was on the radio as the car pulled away. As Rebus crossed the street, the man got to his feet. He stood with one hand against the cafe window, the other held to his head. As Rebus approached, the man seemed to sense his presence, staggered away from the cafe into the road. 'Christ!' he yelled. 'Help me!' He fell to his knees again, both hands scrabbling at his scalp. His face was a mask of blood. Rebus crouched in front of him. 'We'll get you an ambulance,' he said. A crowd had gathered at the window of the cafe. The door had been pulled open, and two young men were watching, like they were onlookers at a piece of street theatre. Rebus recognised them: Kenny Houston and Pretty-Boy. 'Don't just stand there!' he yelled. Houston looked to Pretty-Boy, but Pretty-Boy wasn't moving. Rebus took out his mobile, called in the emergency, his eyes fixing on Pretty-Boy: black wavy hair, eyeliner. Black leather jacket, black polo-neck, black jeans. Stones: 'Paint it Black'. But the face chalk-white, like it had been powdered. Rebus walked up to the door. Behind him, the man was beginning to wail, a roar of pain echoing into the night sky. 'We don't know him,' Pretty-Boy said. 'I didn't ask if you knew him, I asked for help.' Pretty-Boy didn't blink. 'The magic word.' Rebus got right up into his face. Pretty-Boy smiled and nodded towards Houston, who went to fetch towels. Most of the customers had