

The Desire: Class of 666

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Text copyright© 2015 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

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Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Thank you for your support.

# Chapter 1

Do you desire to know what true desire is?

Is it the desire for beauty?

For wealth?

Success?

Happiness?

That which we desire most is so often denied us

The desire we have for another: that is our heart's desire

The Desire

I knew I'd been foolish to think the book would somehow change my life.

'Here we are, Miss. You did say the corner of Bloxum Street?'

The taxi had come to a halt. I switched off the cab's reading light, closed my book.

It had been a disappointment, the book.

I'd felt strangely drawn to it, when I'd seen it in the second-hand bookshop. It was ancient, its binding shredding. Some pages were barely held in place. The leather cover was worn to a tattered softness. Even so, the pages appeared older still, with the unbending crispness of a medieval manuscript.

Yet, having already read the book once, I'd begun reading it again. Wondering if I'd missed something.

Wondering if, like I'd tried to tell myself when I'd bought it, that it was obviously crazy to think the book had somehow been calling out to me.

'Miss?'

'Oh yes, yes! Sorry, sorry.'

Slipping the book back into my bag, I searched quickly through my purse for enough money to both cover the fare and include a reasonable tip.

'Keep the change.'

'Thanks, Miss. Goodnight; and be careful walking along there. It doesn't look very well lit.'

He ducked slightly as, peering out through the taxi's windshield, he drew my attention to the streetlamps. Many were flickering, or were simply vandalised to a point where they no longer worked at all.

'Thanks for the warning,' I said, stepping out onto the kerb.

As the cab moved off, I suddenly felt strangely alone on the surprisingly darkened street. I only lived a short walk down a narrow passageway from here, yet had never known the area to look so forlorn and forbidding.

All this damage to the lamps must be fairly recent. Were the people responsible still hanging around?

Despite the slight chill in the air, I took off my long coat, revealing my police cadet uniform beneath. To provide an extra aura of untouchable authority, I slipped on my cap too.

It all made me look far more confident than I actually felt.

How many people would I be facing if they were still around?

How aggressive would they be? How resistant would they be to anyone daring to challenge them?

Perhaps it would be best if I never encountered them, and I simply managed to get home safely. I decided, too, that there wasn't any point briefly halting beneath one of the irritatingly flickering lights, as I'd intended, to take another look at the book.

In the back of the cab, everything around me had constantly fluctuated as we'd passed through bright cones of streetlamp illumination and areas of deep, angular shadows. In this flowing light, the book's illustrations bizarrely appeared to differ slightly from the ones I remembered. It was a trick of the light, of course: yet I would have liked to check that my memories weren't playing me false.

What sort of police officer would I make with an untrustworthy memory?

'Officer! Officer! Thank God you're here!'

A teenage girl of around my age was running towards me across the small green fronting a line of large houses. She wasn't easy to see in the dim light, being oddly dressed in an archaically long, incredibly tight black dress.

'Ah, I'm not a–'

Ignoring my attempt to warn her that I wasn't a fully trained officer, the girl urgently grabbed my arm, pulling me with her as she turned back onto the green.

'Please, please! You _have_ to come! Someone's been murdered!'

*

# Chapter 2

There's a darkness within you

A neediness to be liked that

(Hah! How ironic!)

you dislike about yourself

The Desire

The young girl's running was awkward, constrained as it was by her unusual dress.

I ran with her, letting her continue to just about drag me towards a house ablaze with lights. Loud music came through the open door, along with the excited, senseless jabber of partially drunk people.

It was a party. A party that, for the most part, as yet seemed oblivious to any wrong doing that had occurred.

I'd given up attempting to explain that I was still in training, that I was way too young to be deemed a fully competent officer. In her panicked need, and no doubt also due to the poor lighting, this poor girl had obviously mistaken me for a fully-fledged policewoman.

How would it look on my training record if it became known that I'd turned down a person in need, a young girl's cry for help?

Suddenly faced by a real-life incident, is a trainee really supposed to just make her excuses and run away from it?

Or would she be expected to show initiative?

I can, at the very least, take a look at this supposed incident.

It may well be a false alarm after all, a boy or girl who's fainted, rather than someone who's been killed. Or, at the complete opposite end of the scale, someone who's taken too much drink or drugs and immediately needs an ambulance. In which case, if I failed to act, I'd be held responsible for a young adult's unnecessary death. And all because I hadn't felt competent enough to simply check a potential crime scene.

No matter what the reality, I should be capable of offering reassurance, of calming things down, and restoring some sense of order to an otherwise chaotic situation. I have my cellphone, as well as a few useful numbers; I can call up a more experienced team, and wait for them to arrive and take charge.

We've hit the glow of the light from the windows. The dress the girl's wearing is even odder than I'd originally thought: more costume than retro style, like I'd presumed. It also has a ridiculously wide and high collar, combined with a layering of flimsier material that flows about her as if it were a bothersome mist. There are incredibly dark purples and greens amongst the colouring too.

A Disney evil queen, that's what it reminds me off. For the first time, I also notice that she has some kind of even weirder hat in one of her hands: all black again, with large, curving horns coming up from the sides.

The queen from _Sleeping Beauty_. Or _Maleficent_. Was that the title of that movie?

Stepping in through the door to the house is like entering the world's most bizarre circus. It's a fancy dress party, but one where all the kids have enough money to really make a go of it. The costumes are well made, perhaps professionally so, and either hired or bought from specialist shops.

There are witches, ghouls, vampires, werewolves, aliens, zombies, Frankenstein monsters. There's also someone in a bright red devil's outfit, complete with tail and black horns. Another is only partially dressed, and carrying a witch doctor's mask under his arm as he drinks from a bottle.

'Class of six-six-six,' the girl says, obviously noting my wide-eyed surprise as we swiftly force our way through all these incongruously loudly laughing people.

Are they really all still unaware that the grim reality of death, perhaps even murder, lies somewhere in this very same house that they're all having such fun in? Or is it that some of them are aware that someone lies dead, but just don't care, or fooled themselves into thinking it has nothing to do with them?

'The theme, I mean,' the girl explains further. 'How I asked them all to dress. The Class of six-six-six. Any evil person they can think of, from movies or books.'

'Aah,' I mouth, as if thankful for her explanation.

Actually, even within the experience of nothing more than my training, I've learnt that man doesn't have to conjure up mythical beasts to see a manifestation of evil; more than enough evil already exists in the human heart. The harsh reality of serial killers, of murderers who take great pleasure in ensuring their victims suffer pain that anyone else would find unimaginable. Evil lies within man, not in creatures conjured up by our minds to excuse our own actions.

What kind of murderer has been at work tonight? Surely, hopefully, not someone on that sadistic level. But, of course, sadistic enough to take someone's life.

At the foot of a long, curving flight of stairs, a winged harpy is happily flirting with a boy in an all-black uniform, an SS officer, I guess. The girl dodges past them to lead me up the stairs, prompting me to drop back and follow on behind. The stairs are too crowded for us to continue forcing our way through while keeping abreast.

We pass Mr Hyde, a couple of medieval torturers, a goatee-bearded Spanish Inquisition cardinal. Two characters slovenly dressed in Victorian clothes leave me briefly bemused until I see the labels 'Burke' and 'Hare' fixed to their tall hats. These two stand off to one side at the top of the stairs and, as the girl leading me approaches them, I realise they're guarding a closed door.

Seeing my uniform, they give me a pleased, welcoming nod. It's odd, two body snatchers greeting someone they've assumed to be a police officer.

One of them opens the door for the girl. She steps inside, and I follow close behind.

As soon as we're inside, either Burke or Hare closes the door behind us.

A bedside light is on, otherwise the room is pretty dark. However, the lamp throws out enough light to illuminate the girl lying face down upon the double bed. Her dress is long and multi-layered, perhaps Elizabethan in style. Her long, dark hair is spread out to either side of her head, hiding her face. Her arms, too, are spread out. One hand drapes limply over the side of the bed. A foot hangs over the bed end, the shoe close to dropping off and falling to the floor.

Next to the lamp, on the bedside cupboard, there's a small glass tumbler. It's empty but for a few drops of what looks like water but could, of course, be vodka.

Has she taken pills, washed them down with the water? Is this suicide rather than murder?

Is she even dead? Is she just soundly asleep? Completely knocked out? In dire need of an ambulance?

Drawing closer, however, I see the blood matting her hair. An immense, ridiculously curly red wig is crumpled beneath her face, half on, half off.

Was it knocked off like this when she was struck by her assailant?

Naturally, there's not much chance of finding the murder weapon–

No, it's there: to one side of her. The side in shadow away from the light. The dried blood on its corner, the corner that obviously struck her, gleams in the little light reaching it.

Leaning over the girl's body – yes, I believe it is a body now, for there's none of the steady rise and fall you'd expect from a still living, breathing human – I take a closer look at the object used to kill her.

It's a book. A book I recognise. Because I'd thought it was probably unique. Thought it was too old to be wildly available.

It's just about falling apart along its ragged binding.

Its cover is partially shredded, and of incredibly worn leather.

It's another copy of _The Desire_.

Instinctively, strangely, I pat the side of my bag, feeling for the bulge there that says my own copy is safe.

It's not there. The bulge in my bag isn't there.

And that's when I suddenly know for sure; the book on the bed isn't _another_ copy.

It's _my_ copy.

*

# Chapter 3

We forget that reason is simply an instrument we created to try and make sense of the world

And so we believe the world is a mystery to be solved

The Desire

How did I know the book is mine?

How could it possibly be mine?

I don't know; I honestly don't know.

'She _is_ dead...yes?'

The girl is fretfully wringing her hands. Her eyes glow in the light from the lamp.

Eyes that say, 'I hope I'm wrong. _Please_ say I'm wrong.'

I nod in reply to her spoken question.

Carefully, as an extra precaution, I check the pulse of the dead girl's limply hanging wrist. I have to disturb her as little as possible.

Who knows what will be regarded as important evidence when more qualified help arrives?

There's no pulse.

She's undoubtedly dead.

And, going by the strike to the head, the murder weapon conveniently left behind alongside her, she was murdered too.

_My_ book, the murder weapon.

Just how will that look when help arrives?

Help that I haven't actually called for yet.

'I found her like this.' The girl just about grits her teeth, she's so overcome with anguish. 'When I came up to make sure no one was misusing the bedrooms.'

'We need to make sure no one leaves the house.'

I say it almost absently to the girl. I'm leaning over the glass on the bedside cupboard. I sniff at the contents. Once again, I avoid touching anything.

There's no sharp alcohol smell. It's water, almost definitely.

'You don't need to explain to anyone,' I continue, noting the girl's anguished expression.

She doesn't want any of her friends to panic.

She doesn't want any of her friends to know someone has been killed at what she'd hoped would be the party of the year.

'If anyone's outside in the garden, call them in. Then lock the doors and windows.'

She's still standing there. It's too much for her to take in all at once.

'Ask one of the guys on the door to do it,' I advise helpfully. 'You know, Burke and Hare?'

She turns, heads back to the door, opens it and jabbers excitedly to one of the body snatchers.

I take out my cellphone, go through the motions of dialling a number.

That's all they are; motions.

The numbers are random. Useless.

'Hi, this is Officer Denham,' I say into the phone's mouthpiece. 'I need forensic assistance for a suspected murder on Bloxum Street.'

I look back towards the girl as she comes back into the room.

'Number?' I say quietly.

'Number 6,' she says.

'House number 6,' I say into my phone

I act like I'm waiting for a response before supposedly cancelling the call and slipping my cellphone back into my pocket.

It's _my_ book on the bed.

With my fingerprints on every page.

When help finally arrives here, _I'll_ be their prime suspect.

*

# Chapter 4

You're something of a puzzle

You know that

You're open to what life can offer

You're more intelligent than you're given credit for (in your own, specific way)

And yet, and yet...

It's not working for you, is it?

The Desire

I just need time to think, that's all.

