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spluttered； picked up again。 He took an inconspicuous side road。 A Salvation Army hostel on his left； an office…cleaning firm next…door； then a small car park。 No barrier or gate； the attendant's hut boarded up。 Two cars were parked over on the far side。 They probably belonged to businessmen staying late at the office for the sole purpose of screwing their secretaries； he decided。 It reminded him of his father； and he laughed aloud。 Then the engine petered out altogether。
He began wheeling his machine on to the tract of open ground。 It was as much as he could do to move it； as though every vestige of strength had deserted his burning body。 He leaned up against the wall； fighting for his breath； surveying his surroundings in the falling darkness。
He did not relish the idea of approaching the Salvation Army。 Then his gaze was drawn towards a church…like building on the opposite side of the road。 He watched two nuns cross towards it； their dark robes swishing as they moved。 Some rough ground adjoining the building； long grass pressed flat by the bodies that lazed their days and nights away amidst the strewn litter。 A narrow lighted entrance in the old stone wall further up。 A queue…some young； some old。 Others sitting on the ground； eating。
Then realisation dawned upon him。 A nuns' free hand…out centre。 Charity。 Something he had always despised。 Up until now he had not realised just how hungry he was。 Thirsty； too。 He had never been governed by principles。 Only one： you took everything you could get your hands on。 Nuns or no； he was determined to eat and drink。
Unsteadily he crossed the road； and gained the pavement opposite。 A hiccough and a curse from the shadows。 Irish without a doubt。 Just another drunk in a city teeming with them； seeking oblivion in their own way： whisky on Thursdays when they drew their social security； meths the rest of the week。
By the time he had climbed the low wall and mounted the litter…strewn bank he was breathing even more heavily。 The burning was in his lungs now。 Everything around him was in shadow。 Twice he almost fell over inert forms； men already bedded down for the night； but he didn't fancy sleeping outside in the autumnal atmosphere。 Then he noticed the underpass opposite…it would be warmer in there。 Already others seemed to have the same idea。 He joined the end of the queue； and hoped he would not have long to wait。 The scramble for bedding…down places was already in progress。
Several in front of him were quarrelling。 Three youths were pushing an old man about。 The latter slipped to the ground； and lay there； cursing them。 The others stepped over him。 Richard followed them。 It was clearly a case of dog…eat…dog here。 The old man clutched at Richard's foot； and received a weakened kick； which sent the vagrant flat on his back。
Laughter。 Richard leaned against the wall。 He must not let them know how weak he was。 Otherwise his own place in the queue would be in jeopardy。
God； he could barely stand！
'Next please。'
The Sister of Mercy was ladling broth into a tin mug。 She pushed it across the scrubbed trestle table towards him； her other hand reaching for thick chunk of bread。
Their eyes met。 His were glazed； expressionless。 Hers showed disbelief； horror！ She recoiled； her scream already rising to a shrill pitch； her hand clutching the mug and knocking it over。 Another nun came running down the passage。 She； too； stopped abruptly； her hand going to her mouth to stifle her wail of terror。
Richard stepped back； half turned。 A dozen men blocked his flight back down the narrow stone passage。 Young men； old men； drop…outs； drug…addicts； meths…drinkers； the scum of the city。 Some of them would willingly have murdered for a fivepence piece。
But not this time。 The light from the single hanging bulb fell full upon his features； the pain…distorted face； the weeping rashes； the puffed eye； the blazing hatred for his fellow creatures。
'Tis a demon from hell！' a drunken Irishman muttered； sprawling headlong over the prostrate old man in his own attempt at flight。
'The fuckin' plague！'
'Mother O'God！'
One of the nuns was still screaming。 The other had fallen to the ground in a faint。 Fear lent new strength to Richard's ailing body。 Those blocking his escape route parted only too readily to let him pass； crossing themselves fervently； eyes closed lest they might be gazing upon the Evil One himself。
His progress was unimpeded across the litter…strewn forecourt； screams and wails ringing in his burning ears。
He fell rather than climbed over the wall which separated St Chad's Convent from the maze of underpasses。 Dimly…lit passages faced him； lighting long smashed by vandals。
His breath came in fiery gulps； searing his own face。 He fled blindly； though there was no pursuit。 Only footsteps ing towards him； sneaker pumps padding frenziedly。 The two parties met at an unlit junction。
Three youths： two of them carrying home…made coshes。 The third held an open flick…knife in his right hand； an unopened handbag in the other。 Muggers。 They were breathing heavily after their fast sprint from the scene of the mugging in nearby St Philip's churchyard。
All four pulled up abruptly。 The one with the handbag acted first。 His knife…arm went back； then plunged forward swiftly。 Richard fell to the ground； the blade embedded deep in his abdomen； fingers clawing desperately at the smooth concrete beneath him。 Dirty broken nails split。 His blood formed a spreading scarlet pool； but there was no further pain。 Everyone has his limit； and Richard Coyle's had been reached at last。
The three youths paused momentarily； the killer intent on retrieving his knife； reluctant to leave behind any evidence。 With his foot he rolled the limp body over on its back。 As a faint beam of light from the adjoining passageway fell directly upon the festering face； a single eye stared up at him； slowly reddening as though liquid fire blazed within it。
All three froze in immobility。
'For fuck's sake！'
The murder weapon was forgotten as three terror…stricken muggers fled blindly。 Evil in all its forms was abroad this night。 That face belonged to Satan himself！
Kent looked no different from when Bob Coyle had last seen him； three years ago。 The London journalist had an agelessness about him； short cropped fair hair that rendered flecks of grey invisible； a reddish bronzed plexion that somehow buried any lines that might since have appeared。 He had a square jaw that bespoke determination； a stockiness that would not turn to fat； or at least would disguise it。 Five feet eight。 He had something else； too： a kind of sex appeal which was not apparent until a woman came to know him well。 That seldom happened； for he was a loner。 He had told Coyle once that he was forty。 Coyle had happened to know that he was forty…three； but he did not expose the lie。 There was no point。 Kent was Kent。 A good friend if he took a liking to you； a bastard if he didn't。 Nobody used his first nam