It’s hard to maintain a reputation for being grim and mysterious when you’re accompanied by a brightly clad young thing, skipping merrily along at your side, holding your hand, and smiling sweetly on one and all. Still, it felt good to have Bettie with me. Her constant enthusiasm and optimism helped relieve a weight and burden I hadn’t even realised I was carrying. She made me feel…alive again.
      Following Rick Aday’s directions, we were heading into one of the more seedy areas of the Nightside, where the narrow streets are lined with scruffy little shops and emporiums, where half the street-lights never work, and most of the neon signs have letters missing. The kind of shop where there’s a sale on all the year round, where they specialise in only fairly convincing knock-offs of whatever brand-names are currently fashionable or in demand, where the buyer had better not only beware, but carry a large stick and count his fingers on the way out. Shops that sell tarnished dreams and tacky nightmares, misleading miracles and wondrous devices, most of whose batteries have run down. Bottom feeders, in other words; tourist traps, and home to every cheap and nasty con you can think of. The crowds were just as heavy here, jostling each other off the pavement and shouldering each other out of the way. Everyone loves a bargain.
      And then, suddenly, everyone was yelling and running. I stopped and looked quickly around me. I hadn’t done anything. The crowds scattered quickly, to reveal Queen Helena striding down the street, staring grimly at me, at the head of her own small army of sycophants, followers, and armed men. I stood my ground, doing my best to appear casual and unconcerned. Bettie stuck close to me, quivering with excitement. Queen Helena finally crashed to a halt right in front of me, fixing me with her cold faraway eyes. She was wrapped from head to toe in thick white furs, parting now as she struck a regal pose, to reveal glimpses of blue-white skin. She looked like someone who had died and then been buried in the permafrost. There was no warmth anywhere in her harsh, regal features, but her eyes blazed with arrogant superiority. She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to kneel or bow or offer to kiss her hand. So I ignored her completely, concentrating on the colourful figures who’d moved forward out of her army to back her up.
      “Take a good look,” I said cheerfully to Bettie. “It’s not every day you see so many prominent members of the Exiles Club out in public. Mostly, these aristocratic nobodies prefer to skulk inside their very own members-only club, addressing each other by their old titles because they’re the only ones that will. They trade grievances about lost lands and abandoned kingdoms, how nobody recognises true quality in this dreadful place, and how you just can’t get good servants any more.
      “The bald, stooped, and vulturelike figure to Queen Helena’s left is Zog, King of the Pixies. Word has it he’s been wearing those scabby feathered robes ever since he turned up here thirty years ago, and he hasn’t washed them once. Try to avoid standing downwind. Queen Mab herself kicked him out of the Fae Court, for using glamour spells to lie with human women. He always killed them after he’d had his way with them, but Mab didn’t care about that. Sex outside their race is one of the Fae’s greatest taboos. So here he is now, stripped of his glamour, just another rapist and murderer with a title that means nothing at all.
      “Next to him we have His Altitude Tobermoret, monarch of all he surveyed in Far Afrique. A dark and distinguished gentleman indeed, in his zebra-hide suit and his lion-claw necklace. Tobermoret used to be War Chief of an entire continent, until his people realised he was starting wars and rebellions just for the fun of it. He did so love sending young men out to die while he sat at his ease in a tent overlooking the battle-field, enjoying the show. I did hear tell his people castrated him before they shoved him through the Timeslip, which is why he’s always in such a bad temper.
      “On Queen Helena’s other side is Prince Xerxes the Murder Monarch. And yes, those really are preserved human eyes and organs and other bits and pieces hanging from all those chains he’s got wrapped around him. Though given how much he’s gone to seed since he got here, one can’t help wishing he’d wear something else apart from just the chains. He practises necromancy, the magic of murder. Partly because it’s traditional where he comes from, but mostly because he gets off on it. Though he’s learned to leave the tourists alone ever since Walker had a quiet word with him.
      “And finally, next to Xerxes we have King Artur, of Sinister Albion. For every glorious dream, there’s a nightmare equivalent, somewhere in the time-streams. For every helping hand, a kick in the face. In Sinister Albion, Merlin Satanspawn decided to embrace his father’s qualities instead of rejecting them, and brought up young Artur in his own awful image. Under their direction, Camelot became a place of blood and horror, where knights in terrible armour feasted on the hearts of good men, and Albion blazed from end to end with burning Wicker Men. The only reason I haven’t killed Artur on general principles, is because I’ve been too busy with other things.”