_Then_ I can call for help.

Put down the delay to...well, I'll figure that out in a moment too.

'Has anyone already left the party?'

When I speak, I manage to hide the nervous tremor I can feel in the back of my throat. Well, I hope I'm hiding it. I need to sound authoritative, in control.

It can only be a matter of time before someone spots that my uniform isn't right: that it's the uniform of a mere cadet, not a qualified officer.

Hah, as if _that's_ the only giveaway.

Maybe the fact I'm younger than many people here: _that's_ probably enough to bring my whole ridiculous charade crashing down.

'I'm...I'm not sure.' The girl answers my question nervously. She's worried that not being able to give a straight forward answer somehow makes her guilty, or at least culpable. 'It...it's a party: people going and leaving whenever they want. All the time.'

I nod; figures.

'And the girl? You know her?'

The girl shakes her head.

'She was heavily made-up: but I'm sure it's no one I knew. No one from our school. You know; you have a sort of feeling, don't you, for who someone is? Even when they're in a costume?'

'Your school? The private school: Weldon Girls School?'

'Yes. How did you know?'

A house like this. Your more refined, less hurried way of talking. Your well-off, if not necessarily rich friends.

'So, what was she doing here?' I ask, ignoring her own question.

'She came with a boy I _do_ know.'

'From the boys' school?'

Most of the boys invited, I suspect, are from Highcliffes, another private school.

The girl shakes her head.

'No, no; Paul was from the local school, the state school.'

'Paul?'

'Paul Reed.'

This just got a whole lot worse.

I know Paul; if not in the biblical sense, as he'd once hoped.

*

# Chapter 5

We can either make ourselves miserable

Or we can make ourselves stronger

The effort is the same

The Desire

I can see why Paul would have been invited to a party like this.

At some point, Paul would undoubtedly have dated some of the girls here, the girls from Weldon.

They wouldn't see dating Paul as 'slumming it'. They would see dating Paul as a dream come true.

As we all do.

As any girl would.

Easy smile, easy going, easy conquests.

One of those guys who can wear an old leather jacket and beat up jeans and make it all look like the perfect style to try and emulate.

Who's going to notice tears and rips when he locks those eyes on you?

Or, even better, when he locks those lips on yours.

Yeah, I've been there, obviously.

His skin just seems to ever so slightly smell of an intoxicating mix of lemons, oranges and milk chocolate.

For me, it was love.

Love like I've never felt for anyone, before or since.

But then again, for _every_ girl, it was love.

'Where is he, this Paul?' I ask like I don't know him, like he means nothing to me.

It takes an unbelievable amount of effort to choke back the longing I still feel for him.

'He's still downstairs, I think.'

She's still wringing her hands, looking at me as if she's expecting me to say at any minute, 'Hey, everything here's fine; she'll come round in a moment, I'm sure. You just wait and see.'

'I think they had an argument,' the girl adds innocently.

I raise my eyebrows.

'Oh, oh; not a really _bad_ one,' she adds hastily. 'That's...that's _Paul_ for you.'

She sounds like she has personal experience of one of Paul's arguments.

Figures.

She's pretty enough to interest Paul. And anyone who's been out with Paul is bound to have an argument with him at some point in their relationship.

Usually when you realise he's two-timing you. Or three- or four-timing you, if there's such an expression.

Afterwards, you more or less just sit by the phone, wondering when he's going to call. When he's going to forgive you for questioning him, accusing him.

Sometimes, the call comes, you breathe a sigh of relief, and you act as if the argument had never happened.

Eventually, however, the day, then the week, then the month, arrives when there's no call.

When you realise you're going to have to call _him_. Hoping he's been waiting for you to call, agonising over the fact you haven't.

Of course, he hasn't.

It's over.

If you can't accept that he should be free to see other girls, well, there's not much point in going out with each other, is there?

If any girl's strong enough to casually shrug off his snide put down – the way it highlights your insecurities and jealousies, makes out _you're_ the problem, not him – I haven't met her.

Thing is, all that's more likely to lead to _Paul's_ murder: not the _girl's_.

'I need to see him; this Paul, I mean.'

*

# Chapter 6

Taste me here

See, how different it tastes here

There

And, yes, there

The Desire

Outside the room, I turn to Burke, who's still guarding the door. Hare, I presume, has headed off as I'd instructed: making sure no one leaves, by locking the doors and windows.

'Keep the door locked, make sure no one enters,' I say to Burke.

'Are others on the way?' he asks. 'Some sort of murder squad, I mean?'

'Sure they are,' I lie. 'Oh, and when Har– when your friend gets back, could you ask him to make sure no one phones outside. Disconnect the phones, and ask everyone for their mobiles.'

'Good luck with that,' Burke guffaws. 'Do you know _anyone_ who'd willingly give up their phone? They'll get withdrawal symptoms in about five minutes.'

I turn to the girl, who's walked out of the room with me.

'Could you tell them it's for some sort of game? And they'll get them back safely afterwards?'

'Why do you need their phones?' She not only looks doubtful but also suspicious.

'I don't want anyone causing panic outside this house. Or saying anything that could lead to morbid sightseers or journalists besieging us.'

'Sure, I see,' the girl says, turning Burke's way. 'Phil, ask Tom to round up as many as he can, would you please?'

Burke nods grimly. He obviously doesn't relish the task of even asking his friend to round up all the phones at the party, let alone being the one to do it.

As we head down the steps, the girl follows me.

'Sorry; I haven't asked your name yet, have I?' I say, glancing back over my shoulder.

'Veronica,' she replies with a half smile that's almost hidden by the heavy makeup of a sneering, evil queen. 'Though my friends call me Veri.'

I almost politely reply, 'I'm Kate,' yet stop myself just in time.

Hardly the right way to maintain authority and confidence, is it?

'I'm Officer Denham,' I say instead.

On the steps, the party is still in full swing. No one, as yet, has picked up any bad vibes coming from Burke's edgy guarding of the door. Or even, I surmise, from Hare's locking of the doors.

Then again, everyone appears heavily intoxicated. Whether that's all down to alcohol or just the excitement of the party, I'm not sure.

My presence doesn't appear to have raised any eyebrows, no doubt because my uniform appears pretty tame amongst the outlandishness of all these costumes. Down in the hall, I can see someone who I think is supposed to be Idi Amin, with garish, over-decorated uniform and enough padding to give him a substantial bulk.

Everyone's probably assumed that, like them, I've come as some character, albeit one that's either a tad obscure or a little misplaced.

As for the locked, guarded door, well, who hasn't been to a party where someone's retreated to a bedroom for any number of reasons? A distraught, weeping friend being consoled after being unthinkingly dumped by a boy. A friend who's drunk too much and is in a really really bad way, just about passing out on the bed.

'There's Paul!' Tapping me on the shoulder as we near the bottom of the stairs, Veronica points ahead of me towards the people crowding into a kitchen at the end of the hall.

I can't miss him.

Hair from a photograph in a hairdresser's window, hoping to entice you inside, promising something they can't really deliver. Nonchalant pose, leaning back against a wall, lifted straight from an old Marlon Brando movie. Smile that, despite slightly uneven teeth, looks easy, confident and alluring, all at the very same time.

'Which one?' Once again, I manage to say it like I don't know him.

Crazy, really.

In a minute, when I approach him, he's going to recognise me, isn't he?

What do I say then?

'Oh, _that_ Paul Reed!'

No, I just ignore it. Make out like I couldn't remember him.

Just a minor blip in my life. _Easily_ forgotten.

_That's_ why I didn't recall his name.

'That one.' Veronica points again, leaning over my shoulder a little. 'With the gorgeous mass of dark hair.'

Yeah, that's enough to pick him out, okay.

'The one with Diana Foscut.'

Veronica's tone implies she'd like her voice to be capable of striking someone down as surely as an expertly thrown knife.

We push our way through yet more zombies, this time including what could be a red-jacketed Michael Jackson from the _Thriller_ video. There's a hooded character who could be Skeletor, the guy from _Scream_ , or a Death Eater.

The quality of the costumes differs, of course, so I'm not certain who some of them are supposed to be. A masked man could be either Hannibal Lecter, the _Halloween_ villain, or maybe even the _real_ weirdo from _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. A dark wizard could be any one of a number from _Lord of the Rings_.

Some of the girls are possibly a bit more recognisable, including Medusa, a few sirens, Narnia's White Witch. There's an alien, however, who might be the man-eating Species, or possibly from _Star Trek_ or a Marvel movie.

In the kitchen, Paul's successfully flirting with Catwoman. The slinky version, with the costume made up of roughly stitched patches of leather. She's got the figure for it too.

Lucky girl.

Beyond her, farther into the kitchen, there's a Lord Voldermort, a Snape, the character played by Helena Bonham Carter whose name I can never remember.

There's also either a Dr Evil or a Blofeld, a Gollum or a Goblin, a Jango or the other Fett, a Jack the Ripper, Nosferatu, or a Dorian Grey.

The girl from the _Exorcist_ has a clever mask that makes it look as if her head is half turned around. Freddy Kruger has talons covered in glistening foil. Agent Smith from _The Matrix_ has a suitably plastic-looking face.

Paul, he's dressed as he always is; old leather jacket, jeans, and simple T-shirt.

Maybe he didn't think it was cool coming as some evil character. Maybe he decided he'd just come in the gear he feels most comfortable wearing. And to hell with what anyone else thinks.

'Paul?'

I try to say it devoid of any hint of emotion. I'm not sure I pull it off.

He still looks amazing. And yes, despite going against the party's theme, he looks incredibly cool.

Cool is the right word to describe how he turns to me. There's no recognition in his eyes at all, let alone the start of surprise I was expecting. No hint, either, of the impressed look I'd sort of been wishing for. ('Wow, Kate! You're in the _police_ now?')

'Yes?'

That's it: 'Yes?'

Like we've never, ever met. Like we didn't go out together for a few months just a few months back.

Like I've changed so immeasurably in that time, I'm completely unrecognisable.

I'm sure pulling my hair back into a stern ponytail hasn't altered me _that_ much!

Then again, there was the relentless exercise and training, the Spartan diets. All of which has given me a harder-faced, more straight-backed look.

No, let's face it Kate, old girl; you were so unimportant to him, just one of so many other girls he's dated, that you don't feature anywhere in his memory anymore.

Then he smiles.

I smile back, hopeful.

'A prison officer; you've come as a prison officer?' he says cheerily. 'That's different, yeah, I like it. They can be really evil when they want to be, can't they?'

He still hasn't used my name. Has he recognised me, or what?

He seems to mistake my questioning look for confusion over the way he's dressed. Perhaps he's been frequently asked for an explanation.

'I thought I'd come as T-One Thousand,' he says, with a grin that reminds me of how wonderful it used to be when he'd use it to greet me. 'From the second _Terminator_ movie? But then I thought, no: I'll come as James Dean. He must've played a bad character at some point, right?'

I give Catwoman a hard, uncompromising glare. _Beat it!_ She looks a little miffed, yet also very unsure about just how far she wants to take protesting against her dismissal. She takes her cue to leave, saying to Paul, 'Later?'

Paul nods, grins, looks back towards me with an expression that implies he's none too happy with the way I've butted in like this.

'I'm a police officer,' I state bluntly. 'A _real_ police officer.'

He glances Veronica's way, who's hanging back just by my shoulder.

She nods, backing my assertion up.

Strange, when you think about it; me not being a police officer at all.

'Officer,' he says with a welcoming if doubtful nod.

He doesn't know me.

That's all I am to him; an officer.

And I'm not really that, of course.

Just great!

Oaky, an _officer_ it is then.

'I heard you were involved in an argument earlier?'

Paul looks shocked by my blankly delivered statement. Once again, he looks to Veronica for reassurance that everything's fine, that there's not really anything to worry about.

Behind me, Veronica must nod her assent. Paul looks back to me with a slightly calmer gaze, his eyes still bemused, even a little angry.

