“Looks like we’re still in time. What sort of plan do you suggest?”

“Well, I understand a lyre seems to work quite well—and not looking back has something to do with it.”

“Optional, if you ask me. My strategy goes like this: We locate the President and get the hell out. Anyone who tries to stop us gets bashed. What do you think?”

“Wow!” I muttered. “You planned this down to the smallest detail, didn’t you?”

“It has the benefit of simplicity.”

Spike looked around at the number of people entering the motorway services building. “This gateway isn’t just for road accidents,” he muttered, opening the boot of the car and taking out a pump-action shotgun. “From the numbers, I reckon this portal must service most of Wessex and a bit of Oxfordshire as well. Years ago there was no need for this sort of place. You just croaked, then went up or down. Simple.”

“So what’s changed?”

Spike tore open a box of cartridges and pushed them one by one into the shotgun. “The rise of secularism has a hand in it, but mostly it’s down to CPR. Death takes a hold—you come here, someone resuscitates you, you leave.”

“Right. So what’s the President doing here?”

Spike filled his pockets with cartridges and placed the sawn-off shotgun in a long pocket on the inside of his duster. “An accident. He’s not meant to be here at all—like us. Are you packing?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s see what’s going on. And act dead—we don’t want to attract any attention.”

We strode slowly down the parking lot towards the motorway services. Tow trucks that pulled the empty cars of the departed souls drove past, vanishing into the mist that swathed the exit ramp.

We passed the phones, which were all out of order, and then walked towards the canteen, which smelt of stewed tea and pizza. People sat around in groups, talking softly, reading out-of-date newspapers or sipping coffee. Some of the tables had a number on a stand that designated some unfulfilled food order.

“Are all these people dead?” I asked.

“Nearly. This is only a gateway, remember. Have a look over there.” Spike pulled me to one side and pointed out the bridge that connected us—the Southside services—to the other side, the Northside. I looked out the grimy windows at the pedestrian bridge that stretched in a gentle arc across the carriageways towards nothingness.

“No one comes back, do they?”

“ ‘The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns,’ ” replied Spike. “It’s the last journey we ever make.”

The waitress called out a number. “Thirty-two?”

“Here!” said a couple quite near us.

“Thank you, the Northside is ready for you now.”

“Northside?” echoed the woman. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake. We ordered fish, chips and peas for two.”

“You can take the pedestrian footbridge over there. Thank you!”

The couple grumbled and muttered a bit to themselves but got up nonetheless and walked slowly up the steps to the footbridge and began to cross. As I watched, their forms became more and more indistinct until they vanished completely. I shivered and looked by way of comfort towards the living world and the motor-way. I could dimly make out the M4 streaming with rush-hour traffic, the headlights shining and sparkling on the rain-soaked asphalt. The living, heading home to meet their loved ones. What in God’s name was I doing here?

I was interrupted from my thoughts by Spike, who nudged me in the ribs and pointed. On the far side of the canteen was a frail old man who was sitting by himself at a table. I’d seen President Formby once or twice before, but not for about a decade. According to Dad, he would die of natural causes in six days, and it wouldn’t be unkind to say that he looked it. He was painfully thin, and his eyes seemed sunken into his sockets. His teeth, so much a trademark, more protruding than ever. A lifetime’s entertaining can be punishing, a half lifetime in politics doubly so. He was hanging on to keep Kaine from power, and by the look of it, he was losing and knew it.

I moved to get up but Spike murmured:

“We might be too late. Look at his table.”

There was a “Number 33” sign in front of him. I felt Spike tense and lower his shoulders, as though he had seen someone he recognized but didn’t want them to see him.

“Thursday,” he whispered, “get the President to my car by whatever means you can before the waitress comes back. I have to take care of something. I’ll see you outside.”

“What? Hey, Spike!”

But he was away, moving slowly amongst the lost souls milling around the newsagent until he was gone from sight. I took a deep breath, got up and crossed to Formby’s table.

“Hullo, young lady!” said the President. “Where are me bodyguards?”

“I’ve no time to explain, Mr. President, but you need to come with me.”

“Oh, well,” he said agreeably, “if you say so—but I’ve just ordered pie and chips. Could eat a horse and probably will, too!” He grinned and laughed weakly.

“We must go,” I urged. “I will explain everything, I promise!”

“But I’ve already paid—”

“Table 33?” said the waitress, who had crept up behind me.

“That’s us,” replied the President cheerfully.

