Brick then saw a shadow pass by the frame of the doorway. Unlike most shadows, broad and evident, it was lithe; wraith-like, like its owner had a tendency to go unnoticed. Brick flipped the catch on his holster again and drew Brenda out a couple of inches.

He was no killer. A professional would have shot a slug into his brain already. Quick, assertive. No mess. Onto the next one . . . this guy. He was hesitating. Nervous, an amateur . . .

If he wanted Bliss dead he could have shot her. Strangled her. He didn't want to kill her . . .

Brick sighed.

'If you're going to shoot me then do it . . . if not, then I suggest you start runnin.'

Brick could hear his breathing. Fast, fueled by adrenaline and fear.

'In that case,' Brick pulled Brenda from his holster and turned about and aimed his gun at Bliss's assailant, 'I'll shoot you my god damn self.'

The shadow reacted nervously and fired a round of bullets into the kitchen counter, completely surprising Brick with his violent candour. The Krazzi dived over the body of Bliss as the assailant shot up the petite kitchen.

Shards of wood and glass fell onto the detectives head in the automatic din.

'Shit.'

Silence. But Brick knew he was still there. He could hear his tiny heart beating.

'You finished?'

Silence.

Then the assailant let off another falsetto of gunfire and then his gun jammed.

Brick smiled.

'All out, pal. Judging by the sound that's a Cooz R130. They made only three hundred on the line until they realised they hadn't corrected the design flaw . . .'

Brick looked up to the silhouette on the kitchen wall and saw the gunman's shadow head tilt ever so slightly to the left, querying the detectives knowledge of small foreign firearms.

' . . . It takes you thirty seconds to reload, Gustaf.'

He heard him try to change the magazine, struggling with the faux workmanship of tired Cooz hands.

Brick reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarillo as Gustaf tried his damnest to change the magazine. The Krazzi detective lit his cigarillo and pulled himself up out of the debris, brushing himself down and pulling Brenda casually from his holster.

The skeletal form of Gustaf Felstrom looked pitiful in the doorway. Hunched over, trying to pull the magazine from the defunct R130. Wrestling with it, sweating like a slimy newt.

'Thirty seconds is up, Gustaf. Though I reckon you'd need a minute at least to yank that out.'

He gave the Krazzi detective an accusing look with his obsidian eyes. The bulbous grey bags of his sockets only emphasizing his black retinas.

Brick raised Brenda at the disheveled form of Gustaf Felstrom - the corrupted child of House - a faint smile escaping the confines of his mouth, the cigarillo hanging like a branch.

'Your move, sweetheart.'

Gustaf stopped. He knew it was useless. He straightened up, drawing his hands away from the R130, smiling like the class joker.

'That's the one. Toss it down by my feet.'

Gustaf done as he was bid but in the exchange pulled a pistol from his sleeve and took a shot at the stone head of the Krazzi detective.

Brick saw him draw and pulled his head to the right feeling the disruption in the air. Gustaf was quick to hightail it from the room. Brick took a shot with Brenda, blasting a hole in the wall the size of a watermelon leaving the room open to more beige light.

Brick ran to the opening in pursuit. Holding fast against the arch of the door for cover. He'd gone but the sound of his footsteps lingered. He ran to the next turn in the corridor and peered around.

Gustaf fired a shot to his face but caught plasterboard and paint. The surprisingly spry Gustaf had taken the next left and Brick ran after him, Brenda pointing the direction in case Gustaf was man enough to face him head on.

The Krazzi saw him in Brenda's sights ten metres down the hall.

'FREEZE, Gustaf. Don't make me put a hole in you.'

The child of House turned about and fired another shot, this time way off the mark hitting a light cover.

Brick leaned round and fired, hitting the wall which Gustaf was now behind in an explosion of plasterboard and beige paint.

The shot through Gustaf from his feet and belly-flopped onto the cheap motel carpet, winding himself, gasping; clutching his chest in the very vain hope that someone was going to open their front door and drag him in.

