Robbie sips slowly at his pint and studies the pub from his seat at a corner table. It's not one of their regular places. James recommended it as a likely place to wait for him, so he knew it would have decent ale and no earsplitting music. Still, on 31 October, even a normally respectable pub may put on a different face for the night.

There are some decorations scattered around, but they're almost more Harvest Festival than Halloween: miniature pumpkins on each table, pumpkin fairy lights, and a big pot of scarlet and gold chrysanthemums at the far end of the bar. No fake spider's webs, cardboard skeletons, skulls with blinking red eyes or other bits of macabre tat. And, yeah, some of the punters are in costume, but he can't blame the Three Bells for that. He glances again at his watch: just past seven. James ought to be here by now.

As if summoned by that thought, James Hathaway walks in the door of the pub. He looks sombre in the dark grey suit he wore to work today, but when he spots Robbie, his face lights up with a smile, and he hurries forward. "Sorry I'm late. Father Smyth wanted a word after the service."

"Problem?" Robbie asks. He doesn't recognise the priest's name. Smyth is not James's confessor, the one who knows his secret.

"No, he wanted to talk to me after the service about a youth music programme he's planning." The corner of his mouth quirks. "It took two minutes to answer his question... and rather longer to get away."

Robbie smiles. "If you'd like to atone for your lateness, you can get the first round."

"A novel approach to penance," James quips. "Perhaps I should mention it to Father Kennet."

"A radical reformer, is he?"

James seems to be holding back a laugh. "Far from it, but he's a Jesuit."

Robbie searches his memory. "They're supposed to be very clever, yeah? Academic types?"

"That's right. They tend to favour flexible approaches to problem-solving." James turns and heads towards the bar.

It's good that James has another person to confide in. Someone who knows the secret hidden under that ordinary grey jacket and white shirt. And considering the harm done by James's childhood priest, who filled his head with nonsense about God's will for a winged boy, it's good that he's got a more sensible bloke advising him now.

James returns with two glasses. Robbie takes a sip and nods his approval. They pull a decent pint here.

They chat about this and that: DI Jackson's latest case, Robbie's plans for his allotment next spring, a funny incident involving one of James's bandmates. Robbie fetches the next round, and when that's finished, it's time to head for the Thai restaurant. As it's only a few streets away, and the weather is mild for late October, they decide to walk. A nearly-full moon beams down on the city.

As they exit the pub, two young men in costumes hurry by. One is dressed as Noddy: blue hat, red shirt and yellow scarf. The other is a vampire, Robbie supposes. The fangs are unmistakable. He's wearing black, though it's modern clothing, with no Dracula-style cape. And his face has been made deathly pale with make-up, but it's the trendy stuff kids wear at clubs, with glitter mixed into it.

Robby lets out a derisive snort. "I don't care for all this Halloween rubbish that's come over from America. We didn't have it when I was a lad, or when my kids were little. None of this dressing up nonsense."

"If you want to blame someone for Halloween costumes, you'll have to start with the Scots and Irish," James informs him. "They have a very old tradition called 'guising'—going from door to door in costumes." He's explaining how emigrants brought guising to the United States in the nineteenth century, when a scream cuts through the street sounds.

Some of the passersby look startled, then shrug off the noise as part of student Halloween antics. Robbie knows better. He learned to tell a fake scream from a real one when he was a young PC. He looks at James, sees that his sergeant has reached the same conclusion.

"It came from this direction." James sprints for a narrow side street, Robbie following close behind.

As they turn into the side street, the sound of running feet and ragged sobs guides them towards the mouth of an alleyway. A woman stumbles out of it. Robbie has time only to note the most basic details—thirtyish, with short, dark hair—before she lunges forward and grasps his left arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "Help me, he's got him, got my Charlie, my baby, he's a monster, Charlie, please!"

Robbie doesn't try to pull away, and he warns James off with a quick glance. The woman is desperate, not dangerous. She continues to gabble at him in a nonstop stream of words in which 'Charlie', 'monster', and 'please' appear frequently. Is she drunk or high? "Just calm down, okay? We're police officers. We'll do our best to help you and Charlie, but I need to understand what's happening. What's your name?" She gapes at him as if he's asked a foolish question, like her shoe size, or favourite variety of biscuit. Robbie repeats the question.

