His brain felt sticky and congealed as he rested his head against the clammy cold of the window pane, losing his sight to the dark moving gloom of the underground. Glimmers of Greenbank resurfacing in his subconscious like the dorsal fin of a garrolox.

He placed his paw against the breast pocket of his jacket and felt the phial. It wouldn't be long now, just one change at Farrow's Lane and then the monorail into Brentish. Inject this damn stuff into Xindii and on with the case, unless Inspector Brick had solved it already. He wished he had!

For all his curiosity and thirst for knowledge sometimes the Don wished he was back in the halls, eating crumpets and drinking tea. Playing chess and casually pouring a snifter of Cobalt sherry, reading passages from a dog-eared copy of Frankenstein or Bastard Pete.

It was times like this he felt old, parading around the quarters of Testament like some errant child, entertaining Heironymous Xindii in his flights of sociopathic fancy. Granted, the man was unconscious right now but there had been times and cases past where he could throttle the man.

He was old.

Old.

He had been old before the armies of Cooz came rampaging across the scrubland. An old Tatterfox with scabby wounds and seeping scars and the scientists of Cooz opened his mind and made the biggest yet. A gash that still burnt cold. There had been nights - sleepless nights - where the cold had awakened him. A mosaic of ice and scream playing in his mind's eye. He would fall from his bed and make toward the kitchen, standing there for hours on end, staring at his dark reflection in the glass until the steady crack of day roused him from times past.

There had been nights when he had lost himself to feral thoughts. Where somewhere between the divide of dream and lucidity the primal instinct had taken control. He woke one morning in his study to the sight of half a dozen encyclopedias ripped to shreds and used as bedding. The pungent odour of his bladder sprayed along the perimeter of his study. It took weeks to cleanse the ripe scent, scrubbing vigorously with soap and water and the scent of cedar wood.

He busied himself with learning, doing his damnedest to fill the gaping wound of ice. He filled it to the brim with literature and temporal mechanics, of gastronomy and molecular biology and for a while his mind was becalmed; sated. He would sleep and dream and not waver to the primal quarters of his brain and relish the thought that he had conquered his demons.

But like any bad dream they had a tenacity to intrude upon our psyche when least expected.

The Don had been invited to a charity ball courtesy of the University of Nesh in Frica. Much was heard of the famous - augmented - Don of Varosium and his cohort, the indomitable Mapper, Heironymous Xindii, although the Don had the feeling that the adulation was meant for the Mapper and not himself. But still, a free weekend among the streets and restaurants of Frica was particularly inviting and if Xindii found that the purpose of the visit was purely for the curiosity surrounding the Mapper he would almost certainly decline. Extravagant as he may be, the Mapper didn't entertain fools or hero worship. Mostly.

The weekend had begun beautifully. A coach for themselves leaving from Grand Brentish station and out across the Frugalmeyer Channel. The sturdy iron bridge reaching out to the horizon forty miles west to Frica.

They dined on poached gunark eggs and Flapperjack pate and sunk a bottle of Frican blonde and the Don filled his pipe with a fruity and fragrant shag, much to the Mapper's dismay.

'I keep a stash, for the odd occasion you realise.'

'Oh of course.' smiled the Mapper, wafting the scent out of the carriage.

Upon their arrival they were greeted by the Don of Nesh, a particularly old gentleman, hunched and quaverous, leaning on an old walking stick that had seen better days. His retainer and possible nurse maid welcomed the Varosium stalwarts and then gave them a delightful tour of the city en route to Nesh.

That night they dined in the halls with Professors and dignitaries, a feast to end all feasts. Meats and fish the Don had never seen, vegetables and fruit picked from unknown beaches in Kissledaw. Cheeses and bread of mouthwatering allure and a gallon of wine to wash it down with.

It was the first night of their venture when the Don's mind wandered. He woke to the sight of his room, well - The Don of Nesh's room - trashed and stinking of piss. That kind old man who had so willingly gave him his own room. Trusted him with it. The Don felt appalled and called Xindii to his quarters where the Mapper simply laughed and blamed the cheese.

The Mapper left him to it. Scrubbing the carpets and skirting boards vigorously with soap and water while Xindii made his way into the city to enjoy his weekend.

That night he swerved the cheese and for years after the Don of Nesh and his nurse maid always passed him an accusing look.

He felt the carriage shunt and the Don shook away the image of the nurse maid pointing her accusing finger in disgust. The train was slowing, pulling up to the platform of Farrow's Lane. The doors opened and a sorry bunch of late night revelers disembarked. They fell over each other, tripping and swaying, the prospect of warm beds and sleep galvanising them into a drunk-like canter.

