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The ambient light must have increased; he could swear he saw Louise's mouth drop open.

"We're trapped inside Peter's head?" she said. "Like John? And you're happy about this?"

She sounded like she might be about to hit him.

"I'm ecstatic. John Bruce isn't President. The Truth Commission isn't after us. Peter Pendennis isn't running Upper Heywood and we're not being chased half-naked by rioting prisoners."

"But we're trapped inside a madman's head!"

"Temporarily. Trust me, I know the way out. In a few minutes, maybe an hour, we'll be back floating in the higher dimensions and taking John with us."

Or maybe sooner. He sat down at the base of the door, cursing hospital gown designers everywhere as a bare buttock met the cold concrete floor. The cold, gritty, concrete floor. No one could have swept the floor in ages.

"What are you doing?" asked Louise.

"Trying to separate. Peter's grip over this world could be diminished now."

"Why? Because he's being hypnotised?"

"You're catching on. He's woven a dreamworld around us. One where he's in control. As soon as that control slips he won't be able to stop us separating and out we go."

He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. A simple stretch and he'd be free. Okay, the body leaning against the door didn't exactly exist but the principle was the same. He was connected to a physical being and needed to fly free. How he visualised that physical entity didn't matter a jot.

He relaxed, pumped hydrogen inside his brain, inflated it, cut loose every mooring and waited for it to fly free.

It didn't. He tried again. Urging, cajoling, pushing . . .

It was no good. He was still being blocked.

He got up, dusted himself down, brushed the grit from his cheeks. And shrugged his shoulders. Pendennis would have to be made to relinquish control.

"Should we try the door?" asked Louise, searching for a handle. Anything to get out of the dark.

"No. We need to stay here. This is where Ziegler's bringing Peter and the sooner we confront Peter the sooner we get out."

"Are you sure we can do that?"

"Positive."

He sounded confident—or was that overconfidence? Surely he hadn't forgotten the encounter with the warders. Dreamworld or not, the pain had been real.

She ran a hand along the old panelled door and found a large metal ring. A door handle? She gave it a pull then a twist. The door rattled but didn't budge.

"What about Jack?" she asked. "Who do you think he is?"

"Some old wino Peter met here or an older boy who frightened him. Someone like that. Whoever it is they'll just be an illusion. It's Peter we've got to concentrate on."

Click. Louise turned at the sound. It came from deep in the gloom. Then it came again—much louder this time. A cranking sound as though a rusted metal lever had been thrown. Light. A stuttering swathe of light brought the museum into life as rows of fluorescent lights flickered across the ceiling—on, off, undecided then on again.

Old arcade games lined the walls. Old posters above them, pictures and photographs from the Victorian era. The paintwork dingy—the walls brown and the ceiling a tobacco-stained yellow. And no sign of Pendennis or Jack. The U-shaped room was empty. For now.

"Wow," said Nick, diving towards the exhibits. "I haven't seen machines like these in years."

"You're not seeing them now," said Louise. "Remember?"

She glanced back towards the door. That had to be the way he'd arrive. Wouldn't it be better to wait here and grab him as soon as he opened the door? Just in case he brought his minders with him.

"Have a look at this," shouted Nick.

Louise reluctantly followed. Nick was standing by a bank of old fairground games: test your strength, test your passion, read your fate, try your luck. Bagatelle games with rusty ball bearings, spirals of metal runways and strategically placed nails. Not a flashing light, electric circuit or blaring soundtrack amongst them. Simple fun for simpler times.

And simpler people. Like Nick.

He was pointing at a tableau of a graveyard in a glass case. "This must be nearly two hundred years old," he said. "Look at that ghoul's hair. It looks like someone pulled some horse hair out of a paintbrush and glued it on his head."

It did. She couldn't imagine a modern child, used to the near-perfect holographic games imagery of today, being impressed by the standard of craftsmanship.

"Isn't it great?" said Nick. "You drop a penny in the slot here and the great god Clockwork opens all the graves and moves the monsters."

He craned his head and looked left and right, searching. "There," he said, pointing to a pile of old copper coins stacked on a display case. "I'll show you."

