On Sunday morning Richard took the Batmobile-shaped telephone he had been given for Christmas several years earlier by his Aunt Maude out of the drawer at the bottom of the closet and plugged it into the wall. He tried telephoning Jessica, but without success. Her answering machine was turned off, as was her cellular phone. He supposed she had gone back to her parents' house in the country, and he had no desire to phone her there. Richard found Jessica's parents deeply intimidating, each in their separate ways. Neither of them had entirely approved of him as a future son-in-law: in fact, her mother had, on one occasion, mentioned to him quite casually how disappointed they were by Richard and Jessica's engagement, and her conviction that Jessica could, if she wanted to, do so much better.
    Richard's own parents were both dead. His father had died quite suddenly when Richard was still a small boy, of a heart attack. His mother died very slowly after that, and once Richard left home she simply faded away: six months after he moved to London he took the train back up to Scotland, to spend her last two days in a small county hospital sitting beside her bed. Sometimes she had known him; at other times she had called him by his father's name.
    Richard sat on his couch, and he brooded. The events of the previous two days became less and less real, increasingly less likely. What was real was the message that Jessica had left on his machine, telling him she did not want to see him again. He played it, and replayed it, that Sunday, hoping each time that she would relent, that he'd hear warmth in her voice. He never did.
    He thought about going out and buying a Sunday paper but decided not to. Arnold Stockton, Jessica's boss, a many-chinned, self-made caricature of a man, owned all the Sunday papers that Rupert Murdoch had failed to buy. His own papers talked about him, and so did the rest. Reading a Sunday paper would, Richard suspected, probably end up reminding him of the dinner he had failed to attend on Friday night. So instead Richard had a long hot bath and a number of sandwiches, and several cups of tea. He watched a little Sunday afternoon television and constructed conversations with Jessica in his head. At the end of each mental dialogue they would fall into each other's arms, make wild, angry, tear-stained and passionate love; and then everything would be all right.

    On Monday morning Richard's alarm failed to go off. He came out onto the street at a run at ten to nine, briefcase swinging, staring up and down the road like a madman, praying for a taxi. Then he sighed with relief, because a big black car was heading down the road toward him, its yellow "taxi" sign bright. He waved at it and yelled.
    The taxi slid gently past him, ignoring him completely; it turned a corner and was gone.
    Another taxi. Another yellow light that meant the taxi was available. This time Richard stepped out into the middle of the road to flag it down. It swerved past him and continued on its way. Richard began to swear under his breath. Then he ran for the nearest Tube station.
    He pulled out a pocketful of coins, stabbed the button of the ticket machine for a single ticket to Charing Cross, and thumbed his change into the slot. Every coin he put in went straight through the guts of the machine and clattered into the tray at the bottom. No ticket appeared. He tried another ticket machine, with the same lack of result. And another. The ticket seller in the office was speaking to someone on the telephone when Richard went over to complain and to buy his ticket manually; and despite--or perhaps because of--Richard's cries of "Hey!" and "Excuse me!" and his desperate tapping on the plastic barrier with a coin, the man remained resolutely on the telephone.
    "Fuck it," announced Richard, and he vaulted the barrier. No one stopped him; no one seemed to care. He ran, breathless and sweating, down the escalator, and made it onto the crowded platform just as a train came in.
    As a child, Richard had had nightmares in which he simply wasn't there, in which, no matter how much noise he made, no matter what he did, nobody ever noticed him at all. He began to feel like that now, as people pushed in front of him; he was buffeted by the crowd, pushed this way and that by commuters getting off, by others getting on.
    He persisted, pushing and shoving in his turn, until he was almost on the train--he had one arm inside--when the doors began to hiss closed. He pulled his hand back, but his coat-sleeve was trapped. Richard began to hammer on the door, and to shout, expecting the driver at least to open the door enough for him to free his sleeve. But instead the train began to move off, and Richard was forced to run down the platform, stumbling, faster and faster. He dropped his briefcase onto the platform, pulled desperately at his sleeve with his free hand. The sleeve ripped, and he fell forward, scraping his hand on the platform, ripping his trousers at the knee. Richard climbed, a little unsteadily, to his feet, then walked back down the platform and retrieved his briefcase.
    He looked at his ripped sleeve and his grazed hand and his torn trousers. Then he walked up the stone stairs and out of the Underground station. Nobody asked him for a ticket on the way out.

    "I'm sorry I'm late," said Richard, to no one in particular in the crowded office. The clock on the office wall said that it was 10:30. He dropped his briefcase on his chair, wiped the sweat from his face with his handkerchief. "You wouldn't believe what it was like getting here," he continued. "It was a nightmare."
    He looked down at his desktop. There was something missing. Or, more precisely, there was everything missing. "Where are my things?" he asked the room, a little more loudly. "Where is my telephone? Where are my trolls?"
