London
Monday 30 August

Alan Brent had never felt such terror in his life. Even half an hour later, hurrying through the night with shoulders hunched and collar raised, he had to fight to control the nausea, to keep down the acid rising from his stomach. Clink, clink, clink, came the sound from his trouser pocket. Steel on glass. He tried blocking it from his mind.

In ten years undercover he'd seen some sights. All manner of depravities and perversions and horrors. But none like tonight. Christ, no! Even though it hadn't been him trussed up on the floor, subjected to Larson's barbaric surgery, he'd scarcely been able to comprehend the sheer, stupefying viciousness of it. Behind their thick lenses, his eyes were still wide with shock. In his jacket pockets, he'd clenched his hands into tight fists to stop them shaking.

They were moving as fast as possible without drawing undue attention. One of the dark shadows was fifty yards ahead; the other man, fifty behind. This was Alan's first time out and they were taking no chances. They had been ruthlessly effective from the start, their actions planned meticulously to cover all scenarios, drilling each sequence in rehearsal, again and again. So when it had come to the actual operation, they were doing it for the hundredth time, and had carried it out with digital precision. Searing, heart-stopping torment had been inflicted with Teutonic efficiency. No wonder Larson thought he was untouchable.

As they rushed past shop windows lit up in the night, Alan told himself he should derive some satisfaction from the fact that he had at least been accepted. He'd broken into the inner circle. They'd never have let him anywhere near this if they'd had the slightest doubt. Going operational was a mark of trust, recognition. He needed that if he was going to penetrate the highest level of the organization, though he hadn't counted on the cost. What had happened tonight outstripped his most lurid expectations - and there was nothing he could do about it now. He was way past the point of no return. Bile rose to his throat. It was all he could do not to retch.

They turned into his street. He paused, as he'd been instructed, while the front escort checked the way before signalling all clear. Alibis had been established and weren't to be wrecked by chance encounters - that was their reasoning and he played along with the game, knowing that, if it came to it, he could get one of the women from HQ to pretend to be his girlfriend.

The house was a typical Victorian terrace, indistinguishable from the other sixty in the street. He made his way quickly from pavement to front door, keys in his hand, as soon as he was inside he shed his jacket, threw it over a coat-hook and headed immediately for the stairs. The sound from his trouser pocket as he ascended was a loathsome reminder. Clink, clink, clink.

Alan's kitchen was large and scattered with the detritus of bachelorhood, cast in sepia by the grubby yellow glow from the streetlamp outside. Standing in the centre of it, spectacles glinting, he raised shaking fingers to push back the dark, wiry, locks that fell, dishevelled about his face. This was his first moment alone since the attack. It felt surreal to be back in the midst of familiar territory after what he'd just been through. As he stood there, heart pounding, and mouth vile, he still found it hard to believe. God Almighty, what had he let himself in for?! In all the time he'd been working his way into the group, they'd never gone this far.

As he took a step forward, there came the sound from his pocket again. A single, unbidden clink. And with it, the unavoidable knowledge that the moment had come for him to deal with it. Trying to ignore it just wasn't an option any more. Wearily, he picked up a paper serviette from among the
salt and pepper sachets and other remnants of numberless fast-food meals scattered across the kitchen bench. Unfolding the serviette over his right hand, he reached down into his pocket.

An hour before, the jar had been empty and clear; now its glass sides were sickeningly smeared. He set it down at the far corner of the bench without looking at it. He'd been down on his knees when they'd made him pick
them up. His skin-tight gloves were so fine, it had been like touching
them with his bare hands. He hadn't felt nausea at the time - only
shock. His fingers had shaken so violently he'd only just got them
in the jar and was screwing the lid tight when he'd been ordered out.

Turning, Alan made his way from the kitchen, trying to dismiss the jar from his mind. He wanted, more than anything, to leave it all behind. To forget about it completely. Climbing a final flight of stairs, he made his way into the long attic room he used as his combined office and bedroom; the place where he spent most of his days and all his nights. As always, it was lit by the ghostly purple glow of his screen-saver, which was reflected in a series of Velux windows that ran along the ceiling

He slumped in to the sofa and turned on the television with the remote control, at the same time picking up a half-empty can of Sprite from the floor and taking several, greedy swallows to flush the bitterness from his mouth and throat. He flicked through the television channels trying to find some absorbing distraction. But there was no distraction, he soon discovered, from his own raging turmoil. No matter what images appeared on television, he couldn't get what was in the jar out of his mind. Nor could he avoid the realization, which came suddenly and nagged at him insistently, that he'd have to go back downstairs again. There was no way he could avoid it. He'd have to return to the kitchen, pick up the jar, and put it away in the fridge.

It was a warm night, after all. He couldn't risk the contents decomposing.