"It was a bloody relief to get out of that attic room and back down into the night," says Spike. Through the window, he watches half-dressed passers-by milling outside the clubs and bars. "Fog's not so bad in lamp-lit streets, and after the chill in the professor's study it was almost welcoming. Like a blanket, bedded in over the town. Made people huddle into their collars, hurrying and looking lost. Under fog, everyone's a child, or a villain.

"Dru had fed on the train, but - " He breaks off abruptly, half-smile flat-lining as a frown pulls his brow down. Looks away from Fred, pulling the ghost of his coat tight around himself.

Fred glances back and forth between him and the road. "You don't have to go into minute detail," she offers, giving him a small smile.

He returns it, gratefully, with a brief nod. Clears his throat. "Edited highlights," he tells her, in a low voice.

It's back at normal pitch when he speaks again. "We slept through the next day in the university library. Popular choice of accommodations, it turned out; every other remote book-stack had a slumbering don or hung-over undergraduate slumped peacefully over his notes." He shakes his head. "That place should charge board.

"Then, when dusk fell, we set out to find the professor's stuff. Bit of a mixed bag. Curbishley had given us money to get tobacco, and I helped myself to a few packets of cigarettes on his dime." He sighs, drumming insubstantial fingers soundlessly on the dash. "Smoking – that's in the top five things I miss most."

Fred nods. She offers, "I went five years without tacos, once. Which... isn't really the same, but I – uh – sorry. Go on with the story."

Spike gives her a broad grin, watching her blush. "'S'alright, love. Rather have your sympathy than a whole packet of Marlboros."

"That's me." Fred smiles up into the mirror. "Sweeter than tar." She glances at the sign indicating her exit up ahead, and manoeuvres the truck into the maw of a traffic jam. "Go on. You can't stop now."

"As long as you're sitting comfortably," Spike grins. "Dru and me, we were starting to get into the swing of things. Felt like being a student again. Broke into the wine cellars underneath St John's to steal a bottle of red that'd supposedly been laid in two hundred years earlier by a future saint, before he went on the straight and narrow. Then we smashed a window in the back of the chemistry department to pinch this little vial of something green and evil-smelling."

Fred blinks. "What's evil smell like?"

"Kind of... like gin."

Fred tilts her head from side to side. "That... makes a lot of sense."

"It wasn't all easy," Spike continues. "Getting swan feathers off a live swan, harder than you'd guess. Swans are graceful, ten times as strong as they look, and have tempers like hellbeasts. Kept reminding me of Drusilla." He smiles fondly.

"Best fun of all was breaking into the Ethnological Museum to nick a Toda dagger. Curbishley told us it'd cut through the barrier." He shakes his head. "Any rate, at least stealing it was fun. Dru got a couple of skeletons out of the cabinets, made herself a little bone percussion set and –"

"Edited highlights!" Fred interjects, looking green.

"Right. Sorry, pet." He wipes the smile off his face. "Any road up, when we'd collected everything on Curbishley's list, the slip of paper it was written on unfurled, and the writing bled together into a new sentence: Meet me at the Reality Checkpoint. Then, right before my eyes, the edges of the paper started to blacken and curl, and caught fire. I dropped the paper pretty bloody sharpish, and it burnt itself to ash in seconds."

Fred's eyes go round. "But – the guy knew you were a vampire, right?"

"He knew bloody well. Curbishley's idea of a joke, I suppose. I was getting to like his sense of humour less and less." He sighs, looking up at the roof. "It had been a fine old night, running round the old haunts, and I didn't relish the thought of being back in that old git's company. But it was for Dru. Words were something special to her. Had their own magic, right? Their own power. While she couldn't speak, it was like all these words were running around in her head, fighting to get out. She got these visions, see. Being forced to see things, and stopped from telling anyone else about them – it must have been torture."

Fred nods. "It must have been ... lonely for you, too," she says, gently.

