DEADSPACE

02

He heard the muffled crunch of bone as he hit the ground. The pain flared up and died in the same instant.

A cold tide swallowed Crane whole, and in his frozen delirium he felt a padded surface beneath him-like some sort of bed-and then he seemed to fall again and his eyes snapped open, and Kingston stared up at the spires of New York.

***

Francesca was not typically a woman of prayer, but as she arrived at work she thanked each God she knew of that she'd never indulged in twitter.

"You're trending!" The receptionist called out brightly as Francesca crossed the foyer.

Trending. She knew enough about that phrase to understand that the interview yesterday had gone off like a nuclear bomb. She wondered whether, in the fallout, she had won the war or lost it.

This morning's events had left her suspecting the latter.

She'd been dreaming-a rare, uncomfortable experience-only to find her eyes open and resting on the high white ceiling of her bedroom. A barely muffled chorus of yells was swelling in her front yard.

In a daze, Francesca walked across the room and threw back the curtains only to be blinded by an array of gaudy signs and banners. Eventually she could make out the sizeable crowd beneath the bright stream of colour, and took in the snarls and the jeers and apparent tears that broke out like a tropical storm at the sight of her appearance.

A protest. Oh, for God's sake. She pulled the curtains shut again.

It was earlier than she would have liked to get out of bed, but the noise was stronger than any stimulant. Francesca took her time in the shower, letting the hard, steady drum of water on her back drown out the yelling.

She dressed leisurely, cooked herself an omelette, and wondered if it was worth asking the gardner to re-seed the lawn this afternoon.

Eventually, at ten to eight, she knew she'd have to bite the bullet and head out there. She picked her smartest lavender duffel coat and held her briefcase close. As she undid the latch, she half expected the crowd to spill into her foyer but-and it was worse, almost-the two-hundred-odd people came to a standstill one by one.

They stepped away from her porch. They lowered their signs.

Aside from the occasional impatient camera flash, Francesca headed for her garage in near silence. Her heels clacked, and their eyes tracked her path. She could sense the hunger in the baited breath of dozens of reporters and disputers.

Eventually, someone broke formation.

"Are they safe in there, Dr. Lane-Riley?" A weak voice cut through the crowd. "I thought my boy was doing his time upstate. But he's not, he's with you, so could you possibly let me know that he's safe?"

Francesca swallowed and kept walking. If she spoke one word, everyone would demand her voice. After yesterday's interview she could not afford a single misplaced syllable.

"I'd like to know." The woman tried again. "It's not like anyone told me this was happening! Did Dennis know? Dennis Murphy?"

Francesca reached the car door.

"Dennis? My son, Dennis?"

"Answer her, bitch!" A hand gripped her shoulder and Francesca was forced roughly to the ground.

She yelled in shock before scrambling to look up at her attacker. A man almost her age with cigarette breath that would cling to the sleeve of her coat for eternity. She twisted madly, trying to find an opening in the forest of bodies. More hands found her coat sleeves. More voices.