"Emma... Emma Johnson. Please! There isn't time!" And with the strength that belongs only to the truly desperate, she drags him into the alley.

The narrow passageway goes ten feet before opening into a rectangular yard, ten feet wide by twenty long. At the far end, another alley disappears into darkness. In the centre of this desolate space is a man. His face is obscured by shadows, but his long, bony hands are clearly visible. One is clamped on the shoulder of the little boy standing in front of him. The other holds a knife whose long blade glints wickedly in the moonlight.

Robbie's first act is to grab Emma's wrist, to prevent her from doing anything impulsive. As a parent, he wouldn't blame her; as a copper, he knows that the smallest thing can sometimes trigger a violent response. His second is to gesture urgently at James behind his back, warning him to get out of sight and call for backup. He doesn't dare look to see what's happening, so he focuses what's in front of him.

"Stay right there!" the man with the knife snaps.

Robbie raises his free hand, palm outwards. "Whatever you say. You're in charge."

"They shouldn't be here," the man says, sounding like a maître d' at a fancy restaurant who's spotted the wrong sort of fork next to the salad plate. He mutters to himself. The words are all English, and some of them are put together in sentences, but they make no sense. Some of them sound like prayers. Maybe God understands "Lord servant harken mercy selah celestial bestial framical," but to Robbie it's only gibberish.

"What's your name?" Robbie asks with as much calm as he can summon.

"Why are you asking?"

"I just want to know what to call you." Robbie hasn't had any formal training in hostage negotiations, but he knows that establishing a personal connection with the hostage taker is important.

There's a pause that's probably not as long as it seems. "Obadiah, Servant of the Most High."

Robbie's eyes are adjusting to the darkness. He can see that Obadiah is young, maybe late twenties, and shabbily dressed. Probably a rough sleeper. "Hello, Obadiah. I'm Robbie." He nods at the trembling woman beside him. "This is Emma. She's the mum of young Charlie, there." No response. "Is Charlie okay, Obadiah?"

Another pause. "He's fine."

"Please," Emma says, voice shaky but clear. "Please, don't hurt Charlie."

"Let your women keep silence!" Obadiah shouts, then repeats himself, softer, but still menacing, like the echo of thunder.

Not one of those, Robbie thinks. He darts a glance at Emma, half warning, half apology. She nods her understanding.

"I haven't hurt him."

"That's good to know, Obadiah." Charlie doesn't move or speak. He's probably in shock, poor lad.

"I wouldn't hurt him. I haven't hurt anyone since Siloam."

What the hell is Siloam? Better not to ask, Robbie decides.

"I just want him to carry a message for me."

"Perhaps I could take the message instead?"

"No! You can't—it has to be an innocent. A child. 'Suffer the little children to come unto me'."

"All right, all right," Robbie says soothingly. "Who's the message for?"

"God," Obadiah replies, sounding surprised that it isn't obvious. "I'm going to send the innocent to heaven, so he can carry my message to God."

Just around the corner, James braces himself against the wall. Christ, no! He'd seen the knife before ducking out of sight, and wasn't going to leave until he was sure that Robbie was in no immediate danger of attack. Then he'd decided to wait a little longer before calling in the Hostage and Crisis Team. If he could tell them in advance what kind of hostage taker they were facing, he'd reasoned, they'd have an easier time dealing with him. Now he knows. Psychotic, possibly schizophrenic, with religious delusions. Has he waited too long? He moves quietly several metres down the street before pulling his mobile out of his jacket pocket. Dispatch is #2 on speed dial. His finger hovers over the keypad.

Charlie needs help, and soon. There's no doubt of that. But are HCT the ones to help him? They're used to talking to all kinds of delusional people, but they don't speak Obadiah's language. The average hostage negotiator will have a certain amount of training in psychology. He likely won't know selah from Shiloh, and will certainly miss the significance of Siloam... as Robbie must have done. Obadiah surely means the Pool of Siloam, where Jesus sent the man who was blind from birth to be cured. What did Obadiah "see" when his eyes were opened?

