Chapter Ten: "One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small/ And the ones that Mother gives you, don't do anything at all/ Go ask Alice, when she's ten feet tall..." ~ Jefferson Airplane 'White Rabbit'

I wake up the next morning absolutely certain that I have to get a look at that book that Steen left for me at Sara's flat. I don't want to wait until tomorrow, it can't wait.

Over breakfast I listen to Steen's message again, and it still makes no sense at all. He seems to think that I know what "the torch" is, but I have no idea. The fool Aussie hasn't phoned or texted back to me, so I ring him again to see if anything is changed-nope, still goes straight to his full voice mailbox, so his phone is turned off, or busy.

I text Sara that I'm going over to the flat to pick up the book and see Pablo, but I get impatient waiting for a reply and phone her. She tells me that the package my friend left is in my room at her flat, and that Saturday will be fine for me to come round for tea if I have to work on Sunday. After yesterday afternoon with Christine and Amy, it's a relief to be able to casually refer to "work," knowing that Sara knows exactly what I mean, and that there will be no awkward questions. I love my sister.

I'm all fired up now to look at that book; I'm sure that Steen was being evasive when he said it was just something he thought I might enjoy reading. It's got to have more significance than that-besides, I don't have anything else to go on, and not knowing is driving me mad. I go to shower and get dressed quickly.

I take a good look the the bruise on my shoulder and see that the thing is slightly fading, but it still looks like hell. I choose out a high-necked shirt, sleeveless and cut-away at the point of the shoulder. It's also very snug-fitting, and a flattering shade of turquoise-like Steen told me when we went shopping, I don't have to dress like a granny to keep things covered up. There's no need to cover my lower half very much, so I don't; miniskirts are a fashion I wear very well.

The chilly rain from last night has given way to warm, humid breezes under grey skies. It feels almost tropical, and I'm sweating a little by the time I get to the Tube station. Despite that, I decide that I'm going to get off the train a few miles from Sara's to do a little exercise walking; it'll cut down on the time I have to spend on the treadmill later today. I take off at a very quick pace.

That's when I notice the two men following me. They are not exactly dogging my steps, just keeping up with me a few yards back, but since we are the only ones going so fast they are easy to spot. Just to check that I'm not merely being paranoid, I duck into a shop for a while and pretend to be very interested in the office supplies on the shelves. When I emerge from the shop and continue on my way, the same men are once more behind me.

So, now what? Why am I being followed? I stop at a newsstand to look at the headlines, and think for a moment. The two men, both very casually dressed in blue jeans and t-shirts, are standing in front of a greengrocer's maybe 30 feet away, examining the melons. I consider. One of them looks a little familiar, and might be one of the suits that Holmes had sent after me that night after the wedding.

There's only one way to make sure. I walk quickly up to the men, who turn and stare at me like I've grown a second head. Up close, I'm absolutely sure that I've seen one before; he was the suit who hauled me out of the car by my arm.

I move in close and fix them with a friendly smile. "Hello, gentlemen. I hope I'm not overtaxing you with this pace, am I?"

To their credit, they are professionals, and they hardly miss a beat. "Sorry, miss, but we don't know what you're talking about. Are you feeling well?" The arm-hauler is nervous; he's shifted his body away from me and his blink rate has increased. I bet he suspects that I recognize him.

"I'm very well, thank you. But I am worried about you," I look from one to the other. "I'm sure that you can track me by my phone, so I'm not worried about losing you, but it's a warm day and I don't want to be responsible for any heat stroke. Although," and here I let the bad girl come through, and I give them both a long, slow, appreciative look up and down. "Although, you both look quite fit. Very fit, in fact. I'll bet you can go the distance, and then some." I purr this with my best suggestive smile, hoping that the distraction will throw them off their game.

Arm-hauler clears his throat. "You needn't worry about us, Miss."