Brick could hear the panting weasel. Shit, they couldn't probably hear the squeal in Kissledaw. He took a drag on the cigarillo and casually made his way down the corridor, Brenda still firmly in his grasp.

'As much as I'm enjoying this rigorous exercise, Gustaf. I really think it's time I hauled your ass in for murder one.'

Brick heard a muffled cry. Some words that totally alluded his comprehension. A sound somewhere between an aroused pig and a bleeding Sand-Snipe.

The Krazzi upped his pace, he suddenly had the realisation that he shouldn't be so coy. If what House had showed him was true and the damn thing had no reason to lie, this guy needed to pay his dues. Years in denial, hiding from the atrocity he had wrought. Brick had the suspicion that he was only scraping the tip of the coalberg.

He pulled Brenda up in front, two hands around the handle, ready to shoot his arm off if necessary. Brick pulled himself around the corner, pointing Brenda's double barrel at the floor.

He was gone.

Brick then heard the fire door click shut at the end of the corridor and the faint shadow of a winded weasel descending down the steps. He blew a flume of bramble weed smoke into the ether as the lift doors opened and an old couple stood there, perplexed. Brick pointed the gun at them and smiled graciously.

'Out.'

The old couple shuffled out as best as their limbs would carry them and the Krazzi entered, the lift jolted with his weight, filling with the distinct aroma of bramble weed. He hit the ground floor button and the lift made a gradual descent which seemed to be moving slower than a corpse.

He could imagine Gustaf reaching the bottom right now, escaping into the night, his prey gone. His crimes unanswered. Brick sighed and then opened the top latch and shot the two wires on the pulley system, leaving the metal box in free fall. As a living stone, Brick felt the gravity, almost lifting him off his feet but he knew that he would reach the bottom around the same time as Gustaf. He braced himself for the impact of a metal and stone sandwich.

The foyer exploded in a thunderclap of metal and electrics. The door was pried open and the Krazzi detective climbed out, his stature somewhat subdued by the fresh two metre indentation in the lift base.

Gustaf almost fell through the stairwell door, amazed at the carnage the Brentish detective had wrought. As soon as he saw him climb from the bonfire of metal and buzzing wires, Gustaf ran out of the entrance doors.

A couple of dumbfounded motel staff watched the Krazzi climb from the ashes, his gun tossed from the fire first. Brick pulled himself free and smothered out the flames on his coat and picked up Brenda. He suddenly jerked his neck to the right resulting in a sound not too dissimilar to a landfall and marched out of the foyer.

The manager looked at him sternly with raised eyebrows and the detective tossed him a one raeq coin for the damage, his cigarillo still lit.

Brick almost leapt from the entrance steps and scanned the neon street. A couple of cars had stopped abruptly because of a frantic man staggering across the street.

It was Gustaf, he could see the sweat on his brow. Brick casually walked across the road not even bothering to look. Cars immediately halted. To knock over a pedestrian was bad. But to try and knock over a Krazzi was just plain ridiculous. Besides, a Krazzi with a burnt coat and moss-brows and a demeanour like this one. You seriously didn't need the trouble.

Brick could see him fleeing, see the fatigue etched into his face like a permanent tattoo. There was no need for him to increase his pace, the piss ant would collapse any minute now. He pulled Brenda up to his face and removed her left barrel where he unscrewed the sight at the end and placed it in his pocket. Brick then blew the thread and screwed it into the remaining barrel.

Cars were now stopping to watch the street theatre. There was always something happening on the streets of Caneche but never to this degree. Some watched from their cars, some, more ambivalent to the behavior in front of them tooted their horns in frustration.