He has to call HCT. What's the alternative, after all? Sauntering down the alley with a false smile and a mouthful of Bible verses, hoping that Obadiah isn't startled into violence? That's a last resort. He jabs at the keypad. Dispatch transfers him to DI Brian Bateman. James has heard the name, but doesn't know the man. Swiftly, he identifies himself, explains the situation, and offers his observations on the nature of Obadiah's delusions.

Bateman listens carefully. He must be taking notes, because he asks James how to spell Siloam. "Right. I think DS Povey is the man for this situation. Very good with the mentally disturbed, and he's a regular churchgoer. Used to be a youth group leader at St Matthew's. Only thing is, he'll be at home now, so it will likely take him fifteen to twenty minutes to get to you. Sounds like your governor is doing a good job of keeping the suspect calm, so the best thing you can do is to stay back and don't interfere. You got that, Hathaway?"

"Yes, sir," James says. He pockets his mobile, making sure that it's set to silent. Moving quietly, he returns to the spot where he'd been lurking, just around the corner from the mouth of the alley. He desperately wants a ciggie, but won't risk the smoke being seen. Instead, he focuses his attention on Obadiah's voice. As before, he's spouting a mixture of Bible verses, ramblings about his past, and jumbled, meaningless sentences of the sort that psychologists call 'word salad'.

Gradually, James becomes aware that Obadiah's monologue is changing. It's faster, louder, more urgent, and punctuated with demands of "Are you listening?" Something about it troubles him, but it takes a few minutes to realise what he's not hearing. Lewis isn't replying, isn't assuring Obadiah that of course he's listening to the madman's rant. And then: "Are you listening, Messenger?"

In reply, a thin, shaky voice replies, "I want my mummy."

Christ! Obadiah is talking to Charlie, giving him his message to be delivered to God. And when he's done, James needs to be ready to act. DS Povey isn't going to arrive in time to save the day. What the hell can he do? James is faster on his feet than his governor, but neither of them will be fast enough to grab Obadiah before he can use his knife on innocent Charlie Johnson.

Something tugs at his memory. Something about the place where Obadiah was standing. James had only had the briefest glimpse of the scene before scrambling out of sight. Behind him... what was behind him? He shuts his eyes. Think, James, think! He shoves his fists into his jacket pockets. St Matthew. Something about St Matthew. Not DS Povey's church, but the Gospel according to Matthew. 'Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.' Yes! Behind the area where Obadiah stood with his would-be victim, there was another narrow alley. Where does it go? He begins to run.

It takes him nearly three minutes to find the other entrance to the alley. It's dark, with no streetlamps or security lights. The moon casts just enough light to keep him from tripping over empty bottles and other rubbish. It also prevents him—just barely—from walking into the brick wall that closes off the alley.

Oh God! No door or gate, and it's too high to climb. He'd best go back to the other side. As he exits the alley, he nearly collides with a group of students in costume. There's a Cyberman from Doctor Who, a Viking warrior with a sword and one of those dreadful horned helmets, the President of the United States (rubber mask, suit, and a star-spangled tie), a Harlequin in eye-searing neon motley, and that classic favourite of last-minute revellers: a ghost draped in a white sheet.

The thought strikes him like a falling anvil in one of those old cartoons. "Hey, you! Want to make some money?" He pulls a tenner from his wallet. "I'm going to play a little joke on my mate."

Obadiah's message is winding down towards its end. Robbie barely hears the words. He's reviewing his list of desperate plans, trying to decide which one is slightly less hopeless than the others. Where the hell is the hostage negotiator?

From above, a voice rings out, "Lay not thine hand upon the boy!"

Robbie recognises that clear tenor, but he's still not prepared for the sight that greets his eyes. James is standing on the edge of the roof of the three-storey building to the right side of the yard. He's wearing something long and white that billows in the evening breeze, and his wings are extended to their full, impressive width, shining white-gold in the moonlight. Emma gasps. Obadiah gawks, gobsmacked into silence. Only Charlie seems not to notice.

