"Back home?" said Scarth, looking up at Paul. "Ice-cream?"

Paul shook his head. "There's no home any more, not after what you did."

Scarth nodded. "Go home now?"

"No, I just said, we can't. The police will be looking for us by now. I've got no home, no money, no nothing, thanks to you."

It was late and the streets were deserted. Light spilled from a couple of pubs and fast food outlets, but a quick glance through the windows showed them to be virtually empty. Not that Paul could afford to waste money on frivolous endeavours like food, drink and human company. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, promising rain before too soon. He would have to find a place to crash, or at least somewhere to huddle out of the rain. Were there hostels for the homeless in towns this size? Was there an informal underground where the street people would share prime sleeping spots? Was he ready yet to lose his self-respect and beg?

There was a multi-storey car park off to the left. At least it would be dry. Paul walked up the entrance ramp and surveyed the deserted floor. The only good thing he could say about it was it had a ceiling. If it rained, he would at least be dry, but the floors were open to the chill breeze, and decor was the latest in cold concrete and harsh fluorescent lights.

He made his way to the pedestrian staircase. That would be out of the wind, at least. Inside the enclosed stairwell Paul gagged on the unmistakable aroma of stale urine. He climbed the stairs in the hope it would become more sanitary higher up. It wasn't. He opened the door at the top and walked out onto the empty roof. Trailed by his own personal demon, Paul made his way to the parapet and looked over the town.

It wasn't his town, not any more. Down there were people socialising with friends, watching TV with loved ones, snuggling up in their own beds, casually accepting such luxuries as their right. Would he ever be normal again? Would he be part of the gloriously mundane world, or was he condemned to be a life-long outcast? He recalled the dirty, bearded wretches he had tried to ignore, back when he had a life. Shuffling along the streets, muttering to themselves, swigging cheap lager. Perhaps they weren't mad after all. Perhaps they too had their own version of Scarth.

Scarth jumped onto the low wall and looked out over the city, squatting there like a poorly-animated gargoyle. Paul was suddenly filled with a hatred and loathing for the creature that had, in a few hours, wrecked his life.

"You total and utter bastard," he said quietly.

Scarth turned to look at his master. "Hungry," he said.

"You're hungry? Are you? You want some ice-cream?"

Scarth nodded eagerly.

"Well, look over there," Paul said, indicating the black night beyond the parapet. Scarth turned to look. Paul closed his eyes and shoved hard. Long, long seconds later he heard the distant thud of a body hitting the concrete. He looked over the edge into the inky blackness. All was quiet.

"Scarth?" he called. Silence was the only reply.

He turned and slid down the wall until he sat, back propped against the concrete, knees hugged close to his chest. So that was it. Paul started to cry, the whimpering turning into long, noisy sobs as the relief and the horror took hold of him.

"You alright, mate?" said a voice in the night. Paul fisted the tears from his eyes and looked up. Three young men stood before him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. No worries," he lied, struggling to his feet. "Tough day, that's all."

"Yeah? Well, it's just about to get worse. Give us your wallet."

"You have got to be kidding me," Paul said.

"No," said the leader. "And your watch, phone, and car keys."

"I don't have a car," said Paul.

"Then give us everything you got, and if we find car keys on you, we'll give you a good kicking."

"For starters," added one of the other thugs.

"You have no idea," said Paul. "You have no clue as to what I've been through. You think being beaten up means anything to me? You think, after the last few days, you can do anything to me? What can you do, that's anywhere near the hell my life is?" The relief and angst was metamorphosing into anger. Paul was shaking. His knuckles ached, and he realised he had clenched his hands into tight fists.

The leader casually removed his hands from his jacket pockets. Paul saw the glint of a knife blade. "Don't be fucking stupid, arsehole," he said. "Just give us your stuff, and you don't get hurt."

Paul had witnessed several murders, and was pretty sure Scarth had eaten Mrs Henderson too. The police were after him. He had no job, no friends, no future, no hope. This final indignity was too much. All he had left was his life, and it was a piss-poor excuse for a life at that. He might as well join Scarth. How bad could the pit of pain be?

"You want my stuff, you sad little waster?" Paul started slowly towards them. "You think you can just take it? Over my dead body, you ...." Paul wasn't experienced in insults. He had never been in this position before. What would send these losers packing, or over the edge? "You chavs!"

"He's high," said one of the muggers. He sounded nervous. "Angel dust. Saw a mate do that once. Thought he was fucking Superman, or something. Wanted to fight the world."

