Mrs Cluett kept an enormous array of sweets in old-fashioned gla.s.s jars on shelves at the back of the shop. She had decided on this, as a way of preventing petty theft, and had doggedly stuck to imperial measures, in contravention of European law. No one in Hexen Bridge saw fit to report her to the proper authorities. The children often chose the bottled sweets over the pre-wrapped chocolates that edged the cash till as it meant that old Mrs Cluett would have to rummage around behind the counter for the pair of wooden stepladders - which gave them all the time in the world to steal from elsewhere in the shop.

Today, however, Mrs Cluett was having none of it, and she ignored Billy's request. 'Can't you read?' she said. 'Only two children at a time.'

Billy glanced back towards the door, as if he'd never seen the handwritten notice before. 'Ah well,' said Billy, with an attempt at a charming smile that only succeeded in drawing attention to his broken nose and close-set eyes. 'You see, Mrs Cluett, I barely count as a child, seeing as I'm about to leave school. And Bingo 'ere... Well, I'm not sure Bingo even counts as a human being, do you, Bingo?'

The boy in question was already scrabbling around on the cobwebbed floor like a dog, woofing animatedly.

'Get up!' screamed the old postmistress. 'Get off the floor, you little hooligan.'

Bingo found a bag of dog food and began yelping.

'Look,' said one of the other children. 'The poor kid's got BSE. Too many school dinners.'

Bingo's piece de resistance piece de resistance was to pretend to c.o.c.k his leg against the bag. was to pretend to c.o.c.k his leg against the bag.

Mrs Cluett flipped open the counter, and marched towards the lad. 'Get up, you tearaway, and get out of my shop!'

With that, Billy Tyley clicked his fingers, just out of sight of the woman, and two of the boys ducked into the aisle that contained the alcohol. 'Now, Mrs Cluett,' said Billy, using what he a.s.sumed to be his most adult-sounding voice. 'He don't mean any harm. He's just mucking about.'

Bingo got to his feet, partly because the diversion had worked, and partly because his left ear lobe was caught in Mrs Cluett's pincer-like grip. 'You little so-and-so,' she said, ignoring Billy. 'If my husband were alive he'd give you a d.a.m.n good hidin'.'

'If you don't let go of my ear,' said Bingo suddenly, 'I'll get my dad on to you.'

'Will you, indeed?' queried the woman. 'Now, that might work with your teachers, Mark l.u.s.ton, but I know your father well. I think he'd be quite keen to hear my side of the story.'

There was a sudden clanging crash as two boys pushed their way out of the shop, laughing hysterically. Mrs Cluett recognised the bulges under their blazers.

'Oi!' she screamed, letting go of Bingo's ear. 'You come back here with that!' She went to open the door, but Billy's friends blocked her way.

'Mrs Cluett,' said the ringleader in a quiet voice. 'I only came in for some sweets...'

The boys started laughing, but Mrs Cluett recognised the darker tone to Billy's voice. 'All right, lads,' she said. 'Just be on your way, and no more will be said.' At least, until PC Stuart Minton came in for his evening paper.

Billy Tyley advanced on her, his face hard and fixed. The room was silent and even more claustrophobic than usual.

'Who's to say that we've finished. Eh?' He took another step forward, a sick, leering grin on his face. 'Maybe we want to borrow some more things from your shop.' Now he was only inches away from the old woman, who recoiled at the smell of the drink on his breath. 'Maybe we should just take what we like.' some more things from your shop.' Now he was only inches away from the old woman, who recoiled at the smell of the drink on his breath. 'Maybe we should just take what we like.'

'No, lads, don't.' Mrs Duett's appeal was to the whole group. Some of them glanced away nervously, but no one responded to her.

'Don't?' Billy shouted in the woman's face, making her flinch again.

'Don't be wicked,' continued the woman in a low voice, her eyes half closed, 'or the hollow men'll come for you.'

With a scream of rage, Billy Tyley shoved the old woman in the chest. She sprawled backward, pulling a shelf of sugar and flour down with her. The back of her skull clipped the hard metal edge of the ice-cream freezer, and her body thumped into the floor like a dead weight.

A little pool of blood emerged from her silver curls, like a halo.

'Jesus,' whispered one of the boys, his eyes as wide as saucers. 'You've gone and done it this time, Billy.'

Billy Tyley snorted, and pushed a path through his now frightened disciples. 'Come on,' he said. 'We've got what we came for.'

Rebecca drove the red sports car down the twisting country lanes towards Hexen Bridge. The roof was down and the wind caught her hair, billowing it behind her like the plume of a comet. Trevor was whistling something tunelessly beside her.

'What was that?' she asked through the roar of the engine.

'Nothing,' he said, then he turned to her. 'I've got tickets for the Star Jumpers at Wembley in August. Interested?'

She shrugged.

'Johnny Astronaut are supporting!' Trevor continued.

'Oh, well, in that case...!'

'Their last song was about a vicar's daughter. I thought you'd approve!'

She began to laugh, a throaty sn.i.g.g.e.r that died away as they approached Hexen Bridge. 'You're still the funniest man I know, Trevor,' she said.

'I wish you weren't seeing so much of Matthew,' announced Trevor suddenly.

For the briefest of moments it seemed that the ice-cool exterior of Rebecca Baber melted under Trevor's piercing gaze, and she almost lost control of the car. By the time the car steadied itself, her composure was re-established.

'Needs make for strange bedfellows,' she said.