James leaps from the roof, and swoops down in a tight, graceful spiral around the yard. His bare feet slap against the concrete with a force Robbie knows must be painful, but James shows no sign of it. His expression is one that Robbie associates with the interview room: You may as well tell me because I already know all about it. "Lay not thine hand upon the boy," James repeats sternly. "Neither do thou any thing unto him. You desired a messenger, and the Lord has provided one. Let the child go free."

Obadiah looks as though someone's dropped the Radcliffe Camera on his head. He releases Charlie. The boy blinks, as if waking from deep sleep, then runs, hurling himself into his mother's arms. For a long moment, the only sounds to be heard are Charlie's sobs and Emma's answering murmurs of comfort. Robbie gives them a gentle shove back up the alley before returning his attention to the unearthly drama playing out in the centre of the yard.

"Obadiah, Servant of the Most High, cast aside your weapon," James commands. Obadiah throws the knife from him as hastily as if it's red-hot. "Because you would not wait upon the acceptable time of the Lord, but in your pride sought to appoint your own messenger, you will be given over to earthly justice." He beckons to Robbie, who hurries over and ties Obadiah's hands behind his back with his tie. "Nevertheless, I will bear your message, and lay it before the Most High."

"Thank you, my lord," Obadiah says in a low monotone.

James looks at Robbie, his face still sombre. "I give this miscreant over to your care,"

Robbie supposes that it makes sense to continue the game, if it keeps Obadiah docile, but it'll be a cold day in Hell before he calls his sergeant 'my lord'. Especially when said sergeant is barefoot and only wearing what looks to be a sheet. "Erm... thank you."

James nods silently, and turns. Three quick steps, a leap, and he's in the air, propelling himself upwards. Such a nearly-vertical ascent requires rapid wing-strokes that surely must have his back and shoulder muscles burning with pain. Each powerful downbeat creates a gust of wind that raises low clouds of dust and sends scraps of paper and other lightweight rubbish skittering across the concrete. In less than thirty seconds, James is over the rooftop and out of sight.

"You stay put." It's an unnecessary order. Obadiah is motionless, gazing up at the sky. Charlie and Emma are staring, too. The boy's eyes are huge and wondering. His mum looks thoughtful, like she's putting together a jigsaw puzzle.

As Robbie reaches into his jacket for his mobile, an unfamiliar voice calls out, "DI Lewis?" A stocky, dark-haired man strides into the yard, followed by two uniforms. "I'm Tom Povey. Looks like your hostage crisis has been resolved."

James can't help wincing as he bends over to put on his socks. He's never made an ascent so steep and rapid before, and he hopes never he'll have cause to do it again. He's slipping on his shoes when his mobile rings. It's Lewis. "Where are you?"

He describes his location. "What's the situation there?"

"Povey arrived with backup less than a minute after you left. He's taken Obadiah to the nick. Emma Johnson has gone home with Charlie. Says she'll come in tomorrow to make a full statement."

James wonders how full that statement will be, then pushes the thought aside. Everyone is safe, including poor, deluded Obadiah. That's all that matters. "Right. Where does that leave us?"

"Having dinner, I hope," Lewis says. "Takeaway at mine? Or yours, if you'd rather, but mine's closer."

"As long as I can have green chicken curry and a few bottles of Chang Beer, I don't really care where we go."

He's aiming at a casual tone, but apparently misses the mark, because Lewis demands, "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just a bit tired."

"You must be knackered. I'll be around to pick you up in a minute or two."

Robbie is as good as his word. A minute later, the Vectra double-parks directly in front of the spot where James is standing on the pavement, causing some impatient drivers to blare their car horns. Robbie ignores them, and remains where he is until James is safely inside the car. He grins. "Hello, Clark Kent."

"Ha, ha. Very amusing, sir," James says drily. "You should put together a routine and try out for Britain's Got Talent. You could call yourself Laugh-It-Up Lewis, the Comic Copper."