"No," said Louise, locking her hand around his wrist. "One thing I learned a long time ago was not to tempt fate. You put a penny in there and that thing will come alive. Trust me."

"Maybe you're right," he said, moving along to the next exhibit.

Louise walked past, peering into every gap and corner, all the little places a six-year old boy could hide. And shouldn't there be another door? The room was U-shaped; something had to be at its centre.

She tried the right-hand wing of the room. No Pendennis and no door.

"This seems to be it," she said. "The only way Pendennis can get in is through that front door."

Nick didn't answer. He was becoming infuriating. Their lives were on the line and he wasn't even concentrating! He should be planning, working out contingencies. Looking worried.

She found him by a large wood and glass cabinet.

"Do you think this could be Jack?" he said, indicating the exhibit: Jolly Jack Tar, the laughing sailor; two and a half feet of painted wood and faded cloth ready to sing and dance for a penny.

Louise took a closer look. If she were six years old and lost and came face to face with that, she'd be frightened. It was ugly; its eyes were staring and menacing. And that mouth. It looked unnatural, the way the jaw hung down as though it had been dislocated and pinned back together. She shivered. Dummies had that effect on her. She'd never seen their appeal. Give her a cuddly toy any day.

"Are you sure you can handle Pendennis?" she asked.

"Absolutely. If Ziegler can hypnotise Peter, so can I."

"But what if you can't?"

She had visions of becoming another John. Trapped inside another man's body, screaming her innocence to an incredulous Ziegler, demanding he track down all her friends from the village. If she had any left.

"Look, Lou," he said. "John managed to surface and talk to Ziegler so we know that Peter can't maintain control for ever. Sooner or later he'll sleep or whatever it is he does and we'll surface too. And when we do, we separate."

He made it sound so easy—wait, surface and separate—no mention of the ordeal in between. Had John had to go through this? Was he still going through this? Was this Peter's initiation process for prospective new personalities—mess with their minds until they're too far gone to resist?

A wind picked up outside. It whistled through gaps in the door-frame, swirled under the door. A tiny whirl of dust and fallen leaves floated across the floor. The air turned colder

Louise stared doorwards and braced herself. It wouldn't be long.

Rain beat against the outside of the door. Hail, by the sound of it. Tiny pellets of ice skittered under the door.

And then someone was calling. A child's voice, plaintive, carried on the wind, almost drowned in the noise of the storm. A small child, wet, lost and looking for shelter.

"Go to the side of the door, Lou, and stay out of sight. If Peter tries to run back outside, grab him."

The iron ring door handle began to move. Louise took up her position to the right of the door. And behind Nick, a sailor began to laugh.

Déjà vu. Louise recognised the sound in an instant. She'd heard that laugh before. The instant before everything had gone black and Peter had pulled them into his sick, twisted world.

"Turn it off!" she shouted, her eyes dancing between the sailor and the door. Which was the bigger threat?

Nick didn't answer. He'd turned away from the door and was staring at the sailor: its head shaking with laughter, its hands outstretched, one foot raised ready to dance.

The door rattled, the wind howled and above both rose that laugh—no hint of humour anywhere near it: a manic, mechanical, forced laugh that built and built and crackled and shrieked, threatening to burst Louise's ear-drums apart.

Her hands flew to her ears. She told herself it was an illusion, to be strong, to ignore the sailor and concentrate on Pendennis.

But it was so hard. The pain! Her ears were bleeding. She was sure of it.

The door began to open. Nick hadn't noticed. He was still staring at Jack. He hadn't even covered his ears. Louise yelled at him to turn around.

And then the sailor began to dance.

Tiny feet and hands pumped out a rhythm—up and down—marching into madness. Faster now, its mouth growing wider, its rouged cheeks redder, its head thrown back with a deafening roar. Faster still, whirling and cavorting inside its glass cage, lifting its feet clear of the restraining wire until it was dancing wild and free.

The door opened. The wind came with it, flattening the heavy oak door against the wall. A small boy stood rooted in the doorway, staring at the sailor, rain beating off his head and shoulders.

