. Thomas whirled, his stomach lurching. How was that possible? The scoundrel had been right in front of him a second ago.

Muir's smirk was insufferably smug. He had the gall to wink.

'Get away from me, you bastard!'

'Why the hell did you smash the window?' The voice now emanated from somewhere over his right shoulder.

This couldn't be real. How could anyone move that fast? Thomas spun towards the voice—Muir wasn't there.

'You're a stubborn one—woke far sooner than I'd calculated.' Now from the opposite side. 'And still resisting. Futile. Give it up.'

No—he definitely wasn't imagining this. It couldn't be imagination, not multiple times.

'How the devil are you doing that?'

'Oh, simplicity itself, Thomas. For me, at any rate. I can also fly. Not great distances, mind—I'm hardly migratory.' Mark actually chuckled at his own joke. 'But high enough. You'll be able to do it as well. Imagine—soaring above the city. Above all those people crawling about below. Above the entire world. Looking down on everyone—quite literally. Don't try to tell me you've never dreamed of it.'

'I dreamed of flying when I was a child. Still do sometimes. But I've no desire to look down on people.'

'Fine, don't look if it offends your sensibilities. I agree—they're hardly worth the effort. But consider this: Belfast is a dangerous city. The shipyard is a dangerous place, full of dangerous men. Even should someone manage to wound you—and believe me, that will be phenomenally difficult—all you'll need to heal is to drink a little...'

'Shut your mouth.' His imagination instantly conjured Muir with blood smeared across his face, and Thomas nearly retched.

'Why does it disgust you so?'

'Because it's disgusting!'

'Disgusting?' Muir's laugh was harsh. 'You know what's disgusting? Illness. Suffering. Death. But plague itself couldn't touch you. Or don't you want even that?'

'Not at that price—no.'

'What price, Tommy? Good God, you're like a bloody gramophone with a stuck needle!' Muir's voice rose sharply.

Thomas said nothing. His strength was nearly exhausted. He could barely stay upright. When would this murderous creature finally release him? Receiving no answer, Muir continued in a lecturing tone:

'You're an intelligent man. People drink each other's blood constantly—simply not literally. Every day the world spills blood in rivers. Wars, murders... even ordinary childbirth! And what? Nothing! No one bats an eye! All you'd be taking from that vast ocean is a trifle—a few drops!'

'A few...' Thomas muttered wearily. Muir studied him intently.

'You're exhausted, aren't you? Dead on your feet. Whereas I never tire. I'm virtually invulnerable. I can do things no one else can. And I'll help you become the same. Come with me.'

'Where?'

'To the place where I was transformed. No one helped me, you understand—I managed alone. So you see, it'll be far easier for you. Just say yes.' He extended his hand. Thomas didn't take it. Simply shook his head.

'Mark, I've already told you. How many times must I say it? I won't change my mind.'

Muir continued staring at him expectantly, as though unable to believe this was the final answer. At last he looked away, slowly drew his hand back, lowered his head.

Could Thomas actually have got through to him?

'Very well, then. I've been far too indulgent, granting you countless damned opportunities to make the right choice yourself!' Mark's voice turned deadly. 'My patience is exhausted.'

The moon broke through a gap in the clouds. Muir's eyes caught its light, glinting with predatory hunger. Thomas read his death sentence in that gaze and threw himself into headlong flight—but Mark materialised directly in his path as though conjured from thin air. Thomas slammed into him at full tilt... and was instantly seized in a crushing grip, lifted bodily off his feet.

'Let me go! Don't touch me!' Thomas tried to shout, but terror, exhaustion, and helpless rage had formed a choking knot in his throat. The words emerged barely audible. He braced both hands against Muir's chest, tried desperately to break free—but Mark only tightened his hold. Thomas thrashed wildly, spending his last reserves of strength, while Mark laughed openly at his useless struggles.

'Stop fighting, Tommy. It's pointless.'

Dear God—why had this hellspawn been granted such obscene strength? Mark carried Thomas like a child, whilst he—a tall man, physically fit—could do nothing but writhe helplessly. Every time he moved, Muir's arms constricted further.

'Mark, please! I'm begging you! Let me go! You can't do this!'

But Muir paid not the slightest attention to his pleas.

A low hill loomed ahead. Muir ran lightly to its summit, Thomas still trapped in his arms.

'Welcome, Mr Andrews!'

Thomas found himself staring at a circle of stones. A fairy ring, wasn't that what they called it? Something to do with witchcraft... old superstitions...

Mark set him on his feet within the stone circle, gripping his wrist like iron, then tilted his head back, studying the night sky. The owl—or whatever it was—hooted again. Muir's attention wavered for an instant, his grip loosened fractionally. Thomas seized the moment, wrenched his hand free, lunged away—but Muir closed the distance in one impossible leap.

