The Queen of sinister

For three hours they trudged along the tunnel hewn through the rock, choking on the smoke from torches fixed intermittently along the walls. The mood was sombre and for the most part no one spoke.

Crowther came round a short way into the journey. Once he understood what had happened, he ranted and raged and attempted to force his way back up the tunnel, but Matt blocked his way and the brutal look in Caitlin's face forced the professor to accept the futility of his situation.

'So I'm a prisoner now,' he said bitterly, before joining their march, refusing to look at any of them.

The tunnel emerged at the back of a deep cave at the very edge of the foothills. They fought their way past a wall of wild rose obscuring the cave entrance and then picked a path through a sea of nettles and tangled brambles filling a small gully. Brilliant sunlight stunned them after the constant greyness of the Court of Soul's Ease. There was summer birdsong, and clouds of small flying insects buzzed back and forth in search of patches of shade. Velvety green grassland rolled gently, patchworked by lazy cloud shadows, reminding Caitlin of the South Downs and happier times. Behind them, the snow-capped peaks looked down impressively. Caitlin took in the whole vista, then said, 'This is just like the book I was reading to… reading to..The name choked in her throat.

'That's hardly surprising,' Crowther said sullenly. 'Nothing here is really how it appears.'

'That's life,' Matt said whimsically. 'Everything's a front and nobody is how they seem.'

'We're dull and stupid beings, trapped by the limitations of our senses,' the professor continued, ignoring him. 'The human brain continually reshapes the signals it receives, making everything more acceptable to our poor, weak minds. It's like a short-sighted man thinking the world is really blurred and indistinct.'

'So what's it really like?' Caitlin asked dreamily.

'The Eastern religions had it right.' Crowther rested on his staff, depression overcoming him as he came to terms with the fact that there was no escape for him. 'Reality, at least at this level, is shaped by will. The strongest wills create what lies around us. And not just here. We make this world, and we make our own world as well.'

'We make our world?' Matt laughed.

'Well, I wouldn't expect you to understand. Shallow thinkers always accept things as they see them. Don't you understand — nothing is ever how it appears. Everything is a metaphor! Everything a symbol! Realising that is all part of our journey to the next level.'

Crowther stalked away, leaving Caitlin and Matt to ponder his words. They marched as quickly as they could for the next hour in case any of Lugh's men were in pursuit. Once the foothills were behind them, the going was easy through meadows of thigh-high grass waving in the gentle breeze. Psychedelically coloured butterflies the size of Caitlin's hand fluttered lazily around them. The lowlands eased in gently, with copses suddenly breaking the tranquil scenery, the grass becoming shorter and greener. Then, as they came over a rise, they saw a thick, dark forest stretching out almost as far as the eye could see. It was oddly menacing, and they all stopped and surveyed it for a long moment. In the middle of the forest, the steely, mirrored glint of a river caught the sunshine. Caitlin brought them to a halt on the edge of a copse of ash, with the wood still some three miles away. 'Lugh told me where the House of Pain lay.' She waved towards the north. 'But I want to be sure there are no major obstacles in the way.' 'What are you going to do? Call the RAC?' Crowther sneered. He took off his hat and mopped the sweat from his brow. 'No,' Caitlin replied, 'you're going to find out for us — and any other information that might be of use.' 'Really. And how do you propose I do that?' Crowther slumped against the base of a tree. The others waited for Caitlin to reply, but instead her eyes rolled back eerily until only the whites were visible. 'Don't try to trick us.' It was Brigid's voice, punctuated by a cackling laugh. 'I wish she wouldn't do that,' Mahalia hissed. 'It's in your pocketssss…' Brigid said, teasing him. Crowther blanched. 'What are you talking about?' 'In your pocketssss.' Another cackle. 'The secret one, in the lining of your coat.' Crowther shook his head uncomfortably. 'The mask. We need the mask,' Caitlin/Brigid hissed. 'Go away.' Crowther looked spooked now. Matt pulled the professor to his feet. 'What are you hiding?' 'Get away from me!' Crowther brandished his staff, his fear plain to see. 'We needssss it,' Caitlin/Brigid keened. Crowther held his threatening pose for a moment and then sagged. From the voluminous depths of his overcoat, he pulled an object that glinted like sunlight. It was indeed a mask, but fashioned of the purest silver. The male face shaped on the front was perfect — the wide, empty eyes just the right distance apart, the nose straight and small, the lips full, the cheekbones beautiful — so much so that they all found it attractive. Yet its effect was even greater than that: the simple appearance was so powerful that it moved them to tears, sucking swelling emotions from places that had never been touched before.