'Nothing serious, Officer,' he insists, giving me his best 'See how innocent I look?' smile. 'Just a tiff; nothing more. What did she say? Why did she call you?'

Towards the end, he can't hide his irate glower. His easy manner has gone too. He's stiffened, standing more upright, a little away from the wall.

'She didn't call: I'm just trying to work out what went on here tonight, that's all.'

'I'm not being accused of anything, am I? What's happened?'

'Nothing to concern you – yet. That's what I'm trying to work out.'

'It was just a regular argument; you know, like you have over another girl? That's all. I've had hundreds of them. And none have had to involve the police.'

Hundreds, I reckon, is dead right.

'This one probably won't either, after you've given me a few answers to a few questions. You're just helping with enquiries. Being eliminated from them, if you prefer.'

Yeah, all that guff I've picked up from TV rather than from training. Thing is, it works: it reassures him.

Suddenly, he's no longer standing so defensively rigid.

'What was this argument about?' I ask soothingly. 'This argument like so many hundreds you've had before?' I can't help adding, lacing it all with a quiet, mocking guffaw.

'Another girl, what else?' He almost says it with unalloyed pride.

I must glare at him more reproachfully than I realise.

'No, no!' he continues hurriedly. 'Not a girl I was chasing: a girl chasing _me_!'

Again, there's that self-satisfied smirk.

Whatever did I see in this arrogant jerk?

I let him continue.

'She approached me! Honest! Worse, though, she kept on insisting I'd been out with her. But I _swear_ I'd never seen her before! So yeah, as you can imagine: _that_ didn't go down too well with the girl I'd brought to the party!'

'She approached _you_? Even though you were already with a girl?'

I say it doubtfully, even though, yeah, it _did_ happen actually. I'd curled my toes in embarrassment a number of times when a girl who saw herself as being more in his league had just about stepped on my feet in her eagerness to talk to him.

I'm just enjoying watching him squirm, truth be told.

'It happens all the time, I _swear_.' He says it with what he hopes is a self-explanatory, winning smile. 'But, I've got to admit, this girl was freaking me out. She just looked, you know – like _real_ kooky!'

I look about me, catching sight of a passing Genghis Khan, some sort of Arthurian fey, maybe, a female version of the Joker. I'm sort of glad to see that, so far, I haven't spotted anyone who's come as Darth Vader. When it comes to kooky, however; I think that just about sums up everybody here.

Once again, Paul's on the ball, noting my sceptical frown.

'Look, I mean, she was only _dressed_ as an angel; the Archangel Gabriel, from the movie _Constantine_? It wasn't _that_ that freaked me out. It was – well, you've got to _see_ her! See, I said I didn't know her: but really, I wouldn't know her if I _did_! She's had so much work done! I've no idea what she must've originally looked like!'

'What kind of work? Plastic surgery, you mean?'

He nods. I glower doubtfully.

'Bit young for a nip and tuck, surely?'

This time, he shakes his head.

'No, not _that_ kind of plastic. I'm talking of the real whacko kind: when they set out to create someone entirely different to who they really are! She's gone for the Barbie look; you know, like she really _is_ made of plastic!'

It's my time to nod. He smiles with relief, like he's glad he's actually getting through to me, getting me to believe him.

I know what he means by the Barbie look: the incredible transformation some people put themselves through to create a doll-like perfection.

At one low point in my life – a low point that had an awful lot to do with Paul – I'd actually toyed with idea of going under the knife myself. In newspapers and magazines, I'd seen photos of girls who had done it before, paying for the ludicrously expensive surgery by charging photographers and journos for exclusives.

Sometimes, rather than Barbie, they'd give themselves a Korean look. Then there were the Koreans who had themselves altered to look like western girls. Boys too, some making themselves into a human Ken.

Weird, but hey – if that's your bag, why not?

'And you sure you didn't know her?' I probe Paul. 'She might have changed her appearance, but she must have told you her name.'

'Sure she did; and that's when I was sure she was a fully-fledged whacko. It was just unbelievable. She said she was Kate Denham!'

I hold back from gasping in surprise.

He's right; she _can't_ be Kate Denham.

Because _I'm_ Kate Denham.

*

# Chapter 7

We always feel we have become enlightened when things are explained to us

Yet if they are only words

Then they are meaningless

When we really face the world

The Desire

I'm probably making way too much of this name thing.

I mean, it's not impossible, is it, that someone at a party could have the same name as me?

Especially when it's hardly an extra special name.

Could be, anyway, that she's just lying. She's completely changed her appearance, so why not her name?

Maybe it's all just some sad joke. Maybe she knew me and Paul had been an item for a while, and she was hoping he'd be fooled into thinking she really was me.

Yeah, good luck with that, love, if that was your plan.

Me and Paul, all that's ancient history.

So, let's just, for now, put it all down to coincidence. Let's say it really _is_ her name.

How many Kate Denham's must there be in the world?

I'd left Paul with a warning that I still wanted to ask him a few more questions later. That I also expected him to avoid spreading panic, by keeping it quiet that I was a real police officer.

He'd nodded gratefully, of course. He was glad that that seemed to be it for now. He wasn't a prime suspect, after all, for some as yet undisclosed major crime.

Paul's a love rat, no doubt about that; but I really can't see that he'd kill anyone.

Veronica's obediently tagging along with me once more. Grim faced, like she really can't believe how her party's taken a turn for the worse.

I can't put off calling in help any longer. I'm...I'm just going to have to remove the book, the murder weapon.

That way, as long as no one sees me taking it, I'm in the clear.

There's nothing to link me to the poor girl's death.

'I've done it, I've done it all!' Hare says, approaching us excitedly, a little unsure who he should be talking to. 'The doors and windows are locked – the windows had sort of swollen anyway, as it happens, and were pretty much impossible to open anyway.'

'The phones? Did Burk – I mean your friend, ask you to try and retrieve all the phones in the house?'

He nods in reply to my query, pulls a queasy, lopsided smirk.

'Not everyone handed them over, even though I got some of the bigger guys to help me collect them. But it turns out it doesn't matter anyway; there's no signal. Not even a blip of one!'

I flip out my own cellphone, press a few buttons to check.

Yep, he's got that right; no signal at all.

That's good, very good.

It gives me an excuse when I have to explain why I didn't immediately call for help earlier.

*

# Chapter 8

The man of reason only accepts those things he already believes in

And that is why he is foolish

The Desire

I'm interested in retrieving my book for a reason other than the more obvious one – namely, ensuring I'm not put in the frame for the girl's murder.

Ever since I stepped out of the taxi, a very small corner of my mind has been nagging me that the book's illustrations _had_ changed. That I hadn't imagined it when I thought the people in the pictures had slightly moved from their original positions.

That it wasn't just all down to a trick of the light, as I'd told myself.

Crazy, right?

The illustrations are – well, odd in so many ways. For a start, they seem to be a far later addition to the book than the vellum-like pages they're either drawn or printed on.

The pages, as I've already pointed out, have that crisp, greaseproof paper feel of vellum, which you'd associate with an ancient, at least medieval book. The letters of the words are hand written, as you'd expect in such an old book. Even here, though, everything's not as it first seems.

Is the term palimpsest, for an old manuscript that has been scraped clear and freshly written on? I think it is. And that's definitely what's taken place here. The letters aren't an angular gothic script, but a much, much more recent form of writing; even though, at first glance, you could be fooled into believing the words have been printed. The spelling and language, too, appear to be curiously modern.

The illustrations are of the kind I'd expect to find within an original Dickens' novel: delicate etchings, featuring both a man and a woman in what I presume is mid-Victorian garb. The woman wears a voluminous, multi-layered dress. Her thin, elegant neck is completely bared, as are most of her shoulders.

She's amazingly beautiful. It's a kind of demure yet also – perhaps they really shouldn't be so compatible – bewitchingly enticing beauty. The man portrayed with her is suitably enamoured. He's darkly handsome, caring, loving. He either stares at her longingly or tenderly caresses her.

Or, rather, that's how they were originally pictured together. Or, maybe, how I falsely _remember_ them being portrayed.

For when I skipped through the illustrations while seated in the back of the cab, I seemed to detect the most subtle of changes. The woman, I'm sure, was turning away, even _pulling_ away, from her lover. His expression was one of shock, anger. He was reaching out, not to caress, but to grab, to drag her back.

It was as if the illustrations had moved slightly on in time, like a later set of stills from a movie.

Thinking about it all like this once more, I suppose it _had_ to be a trick of the light. Or a faulty memory.

Either that, or I'm _really_ losing it.

*

# Chapter 9

If anyone ever tells you you have no choice

Then the really surprising thing is

You do

The Desire

'There! There she is!'

Veronica's grabbing my arm, pointing out across the crowded hall towards an open door leading into another, larger room.

I'm tempted to ask her who she means. Then it dawns on me; she'd presumed, wrongly of course, that we've gone off in search of this Barbie girl, this other Kate Denham.

When this other Kate turns to look our way, having both heard and noticed the elatedly pointing Veronica, it's quite startling. Clever makeup and contact lenses enlarge and enhance her eyes, giving her an amazing air of child-like innocence. Her hair is of the brightest blonde. There's masses of it too, like it's waiting for a giant, gap-toothed comb to tease it into whatever elaborate shape you please.

She smiles, revealing perfect, perfectly small teeth. Her lips are red, luscious, and ideally shaped into a Cupid's bow.

Even amongst all these oddities surrounding me – the Cybermen, the Riddlers, the _Hellraiser_ Pinheads – she shines out. She's different, too, in a way that everyone else could only ever hope to be.

She really _is_ this bizarre character, this living, breathing doll.

She has an otherworldly beauty, an impossible beauty. I've no doubt that she's come as an angel because it fits in with her idea of a sense of perfection, an angelic ideal. She could be a medieval figurine of ivory, representing blissful perfection.

As I draw closer to her, I find myself almost automatically asking the strangest question I'm ever likely to ask.

'Kate? You're Kate Denham? Is that right?'

She nods, smiles, flutters her doll's eyes in an obviously well-practised manner.

'Are you _sure_ about that?'

If she frowns in surprise or irritation, I can't really tell. No crease forms on her forehead. It's as clean and clear as pristine plastic.

It's only in her eyes that I detect any confusion.

'Course I'm sure.' She says it with a faint, trilling chuckle.

Again, it seems practised. All part of her new persona.

This is how Barbie would speak, were she able to construct sentences other than those brought into life by a pull of a cord in her naked back.

'I heard you had an argument earlier with Paul Reed.'

I phrase it as a statement, not a question.

She nods, smiles again.

'Tell me about it.' I add, wondering if she's playing stupid as part of her act.

'And I have to explain this because...?'

She lets her voice drift off, waiting for my reasons.

'Can't you see she's a police officer?' Veronica helpfully hisses quietly at her.

'Really?'

Barbie says it like she's completely puzzled by Veronica's admonishment. She gives me the once over, still looks unpersuaded.

'Isn't she a bit, well, _young_ to be a cop?'

Ah well; I wondered how long I could get away with this ridiculous façade. The only thing that surprises me is that no one's noticed this up until now.

A disdainful look from Barbie has got to be seen before anyone can really understand how bizarrely hurtful it is. It's like your favourite toy, the one you've loved and cared for throughout most of your childhood (and, embarrassingly and secretly, a little beyond), has finally revealed her real, innermost feelings for you: and they're not at all good or flattering.

'I _did_ wonder if throwing out an invite for a weirdo like you was really such a good idea!' Veronica glowers at Barbie as if everything she'd feared might go wrong has all just taken place in less than a minute. 'Don't they teach politeness and respect for authority at your school?'

Barbie glances Veronica's way. She just widens her eyes a little, acting all unworldly innocent once more.

She smiles again.

She turns slightly, smiles at me.

'What's your relationship with Paul Reed?' I persevere.