      I smiled at Queen Helena. “I think that’s it. Have I missed anything important?”
      “You do so love the sound of your own voice, Taylor,” said Queen Helena. “And you will address me as Your Majesty.”
      “That’ll be the day,” I said cheerfully. “What do you want with me, Helena? Or are you just taking the Exiles out for a walk?”
      It took her a moment to work out how to answer me. She wasn’t used to open defiance, let alone ridicule. “You were seen,” she said finally, “talking with the General Condor. You will tell me what you talked about. What you decided. What plans were made. Tell me everything, and I shall make a place for you in my army. Power and riches shall be yours. I could use a man like you, Taylor.”
      “Ah, what it is to be popular and desired,” I said. “The leadership of the Nightside is up for grabs, and suddenly everyone wants me on their side. Flattering, but…annoying. I’m busy right now, Helena. And I have to say, even if I wasn’t…there isn’t enough gold in the Nightside to persuade me to work for you, let alone this bunch of titled scumbags.”
      “Why do you say these things to me?” said Queen Helena. “When you know I will kill you for it?”
      I shrugged. “I think you bring out the worst in me. There’s some shit I simply will not put up with.”
      Her arms came out from under her robes, bulging tech implants already thrusting up through the blue-white skin. Dull grey gun muzzles orientated on me. Zog raised a withered arm to show off a beaten-copper glove with sharpened claws, buzzing with arcane energies. Tobermoret slammed the end of his long wooden staff on the pavement, and all the runes and sigils carved deep into the wood began to glow with a disquieting light. Xerxes produced a pair of long, curved daggers with serrated edges that looked more like butcher’s tools. He grinned at me, showing off dull brown teeth filed to points. And Artur’s bleak and brutal battle armour slowly came to life, its metal parts creeping and crawling over him, muttering to themselves in hissing otherworldly voices. Behind his blank steel helmet, his eyes glowed like corpsefires.
      And behind Queen Helena and her Exiles, armed and armoured men hefted their various weapons, impatient for the order to attack.
      Bettie Divine made quiet whimpering noises and looked like she’d rather be anywhere else than here, but still she held her ground at my side.
      I took a sudden deliberate step forward, so I could look Queen Helena right in the eye. “I could have been King of the Nightside if I’d wanted. I didn’t. Did you really think I’d bend the knee and bow my head to such as you?”
      “I have powerful allies!” said Queen Helena. “I have an army in waiting! I have potent weapons!”
      I laughed in her face. “You really think that’s going to make a difference? I’m John Taylor.”
      Queen Helena held my gaze longer than I’d thought she would, but in the end she looked away and stepped back a pace, her tech implants ducking back under her skin. I looked unhurriedly about me, and the Exiles fell back, too, powering down their weapons. Their followers stirred uneasily, looking at each other. Some of them were muttering my name.
      Because I was John Taylor; and there was no telling what I might do. It was all I could do to keep from smiling.
      And then, just when it was all going so well, Uptown Taffy Lewis came storming up the street from the other direction, at the head of his own small army of bully-boys, body-guards, and enforcers. All of them heavily armed. I turned my back on Queen Helena to face him. Bettie made a sound deep in her throat and stuck so close to me she was practically hiding inside my coat-pocket. Taffy stamped up to me, planted his expensively tailored bulk in front of me, paused a moment to get his breath back after his exertions, and then ignored me to scowl at Queen Helena and the Exiles.
      “Why are you talking with these has-beens?” he growled to me. “You know where the real power is in the Nightside. Why didn’t you come and talk to me?”
      “I don’t really want to talk to anyone,” I said wistfully. “I keep telling everyone I’m busy right now, but…”
      “Whatever they’ve offered you, I’ll double it,” said Taffy. “And unlike them, you can be sure I’ll deliver. I want you on my side, Taylor, and I always get what I want.”
      “I suggest you take this up with Helena,” I said. “She seems to believe she has exclusive rights to me. And you wouldn’t believe some of the nasty things she’s been saying about you.”