'If your reasons are what I think they are,' began Trevor, with a look of clear concern on his face, 'then he'll gobble you whole, chew you up, and spit out the bones.' He shook his head. 'Just watch yourself,' he said.

Rebecca leaned across the car and kissed him on the cheek. 'I will, my love,' she said, revving the engine.

'I think I could get to like this place,' said Ace as she and the Doctor arrived at the Green Man, the village pub. 'Not', 'Not', she added, as much for the Doctor's benefit as for her own. she added, as much for the Doctor's benefit as for her own.

The Doctor seemed momentarily distracted. He was staring at the wooden sign above the door and shaking his head.

'Problem?' asked Ace, snapping him out of his solitary musings.

'Hmm? Oh, it's odd. As Steven said, they've changed the name. Recently, too.'

'Under new ownership?'

The Doctor shrugged. Maybe. It used to be the Jack Something-or-other. Unusual name. You were saying?'

'I was being sarcastic, Professor. A village straight out of Dracula Has Risen from the Grave, locals with a Hitler-fetish, and I'll bet bet I don't get served in here!' I don't get served in here!'

The Doctor chuckled. 'Patterns, Ace. Connections. There is a theory that everything in the universe is connected, and that nothing can change without affecting everything else.

Haven't you ever read Hsi Yu Chi?' Hsi Yu Chi?'

'I must have bunked off the day we did that in English,'

said Ace, laconically. 'I'll tell you what, though: if the guy behind the bar says, "Don't get many strangers round these parts", I'm off!'

The interior of the Green Man provided a welcome relief from the sticky heat of the village. With a number of curtains drawn across the windows, the only illumination was provided by the golden bars of light that slipped through gaps in the fabric and by a television above the bar. Copper pots on hooks hung from the exposed beams of the ceiling, and corn dollies and horseshoes needed in shadowy alcoves. Ace scanned the patrons for signs of trouble, but they all seemed content enough, supping cider and waiting for the cricket coverage to resume. A vague hush had fallen over the place, but that didn't bother Ace. Something similar had happened when she had walked into a pub in Willesden with Manisha to find she was the only white person there.

Ace turned to the Doctor, and was irritated to note that he was staring with innocent fascination at the TV screen.

'Oi, Professor, snap out of it!'

'Look, Ace!' said the Doctor with a smile.

'What is that?' that?' asked a horrified Ace. asked a horrified Ace.

'These little creatures are very loving,' said the Doctor.

'They have a wonderful quality of life.'

'Come off it, Professor,' said Ace, disgusted that the Doctor was going all soppy on her again. 'It looks like Play School Play School, with a bigger budget.'

The Doctor nodded, sadly. 'Ah, but if only we could repel alien invaders with the offer of a big hug and some tubbytoast...'

'You're still just an old hippie!'

The Doctor finally tore himself away from the television, and turned his attention to the rather stern-faced man behind the bar. He was, ostensibly, taking no interest in his new arrivals, having been casually reading a copy of the Daily Daily Star, Star, but Ace knew that he had been watching every move. but Ace knew that he had been watching every move.

'Good day,' said the Doctor, tipping his hat. 'I believe we have two rooms booked under the name of Smith.'

'That would be Mr and Mrs Smith, would it?' asked the man, his eyes barely leaving the newspaper.

'Doctor and Ms Smith,' corrected the Doctor with a charming smile.

Reluctantly, the publican left his stool at the bar and walked the short distance to a small reception area. After opening a leather-bound journal he seemed to take an eternity reading a yellow Post-it note. Ace fidgeted nervously.

'You're late,' he announced at last.

'My apologies,' said the Doctor conciliatorily.

'I can't do you any food now. Kitchen's closed.'

'That's quite all right. We've already eaten. At the local Chinese restaurant. You know it, I a.s.sume?'

Ace noticed the man stiffen. He had an imposing stature and Ace didn't like the look in his eyes at all. As the man returned his attention to the hotel register Ace whispered to the Doctor. 'Candidate number one for the nasty paint job?'

'Eh?' said the landlord, his head swinging upward.

'My niece was just admiring your magnificent collection of b.u.t.terflies,' said the Doctor, walking towards the nearest of several cases containing specimens. A row of gla.s.s-topped cabinets ran along one wall of the pub, up to the bar. 'This must represent a lifetime's work,' he continued.

'It must,' snarled the landlord bluntly.

'I used to be a bit of a lepidopterist myself,' noted the Doctor. 'May I?'

'Help yourself.'

The Doctor turned the key and opened the case. His fingers brushed against the closest creatures. He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand back sharply with a brief exclamation of surprise.

He turned and smiled beguilingly at the publican. 'Mr Matson, isn't it? Yes, if you'd like to show us to our rooms, please.'

Matson grunted and moved towards the stairs, without any indication that the Doctor and Ace should follow.

'What's up?' asked Ace, again in a whisper.

The Doctor glanced at her quickly. 'They were freezing cold,'

he replied.

'Arrgh!' Ace leapt out of the shower, dripping wet, and swore violently under her breath. Typical of a place like this: just when you're enjoying yourself, the hot water runs out. Ace shivered as her bare shoulders were caught by a blast of cold air from the extractor fan, and she hurriedly wrapped a towel around herself. Time to ask a few more pertinent questions, she thought, and she marched unceremoniously through the connecting door to the Doctor's room. She found him lying on the bed, his hat over his eyes, apparently sleeping.

'This is a right dump,' she said moodily.