'Not that I really see it as been _any_ business of yours, but...I used to go out with him. He dumped me. As Paul _always_ does.'

She smiles blissfully at Veronica.

Veronica blushes, hangs her head in shame.

'He says he can't recall ever going out with you,' I point out.

'Well, I've changed an awful lot, haven't I, since he last saw me? Besides, if you knew Paul, you'd know he doesn't find it hard to conveniently forget just how badly he treated his exes.'

I _do_ know Paul; and I _do_ know how painfully correct that is.

'It _wasn't_ an argument,' she continues assuredly. 'I just wanted to show him what he was missing. I don't have any interest in him any longer; but it's still always nice, isn't it, to see the hurt in someone's eyes, when that someone has treated you so badly?'

'I might have to ask you a few more questions later.'

I turn away, realising this isn't getting any of us anywhere.

Why would this girl murder the girl Paul had brought to the party with him?

Jealousy?

Frustration, that Paul hadn't recognised her?

That might lead to a bit of eye scratching, maybe, at most.

I can't see her killing anyone for it.

I bound up the stairs, hoping to leave Veronica a good few steps behind me. I don't want her in the room when I remove the book. I even force my way past a few people, pulling them slightly to one side, hoping they're too drunk to notice. Hoping they'll block Veronica's way.

With a nod of recognition to Burke, I fling open the door to the room, dash inside.

Naturally, the poor girl's still there, spread-eagled across the bed.

But the book – well, _that's_ gone.

*

# Chapter 10

If you put your mind to things

If you concentrated

Yes, you've got all the right qualities to be successful

You know this too

But, strangely

That merely encourages you to put things off

For another, better day

The Desire

'Who'd you let in?'

Flinging open the door once more, I catch Burke by surprise.

He's hardly up there with the Marines when it comes to rigidly remaining at his post. He's languishing against the wall, flirting with a very responsive Goth girl.

'Oh, er, no one, no one!'

He jumps, standing up straight and ignoring the girl, as if this is how he's maintained his guard at the door since I left him. He scowls at me, like he's a little irritated by any scurrilous accusation against his character.

'You sure about that?'

'Well, well...course, I had to take a trip, you know, for a leak, but–'

'Great!'

I turn back into the room. I'm about to slam the door behind me, but Veronica turns up, apologising for being a little late. She'd got waylaid by some friends, she explains, wanting to know all the gossip about who was hiding away in the closed bedroom.

'Anything wrong?' she asks, no doubt sensing my anguish and panic. 'Where's everybody else?' she adds anxiously. 'The help you called for?'

'Oh, they've been delayed,' I lie. 'I just got a call.'

'Your phone's working? No one else's seems to be, for some reason. They were complaining about it to me. They're angry that they're not allowed outside. Mostly, they're drunk, and still enjoying themselves; but some of them are starting to wonder what's going on.'

I'm only half listening to her. Surely, someone outside saw who came in here.

'Veronica, could you ask the people outside if they saw anyone enter the room while our friend was in the toilet?'

'Someone's been in here?'

I nod.

'I'll check for fingerprints.'

It sounds suitably official and reassuring. I'm even intending on following through on my statement and checking the fingerprints on the glass tumbler.

As Veronica had talked, I'd been curiously taking in a little more of the scene, vainly hoping I'll spot something that might lead me to whoever's stolen the – _my_ – book. Underneath the bedside lamp's bright light, I could clearly see a slightly greasy fingerprint on the glass.

I wouldn't need to dust it with talc, which, of course, would lead to me being accused of tampering with evidence. I could take a photo on my cellphone, blow it up – and then what?

Check it off against a houseful of kids' fingerprints?

Check it off against Paul's?

Still, I can't think what else to do.

I kneel by the side of the bedside cupboard, taking a photo of the glass. Veronica, taking her cue, disappears out of the door, dutifully closing it behind her.

When I blow up the whorls of the fingerprint on my screen, it seems strangely familiar. As part of my training, I've recently been taking and closely inspecting a large number of fingerprints.

I turn my camera on the tip of one of my own fingers. Click a picture. Blow it up.

Yeah, as I suspected.

The fingerprint on the tumbler is mine.

*

# Chapter 11

It's motivation you lack, if we're being honest, isn't it?

Your mind flitters elsewhere, while your self-absorption restricts you more than you realise

And so you give up on your dreams too easily

The Desire

Just outside the door, there's an increasingly noisy and panicked commotion.

Veronica's voice is raised, shrill, as she tries to calm people down.

Has news about the girl's murder leaked out?

There are a few screams. Nervous laughs.

'What's going on?' someone yells, their voice trembling with fear.

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I step outside of the bedroom.

'Is everything all right out here?'

Veronica's flustered, her face red. She's pretty close to tears.

'They can't get their costumes off! No one can remove their costumes!'

I chuckle uneasily.

'Why are they trying to remove their costumes? Are they leaving?'

'They're sticking to us, look!'

A girl leans towards me, demonstrating with an attempted pinch of her snake-scaled costume that it really does seem to have become attached to her own skin.

'Me too,' 'I'm the same,' others around me agreed.

'It's...it's just a little hot in here, that's all!' Veronica tried to give off an air of calm and reason, but her voice was quivering and high, like it was all getting too much for her. 'Clothes naturally stick to you: you know, especially leather, or man-made fabrics like these costumes are made of.'

The protests started up immediately.

'So why can't we open a window, let some cool air in?'

'Why can't we open the door: step outside for a while?'

'How's your ridiculous theory explain this, Veri? My skin is–'

'I've got the key, the key to the door!'

The shout comes from below us. A guy dressed as a hooded Death, carrying a fake scythe, forces his way through the crowded hall. He's making his way towards the front door.

'What? Where'd you get that, Michael Roger?' an aghast Veronica demands, leaning over the bannister.

'The kitchen!' Death glances up at us, jangling his set of keys. 'You had them in the kitchen, all labelled.'

A cry telling everyone that they can't leave almost leaves my lips. As for the explanation that there's been a murder, well, that doesn't even get that close.

That would cause an even worse panic: announcing to them that there's a murderer casually walking round amongst them.

Besides, something deep within me is whispering: _Wait_.

Just _wait_.

Everything will sort itself out.

Death slips his key into the door. He turns it.

Death turns the door's handle. He pulls back hard on the door.

Death bangs violently on the door, letting his scythe fall aside.

'It won't open! The bloody thing _still_ won't open,' Death wails miserably.

*

# Chapter 12

Desire is neither thought, nor object, nor a wish

The Desire

'This is all _way_ too odd!'

'Something totally bizarre's going on here, Veri!'

'Smash a window!'

'You will _not_ smash a window.'

At last, Veronica says it as sternly and authoritatively as if she really were an evil queen. Standing against the banister, she could be making an uncompromising proclamation from her palace balcony.

'The door will open fine at some point,' she continues serenely. 'It swells up in wet weather, that's all. Tom said the windows are sticking too!'

She gracefully smiles down on everyone, like she's relishing her new-found confidence and unquestionable authority.

It all gives me yet another breathing space. Another chance to make up for my earlier failings and incredible, panicked stupidity.

I can't delay it any longer. The longer I hold back from calling for help, the stranger it looks and the harder it is to explain.

I'm going to _have_ to call the police, using one of the house's landlines.

My book, which had tied me to the murder, has thankfully vanished.

As for the tumbler's fingerprint, I ever so accidently and gently smudged that.

There's still the question, of course, as to who took the book: but that's a minor consideration now I'm off the hook for that poor girl's death.

Veronica approaches me. It's truly eerie, the way she seems to have abruptly grown in stature. Her back's straight, making her appear taller and more imposing than I'd originally taken her to be.

'No one entered the room.' Her voice is husky from all her shouting, even a little bit regal. 'Phil might have gone off for a little while, but he had enough sense to ask Mary to cover for him.'

She indicates the Goth girl with a sneering sidelong glance.

'Thanks for asking around, Veronica.'

Fortunately, it no longer matters that no one had seen who had taken the book.

Not because I've lost all interest in its disappearance.

No, it's because I've just seen Barbie politely worming away through the bustling hall. Making her way towards the even more crowded front room.

And, probably to avoid it getting damaged, she's holding the book high above her head.

*

# Chapter 13

You resent the restraints upon your desire to freely express yourself

And who is the one curbing that desire most?

Why, you of course!

The Desire

It figures, doesn't it?

Barbie: _plastic_ Barbie.

She's completely changed her face, maybe even her body in some ways too.

That's what these people who want to look like dolls do, isn't it?

How hard is it to change your fingerprints when you've put yourself through all that?

When you're going around, too, telling everyone you're Kate Denham?

Why's she done it though?

What's her motive?

That, for the life of me, I just can't work out.

The only way I'm going to find out is to ask her.

I more or less bound down the stairs, rudely pushing aside a white-armoured Storm Trooper, an irately shocked Roman Emperor.

In the front room, it's ridiculously crowded, with hardly room for people to move. There are a number of characters I haven't encountered until now: Stalin, a woman in medieval dress who might be the Arthurian Morgana le Fey, a cloaked, red-faced Jedi Knight, a wickedly grinning, tousle-haired Charlie Manson (or _The Shining_ 's Jack Nicholson?). There are also a few witches, including a green Wicked Witch of the West.

Barbie is elegantly passing through them all, her book still held high above her head, out of harm's way. She's heading towards a closed door at the far end of the room.

With a demure, polite nod of her head to Two-Face and a tentacle-strewn Davy Jones, Barbie opens and slips through the door, silently closing it behind her.

When I get to the door, I see there's a large, handwritten sign taped to it, stating that the room is off limits. Deftly nipping inside, I'm amazed by the abrupt change to a relative silence. The vibrant, pounding sounds of the party are muffled by thick, oak-panelled walls.

It's an office cum small library. Cosy, old fashioned. No doubt it's Veronica's dad's hideaway. Hence the off limits sign outside.

Barbie is seated in a quilted red-leather chair. As I enter she looks up, surprised but not particularly startled or worried by my appearance.

'Oh, hi,' she says gaily enough, smiling warmly if a little ashamedly. 'Sorry if I'm not really supposed to be in here. I just wanted a quiet moment to myself; so I could check something in my book.'

She innocently holds up the book rather than making any belated attempt to hide it. There's still a slight smattering of blood on the book's corner.

She hasn't even bothered to try and clean it.

'How'd you get that book?'

Naturally, I already know the answer. But I have to ask.

She rewards me with a quizzical frown.

'It's mine. I brought it with me.'

There's a hint of irritation in her voice. Like she really really really doesn't see what this has to do with me.

I shake my head.

'That book was upstairs, on the bed. Someone's taken it. And now I find you with it.'

Now she shakes her head.

'It wasn't me. This is my copy.'

'You sure? It looks a pretty old and rare book to me. _And_ it has _blood_ on it.'

'Blood?'

She bemusedly glances at the book she's holding. She giggles.

'No, no! It's not blood. It's lipstick – see?'

Rubbing a finger in the red stain, she holds out a reddened fingertip towards me. I step closer, take a look at the fingertip, a part of my mind scolding me for not using this opportunity to check her fingerprints.

But she's right: it's not blood. It's lipstick.

'I've had the book in my bag. I must've left an open lipstick in there with it.'

She purses her lips, obviously angry with herself for being so careless with the book.

'Do you have any proof that this book is yours?'

'What's all this about my book?' She glowers, but it has little effect on her otherwise flawless, unlined skin. 'But yes, I do have proof, as it happens.'

She flips a thin slip of paper from between the book's pages, handing it to me with a triumphant flourish.

Of course; I always use the receipt as a bookmark.

'Satisfied?' she asks.

'It doesn't prove anything.'

I can't help sounding sour, beaten.

'Ask around!' She sounds irate, frustrated. 'People have seen me with it! It's _my_ book! I haven't taken it from anywhere, or anyone!'

'Why'd you come in here with it?' I indicate the quiet room with a wave of a hand. 'Where no one can see you with it?'