      And then all I had to do was step quickly to one side, as Uptown Taffy Lewis lurched forward to confront Queen Helena, screaming insults into her cold and unyielding face. She hissed insults right back at him, then the Exiles got involved with Taffy’s lieutenants, and suddenly both armies were going for each other’s throats. I had already retreated to a safe distance, hauling Bettie along with me, and we watched fascinated as open warfare broke out right in front of us. The tourists loved it, watching it all from a safe distance, and even recording it so they could enjoy it again later.
      Queen Helena had her implants, the Exiles, and her followers, but Taffy had the numbers. They swarmed all over Queen Helena and her people, dragging them down despite their elite weapons. I saw Zog thrown to the ground and trampled underfoot, and Tobermoret beaten down with his own staff till it broke. Xerxes was cut open with his own daggers. Helena and Artur stood back to back, killing everyone who came within reach until finally the odds were too great; and then the pair of them disappeared in a sudden blaze of light, leaving the two armies to fight it out in the street. The bodies piled up, and blood flowed thickly in the gutters.
      Politics is never dull in the Nightside.
      I started off down a side street, leaving the violence behind. Bettie trotted along beside me, still staring back over her shoulder.
      “Is that it?” she said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
      “Haven’t I done enough?” I said. “By the time they’re finished with each other, the two most dangerous armed forces in the Nightside will have wiped each other out. What more do you want?”
      “Well, I thought…I expected…”
      “What?”
      “I don’t know! Something more…dramatic! You’re the great John Taylor! I thought I was going to see you in action, at last.”
      “Action is overrated,” I said. “Winning is all that matters. Aren’t you getting enough good material for your story?”
      “Well, yes, but…it’s not quite what I expected. You’re not what I expected.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “You faced down Queen Helena and the Exiles, and their army. Told them to go to Hell and damned them to do their worst. And they all backed down. Were you bluffing?”
      I grinned. “I’ll never tell.”
      Bettie laughed out loud. “This story is going to make my name! My day on the streets with John Taylor!”
      She grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me round, and kissed me hard on the lips. It was an impulse moment. A happy thing. Could have meant anything, or nothing. We stood together a moment, and then she pulled back a little and looked at me with wide, questioning eyes. I could have pushed her away. Could have defused the moment, with a smile or a joke. But I didn’t. I pulled her to me and kissed her. Because I wanted to. She filled my arms. We kissed the breath out of each other, while our hands moved up and down each other’s bodies. Finally, we broke off, and looked at each other again. Her face was very close, her hurried breath beating against my face. Her face was flushed, her eyes very bright. My head was full of her perfume, and of her. I could feel her heart racing, so close to mine. I could feel the whole length of her body, pressing insistently against mine.
      “Well,” she said. “I didn’t expect that. Has it really been such a long time since you kissed anyone? Since you…?”
      I pushed her gently away, and she let me. But her eyes still held mine.
      “I can’t do this,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. Didn’t sound like someone in control of himself.
      “It’s true what they say about Suzie, then,” said Bettie. She sounded kind, not judgemental. “She can’t…The poor dear. And poor you, John. That’s no way to live. You can’t have a real relationship with someone if you can’t ever touch her.”
      “I love her,” I said. “She loves me.”
      “That’s not love,” said Bettie. “That’s one damaged soul clinging to another, for comfort. I could love you, John.”
      “Of course you could,” I said. “You’re the daughter of a succubus. Love comes easy to you.”
      “No,” she said. “Just the opposite. I laugh and smile and flutter my eye-lashes because that’s what’s expected of me. And because it does help, with the job. But that’s not me. Or at least, not all of me. I only show that to people I care about. I like you, John. Admire you. I could learn to love you. Could you…?”
      “I can’t talk about this now,” I said.
      “You’ll have to talk about it sometime. And sometimes…you can say things to a stranger that you couldn’t say to anyone else.”
      “You’re not a stranger,” I said.
      “Why thank you, John. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me so far.”
      She moved forward and leaned her head on my shoulder. We held each other gently. No passion, no pressure, only a man and a woman together, and it felt good, so good. It had been a long time since I’d held anyone. Since anyone had held me. It was like…part of me had been asleep. Finally, I pushed her away.
      “We have to go see the Cardinal,” I said firmly. “Pen Donavon and his damned Recording are still out there, somewhere, and that means people like Taffy and Helena will be looking for it, hoping it will turn out to be something they can use to further their ambitions. I really don’t like the way they were willing to flaunt their armies openly in public.”
