In his head, the inescapable knowledge that he would be found out sooner or later. Somebody would surely have seen him with Preetorius, and spill the beans to the police. Maybe even Christian, if he was so inclined, and they'd be there, on his step, with cuffs and warrants. Then what could he tell them, in reply to their accusations? That the man who did it was not a man at all, but an effigy of some kind, that was by degrees becoming a replica of himself? The question was not whether he'd be incarcerated, but which hole they'd lock him in, prison or asylum?
Juggling despair with disbelief, he went to the casualty department to have his face seen to, where he waited patiently for three and a half hours with dozens of similar walking wounded.
The doctor was unsympathetic. There was no use in stitches now, he said, the damage was done: the wound could and would be cleaned and covered, but a bad scar was now unavoidable. Why didn't you come last night, when it happened? the nurse asked. He shrugged: what the hell did they care? Artificial compassion didn't help him an iota.
As he turned the corner with his street, he saw the cars outside the house, the blue light, the cluster of neighbours grinning their gossip. Too late to claim anything of his previous life. By now they had possession of his clothes, his combs, his perfumes, his letters - and they'd be searching through them like apes after lice. He'd seen how thorough-going these bastards could be when it suited them, how completely they could seize and parcel up a man's identity. Eat it up,, suck it up: they could erase you as surely as a shot, but leave you a living blank.
There was nothing to be done. His life was theirs now to sneer at and salivate over: even have a nervous moment, one or two of them, when they saw his photographs and wondered if perhaps they'd paid for this boy themselves, some horny night.
Let them have it all. They were welcome. From now on he would be lawless, because laws protect possessions and he had none. They'd wiped him clean, or as good as: he had no place to live, nor anything to call his own. He didn't even have fear: that was the strangest thing.
He turned his back on the street and the house he'd lived in for four years, and he felt something akin to relief, happy that his life had been stolen from him in its squalid entirety. He was the lighter for it.
Two hours later, and miles away, he took time to check his pockets. He was carrying a banker's card, almost a hundred pounds in cash, a small collection of photographs, some of his parents and sister, mostly of himself; a watch, a ring, and a gold chain round his neck. Using the card might be dangerous -they'd surely have warned his bank by now. The best thing might be to pawn the ring and the chain, then hitch North. He had friends in Aberdeen who'd hide him awhile.
But first - Reynolds.
It took Gavin an hour to find the house where Ken Reynolds lived. It was the best part of twenty-four hours since he'd eaten and his belly complained as he stood outside Livingstone Mansions. He told it to keep its peace, and slipped into the building. The interior looked less impressive by daylight. The tread of the stair carpet was worn, and the paint on the balustrade filthied with use.
Taking his time he climbed the three flights to Reynolds' apartment, and knocked.
Nobody answered, nor was there any sound of movement from inside. Reynolds had told him of course: don't come back - I won't be here. Had he somehow guessed the consequences of sicking that thing into the world?
Gavin rapped on the door again, and this time he was certain he heard somebody breathing on the other side of the door.
'Reynolds ...' he said, pressing to the door, 'I can hear you.'
Nobody replied, but there was somebody in there, he was sure of it. Gavin slapped his palm on the door.
'Come on, open up. Open up, you bastard.'
A short silence, then a muffled voice. 'Go away.'
'I want to speak to you.'
'Go away, I told you, go away. I've nothing to say to you.'
'You owe me an explanation, for God's sake. If you don't open this fucking door I'll fetch someone who will.'
An empty threat, but Reynolds responded: 'No! Wait. Wait.'
There was the sound of a key in the lock, and the door was opened a few paltry inches. The flat was in darkness beyond the scabby face that peered out at Gavin. It was Reynolds sure enough, but unshaven and wretched. He smelt unwashed, even through the crack in the door, and he was wearing only a stained shirt and a pair of pants, hitched up with a knotted belt.
'I can't help you. Go away.'
'If you'll let me explain - ' Gavin pressed the door, and Reynolds was either too weak or too befuddled to stop him opening it. He stumbled back into the darkened hallway.
'What the fuck's going on in here?'
The place stank of rotten food. The air was evil with it. Reynolds let Gavin slam the door behind him before producing a knife from the pocket of his stained trousers.
'You don't fool me,' Reynolds gleamed, 'I know what you've done. Very fine. Very clever.'
'You mean the murders? It wasn't me.'
Reynolds poked the knife towards Gavin.
'How many blood-baths did it take?' he asked, tears in his eyes. 'Six? Ten?' 'I didn't kill anybody.'
'... monster.'
The knife in Reynolds' hand was the paper knife Gavin himself had wielded. He approached Gavin with it. There was no doubt: he had every intention of using it. Gavin flinched, and Reynolds seemed to take hope from his fear.
'Had you forgotten what it was like, being flesh and blood?'
The man had lost his marbles.
'Look ... I just came here to talk.'
'You came here to kill me. I could reveal you ...so you came to kill me.'
'Do you know who I am?' Gavin said.
Reynolds sneered: 'You're not the queer boy. You look like him, but you're not.'
'For pity's sake ... I'm Gavin ... Gavin - '
The words to explain, to prevent the knife pressing any closer, wouldn't come.
'Gavin, you remember?' was all he could say.
Reynolds faltered a moment, staring at Gavin's face.
'You're sweating,' he said, the dangerous stare fading in his eyes.
Gavin's mouth had gone so dry he could only nod.
'I can see,' said Reynolds, 'you're sweating.'
He dropped the point of the knife.
'It could never sweat,' he said, 'Never had, never would have, the knack of it. You're the boy ... not it. The boy.'
His face slackened, its flesh a sack which was almost emptied.
'I need help,' said Gavin, his voice hoarse. 'You've got to tell me what's going on.'
'You want an explanation?' Reynolds replied, 'you can have whatever you can find.'
He led the way into the main room. The curtains were drawn, but even in the gloom Gavin could see that every antiquity it had contained had been smashed beyond repair. The pottery shards had been reduced to smaller shards, and those shards to dust. The stone reliefs were destroyed, the tombstone of Flavinus the Standard-Bearer was rubble.
'Who did this?'
'I did,' said Reynolds.
'Why?'
Reynolds sluggishly picked his way through the destruction to the window, and peered through a slit in the velvet curtains.
'It'll come back, you see,' he said, ignoring the question.
Gavin insisted: 'Why destroy it all?'
'It's a sickness,' Reynolds replied. 'Needing to live in the past.'
He turned from the window.
'I stole most of these pieces,' he said, 'over a period of many years. I was put in a position of trust, and I misused it.'
He kicked over a sizeable chunk of rubble: dust rose.
'Flavinus lived and died. That's all there is to tell. Knowing his name means nothing, or next to nothing. It doesn't make Flavinus real again: he's dead and happy.'
'The statue in the bath?'
Reynolds stopped breathing for a moment, his inner eye meeting the painted face.
'You I thought I was it, didn't you? When I came to the door.'