'What is that?' Mahalia whispered in awe.

Jack made a strange sound in the depth of his throat. 'The Immaterius. The Mask of Maponus.'

'You know it?' Crowther said, surprised.

'I've heard whispers… in the Court of the Final Word.' Jack couldn't take his eyes off it. 'They say you can look into the very depths of Existence with it, understand the reasons behind everything, but it was tied into the mind of one of the gods… And when he went mad, something happened to the mask, too.'

'If you look through it in the right way you can see God,' Crowther said dully. 'And if you look in the wrong way you see hell — you go mad, like Maponus.'

'That was how you found me,' Caitlin said. 'You looked through that and saw me, and you came.'

Crowther nodded. His hands were shaking as he held the mask. 'You don't understand…' He attempted to put the mask away, but appeared unable. 'Every time I use it, it takes a part of me, a little sliver of my soul. It's killing me a bit at a time. That's the price I pay for getting its knowledge.'

'Do you think I care?' Caitlin said coldly. 'This is about more than you, or me, or any of us. It's about saving the human race — all those poor people dying for something that has nothing to do with them — and if sacrifices are needed, that's what we have to do.'

'I didn't sign up for that,' Crowther replied dully.

'No, you thought you were getting an easy ride to an easy life. Tough. You made the wrong choice. You were better off where you were.'

Crowther stared at her unwaveringly for a moment, seeing her with new eyes. 'I don't know whether you're quite hateful, or simply deluded,' he said eventually. 'Well, you can't make me.'

Caitlin's icy smile made him uneasy. 'Don't tempt me.' The sun was setting in a flame of deepest red when Crowther finally felt ready to use the mask. Odd, discomfiting shadows crept from the base of the sprawling forest and strange hungry bird-sounds echoed from its depths. The incarnadine glow gave a hellish tint to the mask's sheen as Crowther searched for a location for his ritual. He eventually settled on a spot near a sprawling rowan bush, its flowers emanating a sickly-sweet perfume.

While Caitlin and Matt helped Crowther to settle, the younger ones sat several yards away, watching the scene. 'You know all about this,' Mahalia said to Jack. 'Who's Maponus?'

'He's one of the Golden Ones,' Jack replied. 'They called him The Good Son and he had a special place amongst the gods. Really powerful, you know, but they all loved him, too. And then he became trapped on your… our… world and that drove him mad. Now the Golden Ones keep him locked up somewhere in the Court of the Final Word, trying to cure him. Even they don't dare let him loose. He could destroy everything — and probably would, given half the chance.'

'And this mask is really powerful?' Her eyes glimmered.

"Very powerful.' He gave her a sideways glance. 'Too powerful for you or I. Best not to get involved in things like that.' As Crowther sat cross-legged, Matt wandered off to the place fifty feet away from where he and Caitlin had decided to monitor the proceedings. Caitlin was about to follow him when Crowther spoke.

'Making sure you don't get too close, I see,' Crowther said savagely. 'The risks appear to be all on my shoulders.'

'You chose it,' Caitlin said. 'Do you know what you're doing?'

'No. I know what I'm trying to do, but these things never go smoothly. Especially with this.' He looked at the mask with naked hatred.

'Brigid tells me you can't get rid of it,' Caitlin said.

'It's like a damn drug,' Crowther replied. 'I wish I'd never picked it up.'

'How did you come across it?'

He shifted uncomfortably. 'I stole it… from the college in Glastonbury. That'll teach me, won't it? It came from some treasure trove of magical items the miserable old fool in charge of the college had been guarding for God knows how long. I don't think they really knew the value of it.'

'But you did.'

'I had an inkling. These artefacts of power often insinuate their way into plain sight, waiting for the right person to come along.' He laughed bitterly. 'Or the wrong person.'

'You're talking as if they're alive,' Caitlin said.

'You don't know how right you are.' Crowther weighed the mask in his hands before saying, 'I should have known there was no running away. After everything I've done in my life, I wouldn't be allowed to get off so easily. You'd better go back to your friend. And whatever happens, don't come near me until I've removed the mask.'

Caitlin returned to the sheltered spot with Matt, all thoughts of Crowther now obliterated by the screaming monkey noises emanating from the back of her head; her other selves were scared — apart from the one who resided at the very back, in the shadows. Emboldened, she was continuing her slow creep into the light. They watched and waited for almost half an hour until the sun was a blood-red incision on the horizon and the cacophony of bird-sounds in the forest had died away, leaving an eerie silence. Only then did Crowther lift the silver mask to his face.