"Talbot. Miss Talbot. I don't know if Mr. Holmes told you my name..." and they both blink at that, forgetting that they should be mystified. Holmes's men, then. No need to waste any more time with these two. "Enjoy your day, gentlemen." And I wiggle off on my way.

So he's keeping me under surveillance, and maybe has been all along, I don't know. So, why is that necessary? I don't think he would expend the manpower to have me followed without good reason. It could be because I'm in danger; it could be because I'm dangerous...

However, I have to admit that if I had a secret service at my disposal, I'd have him followed. I'm just that way, and that would be reason enough. I have to consider that it might be for him as well. There's no need to manufacture danger and intrigue where there might not be any.

Walking along, I consider the situation. A contingency plan jells in my mind, and I make a mental note to talk to Sara about it later.

Soon enough I'm letting myself into Sara's flat, walking in with a happy smile. Knightsbridge is posh and beautiful, but my sister's place feels like home, right down to the shabby, familiar furniture and family photos on the walls. I wrinkle my nose at the faint odor of catbox, though; Sara isn't so good about those little maintenance things.

On the heels of the odor, Pablo comes sauntering into the room. The big grey tabby winds around my ankles just enough to get my attention, then, when I greet him and bend down to rub his head, he saunters off flipping his tail. Yep, he's cross with me. I'll ignore him good and proper until he decides to allow me to apologize.

My room is pretty much the same as I left it. There is a small stack of correspondence atop the chest of drawers, and beside that, a smallish brown paper package. It's addressed to me, as if Steen intended to post it but changed his mind. I eagerly rip it open to find a well-thumbed paperback novel, with a worn red-orange cover depicting a partly-clothed couple in a lurid embrace. The title is...in cyrillic. A Russian romance novel? Does Steen even read Russian? I can puzzle it out with a dictionary, as Holmes so dismissively put it. I love poetry and I hate reading poetry in translation, so I've learned a few languages in a haphazard way.

I feel rather disappointed as I ruffle through the dog-eared little book. As a clue, this is pretty pathetic. There's a name, written in blue ink on the flyleaf page at the top, like people do when they lend out their books. It's also in cyrillic; I can't make out the last name, but the first name is Lyuba.

Lyuba was quite a slow reader, and couldn't seem to find a bookmark, because lots of the pages are dog-eared at the top or the bottom, or both. There's no writing in it that I can see aside from the name scrawled in the front. As I ruffle through the pages again, a slip of paper falls out.

I scoop the slip up from the floor, and look at it closely. It's a tattered scrap, torn from a larger sheet of blank paper. "Evan McCutcheon" is printed in bold black letters, and "Verge, 3rd floor, Fridays" is printed just below it. Now there is a clue! I've partied at Verge in the past, it's a mega-club in Camden, multiple floors, big scene. There are better places for really excellent cutting-edge music, but for a huge, screaming night out that you won't remember all of, Verge is quite it. It's also notorious as something of a flea-market for recreational drugs. You can get anything you want there.

Evan McCutcheon doesn't sound familiar at all, but I wouldn't expect him to. I need to do some research. Well, tonight is Friday night, why not just take a little jaunt to Camden, and check out Verge's third floor? I haven't been clubbing in ages, it might even be fun. I carefully tuck the scrap of paper away in my handbag.

Scrolling my phone back through the calls I've had in the past few weeks, I find the number for Adam, one of my recent ex's friends. He and I always flirted like mad when I was with my ex, Erik, so I guess Adam thought he was next in line. He's been phoning me, I've been ignoring him.

However, he is a party hound, hot for me, and absolutely fit. I'm certain I can talk him into going out tonight wherever I want to go, and I could certainly do worse for a date. Even better, Adam runs with a crowd that hangs out at the clubs in Camden, so he's bound to know people at Verge I can talk to about this Mr. McCutcheon.

