A noise broke his stupor, a careless rustling and tearing like a cat or 
fox going through a rubbish bag. And again, closer to his window. 
He got up, cautiously, and walked across the floor, bare feet picking 
up little particles of lint from the over-vacuumed carpet as he went. 
He twitched aside the diaphanous orange curtain and looked down. 


The Travelodge took the form of two buildings connected by a 
bridge on the second floor—the gap between them was used for 
refuse collection, deliveries and the like, and Edward's room had a 
commanding view of this little alleyway. What he saw now in the 
glaring security spotlights was the form of a gigantic man, more than 
seven feet tall, crouching in the refuse skip a storey beneath the 
window. The man was entirely nude, massive corded muscles 
covering his form, and something in that nakedness made him seem 
less than human—an animal given human shape. It looked up, and 
he saw that over its head was a tattered hessian bag, stained dark 
about a third of the way down. It might once have been fastened 
around his neck with a drawstring, but it had torn so the cord lay 
around his neck like a necklace and the bag hung loose around his 
jaw. There was no way he could see through it but Edward knew as 
surely as anything he had experienced in his life that he had been 
seen, and recognised. His hands had become clumsy and he batted 
at the curtains, trying to close them. The bedside drawers were 
affixed to the bed, which proved beyond the efforts of Edward's lean 
frame to move. In the end he settled for walking the wardrobe 
across the room and allowing it to fall horizontally across the door 
with a satisfyingly solid thud. 


"Keep it down!" shouted the man in the next room. "Some of us are 
trying to sleep." 


Edward scoured the room for anything that might be used as a 


weapon, finding precious little that could actually be detached from 
the walls or tables. In the end he smashed the bathroom mirror with 
the toilet plunger, found a large triangular piece that looked like it 
would hold up relatively well, and tested the edge, before wrapping 
half of it in a flannel. He sat on the bed with his silver dagger, 
watching the door. 


There was no transition—from Edward's perspective, one moment 
he was sitting up, engaged in his vigil, and the next he was flat on 
the bed, eyes closed. Had he fallen asleep? He opened his eyes 
and angled himself upwards, momentarily startled by the face-shape 
looming out of the strangely deepened darkess in the unfamiliar 
room. He waited for the waking pareidolia to subside, for the face to 
resolve itself into the edge of a lampshade or his coat hanging on 
the chair. It didn't. 


"Well done, Mr Gradley," it said. Edward jerked upright, hands 
searching for the piece of mirror and finding nothing. 


"| think the Bagman's losing his touch," Marshall continued, "| gave 

him your spoor from the fake comb but you managed to shake him 

somehow. Like you'd dropped off the face of the earth. It took him a 
full day to pick your scent up again." 


As his eyes readjusted to the darkness, Edward saw to his horror 
that the massive man was there, kneeling behind Marshall with its 
hessian forehead almost touching the floor in an attitude of 
prostration. The wardrobe had been flung aside like a toothpick, and 
now rested across the window, blocking the light from the street. 


"Now, Mr Gradley. You have some things that belong to me. I'd like 
you to return them now." Marshall's voice was like a universe of 
knives behind a silk curtain. 


"What things would those be, exactly?" Edward said, groggily. With 
any luck Marshall thought he was just being insolent. 


"A certain codex, Mr Gradley. And a certain antique comb. One 
stolen from my premises, the other still owed to me after you 
delivered a clumsy forgery. You have quite a way of repaying my 


trust." 


"| ran into Someone who was very interested in you," Edward said 
—"| wonder if you've heard of them. They call themselves," he 
struggled to remember what Death had said, "the SCP Foundation." 
He was gratified by the look of recognition, rage and was that?— 
yes!—the minutest trace of fear, in Marshall's expression. 


"Really," he said, taking a step back and placing his hand on the 
monstrous man's head—reassuring, Edward realised, but also 
seeking reassurance himself in the creature's strength. "What did 
they say, | wonder?" 


"Well," said Edward, carefully, "| seem to have given them the 
impression that I've deserted MC&D and am going to deliver them 
the items you mention. Sorry for the stunt with the codex; | had to 
take it so they would see you trying to find me and think | was on the 
level." 


"What's this?" Marshall seemed startled. 


"I'll get them back to you, just as soon as | can go back to where I'm 
keeping them." 


"And where is that, exactly? I'm sure our friend here is more than a 
match for any agents," he spat the word as though it was hateful to 
him—"of the Foundation who might be watching it." 


"And then they would know that it was a hoax and | never intended 
to hand them over. No, just give me a couple of days to work this 
out. I'll be in the confidence of the Foundation and you'll have your 
things back." 


"And | would have a man in Cooper Drake and the Foundation," 
mused Marshall, hungrily. "| suppose this is an attempt to make 
yourself indispensable?" 