He paused when it was just an inch away, as if overcome with second thoughts, and then the strangest struggle began; from the others' viewpoint the mask appeared to be fighting Crowther, or perhaps it was his subconscious fighting himself. But then, when the silver was just half an inch from his skin, bolts unfurled from the side of the mask where previously they had been invisible, rose out and rammed themselves into the sides of Crowther's head.

He screamed. There was a whirring noise as the bolts screwed themselves into bone and then the mask levered itself into position and clamped on tight. Crowther went rigid.

'Do you feel that?' Matt whispered.

Caitlin did; the air was heavy and infused with a steely sheen like the atmospherics before an electrical storm. Everything was so still and quiet it was as though all sound had been sucked out of the vicinity.

'Something bad's going to happen,' Caitlin/Amy whimpered.

Entranced by Crowther's display, Mahalia wasn't aware that Carlton had wandered away until she saw him just feet from the professor. She attempted to run to him, but Jack grabbed her wrist and dragged her back.

'Don't,' he hissed. 'It's too dangerous.'

'I don't care!' She wrenched her hand free. 'Carlton!' But by then it was too late. Carlton was by Crowther's side, reaching out, his fingers skimming the surface of the mask.

There was a sound like the swash and backwash of water or the beat of a heart in an echo chamber, rising slowly from somewhere near the horizon, but rushing closer, until it was all around them. Sh-ssh, sh-ssh, sh-ssh.

Light leaked from the ground, as if the illusion of reality was breaking apart to reveal what lay behind it. A few seconds later there was no forest or countryside, no sky, just a strange wan light with no up or down.

The six of them were suspended in nothing, Crowther still sitting cross-legged. Vertigo brought them to the point of sickness, until they suddenly adjusted as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

'What the hell's going on?' Matt said. 'This wasn't supposed to involve us.'

And then Carlton spoke, except his lips didn't move, his face bright with a broad smile. 'There's time enough for rest later. We have a job to do now.'

He pointed, and as they turned to see what he was indicating, the whole of Otherworld was suddenly spread out before them.

'Oh, God,' Mahalia gulped. 'We're standing in the air!'

'We think we're standing in the air,' Carlton said. 'We think a lot of things that aren't true. But this is the important thing now. Look.'

Ahead of them, the primal forest swarmed with darkness, but slicing through it was a ribbon of silver: the river. It meandered past a swamp, where a brilliant blue something lay partially hidden. The river continued through fields of green and gold and more clustering forest until it swung around on the edge of a small desert. On the rolling sands, they could make out strange piles of rocks — cairns — as if they were next to it. And beyond the desolate plain, the land itself appeared to fall away. There was mist, and colours fragmenting, before the inky-blue void of space scattered with a million stars. And right on the edge between what was solid and what was for ever stood an indistinct black shape: the House of Pain.

'You will find the cure for the plague in the heart of that place,' Carlton said. 'It's a dangerous journey. It takes us from the hard here-and-now through the changing climes to a place where everything we know starts to fall apart. There, on the edge, we will face true darkness; and we will look deep into ourselves. We will face death.' He took Caitlin's arm. 'If you want to find your son, that's where he'll be. The dead pass through that place, to the Grim Lands or other places.'

'My husband?'

'Already gone. I'm sorry.'

Caitlin's heart fell, but it rose again quickly when she thought of Liam and the chance that she might be able to bring him back.

'How can you speak?' Mahalia asked Carlton with tears in her eyes, yet as she said it, she was troubled that this wasn't how Carlton should sound. His words and tone made him appear much older, wiser; not a boy at all.

'Look over there.' The grim note in Matt's voice made them turn.

The purple haze brought an instant frisson of anxiety to them all. Bigger than they would have anticipated, it billowed close to the Court of Soul's Ease, but was unmistakably moving in their direction. Through gaps in the mist they could just make out the Lament-Brood, driving forward on their reptilian mounts, their numbers swelled.

'If we hesitate for a minute, they'll catch us,' Matt said.

'We're not going to waste any time.' Caitlin was defiant.

'Be brave,' Carlton said genially. 'Be true. The best of us can defeat the worst.'

'Wait,' Caitlin said, suddenly tense. 'Something's happening…'

They returned their attention to the House of Pain, and now they could sense in it a presence, skittering like an insect running from the light. It wasn't afraid; rather, it had seen them and was now sizing them up, moving this way, then that, looking at them from all angles.