A short phone call later, and we are on. I tell Adam to pick me up here at Sara's; I certainly am not going to give him the address of the Knightsbridge flat. I text Sara to advise her that I'm going to be around later tonight, and maybe stay over. She's used to my changeable plans, so I don't expect it will be a problem for her. I really hope Holmes doesn't call me in to work tonight, that would be a fly in the ointment for certain, although I don't reckon it's likely. He just saw me last night, and apparently has big plans for Sunday, so I would be surprised if he wanted to come round tonight or tomorrow as well. I'll keep my phone close, just in case.

I make myself a cup of tea and curl up on the ratty old sofa to look through Steen's book yet again, and think. Pablo deigns to come and sit beside me, and allows me to stroke the top of his head, although he pointedly declines to sit in my lap.

I peer at the book from all angles, and carefully leaf through the tattered pages. I really can't see any writing, or any code markings, or anything unusual about it at all, except for the quantity of pages with turned-down corners. I sigh, and pet Pablo some more, until he finally starts to purr. If this book is a clue, I'm just not clever enough to figure it out-but I can't imagine that Steen was seriously giving it to me for reading material! My Russian-English dictionary is on my ereader, and I didn't bring that along, so I guess I'll just wander back to Knightsbridge and spend the afternoon translating, then come back here by 10 o'clock for Adam to pick me up.

I pack a few more odds and ends from my closet at Sara's, say goodbye for now to Pablo, and head back to the other flat. Since I'm going out dancing tonight, I feel justified in skipping the rest of my workout for the day, and just concentrating on the bloody book.

First, the title. I call up my translation dictionary on my reader and have at it: "F-a-k-e-l." It means..."the torch." Well, shit.

I just sit there for a moment and stare at it. "The Torch." That's the name of the book. No wonder Steen thought I knew what The Torch meant in his message; he thought I already had the book, and he knows I can read Russian. This thing is a clue and a half, if only I were clever enough to understand!

I listen to Steen's message again for the umpteenth time. I'm supposed to get The Torch to the pigman? And that's the only way to stop this thing? Okay, so the implication is that something bad is going to happen if this book doesn't get into the hands of someone known as the pigman. But it's London, and unfortunately there's a shortage of blokes raising pigs around here, so I have less than no idea of who he means. Maybe I can find out tonight at Verge; maybe this Evan McCutcheon knows.

The rest of the day seems to evaporate as I translate bits of the book, and do some internet stalking of all the Evan McCutcheons in the City. Both endeavors turn up a big, fat zero. The Torch is a raunchy romance novel, really badly written, and there are fifteen Evan or E. McCutcheons around here, none of whom seem to be in trouble with the law beyond parking tickets and a couple of ASBO's. No obvious drug lords, but then, I don't think drug lords are supposed to be obvious.

I have a late tea, and a walk around the park to clear my head, then it's time to get ready to go out. It's an ordeal figuring out an outfit that will keep the Mark of Mycroft on my shoulder securely hidden, and still meet my own criteria for clubbing gear. It has to be sexy, of course, but comfortable to move in, and not look just like everybody else's outfit. It has to be a little edgy.

I spend an hour trying on every bloody thing I have with me, and the bedroom ends up looking like the mahogany wardrobe exploded or something, clothes and shoes everywhere. I settle on yet another high-neck outfit that Steen helped me pick out, a cute little dress in plaid lycra...but it's so plain...ah. I know!

I open my toy-chest, and pull out the black gym bag. Harnesses are in right now, I saw a few on the runway last spring. Why didn't I think of this before? The whole inner-wear as outer-wear taboo-busting thing, sort of like the lingerie look way back in the 90's...

Gazing in the wardrobe mirror, I decide that I look fantastic. The brown leather and brass rings just set the outfit right on the edge, and with high brown boots, my hair teased into a 60's bouffant-yeah. Too bad poor Adam isn't getting any of this tonight, but I do have a contract to honor.

