The Satanic Verses

although married to and still cohabiting with another man, had been no more than his dupe. Political motives – both parties were well known for their radical views – could not be discounted, though such was the muddiness of the water in the far-left groupuscules they frequented that it would be hard ever to get a clear picture of what such motives might have been. It was also possible that the two crimes, even if committed by the same man, could have had different motivations. Possibly the man was simply the hired criminal, burning down the Shaandaar for the insurance money at the behest of the now-deceased owners, and torching the CRC at the behest of his lover, perhaps on account of some intra-office vendetta?
    That the burning of the CRC was an act of arson was beyond doubt. Quantities of petrol had been poured over desks, papers, curtains. ‘Many people do not understand how quickly a petrol fire spreads,’ Inspector Kinch stated to scribbling journalists. The corpses, which had been so badly burned that dental records had been required for identification purposes, had been found in the photocopying room. ‘That’s all we have.’ The end.
    I have more.
    I have certain questions, anyhow. – About, for instance, an unmarked blue Mercedes panel van, which followed Walcott Roberts’s pick-up truck, and then Pamela Chamcha’s MG. – About the men who emerged from this van, their faces behind Hallowe’en masks, and forced their way into the CRC offices just as Pamela unlocked the outer door. – About what really happened inside those offices, because purple brick and bulletproof glass cannot easily be penetrated by the human eye. – And about, finally, the whereabouts of a red plastic briefcase, and the documents it contains.
    Inspector Kinch? Are you there?
    No. He’s gone. He has no answers for me.

    Here is Mr Saladin Chamcha, in the camel coat with the silk collar, running down the High Street like some cheap crook. – The same, terrible Mr Chamcha who has just spent his evening in the company of a distraught Alleluia Cone, without feeling a flicker of remorse. – ‘I look down towards his feet,’ Othello said of Iago, ‘but that’s a fable.’ Nor is Chamcha fabulous any more; his humanity is sufficient form and explanation for his deed. He has destroyed what he is not and cannot be; has taken revenge, returning treason for treason; and has done so by exploiting his enemy’s weakness, bruising his unprotected heel. – There is satisfaction in this. – Still, here is Mr Chamcha, running. The world is full of anger and event. Things hang in the balance. A building burns.
    Boomba
, pounds his heart.
Doomba, boomba, dadoom
.
    Now he sees the Shaandaar, on fire; and comes to a skidding halt. He has a constricted chest; –
badoomba! –
and there’s a pain in his left arm. He doesn’t notice; is staring at the burning building.
    And sees Gibreel Farishta.
    And turns; and runs inside.
    ‘Mishal! Sufyan! Hind!’ cries evil Mr Chamcha. The ground floor is not as yet ablaze. He flings open the door to the stairs, and a scalding, pestilential wind drives him back.
Dragon’s breath
, he thinks. The landing is on fire; the flames reach in sheets from floor to ceiling. No possibility of advance.
    ‘Anybody?’ screams Saladin Chamcha. ‘Is anybody there?’ But the dragon roars louder than he can shout.
    Something invisible kicks him in the chest, sends him toppling backwards, on to the café floor, amid the empty tables.
Doom
, sings his heart.
Take this. And this
.
    There is a noise above his head like the scurrying of a billion rats, spectral rodents following a ghostly piper. He looks up: the ceiling is on fire. He finds he cannot stand. As he watches, a section of the ceiling detaches itself, and he sees the segment of beam falling towards him. He crosses his arms in feeble self-defence.
    The beam pins him to the floor, breaking both his arms. His chest is full of pain. The world recedes. Breathing is hard. He can’t speak. He is the Man of a Thousand Voices, and there isn’t one left.
    Gibreel Farishta, holding Azraeel, enters the Shaandaar Café.

    What happens when you win
?
    When your enemies are at your mercy: how will you act then? Compromise is the temptation of the weak; this is the test for the strong. –
‘Spoono,’ Gibreel nods at the fallen man. ‘You really fooled me, mister; seriously, you’re quite a guy.’ – And Chamcha, seeing what’s in Gibreel’s eyes, cannot