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practice incisions—getting a feel for the wand’s hair-trigger with his long, thin fingers.
    ‘We begin,’ he says, ‘by splitting the lower jaw.’
    Gloved hands pull at her lower lip and the wand screeches. Ionized blood and bone fills her mouth. It’s the last thing she’ll ever taste. She tries to tear her head away, but the only things she can move are her eyes, sweeping the operating theatre, theviewing gallery, looking for something, anything to stop this from happening. This is not how it’s supposed to end. She was careful. She was so very careful.
    There is a cracking noise. Her whole head shifts, as the surgeon works one half of her jaw free of its socket.
    Then her eyes find Him .
    He’s sitting in the front row, His face close to the glass, Network-issue, dark-blue suit almost invisible in the dim light of the viewing gallery. Here to watch her suffer. The ragged scar she gave Him is just a faint purple line now, snaking its way down His face like a tear of drying blood. Soon there will be no trace of it left, scrubbed away through the miracle of modern medicine. But the scar she’s given His soul will be there forever.
    Will stood underneath the cooling unit, enjoying the breeze on the back of his neck. Outside, the sun was at its zenith, broiling the air until it shimmered. But in here it was nice and cold.
    It was always cold in the mortuary.
    ‘Any luck yet, George?’
    The man in the green plastic overalls looked up and shook his head. A human jigsaw was spread out on the slab before him and, as Will watched, the pathologist dropped something unsettling onto a tray then smeared his hands down the front of his chest.
    George waddled over to a little sink and rinsed his gloves off. ‘How was Worrall’s funeral?’
    ‘Hour and a half late. The family weren’t particularly impressed.’
    ‘No pleasing some people…’ George sniffed, pulled out a handkerchief, and made horrible sticky snorting noises into it. ‘Machine’s still trolling through the database, but while we wait for an ID, want to see what I pulled out of your dead friend here?’
    ‘Not really, no.’
    George smiled, stretching his podgy face as far as it would go. ‘Thought you weren’t squeamish.’
    ‘I’m off for lunch in twenty minutes. Cafeteria do a good enough job of putting people off their food, they don’t need any help from you.’
    ‘Ah, funny you should mention lunch…’ He grabbed a clear plastic bag from the bench behind him. ‘Tada! Stomach contents!’
    ‘Wonderful.’ Will took one look at what was sloshing around in the pouch and changed his mind about having the ratatouille.
    ‘Knew you’d like it.’ George gave a huge, gurgly sniff. ‘Want to know what’s in it?’
    ‘Surprise me.’
    ‘Oh, I can do that all right: human flesh.’
    Will’s face froze. The drumming started again; the long dark corridors sticky with blood; the mutilated faces…’ Please tell me it was his own.’
    The pathologist shook his head. ‘Nope. It’s someone else’s. Consumed at least eight hours before he popped his clogs.’ George grinned, obviously happy to have ruined someone’s day. Rotten little gnome that he was. ‘Now you go off and enjoy your lunch. I’ll give you a shout if the machine comes up with anything.’
    Will’s new office was a lot larger than the last one, but there was the same lack of personal detail. No paintings, no knickknacks, no holos, not even a framed plaque. If it weren’t for the words ‘A SSISTANT S ECTION D IRECTOR W ILLIAM H UNTER ’ on the door, there would be no sign that anyone worked here at all.
    He reached out for the mug, sitting on a bland grey coaster, and took a mouthful. Gagged. Then spat it back into the cup. It used to be tea; now it was a cold, beige, watery liquid with a film of artificial milk scumming the surface.
    He carried the offending beverage out into the corridor and poured it into the nearest pot plant.
    ‘Mr Hunter?’
    Will froze.