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"Try."

"It were that or something like it."

Deacon looked skeptical. "You also said he burnt his hand as a sacrifice to direct the gods' anger somewhere else. But why would he do that if he wanted to go to hell?''

"Jesus!" said Terry in disgust. "How should I know? The guy was a nutter."

"Except your definition of a nutter isn't the same as mine," said Deacon impatiently. "Didn't it occur to you that Billy was ranting and raving all the time because he was with a bunch of bozos who couldn't follow a single damn word he was saying? I'm not surprised he was driven to drink."

"It wasn't our fault," said the boy sullenly. "We did our best for the miserable sod, and it wasn't easy keeping our cool when he was having a go at us."

"All right, try this question. You said he was worked up about something just before he told you he was a murderer, so what was he worked up about?''

Terry didn't answer.

"Was it something personal between you and him?" said Deacon with sudden intuition. "Is that why the others didn't know about it?" He waited for a moment. "What happened? Did you have a fight? Perhaps he tried to strangle you and then thrust his hand in the fire out of remorse?"

"No, it were the other way round," said the boy unhappily. "It were me tried to strangle him. He only burnt his bloody hand so I'd remember how close I came to murder."

The awful irony of Barry's situation came home to him forcibly in the semidarkness of the cuttings' library when he realized he was no longer content to look at photographs of beautiful men and fantasize harmlessly about what they could do for him.

His hands trembled slightly as he separated out the photographs of Amanda Powell.

He knew everything about her, including where she lived and that she lived alone.

As far as Terry could remember it had happened two weeks after his fourteenth birthday, during the last weekend in February. The weather had been bitter for several days, and tempers in the warehouse were frayed. It was always worse when it was cold, he explained, because if they didn't go daily to one of the soup kitchens for hot food, survival became impossible. More often than not, the older ones and the madder ones refused to emerge from whatever cocoon they had made for themselves, so Terry and Tom took it upon themselves to bully them into moving. But, as Terry said, it was a quick way to make enemies, and Billy was more easily riled than most.

"One of the reasons Tom didn't want me calling the coppers this afternoon was because of what's stashed away in that warehouse." He produced a small wad of silver foil from his pocket and placed it on the table. "I do puff-" he nodded to the wad-"and maybe some E if I go to a rave. But that's kid's stuff compared to what some of them are on. There's bodies all over the shop most days, stoned on anything from jellies to H, and half the bastards don't even live there but come in off the streets for a fix where they reckon it's safer. And then there's the nicked stuff-booze and fags and the like-that people have hidden in the rubble. You have to be bloody careful not to go stumbling on someone's stash or you get a knife in the ribs the way Walter did. It can get pretty bad sometimes. This last week, there's been two beatings and the stabbing. It gets to you after a while."

"Is that why you called the police today?''

"Yeah, and because of Billy. I've been thinking about him a lot recently." He returned to his story. "Anyway, it were no different last February, worse if anything because it were colder than now, so there were more bodies than usual. If they slept on the streets they froze where they lay so Tom and the others let them doss inside."

"Why didn't they go to the government-run hostels? Surely a bed there has to be better than a floor in a warehouse?"

"Why'd you think?" said Terry scathingly. "We're talking druggies and psychos who don't even trust their own fucking shadows." He fingered the silver-foil wad. "Tom was doing really well out of it. He'd let any sodding bastard in as long as he got something in exchange. He even took a guy's coat once because it was the only thing he had, and the poor bloke froze to death during the night. So Tom had him carried into the street-like he was going to do with Walter-in case the cops came in. And that's what made Billy flip his lid. He went ballistic and said it all had to stop."

"What did he do?" prompted Deacon when the boy didn't go on.

"The worst thing he could've done. He started breaking people's bottles, and searching the rubble for stashes, and yelling that we had to get rid of the evil before it swallowed us up. So I jumped the silly bugger and tied him up in my doss before one of the psychos could kill him, and that's when he started on me." Terry reached for another cigarette and lit it with a hand that shook slightly. "Even you'd've said he was a nutter if you'd seen him that day. He was off 'is sodding rocker-shaking, screaming-" the boy made a wry face. "See, once he got going he couldn't stop. He'd go on and on till he got so tired he'd give up. But he couldn't give up this time. He kept spitting at me, and saying that I was the worst kind of scum, and when I didn't take no notice of that, he started yelling out that I was a rent-boy and that anyone who wanted a bit of my arse should just come in the tent and take it." He drew heavily on his cigarette. "I wanted to kill him, so I put my hands 'round his neck and squeezed."

"What stopped you?"

"Nothing. I went on squeezing till I thought he was dead." He fell into a long silence which Deacon let drift.

"Then I got scared and didn't know what to do, so I untied 'im and pushed him about a bit to see if he really was dead, and the bugger opened his eyes and smiled at me. And that's when he told me about this bloke he'd killed, and how anger made people do things that could ruin their lives. Then he said he wanted to show the gods that it was his fault and not mine, so he went outside and stuck his hand in the fire."

Deacon wished there had been a woman there to hear Terry's story, one who would have wrapped him in her arms and petted him, and told him there was nothing to worry about, for that most obvious course of action was denied to him. He could only look away from the tears that brightened the boy's eyes and talk prosaically about the mechanics of how to dry Terry's wet clothes overnight without the benefit of a tumble dryer.

Reg brought up Barry's tea and placed the mug on the desk beside the book his wife had bought. It was lying facedown and he pointed to a quote on the back of it.

"Immensely readable." Charles Lamb, The Street.

"The wife is always happier with a recommendation," he said, "but as I pointed out it's surprisingly short for Mr. Lamb. If he likes a book he tends to go overboard. Could 'immensely readable' be the only words of praise in the review I wonder? An example, perhaps, of a publisher's creative discounting?"

One of the reasons why Reg enjoyed Barry's company so much was that Barry allowed him to practice his ponderous wit, and Barry chuckled dutifully as he picked up the paperback and turned to the copyright page. "First published by Macmillan in nineteen ninety-four, so the review will have come out last year. I'll find it for you," he offered. "Consider it a small thank-you for the book and the tea."

"It could be interesting," said Reg prophetically.

...Another mixed-bag of a book is Roger Hyde's

Unsolved Mysteries of the 20th Century

(published by Macmillan at Ł15.99). Immensely readable, it nevertheless disappoints because, as the title suggests, it raises too many unanswered questions and ignores the fact that other writers have already shed light on some of these "unsolved" mysteries. There are the infamous Digby murders of 1933 when Gilbert and Fanny Digby and their three young children were found dead in their beds of arsenic poisoning one April morning with nothing to suggest who murdered them or why. Hyde describes the background to the case in meticulous detail-Gilbert and Fanny's histories, the names of all those known to have visited the house in the days preceding the murders, the crime scene itself-but he fails to mention M. G. Dunner's book