Paul Johnson - The Soul collector

"Sure." I sat down on the steps. After he'd inspected the surface, he joined me.

"Jeremy Andrewes, interviewing Matt Wells, date-"

"Never mind that," I said, keeping an eye on the figure in leathers. "Here's the story. I know the identity of the person responsible for the murders of Mary Malone, Sandra Devonish-" I broke off as the biker began to walk across the courtyard in front of us.

"Yes?" prompted the journalist.

"Em, Sandra Devonish, Josh Hinkley, Dave Cummings and several gang members in East London."

"What?" Andrewes said, his eyes wide. "One person is responsible?"

I watched the helmeted figure out of the corner of my eye as it moved up the steps toward the museum entrance. The biker could now approach us behind the columns without me seeing. But it was imperative that I didn't turn my head to avoid putting her off, assuming it was Sara. I took a deep breath and tried to get my heart rate under control.

"Are you all right?" Andrewes asked. I was pretty sure he was worried he might not get his exclusive rather than genuinely concerned.

"Sure," I said, my voice hoarse.

"You're saying the same person killed all those people?"

I nodded. The temptation to look around was enormous, but I fixed my eyes on the short Japanese woman who was buying several cans of lemonade.

"I suppose you're going to tell me that's Sara Rob- bins," Andrewes said, determined to steal my thunder.

Somehow I resisted the urge to tell him that she was creeping up on us with murder in her heart. Where the hell was Andy? I'd been hung out to dry. Unless-

"Sara Robbins?" said a female voice behind us.

We both turned our heads. The motorbike rider had sat down two steps above us. She had raised her visor only a few centimeters, so I couldn't make out her face. She pulled off one glove and unzipped her jacket, then slipped her hand inside. When it came back out, she was holding an object that I couldn't immediately identify. She leaned forward and gripped Jeremy Andrewes's shoulder with her other hand and pulled him back, so that the hand holding the object was near his neck.

"This is a spring-loaded stiletto," the woman said. "I can have it in his jugular before you move, Matt."

"What?" Andrewes said, his voice rising several tones. "Who are you?"

It was a good question. The voice had a similar timbre to Sara's, but there was a lot of East London in it. Then again, Sara was quite capable of picking up accents. She used to do a very convincing Margaret Thatcher.

"I'm your death," the figure in leathers said. Then she gave a laugh that was as depraved as the White Devil's. "Don't move, Jeremy, and don't even think about calling out."

Thinking about it, I realized there was a lot of similarity between the two voices. Sara had obviously been turning herself into a female version of her brother.

"Let him go," I said, looking into my own eyes, reflected in the visor. "It's me you really want, Sara."

The laugh was repeated and I felt revulsion, but something else, as well-a strange mixture of fear and fascination. I didn't know where Andy was and I was looking my nemesis in the face. But there was something more..

"I don't want you, Matt," the figure in leathers said. "At least, not yet. Andrewes is the one I'm after today." She leaned closer, the knife with its invisible blade only centimeters from the journalist's jugular. In the courtyard below, people were chattering and children yelling. Nobody was paying the slightest attention to the three of us.

My mind was in freefall, thoughts and ideas flying around like bullets on the ricochet. Why was Andrewes the one she was after? What had he done to deserve death?

"Sara?" I said. "Why do you want to kill an innocent man?"

The laugh that came from the helmeted figure in leather was grotesque. "Innocent?" she said. "How many journalists are innocent?" I'd been about to shove Andrewes aside, but suddenly there was a blur of movement behind the motorbike rider and she was driven into the journalist, who toppled forward. The woman sprawled over him, and then slid rapidly down the steps before her helmet made contact with a paving-stone. The person who had piled into her went down the steps on hands and knees and sat on her back, then twisted her arm behind her.

I got up and joined them. "Jesus, Rog, you took your time. I didn't see you when I got here."

"I was just inside the main doors. That way no one saw me, including this specimen." He bounced on the woman's back to stop her struggling. "Sara Robbins, I presume?"

Two security guards were pushing their way through the crowd of kids and tourists.

"Yes, I think." Before I finished the sentence, the biker managed to throw Rog off her back with a heave to the side. She launched herself at Jeremy Andrewes, who was sitting rubbing his head. I raced up the steps and hit her in the belly with a tackle that Dave would have been proud of. But I wasn't quick enough. The stiletto had already caught the journalist in the throat. He started to gasp, blood pumping out between his fingers. The woman had got back on her feet and was now moving quickly toward me, clutching the knife. There was no time to think. I dropped the upper half of my body, let her torso crash onto my back, and then powered my shoulders up as fast as I could. I felt the weight fly off me and looked around to see her hit the bottom step headfirst. A loud crack rang out.

…images flashing…columns turning, blurred faces, stone steps. Then darkness. I can't see, I can't move, can't speak. I'm going… NO! No, I can't die. I've got every- thing.money, the power of the Lord Beneath the Earth, Mephistopheles.why aren't they helping me? I can't die. I'm a predator, not prey. The flat in Hackney…the enemy was inside, and the grenade I tossed should have taught them a lesson. They never caught me, they never caught on I was a woman. The beard was a good one, though I let the beautiful Kurdish boy see past it. I was never in love before.sex meant my so-called father sticking it in me when his bitch wife was drunk. I never wanted that again. Until I saw Faik. Instead of submitting to the urge to kill, I just shot him in the hand. And rescued him. I'm sure they thought it was a man disguised as a woman. No one could imagine it was a woman disguised as a man disguised as a woman…not even Sara would have thought of that. They never caught on I was a woman. She must have been impressed, she must have…

Followed my gorgeous Faik but.but I couldn't express my desires…only my violence. I thought Faik would respond to that, but he was a strange kind of gang member, he didn't want to hurt the Albanian, he looked at me with horror… My face, my ruined face.and Sara so beautiful, with her good surgeon.and me far too ugly to fix. Though I was sorry as soon as I'd done him, I wrote her that. Violence. She knew that I need it as she does. She encouraged me to start killing.the animals, making sure I threw what was left of the cats and dogs into the canal. But Sara was impatient.she said I couldn't just kill anyone, the victims had to be strong, dangerous, otherwise there was no point. Hard men, beasts of the street, I decided. Stabbing the fat Kurd was my first. Nervous before, but in the end it was easy. Power exploded inside me like Sara said. Killing for myself, killing for Sara, killing for Mephistopheles and the Lord Beneath the Earth. Where did one begin and the other end? It was all the same to me. Mephistopheles wanted funds for the order so I took drugs from the Shadows and set up the sale to the Albanians. I would have ransomed their man if Faik hadn't run away in disgust.

Oh, Faik, where are you now?

If only you could see how beautiful I am inside, so perfect.my ability to destroy.dedicating that to the Lord Beneath the Earth seemed to make sense. But now I think… Sara, Sara, my… NO! I can't be dying, I can't, oh, Faik, why did you reject me?