I splurge on a cab to take me to Sara's, and she's home when I get there, already in her jammies and settled in for the night to watch telly. That's how it's always been, Sara the homebody and Angelica the party animal-although to be fair, I think that she and her boyfriend are going out tomorrow night for some big "do" or another.

Sara susses me out with a wry look. "That's an...interesting outfit."

I twirl around for her inspection. "Don't I look great? I think this might be my new look for a while."

"Whatever bumps your bikkies, I suppose, but I honestly think you look a little...well, a little inappropriate. Isn't that an S and M harness or something?"

"Yep. And the term isn't 'inappropriate' it's 'edgy.' Like, on the edge of being inappropriate."

Sara shakes her head and gets off the sofa. "Living on the edge, and sliding downhill, child. Want a cuppa while you wait for your ride?"

"Love one."

Over mugs of tea, Sara and I catch up on each other's life a little. It's funny how you can have a phone chat nearly every day, but there are still things to talk over when you meet. With one eye on the clock, though, I bring the talk around to the favor I mean to ask of her.

"Tomorrow, and I mean tomorrow, because I don't know when I'll need this, but will you go to the phone shop tomorrow and get a phone for me, in your name only? I've got the cash for it right here..." I lay down the money on the table between us, and tell her which model and contract I want.

"I can do that, but why do you want me to?" Sara looks suspiciously at me. "What aren't you telling me?"

I sigh. I've left out of our conversations any mention about the trouble that Steen might be in, and my growing fears for him, not to mention the fact that Holmes isn't going to want me to get involved in anything regarding Steen. I decide to keep her out of the loop a while longer.

"I told you how Holmes can track my phone, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, last night I think he was able to have it jammed or something as well. I'm pretty sure he did, because I tried to call out and there was no signal, for quite a while. So it's worth it to me to have a backup that isn't linked to me, that he won't be able to jam or track. See?"

Sara leans back in her chair and looks at me hard for a moment. "Do you have any idea how nervous it makes me that you are involved with a guy that can and would do something like that? Stuff like that isn't normal, you know? People don't do things like that."

"The only reason they don't is because they can't, and you know it. Hell, if I could do it, I would. And by the way, I'm not 'involved' with him, I work for him."

Sara shakes her head, but agrees that tomorrow morning she'll go get me the phone.

A few moments later, Adam knocks me up. He's a good-looking bloke whose main fault is that he tries too hard, but he's not bad company once he calms down. He says all the right things about how great I look, how much he's missed hanging out with me, and so forth, and we take off in his ancient little Miata. He gets points for having his own car, loses points for it smoking like a chimney-pot. I don't look to see if we are followed, because I just assume we will be. If Holmes had me followed in broad daylight just bopping around the City, I imagine he would certainly do so when I go out clubbing.

Verge is housed in a huge Victorian factory, converted to three separate dance floors, one on each level, each with a different DJ and ambience. It's been around for over a decade and is still quite popular, although given how fickle the London club crowd is, that could change at any minute. I appreciate that Adam thought to get tickets ahead of time so we don't have to stand outside in the queue. We go through the usual pat-down at the entrance, and then we are out on the edge of the main floor. The place is dim and huge, and the music is so loud at first it's almost painful, lights strobing in time to the bass beat that thumps through my chest. Takes a while to get used to it, and some alcohol wouldn't hurt, either. The floor isn't packed yet, since it's still before midnight, but there are plenty of people grinding around on the dance floor, or hovering at the tables beside the main bar.

I send Adam to the crowded bar to get drinks right away, because I really need some anesthetic for my ears. While I'm waiting for him, I get approached no less than four times by blokes who want to know if I'd like some party-fuel. One is sharking me, but the rest are clearly dealers, since they insist they have on hand "Anything you want, special prices for beautiful girls!" I decline politely, except for the one who doesn't seem to understand what "No, thanks" means. He gets told to shove off.