'Do you think I should be trying to read it out _there_? Amongst all that craziness?'

'Why would you want to be reading when you're at a party?'

Lowering her head, her cheeks burst out in the slightest blush.

'Hah, well now... Well, here's something even crazier – no, no; you really wouldn't believe me.'

I sigh.

'Try me.'

'I...well; I just had to find out what happened next.'

It's said with an embarrassed chuckle. Yet, at last, I know for sure that she's lying.

_The Desire_ isn't a story. It's more just a collection of...well, what? Musings? Advice? I'm not really sure myself what you'd call it.

But I _do_ know for sure that it isn't a story. There's no 'what happened next'.

'It's not a _story_ ,' I say to her bluntly.

She's shocked that I know this: her already wide eyes widen all the more. There are no signs of guilt or of having been caught out, however.

Perhaps her face is no longer capable of displaying the more subtle emotions.

'Not the words, no,' she agrees. 'But the pictures; _they're_ a story. A story that's changing all the time.'

'Are you saying...are you saying the illustrations are _changing_?'

I almost stumble on my words. I didn't have to interpret her description of the pictures in this way, did I?

Am I giving away too much? Am I revealing to this girl that, earlier, I'd also fooled myself into believing I'd spotted changes in the book's pictures?

Her eyes widen in surprise again.

'You know _that_ too?'

'How...in what way do you _think_ these pictures have changed?'

'I don't _think_ ; I know! They're lovers, you know that, yes?'

She sees the light of recognition in my eyes.

'But...it's all become more threatening. Like the girl – this truly beautiful, most _perfect_ girl – is really a prisoner. Like she's imprisoned in the _book_.'

She hands the book to me, randomly flipping it open to display one of the book's dark etchings.

I almost choke in amazement.

'What's happening?' An anguished Barbie rises to her feet, stepping towards me. 'Is it worse?'

I flip through to another illustration, then another. Barbie pulls the book more towards her, so she can also see the pictures, the changes.

The girl is running away. The man – the man we had mistakenly taken to be her lover, not her jailer – is chasing after her. He's reaching out for her. Ferociously grabbing at her.

The girl looks out of the book towards us, pleading for help.

But no; it's not just the pictures giving this impression. Somewhere within me there's a sense of flowing emotions, filling in the blanks between the illustrations, creating that feeling of movement.

'It _is_ even worse!' Barbie fearfully wails.

She looks to me, her eyes as pleading as the girl's in the book.

'I _have_ to help her!'

The same thought has flashed through my mind.

Only I believe the girl is begging for _my_ help, not _hers_.

*

# Chapter 14

Even when we doubt what we are told

We find reasons to accept it

The Desire

But...how can the girl be begging for help?

Bizarrely, when I put this question to myself, it's not because I doubt she can be calling from out of a book for my help.

No, it's because I find it hard to believe she _would_ ask for help.

What does she herself say, in her writing? That we create our own fears and weaknesses when we believe power lies outside rather than within ourselves? That we shouldn't let the actions of others define who we are?

Which, I suppose, if I'm reading that more in relation to myself, is another way of saying don't be defined by your career.

Wait, wait.

What _am_ I doing?

I'd almost forgotten why I'm really here.

To arrest Barbie for the murder of the poor girl upstairs.

These pictures – well, I don't _how_ it's happening. But it must be _something_ to do with faulty memory. _Something_ to do with my memories playing stupid tricks on me.

I close the book with a dull thump.

'I need to see your fingerprints.'

'What? Are you serious? You've seen what's happening in the book! I need to help her.'

'No; no you don't!'

I briefly close my eyes tightly, trying to look at everything that's happening in a more logical, reasoned manner.

The pictures _can't_ be changing

That would be; what? Magic?

I _refuse_ to accept that that's what's happening here!

'Fingerprints!' I snap. 'I _need_ to see them!'

Although she gives me an exasperated huff, an irate glower, she opens up her palm towards me. Taking her hand in one of mine, I flip out my cellphone. I take a photo of her fingertip, blow up the picture.

It's _my_ fingerprint.

The one that was on the tumbler.

*

# Chapter 15

People falsely think that success and power are measurable

They strive for this reward and that reward

They strive to empower themselves at the expense of others

They ask the world to assess and acknowledge their value in this way (before they have even learned how to value themselves)

When you believe all power is external to you, when you yourself seek that external power, seek power over others, then you fear the external

And thereby, you are powerless

The Desire

'Why'd you do it?'

'Do what?'

She's still playing the innocent. It's easy, with such a smoothly perfect, doll's face.

'I'm still not sure what it is I'm supposed to have done!' she insists. 'You haven't told me yet!'

I'm still not prepared to admit we have a dead body upstairs. Crazy, I know. Because if she's the murderer, she'll be fully aware that Paul's girlfriend is lying across the bed with a bloodied head.

But, then again, it _wasn't_ blood on _her_ book was it?

So, what if I'm wrong?

What if she's managing to pull off this remarkable air of innocence because she really _is_ innocent?

'Okay, okay: so, let's try another question. Why did you make all these changes to yourself? The face, the body – the fingerprints?'

Her frown could be one of puzzlement. It's not clearly enough defined for me to be sure.

'I'm not sure such personal questioning comes under police interrogation.'

'Why not just humour me? You know, if I admitted to you that, at one point in my life, I'd even considered doing what you've done; going for the full-on change. Transforming myself into my childhood idea of beauty.'

She eyes me curiously, like she's trying to figure out if I'm making fun of her.

'Well, there's a coincidence,' she says, playing it safe. 'At one point, I'd considered joining the police.'

Is she mocking me?

'But you didn't; you changed yourself in this way instead. Your version of Kate Denham.'

'Yep, my _ideal_ Kate Denham.'

I'm tempted to arrest her. But what proof do I have that she did it?

She's got the book – which have my fingerprints all over it anyway.

I've smudged the fingerprint on the tumbler – which is also _my_ fingerprint.

'Did you kill her? The girl who came with Paul: was it jealousy?'

'Kill her? She's _dead_?'

She raises a hand to her mouth. She seems genuinely astonished, even frightened.

'And you think _I_ did it?'

She's even more astonished, even more frightened.

'Who else? I found you holding the murder weapon; the book, I mean.'

I'm still holding the book. I raise it slightly in front of her.

'But I've already told you: I brought it _with_ me! It _can't_ be the murder weapon! This whole thing gets crazier by the minute, you know that? Accusing me of killing someone I've only just met!'

With an angry, bewildered shake of her head, she makes a snatch for the book. Instinctively, I push her back, harder than I'd intended. It sends her stumbling back against a sideboard.

Reaching out with a steadying hand across the sideboard's top, she stops herself from falling too badly. Her hand naturally falls against a shiny, silver object. Her fingers mechanically curl around its strangely reassuring shape, a shape built for holding.

Without seeming to really think about it, almost in a daze, she drags the object towards her. She lifts it up towards her face, so she can get a better look at it.

It's a gun.

Once again in an impulsive rather than a rationally motivated way, she moves the gun in her hand. Embracing it correctly, by its satisfactorily shaped butt. A finger naturally slipping into the trigger guard.

She aims the gun at me.

She seems as surprised as I am that she's doing this.

Like it's all just happened by chance. Not by choice.

Fortunately, I hear that calming inner voice again.

Don't worry.

Everything will sort itself out.

'I really have got _no_ idea what's going on here!' She speaks almost apologetically, yet there's still a determined edge there. 'But I _do_ know you're not even a real policewoman!'

'And that's not even a real gun.'

At last, I realise why I'm taking all this so calmly.

Why would anyone have a real gun just lying on a sideboard in their office? It had lain next to a silver tray of cigarettes. It's a novelty cigarette lighter, that's all.

'Ohh!'

She sounds both disappointed and relieved. She pulls a disconcerted smirk, briefly glancing at the fake gun she's holding.

Realising I'm right, she loosens her grip a little. Her pointing of the barrel slightly wavers, before turning directly towards me once more.

She grins wanly. Just for the hell of it, I suppose, she clicks the trigger. Twice.

Blam!

Blam!

That's the nosiest novelty lighter I've ever heard.

There's complete shock in her eyes. She wasn't expecting that!

Neither was I, of course.

Everything seems to slow down.

Isn't that what they say happens when your life's in danger? You brain working at supper speed?

As if I'm in some clever, digitally-enhanced movie, I see the bullets worming their unstoppable way through the air towards me.

Thump!

Thump!

They hit me. Either in or at least so damn close to my heart it really doesn't make much difference.

The force throws me back off my feet.

Once again, all in that bizarrely delightful slow motion.

I land painfully against the wall, slumping to the floor. Blood spurts from around my heart.

Languidly spouting red fountains.

Glistening. Beautiful.

My life, draining away.

Who's the most surprised? Her or me?

No contest.

It's me. Definitely.

_I'm_ the one who's dying, after all.

*

# Chapter 16

Although you want to let people in

You never reveal the real you

The Desire

She looks so shocked.

She can't believe this has happened to her

I can't believe it, either.

It wasn't a _real_ gun!

I checked, I looked closely at it; it was a _novelty_ lighter! That's all!

Just to prove it to myself, I click the trigger.

The end of the barrel lights up in a flickering, blue flame.

She grins, sickly. Like she's amused that I'm every bit as surprised as she is.

She's breathing hard, heavily; her eyes have already lost their sparkle.

Then her head drops.

She's dead.

I've killed her.

I've killed the policewoman.

*

# Chapter 17

When you rage against an injustice

When you distance yourself from others in resentment or bitterness, or a sense of disappointment or unworthiness or superiority

When you long for something or someone

When you're threatened by another, or fear them, whether it's a lover, a parent, a boss, or a god

When you envy another

When you see power as external, and you do not feel you possess enough of it to ensure your wellbeing or safety

When you fear for your ability to protect and care for yourself in the world

What can you experience but pain?

The Desire

I run to her side, kneel by her.

'No no! I didn't mean _this_! I didn't mean to _kill_ you!'

It doesn't matter what I'd _meant_ to do. She's dead.

Her blood has pooled in her lap. She's lost so much, so quickly. Her head limply rests on her chest.

I toss the gun aside.

The _fake_ gun. How could I kill her with a _fake_ gun?

It's not possible.

And yet; she's dead. Two massive, ugly bullet wounds in her chest.

I nervously glance up at the door. Why aren't people rushing in, asking who's been shot, who's been murdered?

The muffled sounds of the party, however, continue much as they did before. Chances are, they didn't hear the shots. Not over that loud music, the chaotic chatter.

Added to that, this office has been designed as a deliberate oasis. It's reasonably well soundproofed.

There's nothing I can do for her. It's too late. There's no point calling for help.

All that would happen is that the police are called – the _real_ police – and I find myself arrested for a murder I didn't intend to commit.

How fair's that?

Not that it's entirely fair that she's ended up dead, of course.

But I didn't _mean_ to kill her!

It's not _really_ my fault!

I...I need to ensure no one comes in here and finds her. If...if I can just delay the discovery of her body, there's no reason why I should be suspected.

Sure, my fingerprints are all over the gun. But it's not a _real_ gun!

It shouldn't really be capable of killing _anyone_.

Even so, it connects me with being in this room. I retrieve it from where I'd tossed it only a moment before. Bringing my sleeves down over my palms, I swiftly wipe the gun clean.

Holding it between my covered palms, making sure I don't touch it with my fingers, I put the wiped gun back on the sideboard, next to the tray of cigarettes.

I could drag her body off to one side, hide it somewhere. But it somehow all seems so disrespectful.

Instead, I drag over the large quilted chair I'd been seated in earlier. I place it in front of her body, effectively hiding it from anyone who's just making a quick, cursory glance in here.

Covering my palms with my sleeves once more, I wipe the chair clear of any fingerprints I'm worried I might have left behind.

I pick up my book. It had fallen onto the floor, when the officer had been so brutally tossed up into the air by the gun's blast.

