Mark Chadbourn - World's end

"So where was he going on a regular basis?" Church asked pointedly. Mrs. Gibbons had no idea. "I think the police looked into this, but didn't get anywhere," she said. Church wasn't deterred. He called the minicab firm. The receptionist asked around in the office and a few minutes later came back with an address.

The house was a small semi in High Barnet; half-rendered, with more UPVC windows and a paved-over front garden where a few yellow weeds forced their way among the cracks. The light that glared through the glass of the front door seemed unpleasantly bright. They rang the bell and it was answered immediately by a woman with dyed black hair and sallow skin. She dragged on a cigarette, eyeing them suspiciously while Ruth ran through her patter. She reluctantly allowed them into the hall, which smelled of cigarettes and bacon fat.

"He came round to see my uncle every week," she said, glancing at a photo of Gibbons which his wife had lent them. "Queer duck, but he used to perk the old man up. He's not well, you know. Hasn't left his bed in weeks. I got lumbered looking after him." She wrinkled her nose in what could have been disgust or irritation.

"Can we see him?" Church asked.

The woman nodded, then added combatively, "I'm going out soon."

"Don't worry, we can let ourselves out," Ruth said disarmingly. "What's your uncle's name?"

"Kraicow," the woman snapped as if that was all she knew.

She led the way up the stairs and swung open a bedroom door on to a painfully thin old man, his limbs just bone draped in skin. He lay on the top of his bed in striped pyjamas with one arm thrown across his eyes. His hair was merely tufts of silver on his pillow.

"Is it okay if we talk to him?" Church said.

"Just one of you," the woman said. "He gets very confused if there's more than one person speaking." She added obliquely, "He's an artist, you know. Used to be quite well known."

The woman left them alone, and Church went to sit by the bed while Ruth watched from the door. Church remained quiet as Kraicow twitched and moaned beneath his arm, but eventually the old man removed it from his face and looked at Church with clear grey eyes, as if he had known he had a visitor all along.

"Hello, I'm Jack Churchill," Church said quietly. "I hope you don't mind me coming to see you."

Kraicow looked away and mumbled something; Church wondered if he'd be able to get any sense out of him at all. But when Kraicow looked back he spoke in a clear, deep voice. "I'm pleased to see any human face after looking at that miserable bitch all day long. She never leaves me alone."

"You don't know me," Church continued, "but I wanted to talk to you about Maurice Gibbons."

Church wondered how he would be able to discuss the matter without upsetting Kraicow about Gibbons' death, but the old man said simply, "He's dead, isn't he?"

Church nodded.

"I warned him."

A hush seemed to descend on the house. "Warned him about what?"

Kraicow levered himself up on his elbows so he could look Church in the face. For a moment the old man's eyes ranged across Church's features as if he was searching for something he could trust, before slowly lowering himself down with a wheeze. "Maurice saw my breakdown … what the bastards at the health centre call my breakdown," he began in a voice so low Church had to bend forward to hear him. "It was in the street, in Clerkenwell-where I work. I was making too much noise. Ranting, I suppose. Not surprising under the circumstances. Maurice overheard some of the things I said, and he knew straight away I was telling the truth because he'd seen the same thing too."

"What had you seen?" Church whispered.

Kraicow licked his dry lips. "You know much about the old myths and legends?"

"It depends which ones."

"The final battle between Good and Evil. The end of this cycle and the start of something new." The front door slammed loudly; Kraicow's niece had gone. "The legend is the same all over the world. The End-Time." Kraicow grabbed Church's wrist with fingers which seemed too strong for his feeble state. "They're coming back."

"Who are?" Church's mood dampened; more craziness. "Aliens? Demons?"

"No!" Kraicow said emphatically. "I told you, the old myths. Not fairytales, no, no, not folklore!" His eyes rolled back until all Church could see were the whites. "The legends are true."

"Are you okay?"

Kraicow threw his arm across his face again. "The legends said they'd be back for the final battle and they were right! Do you think we stand a chance against them?"

"Take it easy," Church said calmly. "Why did Maurice come to see you?"

"He knew they were back! He'd seen them too. He knew they were biding their time, but they'll be making their move soon-they won't wait long. The doors are open!"

"Did Maurice say-"

"He wanted to know what to do! He was so frightened. So frightened. He knew they wouldn't let him have the knowledge for long … they'd get to him. But who could he tell? The bastards put me in here!"

Church sat back in his chair in disappointment; he was getting nowhere. Was Gibbons as crazed as Kraicow, or were his visits some kind of altruistic act? He glanced at Ruth, about to take his leave, but Kraicow grabbed his shirt and dragged him forward.

"Remember the old legend: In England's darkest hour, a hero shall arise. It's there. It's been written." He took a deep breath and some degree of normalcy returned to him. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I'm sorry-

"No, no, it's crazy talk. I've spent too long breathing in those paint fumes." He chuckled throatily. "Look in the top drawer."

Curiously Church followed his nod to the bedside cabinet. In the drawer was an envelope; an address was scribbled on the front. "That's my studio. You go there, you'll see."

"I can't-"

"You'll find what you're looking for. Peace of mind. Direction. You'll know what happened to Maurice. It's up to you now." He pushed Church away roughly and rolled over. "Go!"

Church glanced at the envelope one more time, then reluctantly took it. At the door, he silenced Ruth's questions with a simple, "Later." Downstairs was in darkness. In the gloom, Church felt eyes on his back although he knew the place was empty, and he didn't feel safe until they were outside, dialling a cab on Ruth's mobile.

Kraicow's studio was at the top of a Victorian warehouse in one of the many unredeemed backstreets that formed the heart of Clerkenwell. From the outside it seemed almost derelict: smashed windows filthy with dust, graffiti and posters for bands that had long since split up. Unidentified hulks of machinery were scattered around the ground floor, which stank of engine oil and dirt. But when they climbed out of the service lift at the summit, Kraicow's room presented itself to them in a burst of colour and a smell of oil paint and solvent. An enormous, half-completed canvas was suspended over the centre of the floor, but it was impossible to tell from the splashes of colour exactly what it would eventually be. Other canvases of all sizes were stacked against various walls. The floor was bare boards, but clean, and there was a small camp bed in one corner where the artist obviously snatched a rest during his more intense periods of work. On an uneven table was a collection of tubes of oil, dirty rags, a palette and a jar filled with brushes.

"Do you ever get the feeling you're wasting your time?" Ruth said as she looked around at the disarray.

"You were the one who insisted we go down every avenue, however ridiculous," Church replied. "Personally, I think you've been reading way too much Sherlock Holmes."

Ruth began to search through the stacked canvases. "What are we looking for?"

"God knows." Church busied himself with an investigation of a pile of rags and empty paint pots near the window. On the top was a sheet of sketch paper where Kraicow had written El sueno de la Razon Produce monstruos. Church read it aloud, then asked, "What does that mean?"