It's not like I haven't tried, and enjoyed, quite a few different trips -nicknames aside, I'm no angel. But, number one, that's not what I'm here for tonight, and number two, I've learned the hard way that recreational pharmaceuticals are really hard on my body, most of the time much worse than a little alcohol. I'll feel great for the night, but the comedowns are rarely good and the next day might be the hangover from hell. Besides, taking a good look at the people who are regular, heavy users of club drugs has made me very cautious when it comes to my own habits. I don't intend to be a sorry-arsed burnout by the time I'm thirty.

When my vodka-and-bullseye aural anesthesia arrives, I down it as quick as I can -it's not like I drink that stuff to savor it. I've asked Adam to look out for his mates, the Camden crowd, and he tells me-shouting in my ear over the music-that he's spotted a few of them over in a corner on some sofas. I ask him to take me over there and do some introductions.

The little group, a woman and three men, are huddled around a tiny table set beside one of the sofas in a dimly-lit conversation pit. They are almost openly doing lines of coke, and I really wonder about the law enforcement around here, or lack of it. It's only been a little more than a year since I was here last, and it's no longer a drug flea-market, it's a free-for-all. If the punters are this open about using, and dealers are so open about sales that they are clearly in competition with each other, then there must currently be zero enforcement in this place. The security people are certainly in on selling the stuff, and possibly the management.

It's not like I really care, but the most disturbing thing is that it also might mean that somebody in law enforcement is in on it as well.

Adam and I settle on the sofa beside the little group, and there are introductions all around. One of the men, an older bloke named Harry, generously cuts some coke for Adam and I, but I decline mine, claiming that it gives me horrible headaches. Adam happily snorts up both lines, thus conclusively proving that I have been wise to avoid him.

I don't waste too much time in chatting up this lot; they are already too out of it to notice whether or not I am observing any social niceties. I pretty much cut right to it, and ask if anyone knows an Evan McCutcheon who is likely to be found on the third floor here on Fridays.

Harry gives me a big smile. "Ooooh, no wonder you weren't into the powder, you like to play with the other stuff! I bet you're a lot of fun when the party gets going, eh?" He elbows Adam in the ribs, and they leer at each other. Ick. But I play along, and let Harry think what he likes, so long as he'll answer my questions.

It turns out that McCutcheon isn't exactly a drug lord, but he's probably close, personal friends with a few of them. He's a distributor, a dealer to the dealers for the most part, although he'll deal directly with high-end customers who are looking for something out-of-the-ordinary.

"Some of the shit he sells is so new, it's not even illegal yet!" enthuses Harry. "His prices are sky-high, too, although a tidy bird like you could probably arrange a discount," and here comes the creepy leer again; I am really getting tired of this wanker. I get a few more bits out of Harry, like where McCutcheon usually lurks upstairs and how to recognize him, and then I've had enough. I grab Adam's hand and pull him up beside me.

"C'mon, I want to dance."

Grinning like an idiot over his shoulder, Adam makes a show of sliding his hands around me and grabbing onto my arse as we walk away from his mates. Show-off. Even if I weren't under a contract, I wouldn't be tempted to have it off with him. I really hate being treated like a bloody trophy.

He's a good dancer, though, and I genuinely enjoy grinding away with him on the dance floor. The place is starting to get crowded, and noisier. I want to wait until it really gets cranking before I go to see McCutcheon, less chance of being noticed. I wonder if Holmes's men are here, watching me? I've been scanning the crowd, but haven't spotted them yet.

Finally the noise and activity level rises to the point where I think it's safe to go check out McCutcheon. I drag Adam up to the third floor, where the lights are a different colour, and flashing to a different beat, and there is a smoke machine making everything look spooky; otherwise, it's pretty much the same scene we just left. I glance over at a conversation pit in a quieter corner, lit by blue can-lights, and there is McCutcheon holding court just as described.

