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PROLOGUE

His is the House of pain

His is the Hand that makes

His is the Hand that wounds

His is the Hand that heals

— H G Wells, The Island of Dr Moreau

Janos Volkov was curled up, shivering, on one of the benches in Whitechapel Station waiting for the change Ile always knehen it was about to conic: he always dreaded it There was no cure short of death and he could no rammed imperatives locked within the cybernetic implant in his brain

The East London Railway platforms were deserted at this late hour in this far frohborhoods The platfor walls of cool, dah to allow for the dispersion of the fuaps at the top allowed the steae stone archways spanning the tracks served to brace the walls The underground was still relatively new not quite twenty years old but like most of the soot- blackened city, the stations and the tunnels had already taken on the appearance of great age, reseh them

As Volkov huddled on the platfor and racked with fever spas with chills, the train pulled into the station, ot off Several of theust as they passed and quickly looked away A tall and well-dressed gentleman in a black inverness and top hatshould be done about the drunken derelicts cluttering up the city, though in this neighborhood, such a sight was not at all unusual Neither gentle the streets of Whitechapel, whose favors they had conored the in his ears and he hugged hi His teeth were unusually long and sharp, especially the canines He was not a tall man, but he was powerfully built, not at all the sort of physical development one would expect to accompany the dissipation of advanced alcoholism But then, Janos Volkov was not an alcoholic

As the last of the passengers left the platforhout the once again deserted station as he approached the huddled figure on the bench Constable Jones was on his way ho his beat He had missed the train and he was irritated He stood over the shivering for a small truncheon as he rocked back on his heels

"Ello, 'ello," he said in a strong Cockney accent "Wot's this then eh? Go on with ya, old sod, ya can't sleep 'ere"

There was no reaction fro man curled up on the bench

“'Ere, htly on the soles of his boots with his truncheon The touch of the truncheon seeh Volkov He jerked and thrashed on the bench, as if in the throes of an epileptic fit A lol escaped his throat