Spike tilts his head. "Yeah. You couldn't exactly chat about the weather with Dru, but I didn't go a bundle on having no one to talk to." He looks up at Fred and grins. "Audience participation does make the tale more fun to tell."

"Show off." But Fred's smiling all the same.

Spike sets his jaw in a matinee-idol grin, one eyebrow raised. "Never was a shrinking violet."

Fred rolls her eyes. "Come on, drama queen. What was next?"

"Next was Parker's Piece. That's where Curbishley wanted to meet."

"That's some kind of park?"

"Not much of a one. And not one of those pretty, prim little places with swings and slides and petunias. That's the kind of park I grew up with. Built 'em all across Britain when I was a boy; nice, neat little things, with nature done up all trim and tree for the betterment of the urban soul. Was s'posed to do you good to stroll around admiring the marigolds. Parker's Piece - well, the best you could hope for there's that if you hurried across it fast, nothing terrible might happen. It's big and open, the wind chases you from one corner to the other, and you don't want to be caught there alone on a dark night. The whole thing's just flat grass cut into quarters by straight paths. There's no bandstand, no trees. No features at all except this one lamppost, dead in the centre.

"Funny thing, that lamppost. Looks like it's been transplanted there. Has these stylised fish carved into the metalwork, looking like sea-monsters – all big glaring eyes and thrashing tails. And up top there're these four fancy great lanterns, one for all the paths that intersect there.

"We made it to the park about three in the morning, when the night's at its thickest. The streets nearby weren't quite deserted, but the kind of buggers out in the dark round that neck of the woods aren't the sort you wanna stop and chat to, however big a bad you are. As we set out on one of the paths the fog got in between us and the town, thick and dull and unshakeable as a bad memory. Not like the promise of sunrise in an hour or so was much consolation either."

He pauses and looks over at Fred. "You shivering, love?"

She giggles faintly. "You're not that scary."

Spike just arches his eyebrows. "Oh no. I'm not scary. And nothing much is scary about a bloody park, right? Except there was something up with Dru. Drusilla, she's not the fearful type. Don't need to be afraid when the worst's already happened, you know?" He swallows. "But the further we walked into the dark, the more she started worrying me. See, she got to laughing. Harder and harder as we went along. And what with the hex, there was no sound, just her face creasing up and her shoulders shaking. Gave me the bloody creeps. And the fog closed in around us on all sides, so you couldn't look back, couldn't tell what was ahead, couldn't see nothing but the thick wet black pressing in like invisible hordes around us.

"Til we came to the light. The fog was so thick that the lamppost's light only spread out a few feet around it, in a tight little ball. Just bright enough that, when we were almost on it, we could make out the words scratched into the base: 'Reality Checkpoint.'"

Fred definitely shivers this time. "What does that mean?"

Spike pushes his tongue up behind his front teeth. "Cambridge is a funny sort of town. If you just went on a visit, you could kid yourself it's a normal city. Railway station, shops, suburbs. But it's rotten in the heart. Got this whole population who live a strange, cloistered existence, never moving more than five miles from the very centre." He narrows his eyes at Fred. "The university. Most students never go more than a mile from their own college. Everything they need's right on hand – they call it the 'Cambridge Bubble.' If they have to walk twenty minutes to a department, they pack tents and survival gear."

Fred smiles. "UCLA wasn't much like that."

"No," says Spike. "You only had evil physicists and portals to the set of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves."

Fred concedes.

"The bubble's meant to end halfway across Parker's Piece – go beyond that lamppost, and you're out into the real world. 'S why Curbishley couldn't pass it, I reckoned. Every year, since before my student days, someone's come and scratched the words 'Reality Checkpoint' into the paintwork on the lamppost. Every year the city cleans it off; every year it comes back. And now, when we made it into that little puddle of light, Curbishley was standing there right on the border of the real world.

"He was hardly visible there in the fog, all pale and see-through-like. Standing still with his hands in his pockets and no expression on his face. Dru finally stopped her silent laughing, and gave him a regal nod.