He doesn't look like an underworld kingpin. He looks like a thirty-something ex-skinhead run to fat, really. Short, dumpy, clean-shaven head and face, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and black jeans with thick-soled doc martins on his feet-they make you a little taller-he sits alone on a sofa with his hands folded on his ample belly, surrounded by a couple of club security staff that probably are also his personal security. A well-dressed punter is sitting on an ottoman placed directly in front of McCutcheon, and the two are quietly talking.

Adam and I dance for a while, and I watch McCutcheon's supplicants come and go. If money and parcels are changing hands, they are so sly about it that you don't see it happen. On the other hand, McCutcheon might just be brokering deals between other parties, and not directly involved himself.

In any case, it's time to get to this. I'm pretty nervous about approaching McCutcheon; I'm nervous about the whole thing, really. I know I'm out of my depth here, but I want to know what's going on with Steen, and if I can help him somehow, I will. I send Adam to the overflowing bar area for more drinks, knowing that will give me at least twenty minutes, and I stroll over to the blue-lit sofa to say hi.

McCutcheon watches impassively with his flat, pale eyes as his security man intercepts me.

"What is your business over here, miss?" The acoustics of this corner are well-chosen; I don't have to strain to hear him.

"I'm here to speak with Mr. McCutcheon. I'm sorry, did I need an appointment?" I give my best charming smile to the man on the sofa, ignoring the security goon.

McCutcheon nods, and the security steps away from me. I walk over to the sofa and point to a spot on the cushion beside him. "Mind if I sit down?"

McCutcheon looks up at me, unblinking, and shrugs, so I fold up my legs and sit down, close but not quite touching him. I give him a small smile, and let him see that I'm nervous by tucking my hair behind my ears and licking my lips. I don't think there's any percentage in playing it cool here; in fact, letting him know he has the upper hand might be helpful. He'll feel more secure.

He's still staring at me. "Mr. McCutcheon, my name is Angel." Start off with the basics, proceed from there. "I heard about you from, well, lots of people, but also my friend Steen Dijkstra." McCutcheon's eyes flicker at the name, so he knows of Steen, at least. "I'm an escort, I work for the Agency." Now, in the right circles, that would be name-dropping. Let's see if Evan McCutcheon moves in those circles.

He raises an eyebrow. "Do you, then? Well, that's interesting." He doesn't look interested. Everything about the man is flat, damped down, monochrome and cold. His voice is very soft, and his accent very odd; he sounds like an Yank faking a Scottish accent, or a Scots who lived too long in America. "So you're an Agency girl. What's your manager's name?"

I guess he does move in those circles. "You know I can't tell you."

"And why is that?" He's asking for the password.

"They don't ever tell us, Mr. McCutcheon," I reply, and he visibly relaxes, finally blinking those disturbing pale blue eyes.

He turns his face toward me more fully, and his voice warms up by a fraction of a degree. "You can call me Evan, if you like. Now, what can I do for you, pretty Angel?" Yep, drug dealers and whores, they go together like bread and butter. Suddenly I'm a colleague.

I draw him into talking with me by outlining a fake business plan to make extra money by selling to my clientele. He listens to my long-winded recitation, nodding slightly, and tells me that I might do quite well with that, quite well indeed. He quickly starts to get down to brass tacks about costs and deliveries, but I don't want him to think that we are coming to an agreement tonight, so I backpedal furiously.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not ready to commit to this...I was just wondering if you thought it was a good idea or not..."

He looks slightly disappointed. "Well, if you're not ready, then I guess that's that for tonight. But, when you are," he looks around at the strobing lights and forms writhing in the glowing blue smoke and smiles benignly, "I'll be right here. On Fridays, anyway." He lifts one side of his bum, so he can reach into one of his pockets and pull out a little vial. Opening it, he shakes out a capsule and hands it to me. "Here, Angel, this one's on the house, a show of good faith. Bottoms up."