"| Know what you did to David. What you had Alexandra do,” said 
Edward, allowing a tendril of anger to shine through. 


Marshall scoffed: "| barely hinted at it. Your friend filled in all the 
blanks herself. She—if | can use the word—was quite eager at the 


prospect. | presume from the commotion around her residence that 
you evened the score in your acquisition of the comb." Edward's 
heart sank. 


"| know Maclintyre's your man. He outlasted David—l'm not about to 
let him outlast me. If you kill me, you lose the codex, and the comb, 
and an inside track on the Foundation." 


Marshall scowled, and snapped his fingers. The Bagman rose to his 
full height, arms thicker than Marshall's torso. Edward closed his 
eyes. 


"You have two days to do what you need to do. At the end of that 
time | expect my property returned to me—genuine, undamaged. Do 
you understand?" 


When he opened his eyes Marshall and the creature were gone. 
The door hung on one hinge, the lock torn from its moorings. 
Edward looked at the collapsing wardrobe, tiny fragments of 
mirrordust coating the bed and floor. Travelodge weren't going to be 
happy. 


Edward had hoped that he had misunderstood Marshall when he 
had mentioned Lady Penelope's house. He had ridden over to 
Swindon on the bus—Carter's stay of execution apparently not 
extending to the return of the Porsche—half-expecting to see the 
Four Horsemen sitting in the seats. When he got there he saw the 
whole house had been taped off—two police cars had drawn up at 
the front together with a dark, understated vehicle he assumed 
belonged to the coroner. 


"What's going on?" he asked the stony-faced policeman at the front 
gate. "Is Alexandra okay?" He had some vague thought that he 
might be invited inside, but the policeman just shook his head. 


"Do you know the Lady Penelope, sir?" he asked. Edward 
stammered out an affirmative. "Think you'd better go home, sir. 
You'll probably read about it soon enough." 


There would be no hope of gaining access and retrieving the comb, 


Edward realised, and he cursed himself for not having had the guts 
to take it and keep it somewhere safer. He turned on his heel and 
left, just as another policeman said: 


"Hold on, wasn't you at the Went suicide? Here, Travers, get his 
number." 


But another bus had already drawn up at the stop and Edward 
moved as swiftly has he could towards it, not caring much which 
direction it took him. By the time the police had decided he was a 
person of interest the driver had already pulled away and they made 
no attempt to halt it. 


He was almost out of trump cards, he thought. Almost. He got out 
his phone. One bar of charge left. He made two calls; the first to 
Death, the second to Maria. Both started the same way: 


"I'm sorry. | need one more favour." 


The one to Maria Beaumont ended "I love you. Goodbye.” 


Edward took the elevator up to the trading floor at Cooper Drake. 
The security staff and the pretty secretary with glasses had looked 
askance at him; Maria's grandfather's suit was fine enough but he 
had slept in it two nights running and he had been expelled from the 
Travelodge without even the luxury of a shower. He caught a 
glimpse of himself in the glass ceiling as he rose through it—hollow- 
eyed and unshaven, his mother's dark brown, almost black hair 
contrasting with his father's Yorkshire complexion, giving him the 
appearance of a week's worth of beard. He didn't look like he 
belonged here anymore. When he reached the top floor his team 
caught sight of him and hollered enthusiastically, one shouting that 
Oxford Fullerene had gone up almost twenty percent in value since 
Edward bought in. It all seemed like distant memories—a lifetime 
ago. Liz's eyes went wide when she saw him and she started 
walking in the opposite direction. As she passed him, she said 
"Seven years." and he nodded. 


Macintyre came out of his office to see what was happening and 
strode over, bristling. 


SCP-575: Predatory Darkness 


Item #: SCP-575 
Object Class: Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: Any and all instances of 
SCP-575 are to be immediately isolated and contained with Protocol 
AL-9077 (see Advanced Lighting and Emergency Containment 
Strategies handbook) and transported to secured containment. 
Should an instance of SCP-575 exceed a safely containable size, 
Protocol AL-9077-B is to be used to divide and isolate SCP-575 into 
smaller instances. 


Containment units are to be made of two airtight rooms, each sealed 
by airlocks. The outer room, Containment A, is to remain lit at all 
times, with no less than two back-up generators on stand-by. Light 
fixtures are to be checked weekly, and any blackouts in 
Containment A will result in immediate lockdown until total 
illumination is restored. 


The inner containment unit, Containment B, is to be coated ina 
layer of pure calcium both inside and out. Personnel entering 
Containment B are to be fitted with LED-embedded clothing and 
equipped with portable floodlights in case of emergency. Interaction 
with SCP-575 should be limited to sample collection and 
observation. Any samples obtained from SCP-575 must be treated 
in the same manner as the original source and all test areas must 
have calcium lining and emergency illumination procedures similar 
to those outlined here. 