"I didn't much fancy small-talking. Just told him we'd brought the goods, and he cracked a tight little smile out of that crumpled old face. All he said was, 'Show me.' So I did. He made me take the cork out of the vial of green stuff, sniffed it, then rolled his eyes and made me sniff it. The smell made me gag, which seemed to please him no end. He fussed about the quantity of swan feathers, said there should be more, but I gave him a look dirty enough to shut even him up.

"That was about the end of my fuse. Decided there and then that I'd just do the sodding spell then get the hell out. Told him, 'Fix Dru first.'

"He just laughed. 'I trust that, as a vampire, you'll take it as a compliment and not a disparagement if I say I wouldn't trust you as far as I can see?'" Spike glowers, making Fred smile. "Said he'd picked the spell out special – Dru's voice'd come back as the barrier went down. Neat and tidy."

Spike sighs expansively. "I was going to stand there and thrash all the details out with him, make sure he wasn't shafting us, right, but I was on my last nerve. Told him, 'Let's just do this.' And he said 'Very well.' And I said 'Fine.' So he said 'You start. Light the pipe.'

"Didn't sound like such a bad idea. I stuffed it and lit up, and the smoke seemed to make everything better. Tasted like bloody heaven. Curbishley just watched, and that made me feel better still. Could see it all in his eyes: how much he missed that tobacco smell, the way he pipe-stalk feels between your teeth. I blew a puff of some his way and it went right through him, like the fog."

Spike shakes his head. "He looked like a glass with vapours swirling inside, fighting to get out. But his face was set, and all he said was 'Cast the feathers.'

"Dru had those. She fished them out, all solemn-like, and threw them upwards, then froze with this enchanted look on her face." Spike pauses, turning to look at Fred. "The feathers didn't fall. Didn't exactly float, either; they just got caught up in the smoke and the fog spiralling round the three of us. It was something uncanny, that sight, the white feathers spinning in the darkness.

"The wine was next, and the green stuff from the vial. He told me to spill it on the ground, and his voice sounded like it came from far away. When I poured the stuff out it fell slowly, too; clotting into dark red balls that sank gently through the thickening fog and rested on the ground without breaking."

Fred watches, transfixed.

"Only the knife was left. I looked at it. The blade was gold under the liquid lamplight. Looked at him. Felt as if my stomach was getting smaller. And I said, 'This is for the banner, right?', and didn't like the smile he gave me then one little bit.

"For a moment, all was silent. Then Curbishley turned to Dru, and spoke a single, strange word, in no language I'd ever heard. Weighty and weird. And – Dru turned to me, snatched the knife and thrust it into my guts."

Fred's mouth hangs open. "She stabbed you in the guts?"

Spike laughs painfully. "Oh yeah. Twisted the knife too." He shoves his hands deep in his pockets. "Me and Dru were together for a hundred years. I got used to the feeling.

"She yanked the knife out again, I doubled over, and a gout of blood fell from the blade and mixed with the liquid on the path. There was a flash of red. Curbishley stepped forward, into the heart of the swirling smoke and feathers. Planted his feet on that paste of wine, blood and alchemy. Threw his head back and laughed."

"How fairytale."

"Yeah. Well, I was too busy trying to hold my intestines in to get off a good eye-roll." He makes up for it now. "The whirling fog and smoke sped up around us, feathers dashing against our skin, and the light began to shiver. And I noticed his feet. The blood and wine were wicking up into the whirlwind, and, from below, his feet and legs were turning solid. It spread upwards, filling out his knees and stomach. Then, the tobacco smoke sucked inwards, the light flashed red again, and the lamps at the top of the post blew out.

"I coughed up a mouthful of blood. A match struck up in the darkness. By the little pool of flame I could see Curbishley grinning, like the cat that got the bloody cream, the light reflecting off his teeth. He nodded at Dru, and said 'I trust that is satisfactory, madam." And Dru dropped a little curtsey, smiled, and said 'Most satisfactory.' Calm as you please.