      “Walker will do something,” said Bettie.
      “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.
      Rick Aday’s directions finally brought us to a pokey little shop called The Pink Cockatoo, a single-windowed front, in the middle of a long terrace of shops, set between a Used Grimoires book-shop, and a Long Pig franchise. The window before us was full of fashionable fetish clothing that seemed to consist mostly of plastic and leather straps. A few corsets and basques, and some high-heeled boots that would have been too big even for me. Incense candles, fluffy handcuffs, and something with spikes that I preferred not to look at too closely. I tried the door, but it was locked. There was a rusty steel intercom set into the wooden frame. I hit the button with my fist and leaned in close.
      “This is John Taylor, to see the Cardinal. Open up, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your door right off its hinges.”
      “This establishment is protected,” said a calm, cultured voice. “Even from people like the infamous John Taylor. Now go away, or I’ll set the hell-hounds on you.”
      “We need to talk, Cardinal.”
      “Convince me.”
      “I’ve just been with the Collector,” I said. “Discussing the missing Afterlife Recording. He didn’t have it. Now either you agree to talk to me, or I’ll tell him you’ve got it and exactly where to find you. And you know how much he’s always wanted to make your collection part of his own.”
      “Bully,” the voice said dispassionately. “All right; I suppose you’d better come in. Bring the demon floozy with you.”
      There was the sound of several locks and bolts disengaging, and then the door slowly swung open before us. I marched straight in, followed by Bettie. There might have been booby-traps, trap-doors, or all kinds of unpleasantness ahead, but in the Nightside you can’t ever afford to look weak. Confidence is everything. The door shut and locked itself behind us. Not entirely to my surprise, the interior of the shop wasn’t at all what its exterior had suggested. For one thing, the interior was a hell of a lot bigger. It’s a common enough spell in the Nightside, sticking a large space inside a small one, given that living and business space are both in such short supply. The problem lies with the spell, often laid down in a hurry by dodgy backstreet sorcerers, the kind who deal strictly in cash. All it takes is one mistake in the set-up, one mispronunciation of a vital word; and then the whole spell can collapse at any time without any warning. The interior expands suddenly to its full size, shouldering everything else out of the way…and they’ll be pulling body parts out of the rubble that used to be a street for days on end.
      The shop’s interior stretched away before me, warmly lit and widely spacious, with gleaming wood-panelled walls, and a spotless floor. The huge barnlike structure was filled with miles and miles of open glass shelving and stands, showing off hundreds of weird and wonderful treasures. Bettie made excited Ooh! and Aah! noises, and I had to physically prevent her from picking things up to examine them. The Cardinal had said his place was protected, and I believed him. Because if it wasn’t seriously protected, the Collector would have cleaned him out by now.
      The Cardinal came strolling down the brightly lit central aisle to greet us. A tall and well-proportioned man in his late forties, with a high-boned face, an easy smile, and a hint of mascara round the eyes. He was wearing skintight white slacks, a red shirt open to the navel to show off his shaven chest, and a patterned silk scarf gathered loosely round his neck. He carried a martini in one hand and didn’t offer the other to be shaken.
      “Wow,” I said. “When the Church defrocked you, they went all the way, didn’t they?”
      The Cardinal smiled easily. “The Church has never approved of those of my…inclination. Even though we are responsible for most of the glorious works of art adorning their greatest churches and cathedrals. They only put up with me for so long because I was useful, and a respected academic, and…discreet. None of which did me any good when I was found out, and accused…It’s not as if I took anything important, or significant. I simply wanted a few pretty things for my own. Ah, well; at least I don’t have to wear those awful robes any more. So drab, and so very draughty round the nether regions.”
      “Excuse me,” said Bettie, “But why is your shop called The Pink Cockatoo? What has that got to do with…well, anything?”
      The Cardinal’s smile widened. “My little joke. It’s called that because I’ve had a cockatoo in my time.”
      Bettie got the giggles. I gave the Cardinal my best Let’s try and stick to the subject look.
      “Come to take a look at my collection, have you?” he said, apparently unmoved by the look. He sipped delicately at his martini, one finger elegantly extended. “By all means. Knock yourself out.”