In a twinkling the benign atmosphere changed. A ripple moved out through the scenery, gentle at first, but building until it was a tidal wave of destruction, distorting everything they could see. Finally it hit them and they were thrown off their feet, spinning through a world of broken shards and flickering colours, spinning round and round uncontrollably until… The storm crashed overhead as Caitlin swam through liquid clay. She was in a deep hole and as she rolled on to her back she saw an oblong of night sky, immeasurably distant and desolate. She knew where she was before the hands erupted from the earth on either side of her and folded across her waist in a mockery of a love-hug.

'You made me die,' the husky voice whispered through a mouthful of clay into her ear. 'If you'd been there to care for me, and love me, I wouldn't have suffered. The disease wouldn't have eaten its way through me and my final hours wouldn't have been filled with pain… and your son wouldn't have died. But you didn't love us. You only loved yourself. Your fault… all your fault…'

And the hands slowly began to pull Caitlin down into the slurping clay. She didn't resist, because the voice was right. In the confines of a sweltering attic, with only a thin shaft of sunlight for illumination, Mahalia huddled on an old sack, knees tucked into her chest, and stared into the blue face of a dead baby. Its voice sounded like pebbles on stone. 'No one will ever love you. This is a world where mothers give up their children to save their own lives, where everybody looks after themselves. Don't expect comfort, or security, or sacrifice, or tenderness. The only rule is to survive at any cost. You're on your own. You'll always be on your own.'

And though Mahalia cried and plugged her fingers in her ears, the rattling, sickening baby voice never stopped. Matt stood alone. A cold wind blew across a landscape devoid of all humanity. Every fibre of Jack's being was alive with pain as the inhuman surgeons of the Court of the Final Word cut and peeled and flayed and took him apart down to the smallest atom, and then built him back up again, in their image. Seeing how he worked. Seeing how he could work. And he had no memories of his mother to protect him, apart from what he had glimpsed from the watchtower, and he had no connection with anything soft and human at all. He was completely and devastatingly alone.

And he knew what plans they had for him, coded into the very structure of his genes. In the oppressive darkness behind the mask, Crowther saw all that was happening to his fellow travellers, felt what they were feeling, succumbed to the same terrors and suffered his own magnified four-fold: the self-loathing, the loss of his family, the loneliness. The emotions were so acute, so sickening, it felt as if his mind was being ripped away. And behind all of them was the chaotic buzzing of the mad god Maponus. His powerful consciousness extended out from the Court of the Final Word, through the medium of the mask, to taint them all, to show them the despair and the dread and the hideous confusion of his own fractured existence.

There was no escape for any of them. Insanity and suffering prevailed. And then the strangest thing happened, just as the clay began to flow into Caitlin's mouth, as Mahalia brought blood to her ears in an attempt to shut out the sound. Carlton was there, with all of them, at the same time, and in the same way that Maponus had been. He said, simply, 'This is what it means to be human.'

His words unfolded in their minds to reveal a hidden message of universal support: they weren't alone. And as soon as they accepted that unmistakable concept, the suffering and madness fell away. Caitlin gulped and choked and found herself sucking in fresh night air, grass beneath her back. The others were scattered around, dazed and shaking, propelled back into reality but with their suffering still close.

The Mask of Maponus lay in Crowther's hands. He stared at it blankly, chest juddering with a silent sob, thin trickles of blood running from the holes in the sides of his head; he looked like an old, old man. Caitlin felt a wave of guilt at what she had put him through, but she could say nothing to comfort him, for she knew she might have to ask the same of him again.

Carlton stood nearby, smiling benignly, and Caitlin shakily went over to give him a hug. 'Thank you,' she whispered. She knelt down so she was on a level with him. 'You are the special one.'

Carlton continued to smile, gave nothing away.

Mahalia roughly shoved Caitlin aside. 'Can't speak again, mate?' Carlton shook his head. She put a protective arm around Carlton's shoulder and led him away.

'He's a weird kid,' Matt said. 'The things he was saying, the way he was acting… he seemed-' 'More than us?' Caitlin finished. 'I think Carlton's going to be more help getting us through this than we thought.' She grew sad. 'He's a lovely boy.'

'He reminds you of your son.'

Caitlin was surprised by Matt's empathy, and the fact that he had noticed something she had only been vaguely aware of herself made her warm to him even more. 'He's nothing like Liam in so many ways, but there's a quality… a calmness… that is so Liam. We have to look after him, Matt. Life's so cruel these days…'

'I'll keep an eye on him, don't worry. Besides, it looks as though he's got his own personal minder.' He nodded towards Mahalia, who sat with her arm around Carlton, talking gently about what they had just experienced.