    He checked the desk drawers. They were empty too: not even a Mars bar wrapper or a twisted paper clip to show that Richard had ever been there. Sylvia was coming toward him, in conversation with two rather hefty gentlemen. Richard walked over to her. "Sylvia? What's going on?"
    "I'm sorry?" said Sylvia, politely. She pointed the desk out to the hefty gentlemen, who each took an end of it, and began to carry it out of the office. "Careful now," she told them.
    "My desk. Where are they taking it?"
    Sylvia stared at him, gently puzzled. "And you are . . . ?"
    / _don't need this shit,_ thought Richard. "Richard," he said, sarcastically. "Richard Mayhew."
    "Ah," said Sylvia. Then her attention slid off Richard, like water off an oiled duck, and she said, "No, not over there. For heaven's sakes," to the removal men, and hurried after them as they carried off Richard's desk.
    Richard watched her go. Then he walked through the office until he got to Gary's workstation. Gary was answering e-mail. Richard looked at the screen: the e-mail Gary seemed to be writing was both sexually explicit and addressed to someone who was not Gary's girlfriend. Embarrassed, Richard moved around to the other side of the desk.
    "Gary. What's going on? Is this a joke or something?"
    Gary looked around, as if he had heard something. He flicked the keyboard, activating a screen-saver of dancing hippopotami, then he shook his head as if to clear it, picked up the telephone, and began to dial. Richard slammed his hand down on the phone, cutting Gary off.
    "Look, this isn't funny. I don't know what everyone's playing at." Finally, to his enormous relief, Gary looked up at him. Richard continued, "If I've been fired then just tell me I've been fired, but all this pretending I'm not here . . . "
    And then Gary smiled and said, "Hi. Yeah. I'm Gary Perunu. Can I help you?"
    "I don't think so," said Richard, coldly, and he walked out of the office, leaving his briefcase behind him.

    Richard's offices were on the third floor of a big, old, drafty building, just off the Strand. Jessica worked about halfway up a large crystalline, mirrored structure in the City of London, fifteen minutes' walk up the road.
    Richard jogged up that road. He got to the Stockton building in ten minutes, walked straight past the uniformed security guards on duty on the ground floor, stepped into the elevator, and went up. The inside of the elevator was mirrored, and he stared at himself as he went up. His tie was half-undone and askew, his coat was ripped, his pants torn, his hair was a sweaty mess . . . God, he looked awful.
    There was a fluting tone, and the elevator door opened. Jessica's floor was quite opulent, in an underdecorated sort of way. There was a receptionist by the elevator, a poised and elegant creature who looked like her take-home pay beat Richard's hands down. She was reading _Cosmopolitan._ She did not look up as Richard came over.
    "I need to talk to Jessica Bartram," said Richard. "It's important. I have to speak with her."
    The receptionist ignored him, intent upon examining her nails. Richard walked down the corridor until he got to Jessica's office. He opened the door and went in. She was standing in front of three large posters, each advertising "Angels over England--A Traveling Exhibition," each with a different image of an angel on it. She turned as he came in, and she smiled warmly at him.
    "Jessica. Thank God. Listen, I think I'm going mad or something. It started when I couldn't get a taxi this morning, and then the office and the Tube and--" He showed her his ragged sleeve. "It's like I've become some kind of non-person." She smiled at him some more, reassuringly. "Look," said Richard. "I'm sorry about the other night. Well, not about what I did, but about upsetting you, and . . . look, I'm sorry, and it's all crazy, and I don't honestly know what to do."
    And Jessica nodded, and continued to smile sympathetically, and then she said, "You're going to think I'm absolutely awful, but I have a really dreadful memory for faces. Give me a second, and I know I'll get it."
    And at that point, Richard knew that it was real, and a heavy dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Whatever madness was happening that day was really happening. It was no joke, no trick or prank. "It's okay," he said, dully. "Forget it."
    And he walked away, out the door and down the corridor. He was almost at the lift when she called his name.
    "Richard!"
    He turned. It _had_ been a joke. Some kind of petty revenge. Something he could explain. "Richard . . . Maybury?" She seemed proud of herself for remembering that much.
    "Mayhew," said Richard, and he got into the elevator, and the doors sang a sad fluting downward trill as they closed behind him.

    Richard walked back to his flat, upset and confused and angry. Sometimes he would wave at taxis, but never with any real hope that they would stop, and none of them did. His feet hurt, and his eyes stung, and he knew that soon enough he would wake up from today and a proper Monday, a sensible Monday, a decent, honest Monday would begin.