He smiles at me, but the cold eyes in his pudgy face stay hard. He's not showing his good faith, he's wanting me to prove mine. I take the capsule in my palm and look at it. "Does it have a name?" I ask.

"Mandy," he says, still smiling with his mouth. "Best shit you'll ever roll on. Absolutely fucking pure."

I smile brightly, but inwardly sigh. I've used MDMA before, and it's not my favorite. On the other hand, there are plenty of trips that are worse than rolling on ecstasy, and I want McCutcheon to trust me.

I bring my palm to my mouth, like I'm going to take the capsule, then stop. "Hey, do you happen to know who the pigman is, Evan? Steen has mentioned him, and I'm really curious. Who keeps pigs in London? Who is the pigman?"

McCutcheon's eyes flicker, but he keeps his smile steady and shrugs. "No idea, my dear." He's lying.

I put the cap on my tongue and show it to him before swallowing it. "Yummy to my tummy, dear Evan." I give him a big smile and lean in. "Are you really sure you don't know who this pigman is? Steen is being Mr. Mysterious about it, and I'm dying of curiosity. You've just GOT to tell me, in good faith?" His turn, now.

McCutcheon leans toward me, and puts his mouth right against my ear; it takes an effort of will to not pull away from him in disgust. He whispers, in Russian "On yavlyayetsya pakhan," then slouches back against the cushions, a sly smile on his face.

I remember to look confused and say, "What? What did you say?" and McCutcheon just grins wider and waves bye-bye to me. I make like I'm getting a giggle-fit, and wave bye-bye back, blow the fat bastard a kiss, then find my feet and go to locate Adam.

If I hadn't just spent the day translating Russian, I wouldn't have known that McCutcheon essentially told me that the Pigman is a leader in the Russian mafia, a pakhan.

I stow that information away securely in my head, because I know from experience that I've got about thirty minutes of reasonable sobriety before I start to roll, then I'm going to be completely useless for the rest of the night. I also am one of those unfortunates that get near-total amnesia from high doses of MDMA, so I need to get myself back to Sara's before it kicks in and I find myself waking up in the morning wondering where I am and what happened, again. Where the hell is Adam?!

As I push through the crowd, I can feel my whole body start to tingle slightly, and the music pulling me in... I'm still looking for Adam, but the beat feels so good, the dancing peoples are having so much fun, I can feel the smile spreading across my face as I jump in time to the music, merging into the press of bodies around me, smells of sweat and perfume and spilled alcohol mingling...

A man takes my wrist and tries to pull me off the dance floor. I look at him closely and shout, "Arm-hauler! There you are! I was looking for you guys earlier, what took you so long? Do you want to dance?" I grab onto him and pull him back into the mosh, wrapping my arms around his neck. The bloke frantically tries to unwrap me, but I am all over him. He finally flips me around into a rear armlock, my right hand pulled up hard behind me, and I gleefully start grinding my arse against the front of his jeans. Ooooh, he feels nice! He pushes me out in front of him, holding onto one of the straps of my harness to keep me from twisting around again, and the other agent gives him a hand when we reach the edge of the dance floor. They start to march me out between them.

"Hey, hey, hey, lovey, no need to get rough!" I tell them. "I'm happy to go with you. Will you take me to Sara's? I need to crash there for a while. She'll look after me."

Arm-hauler shakes his head as they navigate me down the stairs toward an exit. "No, you've been sent for."

"Ah, I've been *sent for*!" I repeat in a portentious voice. Did Holmes decide to visit tonight after all? I don't think my phone has rung; I have it tucked into the top of one boot, and I think I would've felt the vibration if he had called or texted me. I'll have to check.

The outdoors air clears my head a little, and I convince Holmes's men that they don't have to march me around. Following them to the parking garage, I pull out my phone from my boot and see that an unidentified caller did indeed ring just over an hour ago. Well, we agreed on two-hour notice, so there you are, I have no reason to even be annoyed.