"So he did restore her voice?"

"Right as rain," Spike confirms. "Me, I just tried to stop bleeding onto my shoes. Curbishley lit another match and poked his forefinger into the flame, yelping when it burnt and then looking pleased as punch. I said, 'What was with the barrier bollocks? Why the hell didn't you just tell me the spell was to get your body back?'

"'Oh,' he said. 'You owe me an essay. Michaelmas term 1874, week five, the anti-democratic turn in Plato's middle writings.' He waved his hand, airy wanker. 'I supposed you'd remember and be disinclined to help me. It's a great deal easier to dodge professors who are incorporeal.'"

Fred goggles.

Spike just shakes his head. "'And,' he went on, 'I rather thought you'd surmise that the moment I became solid, I'd do this.' And he punched me in the face.

"If my girlfriend hadn't just had a stab at eviscerating me, I wouldn't've so much as blinked. As it was, I went down like a sack of potatoes. And of course I got right back up to slug him back, but something went wrong somewhere along the way and Dru got in between us, and the next thing I knew I was flat on my face again, and then Dru was picking me up, and everything got a bit blurry, and then I was waking up in the dark of a college cellar with half my insides on the outside and a long day of growing new entrails ahead of me."

Fred struggles to keep her eyes on the road as they head into quieter streets. "But – the ghost? The ex-ghost? What did he do? Did the spell give him his body back for good?"

Spike sniffs. "Worked like a bloody dream. We heard later that he spent the next four days on a bender. Defaced books in the library, drank an entire bottle of port at formal hall, and propositioned a group of Girton girls before throwing up and passing out on the steps of the Senate House." He shakes his head primly.

"But that sounds wonderful!" Fred screws up her mouth. "Well – not the drunkenness and the lechery. And not the bit where you got stabbed. I mean – the spell – it worked, right? The guy got his body back? If it worked for him, maybe we could use it to bring you back too!" Her eyes are bright.

Spike gives up the ghost of a sigh. "Fly in the ointment, love. It didn't take. His return to the flesh only lasted five days. On the night of the fifth, the fog came back, and he melted right into the air. Never to be seen again. Apparently he was strolling by the river spouting Virgil at the time. Caused a bit of a stir."

"...Oh." Fred looks down. "Oh."

"Yeah. Worst of it was, he knew it was gonna happen. We broke back into his room as soon as we heard he was dead – the bastard owed me one. And he'd left us a note. Thanking me for the use of my platelets." Spike bites the inside of his cheek. "Wanker. Said he expected to be well and truly in oblivion within days. Just wanted one last hurrah."

Minutes pass in quiet. There are only lights on one side of the street now – on the other, the suburbs trail off into darkness. Fred stares up at the place on the windshield where Spike's reflection would be.

At last, she says "Most ghosts – I guess, most people, when they die, they don't get even that." She turns to look at her passenger.

"I know." Spike has wrapped his arms tightly round his insubstantial body, but unfolds them now. "Know why he did it. But – 's not me. Can't be why I'm back – to cash it all in for one last shag and drink and then go up in smoke. Unless the Powers just didn't like my grand finale, and want me to do a sleazier version." He narrows his eyes and squares his jaw. "And if that's it, I'm not giving them the bloody satisfaction."

Fred smiles.

"Yeah," continues Spike. "I can still talk, I can still drive Angel out of his gourd, and I can still make gorgeous women shiver." He looks out of the window, into the black, then turns back to smile at Fred triumphantly. "Whatever they throw at me, I'm gonna bounce back."

And in the blink of an eye, he's gone.

Fred slows the truck, leaning out of the window and looking back up the road, registering the 'Welcome to Los Angeles' sign that hasn't moved to keep pace with the suburban sprawl beyond the old city limit. She sighs, and then smiles, and drives home.