      I wandered down the shelves, just to be polite. And because I was a bit curious. I kept Bettie close beside me and made sure she maintained a respectful distance from the exhibits at all times. I was sure that the Cardinal believed in You broke it, you paid for it. He wandered along behind us, being obviously patient. I recognised some of the things on the shelves, by reputation if not always by sight. The Cardinal had helpfully labelled them in neat copperplate handwriting. There was a copy of the Gospel According to Mary Magdalene. (With illustrations. And I was pretty sure which kind, too.) Pope Joan’s robes of office. The rope Judas Iscariot used to hang himself. Half a dozen large canvasses by acknowledged Masters, all unknown to modern art history, depicting frankly pornographic scenes from some of the seamier tales in the Old Testament. Probably private commissions, from aristocratic patrons of the time. A Satanic Bible, bound in black goat’s skin, with an inverted crucifix stamped in bas-relief on the front cover.
      “Now that’s a very limited edition,” said the Cardinal, leaning in close to peer over my shoulder. “Belonged to Giles de Rais, the old monster himself, before he met the Maid of Orleans. There are only seventeen copies of that particular edition, in the goat’s skin.”
      “Why seventeen?” said Bettie. “Bit of an arbitrary number, isn’t it?”
      “I said that,” said the Cardinal. “When I inquired further, I was told that seventeen is the most you can get out of one goat’s skin. Makes you wonder whether the last copy had a big floppy ear hanging off the back cover…And I hate to think what they used for the spine. Ah, Mr. Taylor, I see you’ve discovered my dice. I’m rather proud of those. The very dice the Roman soldiers used as they gambled for the Christ’s clothes, while he was still on the cross.”
      “Do they have any…special properties?” I said, moving in close for a better look. They seemed very ordinary, two small wooden cubes, with any colour and all the dots worn away long ago.
      “No,” said the Cardinal. “They’re just dice. Their value, which is incredible, lies in their history.”
      “And what’s this?” said Bettie, wrinkling her nose as she studied a single, small, very old and apparently very ordinary fish, enclosed in a clear Lucite block.
      “Ah, that,” said the Cardinal. “The only surviving example of the fish used to feed the five thousand…You wouldn’t believe how much money, political positions, and even sexual favours I’ve been offered, by certain extreme epicures, just for a taste…The philistines.”
      “What brought you here, to the Nightside, Cardinal?” said Bettie, doing her best to sound pleasant and casual and not at all like a reporter. The Cardinal wasn’t fooled, but he smiled indulgently, and she hurried on. “And why collect only Christian artifacts? Are you still a believer, even after everything the Church has done to you?”
      “Of course,” said the Cardinal. “The Catholic Church is not unlike the Mafia, in some ways—once in, never out. And as for the Nightside—why this is Hell, nor am I out of it. Ah, the old jokes are still the best. I damned myself to this appalling haven for the morally intransigent through the sin of greed, of acquisition. I was tempted, and I fell. Sometimes it feels like I’m still falling…but I have my collection to comfort me.” He drained the last of his martini, smacked his lips, put the glass down carefully next to a miniature golden calf, and looked at me steadily. “Why are you here, Mr. Taylor? What do you want with me? You must know I can’t trust you. Not after you worked for the Vatican, finding the Unholy Grail for them.”
      “I worked for a particular individual,” I said carefully. “Not the Vatican, as such.”
      “You really did find it, didn’t you?” said the Cardinal, looking at me almost wistfully. I could all but sense his collector’s fingers twitching. “The Sombre Cup…What was it like?”
      “There aren’t the words,” I said. “But don’t bother trying to track it down. It’s been…defused. It’s only a cup now.”
      “It’s still history,” said the Cardinal.
      Bettie stooped suddenly, to pick up an open paperback from a chair. “The Da Vinci Code? Are you actually reading this, Cardinal?”
      “Oh, yes…I love a good laugh.”
      “Put it down, Bettie,” I said. “It’ll probably turn out to be some exotic misprinting, and he’ll charge us for getting fingerprints all over it. Cardinal, we’re here about the Afterlife Recording. I take it you have heard of Pen Donavon’s DVD?”
      “Of course. But…I have decided I’m not interested in pursuing it. I don’t want it. Because I know myself. I know it wouldn’t be enough for me simply to possess the DVD. I’d have to watch it…And I don’t think I’m ready to see what’s on it.”