The _novelty_ gun's blast.

'Sorry,' I whisper to the dead policewoman. 'Please try and understand.'

I stand by the door leading out from the office towards the party taking place in the front room. I ease it open a little, as silently as I can.

I peep out through the small gap I've created, trying to gauge when I can step out without being spotted.

Blam!

Blam!

I almost jump in shock. But's it's not another gun going off. It's the heavy crash of a wooden chair being used to try and smash the front window.

'It's useless! The window's unbreakable!' A frustrated Al Capone at last lowers his chair.

The curtains have been drawn across the window, cutting off any view of the outside. I wonder why no one's thought of pulling the heavy drapes back, as they'll naturally be softening any blow.

'You haven't even moved the curtains! It's like they're made of iron too!'

The _X-Men_ 's Mystique doesn't attempt to hide her contempt for Al's fruitless efforts.

Only a handful of the other party goers are interested in this strange attempt to smash the windows. Everyone else appears to be in an intoxicated frenzy, writhing seductively to the pounding music. Bodies slide along or meld into the curves of other bodies. Hands touch, even grope. Arms embrace. Lips kiss, taste, or whisper longings. Mouths gasp and sigh.

It's strange, seeing a cavorting Cruella De Vil, an eagerly responding Phantom of the Opera. A Medici queen is similarly passionately linking up with a Caliban-like beast. A green-suited, red haired Poison Ivy is incongruously and grossly enamoured with a sleazy, chuckling Penguin.

Wings flap, as if real and movable. Tails of demons flick and curl around waists, as seductively as an arm.

The couples' hedonistic lust for each other gives me a chance to slip out of the door without being seen. I gingerly make my way through this whirling sea of lovers, edge past couple after couple. Close by me, as I finally reach the end of the room, comes a trilling laugh, followed by an enthusiastic declaration of love.

'I'm ugly, but I'm so ugly!'

'No, you're beautiful, so beautiful!'

I can't see the man, whose face is buried within Medusa's elatedly entwining arms. But I can see Medusa's hair of snapping, curling snakes.

And every snake is real and alive.

*

# Chapter 18

You fear the real you is slightly unorthodox

With peculiarities you can't be bothered trying to explain or excuse

The Desire

How did I end up in this madhouse?

I'm from the wrong school. I wouldn't usually be invited to a party like this.

But I'm no longer _usual_ am I? I'm odd, I'm _unusual_ – I'm a living, breathing Barbie.

That gets you invited to most places, if only as someone to be gawped at, mocked rather than admired.

Isn't that what I wanted, this sense of being different, of being a new version of Frankenstein's monster, only one seeking beauty and perfection?

Don't we all wish to be desired? To be regarded as beautiful?

In the hall, the partying is every bit as crazy as it was in the room. It's like a version of Hell, all these odiously costumed characters, all suddenly throwing themselves at each other as if someone's been spiking the drinks with aphrodisiacs.

By the front door, a creepy looking clown and a leather clad girl are vainly kicking and banging at the panels and woodwork. The door doesn't move, the wood doesn't shatter.

'You want to get out too?' the girls asks as I move up alongside them.

I nod. 'What's wrong? Is it stuck?'

'It's like it's been glued in place!' The clown's make up is running with sweat. 'The backdoor's the same; and the French windows.'

'Has anyone tried to smash the glass?' I ask the question, even though I know what the answer is going to be.

'It's like iron,' the girl sighs miserably. 'Won't even move in the frame.'

'Has anyone phoned for help?' Once again, I've a good idea what the answer to my question is going to be.

'No signal!'

'Even the house phones aren't working: they've all weirdly melted inside.'

The girl smiles grimly, like she's apologising, like she's somehow responsible.

The police will be here soon. That poor policewoman must have called them ages ago. I'm only surprised they're not here already.

I need to get out of here.

Later on, when I've had time to think, to calm down, I might call and admit I'm the one responsible for her death.

That it was all a bizarre accident.

No one's going to believe me if they catch me here. And then I'll probably be blamed for the death of the other poor girl too.

'I'm going to find Veronica,' I say determinedly to the couple trying to break out. 'I'm going to tell her to let us out! This is crazy!'

'Good luck with that,' the clown snorts. 'She's taken this evil queen role to new levels! She's walking around like she really is an evil royal!'

He turns back to his fruitless task of pushing and pulling at the rigidly unmoving door. Exchanging ashen smiles with the girl, I drop back amongst the mingling, entwining couples.

Soft wings, leathery wings, sharp talons, hard horns, all accidently brush against me as I worm my way through them all.

Veronica's much easier to spot than I'd feared. She's wearing her tall hat, making her tower over most of the people there. As the clown had intimated, she's also putting on comically regal airs, striding imperiously past everyone as if they were her subjects, her minions.

'Veronica! Veronica!'

I have to scream out her name in an effort to be heard above the hypnotic thumping of the music, the laughing and chatter of the people milling around me. Either Veronica doesn't hear, or she chooses to ignore me, but the result's the same; she moves farther on ahead of me, flowing past those about her as if they're moving aside to allow her through.

Frankly, I'm a little surprised she's down here, taking part in her party rather than sitting upstairs in the room where the dead girl lies.

Says me, who's just killed someone, abandoned them. And hidden their body behind a chair.

But. I. Didn't. Mean. It!

It. Was. A. Novelty. Gun!

Not. A. Real. One!

I didn't know her. I had no reason to kill her. No _intention_ to kill her.

Just as I had no reason or intention to kill the girl upstairs, whoever she is.

She came with Paul, the policewoman had said.

That would be the girl, then, who'd come as the Red Queen.

Tim Burton's version of the Red Queen.

All massive red, curly wig. Graphic makeup, with lips pursed into a tight little heart. Eyes topped with large squares of pale blue. Dress that flared out, covered in hearts.

Wait.

Was it Paul who'd blamed me for the girl's death?

Is that why the policewoman was accusing me of her murder.

But _I_ didn't know her.

Whereas Paul, of course, _did_!

*

# Chapter 19

If words pass from my lips

It is only so they can caress your soul

With their tremor

The Desire

Paul's much harder to find than Veronica was.

In a party where everyone's grabbing the nearest person and melding lips, Paul's bound to blend in.

I eventually recognise him thanks to an elegantly thin pair of female hands enthusiastically running through the soft curls of his familiarly thick, dark hair. I remember – oh yes, _how_ I remember – how much I used to enjoy running my hands through that incredibly wonderful hair.

It could be me, those hands. It used to be.

But it isn't anymore, of course.

'Paul? Paul!'

It takes not only a few shouts but also a few light touches and slaps on his shoulder and the back of his head. When he finally gathers enough willpower to pull himself free of the girl's lips, he turns to me with drowsy, heavy-lidded eyes, as if in a daze, even a little dreamily delirious.

Did I ever have that effect on him? I doubt it.

We'd still be together, wouldn't we, if I had?

The girl responsible for this effect on him stares at me with an easy contempt. It's a sure sign that she doesn't regard me as serious competition. I'm just a brief irritant she's going to have to swat away in a moment if I don't stop bothering her. She's dressed in the bright lozenges of a harlequin, her hair a tangled mass of nut brown, her lips as red as drawn blood.

Paul's furious that he's had to break out of his clinch with this wonderfully exotic girl.

' _You_ again!' he sneers, keeping at least one arm wrapped around harlequin's waist, making sure he doesn't lose her to the crowd. 'What do you want now, crazy woman?'

'Okay, okay!' I raise my hands in submission. We've already been through all this. 'I'll be quick! The girl you came with: what happened to her?'

I have to just about shout directly into his ear to have any hope of being heard correctly.

Paul glowers hatefully at me.

'Are you _still_ jealous of her?' he almost spits in fury. 'Just how pathetic can you be?'

Harlequin's interest in him is wavering a little. She's noticed the action she's after is now going on elsewhere, not here. Paul notes her waning interest, is shocked by it, angered by it. He pulls harder on her waist, begins to turn away from me.

'Where is she?' I persist. 'It's _important_! It's _not_ jealousy!'

'How should _I_ know?' he snaps, his teeth bared. 'You're the one who completely peed her off! When you came out with all that bull about being Kate! She went home, I suppose!'

Now I'm angry. How many more times tonight am I going to be accused of lying?

'It _wasn't_ bull about me being Kate!'

He sniggers.

'Look, crazy woman, I should know what Kate looks like! I went out with her long enough!'

'I've had surgery, you arrogant idiot! Can't you see that?'

'Sure, I can see you've had so much work done, even your own mom probably wouldn't recognise you! But, see, I know you can't _possibly_ be Kate!'

'Oh yeah, and how could you _possibly_ know that, smartass?'

'Because the girl you're trying to find? _That's_ Kate Denham!'

*

# Chapter 20

We fool ourselves into believing there is only one kind of beauty

But there are many kinds of beauty, more than it is possible to imagine

So why envy another's beauty

When someone, somewhere, is waiting to appreciate yours?

The Desire

I can't get any more information out of Paul.

He pushes me aside. Locks lips once again with an almost animalistic harlequin.

Where's she likely to be – this _other_ Kate?

If the policewoman was telling the truth, and this other Kate's dead, and yet the party hardly seems to be even remotely aware of it – then she's probably hidden away in a locked room somewhere, I presume.

Upstairs?

That's usually were the secret things taking place at a party occur.

Once again, I find myself having to force my way through embarrassingly uninhibited couples. Many of them are shedding odds bit of their garments, if not their costumes. The whole place reeks now of ludicrously heavy scents and sweat.

If someone splayed these people with water from a fire hose to cool their ardour, all you'd get is a massive cloud of steam, the world's most crowded sauna.

Pushing my way as fast as I can up the stairs, I come to the closed door of a bedroom. Despite all the wildly amorous couples surrounding me, no one's made an attempt to enter.

The only thing that makes me doubt this might be the room I'm looking for is the fact that no one's been left on guard outside, which I'd expected.

Although a little worried that someone might be on guard inside, I push the door open. Suddenly, an arm reaches out from the crowd beside me. The hand, covered in an old, fingertip-less glove, clamps solidly and unshakably around my wrist.

''Ere, where d' you think you're going?' demands a gruff voice.

He not only sounds like something from a Dickens' novel, he looks like it too. All ancient, shredded clothes. A top hat that flops idly, it's so threadbare. There's also the obligatory accusatory leer, the wicked 'gottcha!' grin.

I'm lost for words. Fortunately, the girl whose embrace he's just broken free of isn't.

'Now, you're not more interested in _her_ than you are in _me_ , are you?' she chides with a mischievous chuckle full of promise.

She pulls him back into her embrace, lifting and wrapping a leg around him. Slipping her arms snake-like around his head, she forces him not unwillingly into a lingering kiss. A Goth girl, she could be some amorous corpse he's just dug up.

As his hand slips away from my wrist, I step into the room, silently closing the door behind me.

The light in here is generally dim, what there is coming from nothing but a bedside lamp. The lamp's severe cone of light, however, although limited in its extent, is sharp enough to brightly illuminate the poor girl lying across the bed.

Yes, it's definitely the girl Paul came with.

This fake Kate Denham. This girl who's supposed to be me.

And fooled Paul into believing it too.

I know it's her because I recognise the dress. The Red Queen's flouncy, layered dress, decorated with large, red hearts.

Drawing nearer, I also see the immense red wig, half squashed beneath her head. Her real hair is splayed around her, as black as the surrounding shadows.

Hah! The _real_ Kate Denham doesn't have jet black hair. The _real_ Kate, well – she _used_ to have–

My book, _The Desire_ , is laid alongside her head.

*

# Chapter 21

Beauty

Wealth

Success

Happiness

At some point in our lives, we might well desire all of these

Yet such desires fade by comparison to that most urgent and uncontrollable of desires: the desire for him, for her

Why, ultimately, do we desire beauty, wealth and success, but as the means to attain this uncontrollable desire?