“There’s been a problem with your order. You’re going to have to leave for the moment, but we’ll keep it hot for you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t meant to be dead, and the staff knew it.

“Now can we go?”

“I’m not leaving until I get a refund,” he said stubbornly.

“Your life is in danger, Mr. President.”

“Been in danger many times, young lady, but I’m not leaving till I get my ten bob back.”

“I will pay it,” I replied. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

I heaved him to his feet and walked him to the exit. As we pushed open the doors and stumbled out, three disreputable-looking men appeared from the shadows. They were all armed.

“Well, well!” said the first man, who was dressed in a very tired and battered SpecOps uniform. He had stubble, oily hair and was pale to the point of cadaverousness. With one hand he held an aged SpecOps-issue revolver, and the other was planted firmly on the top of his head. “Looks like we’ve got some live ones here!”

“Drop your gun,” said the second.

“You’ll live to regret this,” I told him, but realized the stupidity of the comment as soon as I had said it.

“Way too late for that!” he replied. “Your gun, if you please.”

I complied, and he grabbed Formby and took him back inside while the first man picked up my gun and put it in his pocket.

“Now you,” said the first man again, “inside. We’ve got a little trading to do, and time is fleeting.”

I didn’t know where Spike was, but he had sensed the danger, that much was certain. I supposed he had a plan, and if I delayed, perhaps it would help.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing much,” laughed the man who had his hand pressed firmly on his head, “just . . . your soul.”

“Looks like a good one, too,” said the third man, who was holding some sort of humming meter and was pointing it in my direction. “Lots of life in this one. The old man has only six days to run—we won’t get much for that.”

I didn’t like the sound of this, not one little bit.

“Move,” said the first man, indicating the doors.

“Where to?”

“Northside.”

“Over my dead body.”

“That’s the poi—”

The third man didn’t finish his sentence. His upper torso exploded into a thousand dried fragments that smelt of moldy vegetables. The first man whirled around and fired in the direction of the cafeteria, but I seized the opportunity and ran back into the car park to take cover behind a car. After a few moments, I peered out cautiously. Spike was inside, trading shots with the first man, who was pinned behind the presidential Bentley, still with his hand on his head. I cursed myself for giving up my weapon, but as I stared at the scene—the nighttime, the motorway services—a strong sense of déjà vu welled up inside me. No, it was stronger than that—I had been here before—during a leap through time nearly three years ago. I had witnessed the jeopardy I was in and left a gun for myself. I looked around. Behind me a man and a woman—Bowden and myself, in point of fact—were jumping into a Speedster—my Speedster. I smiled and dropped to my knees, feeling under the car tire for the weapon. My hands closed around the automatic and I flicked off the safety and moved from the car, firing as I went. The first man saw me and ran for cover amongst the milling crowds, who scattered, terrified. I cautiously entered the now seemingly deserted services and rejoined Spike just inside the doorway of the shop. We had a commanding position of the stairs to the connecting bridge; no one was going Northside without passing us. I dropped the magazine out of my automatic and reloaded.

“The tall guy is Chesney, my ex-partner from SO-17,” announced Spike as he reloaded his shotgun. “The necktie covers the decapitation wound I gave him. He has to hold his head to stop it falling off.”

“Ah. I wondered why he was doing that. But losing his head—that makes him dead, right?”

“Usually. He must be bribing the gateway guardians or something. It’s my guess he’s running some sort of soul-reclamation scam.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, “slow down. Your ex-partner, Chesney—who is dead—is now running a service pulling souls out of the netherworld?”

“Looks like it. Death doesn’t care about personalities—he’s more interested in meeting quotas. After all, one departed soul is very like another.”

“So ...”

“Right. Chesney swaps the soul of someone deceased for the soul of someone healthy and living.”

“I’d say, ‘You’re shitting me,’ but I’ve got a feeling you’re not.”

“I wish I was. Nice little earner, I’m sure. It looks like that’s where Formby’s driver, Mallory, went. Okay, here’s the plan: we’ll do a hostage swap for the President, and once you’re in their custody, I’ll get Formby to safety and return for you.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” I replied. “How about we swap you for Formby and I go to get help?”

“I thought you knew all about the underworld from your bosom pal Orpheus?” countered Spike with a trace of annoyance.

“It was highlights over coffee—and anyway, you’ve done it before. What was that about an inflatable boat from Wal-Mart to paddle yourself to the underworld?”