      “You think it might test your faith?” I said.
      “Perhaps…”
      “Aren’t you curious?” said Bettie.
      “Of course…But it’s one thing to believe, another to know. I do try to hope for the best, but when the Holy Father himself has told you to your face that you’re damned for all time, just for being what God made you…Hope is all I have left. It’s not much of a substitute for faith, but even cold comfort is better than none.”
      “I believe God has more mercy than that,” I said. “I don’t think God sweats the small stuff.”
      “Yes, well,” said the Cardinal dryly, “you’d have to believe that, wouldn’t you?”
      “If you learn anything, let me know,” I said. “As long as the Afterlife Recording is out there, loose in the wind, more people will be trying to get their hands on it, for all the wrong reasons. There’s even a chance the Removal Man is interested in it.”
      All the colour dropped out of the Cardinal’s face, his brittle amiability replaced by stark terror. “He can’t come here! He can’t! Have you seen him? You could have led him here! To me! No, no, no…You have to leave. Right now. I can’t take the risk!”
      And he pushed both Bettie and me towards the door. He wasn’t big enough to budge either of us if we didn’t want to be budged, but I didn’t see any point in making a scene. He didn’t know anything useful. So I let him shove and propel us back to the door and push us through it. Once we were back on the street, the door slammed shut behind us, and a whole series of locks and bolts snapped into place. It seemed the Cardinal believed in traditional ways of protecting himself, too. I adjusted my trench coat. It had been a long time since I’d been given the bum’s rush. And then from behind the door came a scream, loud and piercing, a harsh shrill sound full of abject terror. I beat on the door, and yelled into the intercom, but the scream went on and on and on, long after human lungs should have been unable to sustain it. The pain and horror in the sound was almost unbearable. And then it stopped, abruptly, and that was worse.
      The locks and the bolts slowly opened, one at a time, and the door swung inwards. I made Bettie stand behind me and pushed the door all the way open. Beyond it, I could see the huge display room. No sign of anyone, anywhere. No sound at all. I moved slowly, and very cautiously forward, refusing to allow Bettie to hurry me. There was no sign of the Cardinal anywhere. And every single piece of his collection was gone, too. Nothing left but empty shelves, stretching away.
      “The Removal Man,” I said. My voice echoed on the quiet, saying the name over and over again.
      “Did we lead him here, do you think?” said Bettie, her voice hushed. The echo turned her words into disturbing whispers.
      “No,” I said. “I’d have known if anyone was following us. I’m sure I’d have known.”
      “Even the Removal Man? Even him?”
      “Especially him,” I said.

 
      “So,” said Bettie Divine, sitting perched on one of the empty wooden shelves with her long legs dangling, “what do we do now? I mean, the Removal Man has just removed our last real lead. Though I have to say…I never thought I’d get this close to him. The Removal Man is a real urban legend. Even more than you, darling. We’re talking about someone who actually does move in mysterious ways! Maybe I should forget this story and concentrate on him. If I could bring in an exclusive interview with the Removal Man…”
      “You mean you’re giving up on me?” I said, more amused than anything.
      Bettie shrugged easily. She was now wearing a pale blue cat-suit, with a long silver zip running from collar to crotch. Her hair was bobbed, and her horns peeped out from under a smart peaked cap. “Well, I am half demon, darling; you have to expect the odd moment of heartlessness.”
      “If you stick with me, at least there’s a reasonable chance you’ll survive to file your story,” I said.
      “Who’d want to hurt a poor sweet defenceless little girlie like me?” said Bettie, pouting provocatively. “And besides, we half demons are notoriously hard to kill. That’s why the Editor paired me up with you for this story. Which, you have to admit, does seem to have petered out rather. I mean to say, if the Collector doesn’t have the Afterlife Recording, and the Cardinal doesn’t have it, who does that leave?”
      “There are others,” I said. “Strange Harald, the junkman. Flotsam Inc.; their motto: We buy and sell anything that isn’t actually nailed down and guarded by hell-hounds. And there’s always Bishop Beastly…But admittedly they’re all fairly minor players. Far too small to think they could handle a prize like the Afterlife Recording. They’d have sold it on immediately; and I would have heard. You know, it’s always possible Pen Donavon could have realised how much trouble he’d let himself in for and destroyed the DVD.”