How can we attain happiness if our desire is denied?

The Desire

I look down in surprise at my own hands, wondering why I never realised I was no longer holding my book.

When did I lose it?

How did it get up here?

It _is_ my book, without a doubt. It still has the crushed residue of lipstick on its corner. The lipstick I'd accidently smeared on it earlier, when I'd carelessly stored it away in my bag.

Horrifyingly, the lipstick is the same colour as the patch of blood matted into the girl's hair. The part of her head where she's obviously been struck by the murder weapon.

Which means – my book now looks like the murder weapon.

Isn't that what the policewoman had said? That the book I was holding was the murder weapon?

Is she right? Had someone taken it from my bag earlier? After all, like everyone else, I'd just left my bag in the spare room Veronica had set aside for coats and what have you.

But why, if the murderer had managed to slip it back into my bag, has he put it here once again?

And how did he take it from my hands without me realising?

Had I dropped it?

Why is he (if it is a _he_ : it usually is, isn't it?) trying to frame me for this poor girl's murder? This fake Kate, who I'd never even met until tonight.

Is there some other connection between us, between me and this girl, other than Paul and her stealing of my name and identity?

Who _is_ she really?

I've seen enough crime dramas to know you shouldn't disturb the crime scene. But this is too important.

I _have_ to see if I know her.

She's no longer wearing her wig. I'll also have longer to study her face. I might be able to recall seeing her at some other point in my life.

All I have to do is just carefully lift and push her body slightly on to one side. Enough to let me see her face. Then I can let her fall back into her original position.

Carefully placing my hands beneath a shoulder and her lower ribs, I lift a side of her off the bed. Where her face had been, the quilt is stained with blue squares of eye makeup, a heart-shaped kiss.

Good; without the makeup, she'll be even easier to recognise.

Preparing my arms for the weight, I heave her up a little higher. At the same time, I bend my knees, hoping to get a good look at her face without having to move her any farther.

'Aaaarrrrggghhhhhh!'

I leap back in shock.

This, combined with the way I involuntary raise my arms as I jump back, lifts the poor girl a little higher than I'd intended. Enough to flip her over onto her back.

That makes it even easier to see her face.

That makes it worse.

Because now I know I wasn't mistaken.

I _do_ recognise this girl.

She's _me_.

The Kate Denham I _used_ to be.

*

# Chapter 22

Break the mirror of self-reflection

The Desire

My heart feels like it's gaining in weight with every passing second.

Like it's a crucible of fire.

Like it's something alive, and trying to escape by pounding and pounding at my rib cage.

That's one of the problems of going all out for external perfection.

Internal _imperfection_.

All your internal organs suffer when you go under the knife time and time again.

Your heart in particular.

Ironic, yeah, that you achieve your heart's desire for a perfect beauty.

But it's all at the expense of your heart.

Young and flawless on the outside. Ancient and decrepit on the inside.

Your body aged before its time.

Most people would say this a high price, too high, to pay for beauty.

Of course, I'm not most people.

I'm a one and only.

Those same people will no doubt also say that beauty is overrated. That it's only skin-deep.

(Oh, the irony again, for in my case that is indeed true.)

It isn't the _real_ you. The real you is inside.

But when I didn't feel attractive, the real me was unhappy, bitter, apathetic, lost.

I was ignored. Treated with disdain. Especially by those I wanted to love me.

Whereas when I feel beautiful, I feel good inside.

Everyone admires me, treats me with respect, with longing.

When you're beautiful, people are prepared to put up with, even disregard, any minor personality faults.

Of course, if the inner you was truly evil, whereas a less attractive person's inner-self shone with goodness, then the choice to be made would be clear, surely?

But are the differences between the beautiful and the less fortunate ever really so clear?

The girl on the bed, the _real_ me; was she a better person than I am?

Is that what this is? Some form of divine punishment for what I've done to myself?

Is it my own spirit, haunting me? Admonishing me?

Yet even _this_ girl, now that I look at her closer, isn't the _real_ Kate: the truly untouched, unaltered Kate.

Her hair has been dyed. Straightened a little.

She's plucked her eyebrows too. Reshaped them.

And...I know why.

This is Paul's idea of how I should have looked.

How, when we dated, he was constantly suggesting I could improve myself.

The real Kate wasn't good enough.

Is it any wonder I ended up feeling insecure? Unloved for who I was?

This Kate; she changed to keep him.

For, ultimately, we all want to be desired, don't we? At the very least, we want to be desired by the one _we_ desire.

If the one we desire thinks we're beautiful then yes, in most ways, we truly are.

Now, where did I read that? Or something like that?

Of course; the book.

_The Desire_.

The girl was asking for my help.

How could I have forgotten that?

I reach across the dead Kate, pick up the book. Flip it open.

She's gone!

The girl isn't in the illustration's anymore.

In _any_ of them!

The man's still there. Still in each room.

Running. Chasing. Searching for her.

But...no!

One room, it looks like the office downstairs.

And the dead policewoman is slumped against the wall.

*

# Chapter 23

Seeking understanding of the world, some withdraw into themselves

How foolish is that?

What do they know of the world?

Nothing

So first, admit you know nothing

Then reach out to the world

And become it

The Desire

The hearts on the dead girl's dress grow redder and redder, pumping violently as if alive. I can hear them, pumping so hard, so quickly.

Then it dawns on me; it's my eyes, my eyes have a bloody sheen of red.

My eyes feel like they're pumping hard, painfully, within my skull.

Suddenly, the book is sent flying out of my grip, landing back on the bed. A thin hand grabs and wrenches tightly at my wrist.

'That's _my_ book.'

The voice is surprised, hurt.

It comes from the dead girl.

She's grabbed my arm. She's staring at me, her eyes wide with confusion.

Where my heart should be, there's more a sense of an exploding dark star. An unstoppably expanding blackness.

My legs crumple beneath me.

I slip limply, lifelessly, to the floor.

*

# Chapter 24

Trace with your fingers

The indent of my breastbone

It rises, see – smoothly, slowly

Moving to the edges

Where now you can kiss

The Desire

Did I just see...?

Raising my head a little from the bed, I look over to where I thought I'd seen an angelic girl slump to the floor.

But I must have imagined it, because there's nothing there.

I do feel strangely dazed, foolishly drowsy. I must have fallen asleep.

There's a glass tumbler by the bedside lamp.

Ah, of course; I'd come here to take a headache pill. To calm down. After my argument with Paul

The back of my head feels clammy, a little sticky. I run a hand through the back of my hair.

Yes, there's something tacky there.

I look at my fingers. They're red. Lipstick red.

Oh no! What a mess! How did I get–

Turning to look at the quilt I'd fallen asleep on, I see the crushed lipstick. The stick I'd placed in my dress to keep my heart-shaped lips pristine. It must've fallen out when I'd fallen asleep.

Fortunately, the crushed stick lies amongst the mass of red curls of my wig. None of it has gone on the quilt itself.

Just to one side of the wig and the crushed stick, there's my book, _The Desire_.

What an idiot! I've got lipstick all over my book too! All over the corner. It's ruined, ruined!

Looking back towards the bedside table, I see that I'd brought back and rested the tumbler on some bathroom tissue. Reaching for this, I quickly clean up the mess in my hair, try and carefully remove what I can from the book. Slip the crumpled tissue and lipstick into one of my dress's many pockets.

The bedroom door jerks open. A boy and a girl, dressed as a demon and siren, just about fall into the room, they're giggling so much. They're unsteady on their feet too. Either because they've drunk too much, or because they're so entwined no one's really taking responsibility for making sure they're perfectly balanced,

They both look surprised to see me in the room.

They swap knowing glances, grinning sheepishly, and break out into a fit of giggles once more. The boy at least attempts to apologise between his sniggers.

'Sorry, sorry!'

It's disconcerting watching a demon trying to excuse himself for breaking in on you unannounced.

'That's okay.' I grin back at them, pick up my book. I can see that they're eyeing the bed. They need a rest, right? 'I'm leaving anyway.'

As we pass each other, me heading towards the door, them towards the bed, they act as if I'm already no longer there, their eyes and hands only on each other.

I flip open my book.

Last time I'd looked, as unbelievable as it sounds, the pictures of the girl had appeared to be changing.

Flowing, as if printed with an unsettling ink. One that refuses to dry, refuses to settle on one precise form.

Fortunately, the couple amorously slipping onto the bed are too engrossed in each other's bodies to hear me gasp out loud.

The pictures have completely changed. Much more than I would have guessed, too. Even though I thought I'd prepared myself to be shocked: to find myself looking at something I would've once thought unbelievable.

There's no sign of the beautiful girl. She's not in any of the illustrations, any of the rooms.

The man's there, the handsome man I'd originally taken to be her lover. They had held on to each other ever so tightly, so lovingly. As if never wanting to let each other go.

Now he's angry. Storming from room to room to room.

Looking for her.

He's anxious, yes: he could be a lover, wondering what could possibly have happened to the girl he loves.

And yet – he seems furious. Anxious in a _different_ way.

Like he thinks of her as having escaped.

And he needs to find her. To bring her back.

To imprison her once more.

She's there! Slumped against the office wall!

No, wait – that's _not_ her.

That's some other poor girl. One bizarrely dressed in what could be a modern uniform.

There are other rooms, all empty but for the frantically searching man.

Then there's a bedroom. A room like the one I'm just leaving

And an angel lies slumped upon the floor.

*

# Chapter 25

Don't touch, don't even look – not yet – not there

Parts of me you want to touch, parts of me you think you should touch – but you shouldn't – not yet

Don't rush

Linger

Savour

The Desire

The picture is so photographically realistic, it makes me nervously glance back into the room before I step through the door: to check she really isn't there, this angel.

She isn't.

She's not in the real room.

Only in the illustrated room.

But don't I know her, this angel?

Didn't I dream of her for a split second, just before I woke up?

I'd dreamt she'd been holding my book. That when I'd asked for it back, she'd collapsed onto floor.

Just like she appears in the picture. As if she really had slumped there.

But only in my dream. And in my book.

Which...surely can't be connected, can they?

No; this girl is _real_!

I saw her earlier, at the party.

She was the one who'd approached Paul; the crazy girl, who'd insisted he knew her, that they'd been out together.

He denied it, of course. Of course, Paul would.

That's why we'd argued. Why I needed to get away from him. One thing you can always be sure of with Paul is that he'll always let you down.

Why I love him, well – I just don't know!

But I do!

I love him.

Love the way he smiles at me.

Touches me.

Kisses me.

I hate it when I'm apart from him for too long.

And, sometimes, even a few minutes can be too long.

He's not perfect, I know. But...maybe he'll change.

Maybe I can change him.

Let him know what he'd be missing if I ever left him

_If_ I ever left him.

Let's face it, it's far more likely that _he'll_ be the one who leaves _me_.

Where is he now, I wonder?

Worried that I stormed off? That I left him?

Hah, some hope!

He'll already have found another pair of willing arms to wrap around him.

To hold him close.

As if it's all a realisation of my very worst fears, when I step out of the bedroom, it's like finding myself in an alternative world, an orgy set in Dante's _Inferno_. Seductively dancing wicked contessas. Slavering werewolves. Gleefully shrieking harpies. Leching totalitarian murderers.

Bodies merging into each other's contours. Bodies displayed, inviting caresses and kisses. Bodies wrapping around other bodies.

Long tails curl, touch and grasp as if as alive and malleable as arms and hands. Wings beat and throb, as excitedly as any heart. Lizard-like tongues lick and twist around arms, necks, legs. Talons rive at clothes, gently scrape at skins of scales, of fur, of green, yellow or scarlet.

Amongst it all, however, one girl stands out.

A girl more beautiful than any other girl I have ever seen.

The girl from the book.

*

# Chapter 26

My eyes devour

My tongue touches everywhere

My fingers hear sighs of pleasure

My ears the trembling of your soul

The perfume of love

The Desire

She's standing in the lower hall, looking up the stairs towards me.