'Do you trust her?' Caitlin asked.

'God, no,' he replied, without a second thought. As Mary continued her journey eastwards across the South Downs, she felt herself growing fitter. Her craving for alcohol was driven out of her by the simple fact that there was none to be had, although it never completely disappeared. She travelled by day, keeping to the high ground, as far removed as she could manage from human habitation. First and foremost, she didn't want to risk coming in contact with any centres of the plague, but she was also aware that a woman travelling alone was a tempting target for some of the forces of anarchy that had risen up since the collapse of the country's governance.

Her thoughts were never far from Caitlin. What worried Mary the most were the marks of subtle machinations and sinister manipulation on everything that had happened since the plague had appeared. For the first few days, she grew increasingly hungry and even the herbs and edible plants she foraged from the bursting spring countryside did little to assuage her pangs. While Arthur Lee foraged for himself, catching shrews and birds, Mary experimented with a discarded piece of netting and some sticks, and one night managed to catch a rabbit, which kept her going for a couple of days. Over time she perfected her technique and even managed to net a few of the game birds now thriving along the south coast since the Fall.

Most astonishingly, each morning that she woke — secure in an abandoned ruin or camouflaged in the depths of a ditch — she felt as if another year or two had fallen from her. She had anticipated that the travails of the journey would make her feel old and weak, but her limbs were stronger than they had been in a long time and her mind was clear. The breathtaking views from the Downs across to the sea made her feel even more alive. Every aspect of the countryside exhilarated her, from the overgrown fields to the leafing trees, from the morning mist and the glorious spring sunshine to the afternoon drizzle, the birds and rabbits and squirrels.

Part of that sense of wonder was her realisation that she walked in the footprints of history. She was following the South Downs Way, an age-old track that ran from Winchester to Eastbourne, and in more ancient times was linked to other paths that ran to Stonehenge. She felt herself to be a part of something great, and strange, and wonderful.

And on the second week she realised something had started to follow her.

At first she only glimpsed it from the corner of her eye, a flicker that could have been a dust mote on an eyelash, but the more she saw it, the more real it became, as if the act of noticing it had given it substance. In those early times it kept its distance, tracking her along the lowlands but holding back a mile or two, sometimes lost in the greenery and ruined buildings.

Gradually it became more solid, though still too distant for her to define its form. Yet it scared her, as if she was sensing something on another level that spoke darkly of its true nature, and so she hurried her step, afraid to pause even to sleep. The pace began to take its toll; sooner or later she would have to lose it, or face up to it.

At the close of the third day after she had noticed her pursuer, with exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her, she came to a large village. It was in the early stages of the plague. As night fell she watched sobbing relatives gathering in the flickering light of candles, saw village elders struggling to make sense of what was happening, anticipating what lay ahead, but never for a minute grasping the true horror.

It was as good a place as any to make a stand. Her knowledge of the Craft, while not as deep or wide-ranging as some, was still enough to afford her use of some simple trickery that she hoped would be enough to throw her pursuer off the scent.

Wearily, she made her way along the dark high street, a plan slowly taking shape in her mind. The charnel house was a large four-bedroom executive property. Its new occupants were laid out with respect in the lounge, old bed-sheets thrown over them, the hint of body shapes in the fold-shadows somehow worse than if what was covered had been laid bare.

But it didn't scare her — death never had, and that was one of the things that had convinced her to accept the Craft, where the dead are as much a part of Existence as the living. Old friends, fondly remembered family; sometimes, a little more worryingly, old enemies.

Mary remembered the first time she had seen a dead body. It was in the clinical care wing of the hospital where she had just started her career as a psychiatric nurse. Some poor girl, arms like bones, disproportionately large head giving her the distended doll-form of the bulimic, had gone missing. They found her in the grounds, on a hard winter's night, frozen like a fallen bird amongst the chiaroscuro trees. Her eyes were wide, staring at the spray of stars visible through the branches, her expression oddly optimistic. Mary found it sad, but not scary. Worse things were out there, and she'd come across a few of them in her life.

She made her way up the stairs and chose one of the smaller bedrooms; bare boards, Winnie the Pooh wallpaper, the smell of abandonment, not yet tainted by the corruption rising from the lounge. Moonshadows fell across the floor; the house was silent. In her pack, Arthur Lee lay still, remarkably calm.