I look at the pretty city lights as we drive along, and I idly wonder how long it will take Adam to give up looking for me. He's going to be pissed that I ditched him, but I really don't care. He's an annoying little wanker. I'm really thirsty, I wish he had gotten back with my drink sooner.

The car pulls up at the blue door on Ennismore Mews, and I carefully get out. I'm not sober by any stretch, but can still negotiate simple tasks if I concentrate. I'm aware that the men in the car are watching me closely as I pull out the key and fit it into the lock; I'm very proud that I got it in on the first go, but then I can't remember which way it turns, and I have to try a few times before I can get it to work.

I sigh with relief when I close the door behind me. It's not as good as being at Sara's, but it's close enough. Then I notice the tall man in shirtsleeves leaning against the bannister, his arms crossed and a frown on his face. For a minute, I am sixteen again, and it's my daddy standing there with a mixture of anger, disappointment and relief on his face. I start to stammer, I'm sorry Daddy...then I realize that it's Holmes, and the last thing I should do is call him Daddy. Very, very bad idea, that.

"Ummmm...Hi," I say. I don't know what else to say, so I just look at him. His forehead wrinkles up with consternation.

"Angel, WHAT are you doing?"

"I, ah, I went out. To a club. With a friend." God, it really does feel like being a naughty teenager again.

"Weren't you going to stay in for a few days? Except to visit your sister?"

"I never promised that. It was just an intention. Things changed...I had to see someone, at the club, talk to him, it was important..." I trail off, not wanting to tell Holmes what I was after. "Anyway, here I am, like we agreed. Your men came and got me."

"Yes." He steps forward with a sigh, and thumbs up one of my eyelids, peering at my eye. "What did you take?"

"Some mandy. Pure MDMA."

He chuffs in disgust and annoyance, and shakes his head. "Why?"

I'm not going to tell him about proving myself to Evan McCutcheon, no way. So I shrug. "Because. Reasons, I guess. Why do you drink?" The mandy is making me reckless; I can feel myself starting to roll in earnest.

He lifts his chin and his face goes stone cold. "You have no right to question that," he says flatly.

"Same here," I point out. We glare at each other, an eye-to-eye standoff, until something suddenly shifts in me, and tears spring to my eyes. MDMA does that, it makes you all soft and lovey.

"It's not you, you know," I tell him earnestly.

"What?"

"It's not you, not because of you. No matter how good you are, people are still going to screw up. It's not your fault. You can't catch all the balls, some of them are going to hit the ground. No matter how good you are, it's going to happen sometimes."

"You are high," he says accusingly.

"Not quite yet, but I'm getting there. Just remember, nobody is or can be perfect, not even you."

"No-one is an angel?" he asks archly.

"Oh, there are angels, all right, but they aren't sweet and fluffy. They aren't nice. Angels are God's hit-men." I give him a crooked smile. "We're each other's angel, you see." I can tell he doesn't see, but that's okay. I can see for us both.

I go past him to start up the stairs. "You should come up," I tell him. I have to take the steps carefully, my balance is going.

"Why? You're high, and you smell like...people," he makes a face.

I lean over the bannister. "I can shower. You should come up, because I'm tremendously randy at the moment, although it's a horrible shame that I won't remember anything in the morning at all. That's the trouble with me and methylenedioxy-n-methylamphetimine..." I giggle, because I can still say the name, even though I can't hardly remember my own right now.

"You're one of the ones who get the amnesiac effect? You won't remember what happens tonight at all?" He looks up at me speculatively.

"Nope. Not a thing. It sucks, that's why I never use it."

"Why did you, tonight?"

I bite my lip and shake my head. "For reasons. You should come up." I continue up the stairs, stripping off my clothing as I go. By the time I reach the bathroom, I am naked. I remember to close the door, to keep out the draught, but when it comes to showering I find myself staring at a handful of shampoo and not being sure what I should do with it. The last thing I remember is hearing the bathroom door open...