    When he reached the apartment, he filled the bathtub with hot water, abandoned his clothes on the bed, and, naked, walked through the hall and climbed into the relaxing waters. He had almost dozed off when he heard a key turn, a door open and close, and a smooth male voice say, "Of course, you're the first I've shown around today, but I've got a list of people as long as your arm who are interested."
    "It's not as large as I imagined, from the details your office sent us," said a woman.
    "It's compact, yes. But I like to think of that as a virtue."
    Richard had not bothered locking the bathroom door. He was, after all, the only person there.
    A gruffer, rougher male voice said, "Thought you said it was an unfurnished apartment. Looks pretty damned furnished to me."
    "The previous tenant must have left some of his accoutrements behind. Funny. They never told me anything about that."
    Richard stood up in the bathtub. Then, because he was naked, and the people could walk in at any moment, he sat back down. Rather desperately, he looked around the bathroom for a towel. "Oh look, George," said the woman in the hallway. "Someone's left a towel on this chair."
    Richard inspected and rejected as poor towel substitutes a loofah, a half-empty bottle of shampoo, and a small yellow rubber duck. "What's the bathroom like?" asked the woman. Richard grabbed a washcloth and draped it in front of his crotch. Then he stood up, with his back to the wall, and prepared to be mortified. The door was pushed open. Three people walked into the bathroom: a young man in a camel-hair coat, and a middle-aged couple. Richard wondered if they were as embarrassed as he was.
    "It's a bit small," said the woman.
    "Compact," corrected the camel-hair coat, smoothly. "Easy to take care of." The woman ran her finger along the side of the sink and wrinkled her nose. "I think we've seen it all," said the middle-aged man. They walked out of the bathroom.
    "It _would_ be very convenient for everything," said the woman. A conversation continued in lower tones. Richard climbed out of the bath and edged over to the door. He spotted the towel on the chair in the hall, and he leaned out and grabbed it. "We'll take it," said the woman.
    "You will?" said the camel-hair coat.
    "It's just what we want," she explained. "Or it will be, once we've made it homey. Could it be ready for Wednesday?"
    "Of course. We'll have all of this rubbish cleaned out of here tomorrow, no problem."
    Richard, cold and dripping and wrapped in his towel, glared at them from the doorway. "It's not rubbish," he said. "It's my stuff."
    "We'll pick up the keys from your office, then."
    "Excuse me," said Richard, plaintively. "I live here."
    They pushed past Richard on their way to the front door. "Pleasure doing business with you," said the camel-hair coat.
    "Can you . . . can any of you hear me? This is my apartment. I live here."
    "If you fax contract details to my office--" said the gruff man, then the door slammed behind them and Richard stood in the hallway of what used to be his apartment. He shivered, in the silence, from the cold. "This," announced Richard to the world, in direct defiance of the evidence of his senses, "is not happening." The Batphone shrilled, and its headlights flashed. Richard picked it up, warily. "Hello?"
    The line hissed and crackled as if the call were coming from a long way away. The voice at the other end of the phone was unfamiliar. "Mister Mayhew?" it said. "Mister Richard Mayhew?"
    "Yes," he said. And then, delighted, "You can hear me. Oh thank God. Who is this?"
    "My associate and I met you on Saturday, Mister Mayhew. I was enquiring as to the whereabouts of a certain young lady. Do you remember?" The tones were oily, nasty, foxy.
    "Oh. Yes. It's you."
    "Mister Mayhew. You said Door wasn't with you. We have reason to believe that you were embroidering the truth more than perhaps a little."
    "Well, _you_ said you were her brother."
    "_All_ men are brothers, Mister Mayhew."
    "She's not here anymore. And I don't know where she is."
    "We know that, Mister Mayhew. We are perfectly cognizant of both of those facts. And to be magnificently frank, Mister Mayhew--and I'm sure you want me to be frank, don't you?--were I you, I would no longer worry about the young lady. Her days are numbered, and the number in question isn't even in the double digits."
    "Why are you calling me?"
    "Mister Mayhew," said Mr. Croup, helpfully, "do you know what your own liver tastes like?" Richard was silent. "Because Mister Vandemar has promised me that he's personally going to cut it out and stuff it into your mouth before he slits your sad little throat. So you'll find out, won't you?"
    "I'm calling the police. You can't threaten me like this."
    "Mister Mayhew. You can call anyone you wish. But I'd hate you to think we were making a threat. Neither myself nor Mister Vandemar make threats, do we Mister Vandemar?"
    "No? Then what the hell _are_ you doing?"
    "We're making a promise," said Mr. Croup through the static and the echo and the hiss. "And we do know where you live." And he hung up.
    Richard held the phone tightly, staring at it, then he stabbed the nine key three times: Fire, Police, and Ambulance. "Emergency services," said the emergency operator. "What service do you require?"
    "Can you put me through to the police, please? A man just threatened to kill me, and I don't think he was joking."