After half an hour, she wondered if her pursuer would come, but then she heard the click of the front door opening with secretive care and she knew her instincts had been correct.

With the wind rustling around the outside of the house, she closed her eyes and instantly slipped into her practised trance state. The sigil she required formed against the velvet of her imagination; the words came to her lips without any conscious thought. When she stood up, she knew she was a ghost, no longer visible to any prying eyes. Whoever was there would hear the whisper of her breath, feel a breeze at her passing, but that was all.

She had left the bedroom door ajar so she could slip out easily. If she had timed it right, her pursuer would still be exploring the lower level. She moved to the top of the stairs and waited. No sound came from below. He was good, she thought; a ghost, like her.

Arthur Lee's warning hiss came just as movement flickered at the corner of her eye. It came straight out of the master bedroom, moving faster than she had ever anticipated. A blur of speed, then a few seconds of eerie, awkward slow motion, then another burst of movement.

It had the shape of a man, but it looked as if it had been built from discarded pieces randomly stitched together. The pelvis was twisted so one side pointed forward, while the legs were almost in one line, one in front of the other, mystifying her further at its incredible speed. The arms appeared deformed because the joints had been attached irregularly. It was naked, its distended penis permanently erect. Yet the most disturbing thing was the head, which was on backwards. There was something in that image — human yet not human, living but should-be-dead — that horrified her much more than if it had been alien in appearance. A Jigsaw Man.

Mary was rooted in shock for just a second too long. Even though its eyes faced away, it knew exactly where she was and within an instant was upon her. Her misdirection spell worked just well enough to prevent it from killing her outright. Hands that appeared weak and flailing gripped with preternatural strength, broken, dirty nails puncturing her flesh easily.

Mary yelled in fear, lashing out with the knife she had been carrying for defence, but the thing's powerful hold prevented her from striking home. 'Get off me, you ugly bastard!' She brought up her knee towards its groin, forgetting its deformed shape. Her knee crashed against the twisted pelvis and made her yelp in pain.

The Jigsaw Man forced her down with increasing pressure until she felt sure her bones would break. She was too weak, too scared. Rough hands worked their way inexorably up her arms towards her throat.

Finally she collapsed to the floor at the top of the steps, the full weight of the creature crushing against her chest. She felt the erect penis dig into her leg and somehow that gave her the impetus to move when she saw her opening.

As the Jigsaw Man shifted its balance, Mary brought her knee up into a position of leverage. The creature teetered. With one jerk that brought stabbing pains up from the small of her back, she launched it towards her head. The action was enough to break its grip and send it over, though it tore flesh from her arms in passing. With its limbs flapping awkwardly, it crashed down the stairs, hitting the bottom with a sound like dry wood snapping.

With tears in her eyes, Mary hauled herself upright using the banister. Her back was in agony, and the pain from her muscles and ligaments, aged and never used to such a degree, made her feel sick.

'You bastard!' she said with a stifled sob that contained all her anger and fear.

It was still writhing at the foot of the stairs, and as it forced itself up on its twisted arms, Mary could see that its neck was broken. The lolling head scared her even more, and for the first time she wondered if it was even possible to kill it.

She hobbled down the stairs as quickly as her back would allow, and just as the Jigsaw Man was pulling itself up from its knees she kicked out sharply at the base of the skull. The bone shattered under the force.

Mary scrambled by it and out of the front door. She was already muttering under her breath and painting the sigils in the air with her hands as it hauled itself up and launched itself at her. The barrier came up just in time. The Jigsaw Man bounced back impotently, still lurching, still grasping.

Mary allowed herself a moment's satisfaction. She'd done better than she had anticipated; perhaps she wasn't as weak and ineffective as she had thought. 'You see, you bastard, you can't get me. That should hold you there for…' Her mood deflated a little. '… five minutes.' It wasn't long; but that wasn't the end of her plan. She stepped back, closed her eyes; more mutterings, more sigils. When she looked again, she had a sudden spurt of fear that it wasn't going to work. Finally the flames flickered across the floor of the hall, just a glow of light at first, but within seconds an inferno raged within. There was a noise like metal being twisted and broken, and Mary realised queasily that it was the Jigsaw Man's cries; of pain, fear or anger, she didn't know. Though the conflagration engulfed it, the thing still tried to get through the door, still fought wildly, wouldn't lie down and die as she'd hoped. With a sinking feeling, Mary realised she couldn't wait any longer. She turned and hurried back along the main street, glancing behind only once with a quiet, desperate hope that she had done enough.