'Leave me alone!'

'God, you're stubborn, Tommy! But I love that about you as well.'

Mark threw him down onto the grass in the circle's centre. Thomas tried to fight back but was pinned instantly, crushed against the ground with Mark's weight pressing down on him from above.

'Muir, damn you to hell...' Thomas groaned in defeat. Mark's fingers traced along his neck, slid beneath his tie. The sound of ripping cloth—the tie went flying. The collar followed. Muir didn't bother with the shirt. Taking his time, clearly savouring every second, he unfastened the top buttons one by one, exposing Thomas's throat completely.

'Don't be afraid. This won't hurt.'

'God help me...' Thomas implored, his voice a mere breath, his eyes seeking the heavens. Muir turned his head gently to one side. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, desperate not to see what was about to unavoidably happen.

Muir's breath scorched his exposed skin. Lips touched him. Muir, pressing against him with all his might, kissed his neck hungrily—and Thomas lay paralysed beneath those revolting caresses.

'Here, Malone! What d'you think you're doing?' A shout rang out. 'Let him go! Now!'

Muir tore himself away from Thomas with a hiss, teeth clicking together audibly. Thomas's eyes flew open. Two large men were charging up the hill—both inexplicably carrying buckets. What on earth? Perhaps Muir had dosed him with something else and this was all hallucination?

'Mr Andrews! Are you all right?' Eddy Hatton's voice.

'Eddy! Thank Christ...'

'Clear off! He's mine!' Muir snarled viciously. From another direction, a third figure appeared like a shadow, barely noticed until the last second—also wielding a bucket.

'Take this! For my daughter!' He hurled the bucket's contents at Muir with tremendous force.

A ghastly howl erupted from Muir—a sound that lifted every hair on Thomas's head. Mark's arms fell away and he rolled across the grass. Eddy and his companion emptied their buckets over him as well. Thomas crawled clear—he still lacked the strength to stand.

The howl morphed into a piercing shriek that threatened to split Thomas's eardrums. He couldn't credit what his eyes were showing him: under the liquid's assault, Muir appeared to be... melting. Dissolving. Like sugar stirred into hot tea. The shriek cut off abruptly at its highest pitch—and where Mark Muir had been moments before, only a small sodden heap of clothing remained.

'Acid?' Was all Thomas managed to utter, pointing in shock at the remains of his torturer.

'Good Lord, no, Mr Andrews! Nothing like that—merely holy water.' Eddy extended his hand, hauled him to his feet.

'Where on earth did you get so much?'

'Drew it from that stream. Had the Father bless it. That degenerate didn't... we got here in time?'

'In time, Eddy. Another minute and he'd have...' Thomas trailed off, exhausted. He could barely believe this nightmare was actually over.

'I'll gather all this up, burn it somewhere.' The large man—a stranger to Thomas—prodded Muir's empty jacket with his boot. 'Can't leave evidence lying about.'

'Why not?' Eddy seemed puzzled. 'Just leave it.'

'Think, man. Muir's vanished under mysterious circumstances. I can hardly file a report stating he melted before my eyes after being doused with holy water. He'll be listed as missing. This clothing is evidence—it could be identified. There are name tags sewn in.'

'Right, right, Johnny, I take your point! Mr Andrews, this is Johnny Mulligan—he's...'

'Your friend in the police?' Thomas managed a wan smile. 'Eddy's mentioned you, Mr Mulligan.'

A short, elderly man who'd been first to throw holy water sat on the grass with a vacant expression, staring at nothing. Mulligan addressed him gently:

'Mr Doyle, are you quite well?'

'Yes... yes, I am now. I never believed she took her own life...' He stood, and Thomas was struck by how ravaged he looked—the gaunt face, the haunted eyes. The poor fellow had suffered terribly. But what exactly had Muir done to him? Doyle... of course, that unfortunate young woman!

'Mr Doyle? You're... her father?'

'Yes. That fiend murdered my daughter Siobhan.' His voice was hollow, scraped clean of emotion.

Thomas gripped his hand firmly. Words seemed inadequate.

'Did it work, then?' They all turned. Ascending the slope with obvious difficulty, leaning heavily on a stick, came an elderly priest in white vestments.

'Like clockwork, Father!' Eddy called back cheerfully.

'This is the Reverend Rooney, rector of St Jude's. We reckoned we'd need a priest's help for this business. Catholics understand these matters better, when all's said.' Mulligan delivered this pronouncement with complete seriousness.

