I don't own these characters, they own me. Toby Whitehouse and the BBC own the playground.

If you've come along with me thus far, I would dearly love to know your thoughts. To each and every one of you who have left me comments already - you keep me writing. As a thank you, I've compiled a playlist of music on groove shark here: /#!/playlist/Walking+With+A+Ghost/85073124

The end is the beginning.

Twin beams torched through the darkness of sleepy countryside. The roadway only occasionally interrupted with passing red. Driving at night had helped crystallize his thoughts for close to a century now. The solitude, the whir of tyres on pavement and the endless possibilities that modern locomotion gifted, relaxed his charged synapses. This night however, the exercise was proving futile. The mind game was dredging up more mystery than confirmation and he needed answers. He needed... conversation.

On the M4 from Southend-on-Sea, Richard Turner was heading west. The barber shop where his colleague had been in hiding for over five decades was closed - the tall windows boarded over with a "For Let" sign. He didn't need this shit right now.

International infrastructure meltdowns to rebuild...
Solidifying the new Council's stronghold...
Replenishing the depletion of his firm's capital...

These were the things he should be focusing his energies on. But he couldn't let it go. He had tried. Damn, he'd tried for weeks now. Yorke could run off and join a convent for all he cared. The play for retribution was for show - for power. The last of the Old Ones were either with the Council, or forgotten. The fact that Henry clearly wished to be forgotten was not up for question.

No, what was irksome was that Yorke had bloody tricked him. His infuriating colleague had infiltrated his own account holdings! Withdrawing the latent dividend funds he was owed and not a pence more. And all for what? To send a message? He really didn't need Henry's shit right now.

Hetty reportedly had left him for dead, bleeding out and refusing to replenish himself. But the old girl was spooked, foregoing any further explanation of her empty-handed return. And that was after the street had been cleared for a gas leak. The vampires had reconvened on Yorke's garage in hopes of recapturing the wolves, only to see the vintage blue Merc driven away by an unidentified human.

The whole business was rank of deceit, just like when his old friend had faked his demise fifty-seven years prior. And just like then, Richard couldn't let it go - he needed to know. Was Henry Yorke proper dead, or wasn't he? Just like then, he suspected not. But unlike then, Richard highly doubted he would be receiving any clandestine postcards.

No, if Richard wanted to speak to Yorke it would be by his own doing. Which is how he found himself on the M4 heading west. Pointed in the direction Yorke was last seen, their recent pleasantries aside. The final resting place of their Kings. Barry-fuck-it-all-to-hell-Island.

Richard was awaiting a message from his contact in Heddlu. He should know by morning. If Yorke was in Barry, then Richard would find him. They were overdue for a tète-à-tète.

Turner and Yorke needed to parley.