Brick pulled the torchlight from beneath Brenda and turned it about, revealing a long range sight and placed it above the now elongated barrel. Reaching down into his deep right pocket he pulled out a piece of metal about ten inches long and pressed the blue button at its centre which then increased in size by another five inches and sprouted two bits of metal relative to each other; anchor-like. Brick then screwed the end into Brenda and rested the makeshift butt against his right shoulder, testing it for comfort. It was fine. He then placed his right hand into his inside breast pocket and produced a slender bullet more akin to a long range infantry rifle and placed it into the opening above and cocked it with relish. He stood fast and watched the sweating runt dart through the crowd, en route to the Caneche underground. By his judgement he had about ten seconds before he descended out of sight. A couple of revelers impeded his view and Brick cursed, taking a drag on his cigarillo which had seen more service than a decorated war hero. The Krazzi fired and Gustaf Felstrom's right shoulder exploded in a torrent of deep red.

Revelers dispersed, their faces covered in faint traces of Gustaf's blood. Red freckles they probably wouldn't realise were there until they woke in the morning to pink stained pillows. Brick saw him with his sight, saw the mutant child of House Felstrom crawl into a darkened alley, his shoulder a flayed mess of bone and sinew.

Brick steadily walked into the darkened alley, any neon pulses from fast food restaurants and takeaways now diminishing as he walked into the thick bloodied dark.

He took the torchlight from his modified Brenda and scoured the fragrant murk. Copious amounts of trash, strewn throughout the alleyway. Half eaten Jenx cuisine with a side order of sick. Rats sinking their incisors into suspect meats. Sewer-Snipes lurking in ripe drains, releasing their camouflaged tendrils to feed on the rats. The laziest of snipes; sending out the dinner to get the dinner.

Brick then realised he didn't have any more bullets left. Just one more rifle round in his breast pocket but by the time he re-modified Brenda back into the hand gun Gustaf would probably jump him or fire another round from his pistol. That is if he hadn't dropped it in his plight. He turned Brenda about, using the butt of the gun as his invite for wanton retaliation.

He could hear him, somewhere in the dank and grime, sniffling like a sow. He grabbed Brenda tight. Ready to take his head off if need be.

'Come out, Gustaf, I've got some questions for you. Or, if you like, we can play this merry dance all night? Your choice but I reckon your shoulder is ready to fall off by now, and these Sewer-Snipes look rather hungry tonight . . .'

Brick shined his torch through every quarter of the alley but couldn't find him. He could start looking through the bins but really didn't fancy the prospect.

'If you're not out here in ten seconds then I'll blow the other arm off.'

Brick then felt the first spattering's of rust rain. A faint, yet warm droplet upon his sizzled moss-brows.

'Oh great, now it's gonna rain.'

But there was something about the temperature of it. Something that quizzed his intellect. He then felt another droplet upon his massive forehead and he looked up. There, spread-eagle in a web of translucent gelatinous matter, Gustaf Felstrom was splayed, wrapped in a cocoon of woven dream. An insect in amber.

'What the hell . . .'

Something then shuffled from the darkness and Brick nearly took the butt of Brenda to its face and then stopped as he observed the old tramp pointing and laughing at the suspended Felstrom. Brick cast his torch over the old man and realised it was the same tramp who had pestered him in the motel.

'Luk li I beet ya da hum, Insikter.'

'Old man I've had my fill tonight and I always keep my promises -' Brick grabbed the old tramp by his left lapel and raised the butt of Brenda.

The tramp giggled like a schoolgirl and sighed.

'Ol Watch. Olways soo hod-hedded . . . Isn't that right, Inspector Brick, decorated officer of the Brentish Watch?'

Brick looked at him closely and then up at the dream cocoon above. 'Ah, hell. Another Mapper. As if one wasn't bad enough. Who the hell are ya pal?'

The tramp started to pull off the dream matter attached to his face like old make-up. 'Not another one, Inspector . . .' said the well-spoken tramp, 'Just the same one,' he smiled, revealing the unmistakable features of Varosiums's finest.

'Xindii. Xindii? What the hell?'

He let go of the Mapper and Xindii spread out his arms wide. 'Hello Inspector.'

'You son of a whore.'

Xindii raised his eyebrows. 'Well, quite.'