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e a scale of my charges。'
Bishop Wentnor blanched even further； conjured up a mental picture of a recent balance sheet of diocesan accounts。 'I 。。。 well； yes； of course。 But I was under the impression that exorcists did not。。 。'
'Charge for their services？'
'Yes。 A sort of tradition； like bone…setters。 A gift from God not to be exploited in monetary terms。 Like water…diviners 。 。 。 '
'Perhaps you would like to use one of your own exorcists then； Bishop。' Sabat rose to his feet； buttoning his dark serge jacket。
'No； no；' Wentnor held up a hand。 He would have liked nothing better than to have dispensed with the services of this man but the Archbishop would not have accepted his explanation lightly。 'Of course you'll be paid in full。 Just submit your bills。'
'Thank you。' Sabat smiled； a kind of leer that a caged lion might have given its keeper at feeding time。 'I shall prepare to depart for my destination tomorrow。'
'The police are still conducting their investigations in the locality。 You may care to make yourself known to Detective Inspector Plowden who is leading the enquiry。'
'I may；' Sabat paused in the doorway； and added； 'on the other hand I may not。'
Sabat returned to London and darkness had already fallen by the time he reached his exclusive West Hampstead home。 Unlocking the front door he stepped inside； paused to savour that aroma which never ceased to afford him a great deal of personal satisfaction； the smell of French polish and that almost undefinable odour which es from antiques and antiquarian books； the flavour of accumulated wealth。 He smiled faintly to himself； life had been good to him in many ways。 That terrorist armaments cache he had discovered during his SAS days。 That； he decided； had been the turning point in his life； the bridge that divided a mediocre ine from wealth。 He could have reported it； possibly received a mendation and within a month everybody would have forgotten about it because there were bomb factories all over the country。 Sabat had made a bargain with the anarchists … a hard one。 In the weeks that followed his conscience had troubled him and he'd tried to console himself with the thought that he'd deprived the enemy of an awful lot of cash； they still had their high…powered rifles； machine guns and grenades but it had cost them dearly and would set them back a lot in monetary terms。 But he got over it； told himself it didn't matter either way because the world was a jungle； every man for himself。 After that he'd made one or two more bargains； blackmail if one really analysed it。 He'd hit the enemy in his own way； reduced their capital resources。 The sort of thing Quentin would have done。 。 。 and Mark Sabat would still be doing if it wasn't for that stupid bitch of a colonel's wife who had made her own bargain with her legs wide apart and as a result Sabat had found himself out of the SAS with a good kick up the arse to help him on his way。 Jesus； he hated that bitch but he couldn't stop himself getting an erection every time he thought about her。
Suddenly he was aware of how cold it was inside the house。 He shivered； had to forcibly remind himself that it was still late summer； that he'd been sweating on the tube across London。 A sudden stab of fear had him reaching for the light switch； finding it； flicking it。 Nothing！ Nothing except cold； cloying darkness。
And then the voice； familiar tones。 'Do not interfere in what does not concern you。'
'Damn you； Quentin！'
A laugh。 Sabat staggered back against a table； his head suddenly feeling as though it was about to burst； a fast escalating headache of migraine proportions as though he'd been struck a physical blow。 Oh Christ； he'd been caught off his guard； lulled himself into thinking that Quentin had jusf disappeared； relaxed his constant fight against his inner self and his split soul。 And his own adversary had chosen this moment； attacked with full force； a boxer being pummelled against the ropes。
'There's an easy way out for you； Mark。 Take your own life； like Petraux did。 So easy。'
Sabat gasped； found himself even considering the proposition。 Let Quentin have his way and be damned to it all。 But another thought jerked him back into the fight。 To mit suicide would be to precipitate himself into the black beyond； a willing slave to the rulers of darkness。 He had to fight； every inch of the way； throw off Quentin in this continual struggle to remain master of his own body and soul。
'No！' he yelled aloud； almost felt the echo of his defiance rebounding back at him off the walls。 'I'll fight against you； all the way！'
It seemed as though strong hands had encircled his throat in a steely stranglehold grip determined to crush the life out of him。 He couldn't breathe； felt his eyes beginning to bulge like air…bubbles about to burst； a pounding of heart and pulses； voodoo drums beating out a rapid tattoo of death。 Senses swimming； clawing the air wildly； knocking over a small table as he fell to the ground； writhing like a serpent in its death throes。
The attack had e hard and fast； but not from Quentin alone for it was impossible for him to have summoned up such terrible psychic and physical force。 The evil within Mark Sabat's own body had called for help from beyond in this attempt to take over one who sought to defy the forces which controlled St Adrian's churchyard and the coven there。
Suddenly Sabat allowed his body to relax。 A physical struggle would not save him。 He had to use something much more potent and even now his muzzy brain was clouding over just when he needed it most。 Oh； God； he'd have to test his old powers in a last desperate throw； if only he could remember。 Words littered his desperate attempts at recollection like a scattered jig…saw。 He had to fit them together …fast！
'God 。。。 the Son of God 。 。。 who by death 。 。。 destroyed death 。 。 。 and overcame him who 。 。 。 had the power of death 。 。 。 ' fading fast； nearly unconscious； one last supreme effort。 'Beat down Satan quickly。'
Just when it seemed that Mark Sabat was slipping down into a red…tinged black abyss he found himself floating back up； gasping for air and managing to draw great lungfuls in because the crushing grip on his windpipe had relaxed。 His head still ached but not so violently as before and he found that he could move his limbs。
For some time he lay there on the hall floor； the darkness weling and no longer cold。 Total relaxation； calling upon his knowledge of yoga to calm mind and body； knowing from experience that the attack would not be renewed 。。。 yet！ For the moment he had won； just another round in an eternal battle； but nevertheless he had overe his attackers。 Quentin certainly had instigated this because only Quentin would know of his intention to fight the supreme evil behind the necromancy at St Adrian's。 Whatever his brother had called upon it was some low entity； a powerful yet ignorant poltergeist； a crude beast from the dark jungles beyond the ken of Mankind。
But； most important of all； Mark Sabat