Should she grab him? He was alone, stationary, an easy target. But then what? Nick was the one with the plan. What the hell was she supposed to do with the little shit? Beat him up until Nick came out of his trance?

She swayed in the wind, bent double, her hands clamped to her ears. How could she think straight with that bloody row in her head?

"Nick!" she shouted. He still didn't move, still staring at that dancing monstrosity. She staggered towards him.

"No, Jack." Another voice—Ziegler's—the words carried in on the wind, fighting against the sailor's laugh. "Stop that," he insisted. "You don't feel like laughing any more. You want to be quiet. You're feeling sleepy."

Jack danced faster, spinning its body like a dervish whilst keeping its eyes locked on Nick's. The laughter, if anything, grew louder.

Louise felt the building shake. Tiny shards of plaster fell from the ceiling. Cracks appeared in the walls. And blood began to trickle from Nick's ears.

No! She ran towards him, grabbed him, tried to pull him away. He wouldn't budge. He'd become rooted there. She shook him by the shoulders, pulled and shoved. Still the sailor laughed, still he danced. And still the building shook.

"You're feeling tired, Jack," said Ziegler. "You have to close your eyes."

Jack didn't care. And Nick wouldn't move. Louise covered Nick's eyes with her hand. Would that break the spell? He reached up and pulled her hand away.

Large chunks of plaster fell all around them. Masonry and ceiling joists. Lights flickered, went out, clattered to the floor. The whole building was coming apart.

She glanced towards the door. Peter was still there, as transfixed as Nick, his little eyes wide, his mouth parted in a silent 'O'.

And that bloody sailor—why wouldn't he shut up? Why wouldn't he go to sleep? He was being hypnotised, wasn't he?

Something wet trickled from Louise's ear. It's all illusion, she told herself. The blood, the sound, the pain. All illusion.

Everything except Ziegler's voice—and that was getting nowhere. "You're feeling tired, Jack," it said. "You can barely keep awake."

No effect. She had to do something! There was a length of wood in the rubble, she pulled it out, started swinging. Smashing the glass case then going after the sailor. Screaming at it as she did so, each sentence punctuated by a massive blow. "Go to! Fucking! Sleep!"

The sailor fell back, still laughing, got up and turned his gaze upon her. She looked to the side—avoiding his eyes—kept swinging, connected once . . . twice. Jack went down. The laughter stuttered. Nick moved. The spell had to be broken. She hit Jack again and again then threw down her club, launched herself at Nick and pushed him towards the door.

"Come on!" she urged, pushing and shoving, the building collapsing around them, the laughter starting up again.

Pendennis stood in the doorway, still staring at the sailor, enthralled. They barged past him, out into the rain and the wind and a seaside promenade that stretched for miles.

They ran, waves crashing against the shore to the left, the spray mingling with the wind and rain. They ran, a salty tang at the corner of Louise's mouth. They ran, on and on for ever.

Behind them a little boy grew into a man, a museum crumbled to dust and a tiny wooden figure climbed out of the ashes.

The promenade shimmered. Cliffs rose high on the right, a wall of water on the left—the two coming together. The sky falling to meet them. White clouds, white cliffs, white foaming water. Upper Heywood; she could see the corridor forming in front of her eyes.

They were back.

Nick and Louise stuttered to a halt at the next T-junction, placed their hands flat against the far wall and bent forward, fighting for breath. It was a while before either could speak.

"What happened to you back there?" asked Louise.

"I couldn't move," said Nick. "I looked into its eyes and that was it. I was paralyzed."

As had Pendennis.

"It's not just Peter in here, is it?" she said in between breaths. "We've got to contend with all his personalities. Even if he falls asleep there's still . . . the other dozen to contend with. He could pass us from one to the other."

"It doesn't change anything," said Nick. "Whoever assumes control . . . can be hypnotised. Even Peter . . . we saw it. And . . ." He took another deep breath. "Once I hypnotise them, the control is broken and we can get out."

"Jack can't be hypnotised."

He turned his head towards her and grinned. "I know. Which is why we've got to flush Peter out, slip a hypnotic noose around his neck and get the hell out."