'Dragged me straight from the church—I'd barely finished Mass. Didn't even give me time to remove my vestments.' The priest grumbled good-naturedly. 'Still, what's to be done? Fighting the powers of darkness is sacred duty.'

'I can't thank you enough, Father. Forgive me—Saint... Jude?' The name didn't immediately call sanctity to mind.

'Indeed, Mr Andrews. Saint Jude Thaddaeus—patron saint of lost causes, intercessor in the most hopeless of situations.'

'Never more aptly invoked,' Thomas said quietly.

'Right then, let's be away from here.' Johnny was already moving. 'Reverend, we'll have you back at the church door as promised.'

'And I shall pray immediately for that lost soul. For he did possess a soul, despite everything...'

'Father, might I make confession?' Mr Doyle's voice was hesitant, hopeful. 'I've not confessed in many years. Not since Siobhan died. I thought God had abandoned me, so I abandoned Him...'

* * *

Doyle and Father Rooney were dropped at the church. Doyle asked them not to wait—the confession would take time, and Father Rooney had offered him a bed in the clergy house.

Three men continued back to Belfast: Johnny at the wheel, Thomas and Eddy in the rear.

'How on earth did you find me? In such godforsaken country?'

'It's a long story, Mr Andrews. Perhaps tomorrow? I'm just... God, I'm glad we got there in time.'

'Not half as glad as I am, Eddy. Though you're being remarkably taciturn for once.' Thomas smiled despite his exhaustion.

'Sir...'

'No need for apologies, Eddy. I'm more grateful to you than I can possibly express. And I've never in my life been so relieved to see anyone.'

The road unwound beneath the wheels in monotonous darkness. Thomas, lulled by the motor-car's motion, was dozing when Eddy's gentle touch on his elbow roused him. They were already entering the city itself.

'Mr Andrews, tell me something. Do you not regret it?'

'Regret what?'

'You effectively refused immortality. Many people dream of it.'

'Eternal earthly life—in the guise of a monster? No, Eddy. That's the most appalling fate I can conceive of.'

* * *

'As many of you know, Dr Mark Muir...'

'Malone!' someone interjected with heavy irony. Scattered sniggers followed.

'...has left us.' Thomas continued in the same level tone. 'Let us please not be distracted by gossip or idle speculation. It is unnecessary, and we do not have the time.'

The message was received. No one made further sport of Muir-Malone. Indeed, no one mentioned him at all. Muir had possessed no talent whatsoever for building collegial relationships, and his abrupt departure had grieved absolutely no one.

During the luncheon interval, the yard fell briefly silent. The hammering of rivets ceased, the whistles of locomotives, the clanging and roaring of every description of machinery.

Thomas walked to Thompson Dry Dock and stopped by the pumping station. The giant Olympic was healing steadily, though considerable work remained. Soon all efforts would shift back to Titanic, patiently awaiting her turn. And the laying down of the third vessel of the Olympic trio was approaching rapidly.*

In the workaday bustle of the yard, everything that had happened yesterday seemed utterly unreal. Impossible, even.

'But they might have arrived too late. And then I would be...'

He'd already heard the full account of yesterday's search—a chain of events that had begun when Eddy Hatton, deciding on one final gloat, had turned up at Muir's laboratory and discovered Thomas's coat and hat, the severed telephone cord, a knife on the floor.

The day was bright. Gulls wheeled above the river, crying raucously. Thomas rarely paid them much mind, but today he found himself watching.

'Imagine—soaring above the city...'

A large gull landed on the ground directly in front of him and proceeded to examine him with what seemed like deliberate scrutiny.

How high could gulls fly, he wondered?

'I dreamed of flying when I was a child...' He'd have to go up in an aeroplane one day. Though he wouldn't tell Nellie beforehand—she'd fret dreadfully. Still, an aeroplane wasn't quite the real thing. A machine between oneself and the sky...

The gull continued its examination, cocking its head first one way, then the other. Its unblinking, intent stare was distinctly unnerving. Why was the bird staring at him like that? Hadn't it anything better to do?

Church bells began to ring loudly across the city. 'Today's All Saints' Day for Catholics and Anglicans. Mass for some, Matins for others,' Thomas recalled. Which meant yesterday had been All Hallows' Eve. Small wonder the forces of darkness had been abroad. He smiled grimly at the thought.

The bird was clearly disgusted by the celebratory peal of bells. With a couple of indignant squawks, it soared up to the pumping station's cornice and resumed staring down at Thomas from its elevated perch. On the underside of its beak, a patch of vivid red became distinctly visible. The ominous colour of blood.

Thomas shuddered and turned away sharply. Wings flapped; a loud, displeased shriek followed. But he didn't look back.

'Not at that price—no.'