    There was a pause. He hoped he was being put through to the police. After a few moments, the voice said, "Emergency services. Hello? Is there anyone there? Hello?" And then Richard put down the phone, went into his bedroom, and put his clothes on, because he was cold and naked and scared, and there wasn't really anything else he could do.
    Eventually, and after some deliberation, he took the black sports bag from under the bed and put socks into it. Underpants. Some T-shirts. His passport. His wallet. He was wearing jeans, sneakers, a thick sweater. He remembered the way the girl who called herself Door had said good-bye. The way she had paused, the way she had said she was sorry . . .
    "You knew," he said to the empty apartment. "You knew this would happen." He went into the kitchen, took some fruit from the bowl, put that into the bag. Then he zipped it up and walked out onto the darkened street.

    The ATM took his card with a whirr. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PIN NUMBER, it said. Richard typed in his secret pin number (D-I-C-K). The screen went blank. PLEASE WAIT, it said, and the screen went blank. Somewhere in the depths of the machine something grumbled and growled.
    THIS CARD IS NOT VALID. PLEASE CONTACT CARD ISSUER. There was a chunking noise, and the card slid out again.
    "Spare any change?" said a tired voice from behind him. Richard turned: the man was short and old and balding, his scraggly beard a matted tangle of yellow and gray. The lines of his face were etched deeply in black dirt. He wore a filthy coat over the ruin of a dark gray sweater. His eyes were gray as well, and rheumy.
    Richard handed the man his card. "Here," he said. "Keep it. There's about fifteen hundred pounds in there, if you can get to it."
    The man took the card in his street-blackened hands, looked at it, turned it over, and said, flatly, "Thanks a bunch. That and sixty pence'll get me a nice cup of coffee." He gave Richard his card back, and began to walk down the street.
    Richard picked up his bag. Then he went after the man and said, "Hey. Hang on. You can see me."
    "Nothing wrong with _my_ eyes," said the man.
    "Listen," said Richard, "have you ever heard of a place called 'The Floating Market'? I need to get there. There's a girl called Door . . . " But the man had begun, nervously, to back away from Richard. "Look, I really need help," said Richard. "Please?"
    The man stared at him, without pity. Richard sighed. "Okay," he said. "I'm sorry I troubled you." He turned away, and, clenching the handle of his bag in both hands so that they hardly shook at all, he began to walk down the High Street.
    "Oy," hissed the man. Richard looked back at him. He was beckoning. "Come on, down here, quickly man." The man hurried down some steps on the derelict houses at the side of the road--garbage-strewn steps, leading down to abandoned basement apartments. Richard stumbled after him. At the bottom of the steps was a door, which the man pushed open. He waited for Richard to go through, and shut the door behind them. Through the door, they were in darkness. There was a scratch, and the noise of a match flaring into life: the man touched the match to the wick of an old railwayman's lamp, which caught, casting slightly less light than the match had, and they walked together through a dark place.
    It smelled musty, of damp and old brick, of rot and the dark. "Where are we?" Richard whispered. His guide shushed him to silence. They reached another door set in a wall. The man rapped on it rhythmically. There was a pause, and then the door swung open.
    For a moment, Richard was blinded by the sudden light. He was standing in a huge, vaulted room, an underground hall, filled with firelight and smoke. Small fires burned around the room. Shadowy people stood by the flames, roasting small animals on spits. People scurried from fire to fire. It reminded him of Hell--or rather, the way that he had thought of Hell, as a schoolboy. The smoke irritated his lungs, and he coughed. A hundred eyes turned, then, and stared at him: a hundred eyes, unblinking and unfriendly.
    A man scuttled toward them. He had long hair, a patchy brown beard, and his ragged clothes were trimmed with fur--orange-and-white-and-black fur, like the coat of a calico cat. He would have been taller than Richard, but he walked with a pronounced stoop, his hands held up at his chest, fingers pressed together. "What? What is it? What is this?" he asked Richard's guide. "Who've you brought us, Iliaster? Talk-talk-talk."
    "He's from the Upside," said the guide. _(Iliaster?_ thought Richard.) "Was asking about the Lady Door. And the Floating Market. Brought him to you, Lord Rat-speaker. Figured you'd know what to do with him." There were now more than a dozen of the fur-trimmed people standing around them, women and men, and even a few children. They moved in scurries: moments of stillness, followed by hasty dashes toward Richard.
    The Lord Rat-speaker reached inside his fur-trimmed rags and pulled out a wicked-looking sliver of glass, about eight inches long. Some poorly cured fur had been tied around the bottom half of it to form an improvised grip. Firelight glinted from the glass blade. The Lord Rat-speaker put the shard to Richard's throat. "Oh yes. Yes-yes-yes," he cluttered, excitedly. "I know _exactly_ what to do with him."