Robbie acknowledges the suggestion with a soft snort. "But seriously, James—you should be proud of yourself. You saved a life tonight."

James nods briefly. Should he confess how uncertain he'd been? How much he'd feared that Obadiah would see through his masquerade, or worse yet, would perceive him as a wicked spirit to be defeated? "It was a gamble." One with a child's life at stake.

"And it worked. I was starting to think about desperate plans, meself. I'm grateful that I didn't have to attempt any of them. That poor lad..."

"How is he?"

"Still shaky, and clinging to his mum like a limpet, but I reckon that's better than the sort of frozen shock he was in." Robbie shakes his head, then suddenly smiles. "Emma told me that she hoped Charlie wouldn't have a nightmare, and Charlie said, 'Don't be scared, Mummy. If bad dreams come, the angel will chase them away.'"

James stiffens. "And what did Emma say to that?"

"That of course the angel would protect him from bad dreams. Then Povey wanted to know if Emma had seen this angel that Obadiah claimed to have talked to. She said that she hadn't seen an angel, but she believed that Charlie had done. Povey took me aside and asked me very politely, and with a bunch of sirs and inspectors thrown in for good measure, if I had seen an angel." Robbie chuckles. "I might have been a touch surly with the good sergeant. Told him that I didn't hold with any of that religious malarkey, and that if I ever thought I had seen an angel, it would be time for me to turn in me warrant card and get measured for a straitjacket." He nods with evident satisfaction. "Didn't even need to lie."

"I appreciate the... erm, misdirection."

"I know that if push came to shove, you'd let yourself be outed rather than see that boy come to harm." Robbie frowns. "You won't get into trouble with your lot about this, will you?"

"My lot? Oh, the Church. For what?"

"I dunno, exactly. Lying? Impersonating a heavenly being?"

James can't help it. He sniggers, then breaks into a full laugh. "If it had been necessary, I would have lied. That would be a venial sin rather than a mortal sin, lying to protect the innocent. But in point of fact, I never claimed to be an angel. I told him that God had provided a messenger. The Hebrew word that is commonly translated as 'angel' means 'messenger', and can refer to ordinary mortal messengers." He taps his fingers on his thighs. "What else? I told him that God was displeased by his planning to murder a child in order to communicate with heaven, and that he should surrender himself to earthly, secular justice. None of those are lies."

Robbie nods. "Right. That's enough theology for now, I reckon. Food is next." He parks the Vectra in front of Thai Delight. "I won't be long—already phoned in our order. You stay here."

James is not inclined to argue. He leans back, trying to find a comfortable position. He's just decided to give up the attempt when Robbie returns with a couple of carrier bags. A short time later, he's following Robbie into his flat, his mouth watering at the alluring scents of ginger and basil, coriander and lime.

Robbie watches with pleasure as James tucks into the food with a more than hearty appetite. He'd ordered extra portions of everything, knowing that his sergeant would need to replace the energy he'd burned off while flying. "You need anything else?"

"If I have another bite, I'll explode, and you'll have to hoover up the mess."

"That'd be worse than the time the kids decided have a pillow fight with Val's new down pillows. Feathers everywhere." He smiles, remembering. "I meant anything like some Voltarol to rub on your back. You went up as vertical as a Harrier, and very nearly as fast. And don't tell me that it doesn't hurt, because I saw you moving as careful as an old man with arthritis."

"I'm all right. I took some paracetamol, and I'll have a hot shower later."

Robbie's reply is interrupted by the ring of his mobile. He glances at the display. "It's Povey. Suppose I ought to see what's happening." He presses 'talk'. "Lewis."

It's a short conversation. Robbie's part consists mostly of 'hmmm' and other listening noises. When he ends the call, he turns to James. "I've got some information about our friend, Obadiah, Servant of the Most High."