“Well,” said Spike slowly, “that was more of a hypothetical journey, really.”

“You haven’t a clue what you’re doing, do you?”

“No. But for ten grand, I’m willing to take a few risks.”

We didn’t have time to argue further, as several shots came our way. There was a frightened scream from a customer as one of the bullets reduced a magazine shelf to confetti. Before I knew it, Spike had fired his shotgun into the ceiling, where it destroyed a light fixture in a shower of bright sparks.

“Who shot at us?” asked Spike. “Did you see?”

“I think it’s fair to say that it wasn’t the light fixture.”

“I had to shoot at something. Cover me.”

He jumped up and fired. I joined him, fool that I was. I had thought that my being out of my depth was okay because Spike vaguely knew what he was doing. Now that I was certain this was not the case, escape seemed a very good option indeed. After firing several shots ineffectively down the corridor, we stopped and dropped back behind the corner.

“Chesney!” shouted Spike. “I want to talk to you!”

“What do you want here?” came a voice. “This is my patch!”

“Let’s have a head-to-head,” replied Spike, stifling a giggle. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement!”

There was a pause, and then Chesney’s voice rang out again:

“Hold your fire. We’re coming out.”

Chesney stepped out into the open, just next to the children’s helicopter ride and a Coriolanus WillSpeak machine. His remaining henchman joined him, holding the President.

“Hello, Spike,” said Chesney. He was a tall man, who looked as though he didn’t have a drop of liquid blood in his entire body. “I haven’t forgiven you for killing me.”

“I kill vampires for a living, Dave. You became one—I had to.”

“Had to?”

“Sure. You were about to sink your teeth into an eighteen-year-old virgin’s neck and turn her into a lifeless husk willing to do your every bidding.”

“Everyone should have a hobby.”

“Train sets, I tolerate,” Spike replied. “Spreading the seed of vampirism, I do not.”

He nodded towards Chesney’s neck. “Nasty scratch you have there.”

“Very funny. What’s the deal?”

“Simple. I want President Formby back.”

“And in return?”

Spike turned the shotgun towards me. “I give you Thursday. She’s got bags of life left in her. Give me your gun, sweetheart.”

“What?” I yelled in a well-feigned cry of indignation.

“Do as I say. The President must be protected at all costs—you told me so yourself.”

I handed the gun over.

“Good. Now move forward.”

I walked slowly up the concourse, the cowering visitors watching us with a sort of morbid fascination. We stopped ten yards apart just near the game-arcade area.

“Send the President to me.”

Chesney nodded to his henchman who let him go. Formby, a little confused by now, tottered up to us.

“Now send me Thursday.”

“Whoa!” said Spike. “Still using that old SpecOps-issue revolver? Here, have her automatic—she won’t need it anymore.”

And he tossed my gun towards his ex-partner. Chesney, in an unthinking moment, went to catch the gun—but with the hand he used to keep his head on. Unrestrained, his head wobbled dangerously. He tried to grab it, but this made matters worse, and his head tumbled off to the front, past his flailing hands, where it hit the floor with the sound of a large cabbage. This unseemly situation had distracted Chesney’s number two, who was then disarmed by a blast from Spike’s shotgun. I didn’t see why Spike should have all the fun, so I ran forward and caught Chesney’s head on the bounce and expertly booted it through the door of the arcade, where it scored a direct hit into the SlamDunk! basketball game, earning three hundred points. Spike had thumped the now confused and headless Chesney in the stomach and retrieved both my automatics. I grabbed the President, and we legged it for the car park while Chesney’s head screamed obscenities from where he was stuck upside down in the SlamDunk! basket.

“Well . . .” Spike smiled as we reached his car. “Chesney really lost his—”

“No,” I said, “don’t say it. It’s too corny.”

“Is this some sort of theme park?” asked Formby as we bundled him into Spike’s car.

“Of a sort, Mr. President,” I replied as we reversed out of the parking lot with a squealing of tires and tore towards the exit ramp. No one tried to stop us, and a couple of seconds later, we were blinking in the daylight—and the rain—of the M4 westbound. The time, I noticed, was 5:03—lots of time to get the President to a phone and oppose Kaine’s vote in parliament. I put out my hand to Spike, who shook it happily and returned my gun, which was still covered in the desiccated dust of Chesney’s hoodlum friend.

“Did you see the look on his face when his head started to come off?” Spike asked, chuckling. “Man, I live for moments like that!”