‘Igor?’ The howl of the wind in the fir trees. The rippling crash of the thunder. The pecking hammer of the rain on the shed roof, like a spectral Fred and Ginger doing the Tap Danse Macabre. ‘Igor, tha daft booger, what’s tha playin’ at?’ The bounty hunter flickered. Imagine a double-sided mirror. He was on both sides simultaneously. Half of him, during this strange moment of transition, was in Fiction, half in Reality. He’d never been in Reality before, in whole, part or instalments. A less completely focused individual might have paused to look around, admire the scenery, take an interest. He didn’t. Understandable; when the SAS are parachuted in miles behind enemy lines to blow up a bridge or rescue a hostage, they don’t make detours to take a look at interesting old churches or unusual rock formations. Likewise with the bounty hunter, only more so. Go in, do the job, get out again. Yes. Absolutely. He was looking for a doorway . . . ‘IGOR!!’ In the distance, an unfastened gate banged eerily.
