Dez "The Barracuda" Barrington was his name, and the why of it was simple. He was a man with a grudge, a man seeking payback, and that was what the invitation in its ponced-up, wowsery way had promised.

"Payback for…?"

"It's not something I like to talk about."

"I'd say, 'Relax, you're among friends,'" said Ramsay, "except you're not, so I won't. I could save you the trouble of having to reveal all, though, by making an educated guess."

Barrington spread two beefy pink hands, palms up. "Go ahead, smartarse. Be my guest."

"The Olympians. Something the Olympians did to you."

The word Olympians sent a frisson round the table, bringing a stiffening of backs, a compressing of lips. Sam felt herself bristle along with everyone else. Couldn't help it. She couldn't hear the Olympians mentioned, couldn't read about them in a newspaper, couldn't catch a glimpse of them on television, without her whole body starting to tense up, often to the point of trembling. For her it was as much of an instinctive reaction as dread of a shark or revulsion at a snake. She was not alone in that — certainly not in this room.

"You knew already," said Barrington, both a question and an accusation.

"How?"

"I don't know, maybe you're the bloke that brought us all here. You act like you are."

"I'm as much in the dark as any of you," Ramsay said. "Just trying to fumble my way towards the light. The Olympians hurt someone you care about. Maybe did worse than hurt. Correct?"

Barrington crumpled and gave a sullen nod. "Malc. My brother. Older brother. Only member of my family worth a tinker's fart. Couldn't have been my vicious bastard of a father who got killed, could it? Couldn't have been my drunk of a mother or my slag of a sister who'll drop her grundies for every root rat that comes sniffing round. Had to be Malcolm. The only person in the world I've ever had any respect for."