The Don hung back, careful not to join the soiree of swinging arms and elbows. He clutched the phial once more and casually made his way to the monorail.

Twenty minutes later the Don emerged from Grand Brentish station and walked the remainder of the way to Church. He looked around him as the cool moisture of his breath wrapped itself around his neck; clinging dearly like a pilot fish in need of a ride.

The early hours of Mosrat were to behold. Pure silence, bar the occasional hiss of steam from beneath the sidewalk. Spectral ghosts of vapour slithering from the lungs of Testament, taking a moment to take stock of the day and breathe. A chance for the old city to stretch her muscles and slumber.

Mosrat. The Sabbath. The day of rest. Chance would be a fine thing thought the Don. The populace of Testament would be waking in seven hours to the prospect of lay-ins and fried breakfasts. Walks in the park and an afternoon canoodle fervoured by wine.

A usual Mosrat day for him would have been a wholesome breakfast of gunark eggs and toast, possibly a pot of honey wood tea and a casual perusal of the papers.

Lunch - with Xindii - depending on his mood at White Ladies, the hub of gastronomic heights in Brentish and then back to Varosium for a few glasses of Cobalt sherry and a walk in the grounds.

Evening, ah, sweet evening. A long and pampered soak in the bath with a good book and a cigarillo by the fire.

He had a distinct feeling that such delights were to evade him this day.

If indeed Testament was in need of her much deserved slumber the racket emanating from Church would have surely roused her from her night time cocoon.

As soon as the Don entered he heard the footfalls of panicking priests and nuns hurrying through the cloisters, scurrying down into the alcove where he had left Xindii only hours earlier.

He was steadfast. Watching them hurry and scuttle. The Don swallowed hard and placed his paw upon his breast pocket helplessly.

He moved at a steady pace down the corridor, the smell of antiseptic and incense proving a somewhat stomach churning cocktail.

The Don remained outside the alcove watching the clergy trying to resuscitate his old friend. They placed the defibrillator on his bare white chest and filled him full of volts and his body shook and spasmed.

Voices. Lots of voices.

'He has no heartbeat.'

'Try again.'

'There is no point. There is nothing there.'

'Then we'll try the old fashioned way.'

'There is no point.'

'Just DO IT.'

Xindii's priest pressed his left hand onto the Mapper's heart and his right on top and started pressing hard to a number of six. The young nun held Xindii's nose and breathed into his mouth. Nothing. Again the priest tried. The rhythm of six. The nun supplying her own oxygen.

The Don lent against the pillar and sighed deeply, watching the clergy in a frenzy of professional aptitude. They would not give in. Certain in their hearts that life would out.

Xindii's priest placed his hands upon the Mapper's chest once more and looked at his flock. 'One more, please god.'

He pressed hard and the Mapper's chest gave way into a chasm of fibrous membrane, a splurge of pink water and transparent matter. The priest was horrified as he held his hands in front of him, a fine and gelatinous membrane sticking to his fingers. The nun screamed as a deluge of water leaked from the cracked vessel, spilling torrents onto the floor. Other parts of the body gave way like cracked china as the insides of Heironymous Xindii washed down into the cloisters.

The priest looked at the Don, horrified as he washed his hands of the dream plasm on a towel.

'I will not be made a fool of your grace,' remarked the priest. 'What madness is this?'

The Don stood up and shook his head. 'I'm very sorry this has happened to you, father.'

'What?'

'This is a rouse, a charade. Some people tend to forget that once, Professor Heironymous Xindii was a decorated war hero. A master strategist and keen tactician. Unfortunately, for us, he is also a showman with a flair for the dramatic. This -' The Don said, pointing at the broken facsimile of the Mapper - 'is nothing more than a husk. A dream perpetuated by himself. An illusion to throw his quarry off the scent.'

'Did you know about this?' asked the Priest.

'If I had, I would have told him to hightail it to Sanis-Rhae himself and spare me the trouble.'

'So, where is he?'

'Where indeed?'

The Don turned about from the pantomime, nuns and priests still cavorting about like startled hens, Xindii's husk still leaking fluid of a rather opaque hue. There was laughter deep in the cloisters, a horrendous guttural choke that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

The Don left the alcove and casually made his way toward the choking shrill.

It moved its metal legs with a giddy vigor, as if the drama played out within the alcove had aroused it in some way. It cowered in the darkness, almost shy in its baleful amusement. Only the candlelight showed its contorted visage. The fat meat of the Auditors' Pope: The Gob.

Many thanks once again for your continued support you lovely people. Please, continue to vote and read and comment. Please, don't be shy. It's all good. We are near the half way point of this novel and rest assured I have many treats and terrors to divulge as yet. So please, buckle up, grab some wine and enjoy.

He will own you in the end . . .