"That's actually a tautology. The name Obadiah means 'servant of the Lord' in Hebrew. The prophet—"

"Do you want to hear this or not?" Robbie demands. James shoots him a contrite look and mimes zipping his lips shut. "Our friend Obadiah is really Ben Tolliver, aged 27. Mother dead, father estranged and living in Vancouver, no siblings. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia five years ago. Doing well on medication until four months ago when he suddenly walked out on his job at a warehouse and left the care home where he was living. The only hint that something had changed was that the day before Ben left he told one of his co-workers that he'd been to the pool and his eyes were opened."

James nods. "The Pool of Siloam, in Jerusalem. It's a reference to the miraculous healing of the man blind since birth."

That fits in with his religious mania. "The care home reported him missing to social services and to the police, but as he was of age and not considered dangerous..." He shrugs.

"I suspected it was something like that," James says sombrely. "Poor bastard."

"Yeah. Well, where he's going they'll make sure that he takes his medication."

"That reminds me, I have to go to church tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I know you said it was a day of holy obligation, but I thought that going to mass tonight covered your obligation."

"Yes it did. But I promised Obadiah that I'd deliver his message."

Only James would feel bound to keep a ridiculous promise he made to a nutter. "Do you need to go to church for that? Isn't God supposed to be everywhere?"

"Yes..." James says slowly.

"Besides, you've already done him the biggest favour."

"What's that?"

"You kept him from killing Charlie. He honestly thought he was doing the boy no harm. Can you imagine how he'd feel once the medication started working again and he realised that he had innocent blood on his hands? I doubt there are enough pills in the world to take away the horror of that."

It gives Robbie the horrors just to think about it. Cases involving kids are always the toughest to deal with, and this one is no different, even though no one was harmed. Shadows and dark thoughts about 'what if?' seem to linger for a while afterwards. Maybe it's because he's a dad. Maybe it's because he's seen too many cases where the worst did happen.

"It wasn't just me," James says. "If you hadn't kept him calm, kept him talking for so long, I wouldn't have had a chance to intervene."

Nonsense. I only did what any copper would do. "Any road, do you need something for your back? No? And your feet?"

"My feet?"

"That was a hard landing, and you were barefoot."

"It stung for a moment, but that's all. I used my handkerchief to clean off the grit before I put my socks on."

"Let's see 'em." Robbie waves off James's protest. "Present feet for inspection, sergeant. Now." James starts to lean forward, winces, and returns to an upright position. "Don't move," Robbie orders. He squats down and pulls off James's fancy shoes. The socks don't come off as easily, and James lets out a soft hiss of pain. As soon as he looks, Robbie can see the reason why. The soles of both feet are scraped and abraded, coloured dark grey, except in crusty, black spots where the dirt mixed with blood. "Christ! You've been bleeding. We need to get you cleaned up before an infection sets in."

"If I could just borrow your shower..."

"Don't be foolish, man. That won't be enough to clean them properly. And how will you know if you've got all the dirt off when you can't bend over to see them? Stay there." Robbie rummages in a cupboard and retrieves a small plastic wash basin. He sets it on the floor beside James.

"Robbie, you can't—"

"I can and I will. You can't do it yourself, and I don't imagine you want to wait to be seen in A&E." Robbie takes James's silence as permission. He fills the basin with lukewarm water, and squirts in some antiseptic liquid soap. "Put your feet in. Best to let them soak a bit." James obeys.

Robbie fills the time by clearing the empty takeaway containers from the table. That done, he washes his hands, then kneels in front of the basin with a clean flannel in hand. He signals for James to raise each foot in turn, and cleans them with gentle strokes of the flannel. "Okay? Not hurting you, am I?"

James's face is tinged with pink. "No," he mutters.

It must be awkward, having his superior officer washing his feet. Robbie casts about for something to ease the tension of the moment. "So, does this make me Jesus?" he asks blandly.

James makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a sneeze and a hiccup, which Robbie eventually identifies as a stifled laugh. "I rather think that you'd have to be the Chief Super for the metaphor to apply properly. Also, you're not exactly dressed for the part." James smiles. "If you like, I could lend you a sheet..."

"Nah, I'll leave the sheet-wearing to you," Robbie says. "After all, I haven't got the legs for it."

The peal of James's laughter dispels the last of the shadows from the room.

- THE END -