The leader stood his ground until Paul and he were face to face. "That it?" he said. "You high? You got more? 'Cos we'll have that too, ta very much."

"Piss off!" said Paul, trying to put as much menace into his voice as he could. It didn't sound convincing, even to his ears.

The mugger smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was one full of contempt. He turned slightly, as if he was leaving, then jerked back. Paul felt the impact in his stomach. It hurt, but not as much as he thought it might. This was it, then. This nightmare was over. On to the next one.

He smiled at his attacker, and took a step backwards.

"Christ! You did it. You stabbed him. Hardcore!" said one of the gang, awe in his voice.

As Paul stepped back off the knife, the pain evaporated. He waited. Would he see the tunnel, or just drift off into sleep?

Or maybe just stand here, looking stupid, as the moment stretched on.

"Is that all you've got?" he asked.

The leader lunged forward. This time the knife entered Paul's chest up to the hilt. The attacker pulled the knife back out.

Paul looked down. The blade had left a neat slit in his shirt, just under the pocket. He was vaguely disappointed to see no blood. There should be a bright crimson flower of it now, if the films on TV were anything to go by. He looked back up at his attacker.

"A vest! The bastard's wearing a stab-proof vest." The knifeman grabbed Paul by his ruined shirt in one hand and swung the knife in one vicious sweep across his throat.

Paul felt the blade slice his skin, slide deeper in as it cut cartilage and flesh, tear through artery and vein. His hand flew to his neck as the pain seared through his throat. The thug pushed Paul back with a snarl.

The pain left as quickly as it had arrived. Paul removed his hand and looked at it. It was free of blood. He looked up in puzzled surprise at his attacker, and met a stare of horror and fear.

"What the ..." The youth with the knife never finished his curse, as the stair door flew open with a crash. Scarth stood for a moment, and it was apparent to Paul that the muggers could see him as well.

"Master!" screamed Scarth, and sprinted forward. For such a tiny form, Scarth moved with blurred speed. Before anyone could move, Scarth was on the first of the gang. He knocked him to the ground, then hurled him into the wall as though he were tossing a pillow. The youth hit the wall with a sickening crunch. There was a red stain on the wall as he slid motionless to the floor.

Scarth turned to the knifeman. The thug swung the knife, which screeched across Scarth's leathery skin before snapping in two. Scarth jumped onto the man, grabbing his jacket in his claws and planting his feet in the unfortunate's stomach. The thug tried a few desperate punches before Scarth brought his bony forehead into the man's nose. As the two fell to the ground Scarth stood on the man's chest, placed clawed hands either side of his head and pulled. Paul turned and dry-heaved as he heard the snap and crunch of bone.

The stairwell door slammed shut. The third gang member was nowhere to be seen.

"Master?" asked Scarth, looking from Paul to the door.

"No," said Paul. "Let him go. No-one's going to believe him anyway."

Scarth looked disappointed, but stayed where he was. "Scarth hungry, Master."

"Wait," ordered Paul. He looked around the rooftop. The missing gang member might be on his way to the police already, but that was unlikely. He was party to a robbery, after all. When day broke, though, the bodies would raise fresh questions. And Paul had thought begging was as low as he could descend.

"We need money," he said, edging towards the body crumpled on the ground. He gingerly emptied the pockets of corpse with his fingertips, fighting the gag reflex all the way.

He tried to kill you, he thought to himself. He was a lowlife robber. How many others had they mugged before you? He was pretty quick with that knife. Were you the first he had stabbed? Would you have been the last? He and his comrade were the scum of society.

And you are such a shining example of purity, a second internal voice added.

Paul stuffed the notes into his own pocket. Was that what life was worth? Hardly more than a restaurant meal. He turned towards the body by the wall. "He's yours," he said over his shoulder, not wanting to look. The corpse on the edge of the roof yielded even less money. Scarth slouched up to Paul's side.

"Scarth fell," he said, pointing to the low wall.

"Yes, you fell," said Paul. "Are you alright?"

Scarth seemed to consider this for a moment. "Scarth hungry," he said, as though that was the worst thing that could result in a six-storey fall onto concrete. Paul glanced over to the place the would-be murderer had lain. There was nothing there. The clouds were heavier than a little while ago. The rain was imminent. It would wash away the blood and other evidence soon enough. Even so, Paul wanted to be on a train somewhere far away by then.

"Knock yourself out," he said, turning from the body and walking towards the door.