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repairing, not destroying. But he knew enough about ghosts to understand they were capable of raw emotion but otherwise inflexible.
    His tune quickened as he approached the kings. Images smoked in his mind – hundreds slaughtered by Roman hands, crowns falling into pools of blood. The noise of battle tenderized his brain. Still he played, steam spilling from the mouth of the instrument. The images broke, spraying up pain and torn flesh and death – so much death. The faces of the kings distorted. Their bodies leaned towards him, drawn to the pipe. Thinner and thinner they stretched, as if hypnotized. In rapid snaps, the dragon pipe’s jaw caught each by a thread.
    Ailen walked backwards, towing the spirits in the direction of the sigil. He sensed shadows lunge for him, heard the explosion of salt in the air and knew Popule was keeping the warriors at bay. The kings, meanwhile, became trailing ether. Ailen didn’t look away for a moment but kept on stepping backwards until he saw the chalked line of the sigil underfoot. He heard the canon chanting his Bible passages a few feet away; all he could do was trust in the man to have left sanctuary and taken Naw with him. Stepping to the edge of the sigil, he twisted at the waist, cast out over the chalked circle and released the jaw of the pipe.
    It took only seconds for the kings’ spirits to interweave on top of the weird symbols, like stitches in time. The instant their masters were gone, the ghost warriors dissolved. Returned to history.
    Ailen nodded at Popule, who returned the gesture. Nearby, Canon Nicholas hugged Naw. His face streaked with blood and tears, the priest’s eyes danced about the walls and he kept up his muttering.
The Shakes
, thought Ailen.
    He would tend to the young man later. First he had a poltergeist to catch.
     
    A distant spectator could be forgiven for mistaking the two young girls in nightgowns and the boy in mummer’s garb for the best of friends. Ailen, though, knew the girls owed their manifestation to a malevolent spirit. Once upon a time he had been interested in the origins of such entities, had studied papers by the great spiritualists of the modern age. It was Willy who had convinced him that there was no reasoning with a poltergeist, no explanation which would aid his understanding or his empathy. There was only the squatting toad of a spirit inside its chosen object, ready to scare or taunt or main on a whim.
    Yet seeing Thom conversing with the ghost girls suggested a softer, more human presence. Ailen knew that was a lie. He joined Willy in the shadows.
    “The others alive?” Willy nodded sharply in the direction of the South Transept.
    “Naw’s wounded. Canon’s got the Shakes. Popule is in one piece.”
    Willy glanced up. “Beautiful building, this. Shame it’s built on a field of the dead.” He sucked his gums against the pain of his burned hands and stared back over at Thom. “Seems almost a shame to interrupt them.”
    “Aye. If they were what they seem.” Ailen slipped the macabre necklace from around his neck. It was one of Willy’s voodoo creations, made up of dead beetles, lambs’ wool, chicken claws and the dried remains of mice. He pointed at the apparitions of the two girls. “We both know poltergeists love dead things.”
    He rattled the necklace. The girls moved on to all fours, shoulders hunching, cocking their heads one way then the other. Hanging the necklace off his belt, Ailen adjusted his grip on his dragon pipe. He muttered: “I could use a little salt in the atmosphere.”
    A hand patted his shoulder. Popule’s. The man’s eyes shone crystal blue; the soot covering his face was streaked by sweat.
    Popule fed a fresh cartridge into his revolver and spun the barrel shut. Ailen was glad of the backup as he stepped out of the shadows.
    “You all right there, Thom?”
    “They’re very sad, Mr Savage,” he replied. Ailen felt the familiar twinge of regret not to be recognized as anything more