Any and all civilian deaths resulting from SCP-575 are to be 
attributed to wild animal attack/scavenger predation of an already 
deceased subject. Should deeper scrutiny be applied, attacks are to 
be blamed on a serial killer/satanic cult, and any additional 
information is sealed “due to ongoing investigation”. 


"Where the hell have you been, Gradley? Part of having 
responsibility for a team means being here to oversee them. As it is 
they've been running your bloody portfolio. Partners at Cooper 
Drake are held to a higher standard!" 


Edward leaned in, smiled. "Like making millions off stock tips from 
an international money launderer. Or having people underneath you 
murdered so no-one gets too big for their boots." He had the 
satisfaction of seeing Macintyre wilt; someone had left him in the 
dryer too long and the starched fabric he was made out of had gone 
limp. Edward continued, in a louder tone. "I'm going to make myself 
a cup of coffee and then I'm going to have a sit down. You can wait 
for the main event." 


He didn't have to wait long. Edward didn't even bother to turn on his 
computer, instead sitting with his shredded boots up on the desk 
while he sipped his first cup of coffee in days that didn't taste like 
something had died in it. His team had realised something was 
about to happen and had quietened down. Myers and Reagan, it 
seemed, sensed what was coming better than MacIntyre and had 
made hurried excuses and left the building. 


"Gradley." The voice was at normal modulation but somehow filled 
the air, deafening the admittedly somewhat muted buzz of the floor. 
Edward swivelled his chair and saw the tall blond man enter, 
wearing a red and black evening jacket and with a pair of gold- 
rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose. In the doorway behind him 
he could see a massive, dark shape. 


"Jesus Christ Edward," said Maclntyre, rising from the table at which 
he had been sitting head bowed and fingers tapping. "You brought 
him here. You fucking brought Marshall here. What the fuck have 
you done?" 


"I'm here to get what's mine, Mr Gradley," said Marshall, gliding over 
the floor. The other stockbrokers looked on, bemused by the 
apparent reckoning taking place. 


"You're going to be disappointed then, Jeremy," shrugged Edward. 
"| don't have either the codex or the comb anymore. Nor would | be 
inclined to return them to you if | did." 


Marshall's mouth twitched upwards but his composure remained 
intact. "I thought so. You're a thief, Gradley. At least your father paid 
his way. Who did you sell them to? The Foundation? The Global 
Occult Coalition? GRU? Or am | going to hear that you gave my 
property to those ragbag conspiracy theorists? Oh yes, | Know about 
them. They're flies, Mr Gradley." 


"None of the above," said Edward, and he saw Marshall detect the 
sincerity in his voice. 


"What?" 


"You heard me. I'm not going to enlighten you—you're the only 
Saturday morning cartoon villain in the room, you can handle the 
monologues." 


"Do you actually think you can walk away?" challenged Marshall. 
"How far up does this go, Mr MacIntyre? Did you sanction this 
betrayal?" MacIntyre blanched even further, shaking his head and 
sinking to his knees. 


"| do. I'm going to walk out of this building and disappear. 
Somewhere you'll never find me." Edward was fighting every instinct 
he had to put his hand in his pocket. Don't give him the satisfaction 
of knowing. 


"We can follow you anywhere." 
"You know that's not true." 


Marshall shook his head. "I'll have everyone close to you taken and 
brought to me. Your mother, Beatrycze Wozny—perhaps you 
thought | didn't know where she lives. And the Beaumont woman— 
ah, | see that touches a nerve. Is it love?" Edward remembered the 
turn of phrase and looked at MacIntyre, still kneeling aghast on the 
floor. You're his creature, Edward thought, bought and paid for. You 
even think like him. You didn't go to the clubhouse, maybe didn't 
even care about the objects. You just wanted the secrets to allow 
you to keep rolling your life up into that one big futile bet. And now 
you can see it coming apart. Marshall can't, not yet, but you can. 


Edward answered, calmly. "The best protection | can give those | 
care for is to tell you right now—I'll never come back. | don't even 
think | would be told if something happened to them. But even if | 
were, | wouldn't come back." 


"A selfish little bastard to the end, then," said Marshall, still sneering, 
but some of the wind knocked out of his sails. "You think you 
wouldn't return for my blood if | captured and killed your mother? 
You have no idea about the human psyche, do you, you little ape? 
Men aren't in control of their drives, they are controlled by them. The 
success of Marshall, Carter & Dark is testimony to the fact that 
choices make men, not the other way around. If | were to take lovely 
Maria and have her despoiled..."