_Directly_ towards me.

She smiles. Like she knows me.

Like she's been expecting me.

Yet, as soon as she spots me, she turns away, heads into the writhing, surging crowd.

The horde appears to part for her. In fact, it's just the way everyone around her are naturally moving, their every unconscionable action almost consciously allowing her totally unimpeded access.

Following after her isn't in any way near so easy for me. No one is moving even partially out of my way. I have to elbow my way past couples who strike back at me, lashing out with talons that rip my dress, scratch my skin, or snarl and spit in frustrated anger.

Yet _I'm_ rushing, while _she_ is graceful, unhurried.

I _am_ catching up.

In fact, it's all happening so easily, I'm worried than when I catch her up, when I tap her on the shoulder, when she turns – well, then it won't be her at all.

It will be some other girl. Some other girl I have to abjectly apologise to for mistaking her for someone else.

I'm about to call out to her when it dawns on me – I don't know her name!

But perhaps I _do_ know it!

_Desire_!

'Desire! I need to talk to you!'

She ignores me. Her back's still to me. She continues walking away from me.

Suddenly, a looming figure is blocking my way.

'You?' she says, aghast, horrified.

'But _you_ were dead!'

*

# Chapter 27

As you kiss...you speak

Without words

Yet I sense the meaning

Through my skin

My body

My soul

The Desire

'Should I really be so surprised,' the evil queen says, looking about her, taking in with a satisfied sneer the sea of cavorting demons, witches and beasts, 'that someone who was dead is now walking around _my_ party?'

Her large horns now seem an indelible part of her, a sign of her increasing power. Rather than dreading the way they despoil her hard beauty, she appears to relish the fear they instil in any observer, the extra sense of magical power they grant her.

'Dead?' I'm bemused. Why on earth would this woman think I was dead? 'Oh, you mean when I was asleep, upstairs! Dead to the world!'

Her already highly arched eyebrows rise even higher, a mingling of disbelief and amusement.

She chuckles.

'Could I find someone for you? You seem so...alone!'

I shake my head.

'No, no, thank you. I've already seen someone I'm trying to reach, a girl–'

'Ah, yes, yes! I think I know the one you mean.' She looks and sound impressed, a little enthralled, a tiny bit envious. 'I saw her too, all on her own: and yet, a quite _remarkable_ beauty!'

'Er, yes, yes.'

I grin wanly, ducking around her, looking over the heads of the whirling, thrashing couples for any sign of the now vanished girl.

Now I'm searching for her, seeking her like the man was: angry, frustrated, anxious. I desire nothing more than to find her, to be with her.

That desire, like surging blood, floods though me.

Everything around me seems to slow. Quietens.

Only she, now, is moving at normal speed.

A still languid, blasé speed.

She stops, turns, smiles.

'You...you escaped the book – how?' I ask breathlessly. 'Who _are_ you?'

'Well, of course,' she replies sweetly, smiling benignly, 'I am _the Desire_.'

*

# Chapter 28

So many people tell you: desire is wrong

It leads to problems

To conflict

And that is why desire is denied: why it is almost regarded as a sin

Yet what would the world be like without desire?

What is it that endlessly inspires us to attain our goals but desire?

What would ever be achieved without their first being the desire?

The Desire

'Desire?'

' _The_ Desire. There's a difference.'

'There is?'

'Don't you talk of _the_ Devil? Well, I am _the_ Desire.'

'You're like the Devil?'

'See? You said _the_ Devil. And no, of _course_ I'm not the Devil! Otherwise, I would have introduced myself as the Devil, wouldn't I?'

She glances about herself at the surrounding people, frowns in either disappointment or irritation.

'Though I can forgive you for not recognising me. I had noticed no one here came as me: how soon I have been forgotten, how long ignored – how long _repressed_.'

'But those people in...in your book: they're trapped there? They're dead?'

She shakes her head. Smiles at me this time like I'm some silly child who can't understand even the simplest things.

'Didn't everyone think _you_ were dead only a few minutes ago?'

'Did they? I thought...thought that weird queen was just a little mistaken.'

'Well, obviously, she was. Because here you are!'

'How did they end up in your book? Can they escape?'

'Do you really think they should? Haven't they achieved what they most desired? One became the most wonderful detective. The other the most perfectly beautiful angel.'

'I'm quite sure they can't have desired that!'

'Are you sure? _Quite_ sure I mean? For instance, what do _you_ most desire? If you can't work _that_ out, then I _'m_ quite sure you can't work out what _they_ would have desired.'

I can't help but smirk triumphantly.

'I know what I desire – or rather, _who_ I desire.'

'Ah yes: this _Paul_ , yes?'

'You know?'

'Why wouldn't I?'

Despite everything I have seen her accomplish so far, I still doubt this. She either notes the scepticism on my face or senses it.

'Don't you think I would be aware of your longings for this boy? There is no perfume so heady, so intoxicating, so changeable. Nothing feels so incredibly exciting to touch, to embrace, to kiss. Nothing tastes so indescribably bewitching, so filling; yet always leaves you hungry for more. Nothing excites you more than to hear his whisperings of love, appreciations of pleasure, longings for more – and the increasing swish of movement between you.'

I blush. Her eyes light up with knowing amusement.

'How can someone so wonderful cause such agonies of longing? His words, his touch, his kiss, his taste, his perfume? And the more you have of him, the more you flatter yourself that he is all yours, the more of him you need. Such longing can never be satisfied.'

'You could say this of any girl's love for a boy.'

'Does that make it any less real for you, any less specific to you? What have you told yourself you would you do for the one you desire? You would move mountains, a river, even the very seas themselves if it were necessary.'

'All of which would be impossible, naturally,' I snort, even though, on the occasions when we've broken up, and I've lain in bed feeling sorry for myself, I've told myself I would be prepared to accomplish even more impractical things to win him back.

'But you don't need to do _any_ of these things,' she continues, unflustered. 'All you need to do is to _move_ the one you desire. Then he will move towards you.'

'I thought I was here to help _you_!' I protest in irritation. 'But it seems you're just here to _lecture_ me?'

'Perhaps you simply flattered yourself that I required your help, yes? You're being kind, you're being selfless, you think; yet you're simply placing too much importance upon yourself. And you know the problem with self-importance? It ensures you spend your life being offended by someone or something.'

'That's ridiculous! You're saying no one should ever help anyone?'

'Did I say that? You know, I don't think I did.'

She looked worriedly about herself. Pulling up her long, voluminous skirts a little, she whirled around. She began to once more make her way through the couples still slowly yet eagerly making love.

'Come; we must keep on the move. He will be here soon.'

'He?' I quickly followed after her, glancing at the book I still firmly held in my hand. 'The man in the book? He _is_ chasing you?'

'No!' She said it dismissively, as if such a thing would be unthinkable, impossible. 'But he will be here; so we must use our time wisely!'

'There are still so many things I don't understand, I–'

'Of course you don't understand! That's why I'm here!'

The walls to the room no longer seemed to exist. We were walking through an endless throng of thrashing couples.

'In your favour,' she continued before I could protest, 'unlike so many here, you at least had recognised your desires. As opposed to foolishly attempting to constrain them: such repression, of course, can only result in a festering of your desires. They will find their release, their outlet, in some way you're no longer aware of. Denying desire is an indulgence; you congratulate yourself that you're a better person for denying yourself what you want. It's only another form of desire, one wrapped up in yourself. You're imprisoning yourself within yourself.'

'Then...then _I_ did the right thing?' I'm breathless.' She seemed to be moving only languidly, yet I was having to jog to keep up with her. 'My love – my desire – for Paul, I mean.'

'Unfortunately, although you acknowledged _your_ desire, you embraced it in your own particularly naive and self-destructive way.'

She's briefly distracted, her gaze slipping sideways, then across to another part of the melee of lovers. Following her glances, I spot the incredibly detailed statue of a ridge-backed alien that had first drawn her attention. A little beyond that, there's an equally accomplished statue of an entwined, otherworldy couple. Their faces look up, frozen in shock, as if caught unawares.

The Desire's eyes narrow in bemusement. Then, almost instantly, they blaze in anger, perhaps even fear.

Around us now, talons aren't just provocatively scratching but tearing and riving. Teeth are no longer seductively nibbling, they're biting, literally tasting, chewing. A Pharaoh cowers as a fully transformed, mischievously laughing siren shreds and devours him piece by piece.

'What's happening?' I shriek. 'Is all this down to you as well?'

She turns, shakes her head, takes my hand.

No, no!' She has to shout, for everything around us is no longer taking place quietly, or even slowly. 'We have to _run_! _He's_ here!'

*

# Chapter 29

If you think of yourself as an entrapped soul

It is every bit as limiting as believing you are nothing but body

The Desire

'Where are we running to?'

I have to ask, because we don't seem to be getting anywhere. The walls to the room have returned. Worse, no matter how fast we run, we constantly find ourselves back at the end of the room we'd first started from.

'Nowhere!' she cries back gaily.

'Nowhere? Then why run?'

'Why not?' she grins happily. 'He'll find us, no matter where we run. But this will delay his finding us, a little.' She turns to me, her grin even wilder, her hair streaming behind her as if in a sharp wind. 'Besides, it's fun, don't you think; running?'

'By _he_ , you mean the man from the book?'

'The man from the book!' She chuckles. 'I'm not sure he'd like that description!'

The mayhem and madness surrounding us has become worse. Creatures are mingled in the throes of both desire and death, the moves in some cases hardly distinguishable, a coupling transforming from one to the other in the blink of an eye.

Medusa glowers at what should be her last petrifying victim, an almost invisible Predator taking off her head from behind. A few more foolish observers are frozen into statues as they watch her toppling, still-glaring head roll across the floor.

'Can't we _stop_ this?' I wail.

'Can you?'

'Me? Of course I can't! I meant _you_! Can't _you_?'

'Oh,' she replies innocently. 'It's just that, when you said _we_ , I thought, maybe – you know, I was hoping _you_ might be able to do something.'

She's looking my way, beaming cheerfully.

'This isn't funny!' I snap. 'People are _dying_!'

'Well, don't they all; someday, I mean?'

I glare at her, wishing my look could turn _her_ into stone.

She gives me an apologetic shrug.

'Sorry. When you've been cooped up as long as I have, well – you've got to learn to make your own fun, haven't you?'

She starts, as if suddenly spotting something else in the crowd. Urgently touching my arm, she nods in the direction she wants me to look.

'Oh look! Isn't that Paul?' she trills joyfully.

I look.

It _is_ Paul.

A terrified Paul.

Locked in the unmovable arms of a salivating, demonic woman who's about to tear out his throat.

*

# Chapter 30

Our internal doubts don't just dictate our view of the world, but ultimately the very world itself

When we are angry, our anger grows, for the whole world seems angry and set against us

When we are happy, we have more chance of making those around us happy

The changes we make within ourselves change the world we believe lies outside us

The Desire

'Please, please!' I beg the Desire. 'You _must_ be able to do _something_!'

'Oh, okay then,' she says miserably.

She doesn't wave an arm, even say anything. But everyone around us instantly freezes, caught in a split moment of time.

'That's it?' I'm amazed, aghast, furious, at how easily she's managed to bring everything to a halt. 'You could do this all along? And you _didn't_?'

'As I said, we had to run. This way, he'll find us so much quicker.'

'Let him find us then.'

I'm past caring what happens to her, having seen what she's like, her callousness.

I draw closer towards Paul. His mouth is wide, gawping in terror. His eyes bulbous, as if about to explode, incapable of believing what is taking place before them. His arms are raised, defensive – but ultimately useless.

The woman, on the other hand, is quite magnificent in every way. She's exotically beautiful, her hair so long and flowing it's like the most wonderful dress in its own right. Even contorted in her thirst for blood, her face is perfect, but for a mouth about to open and reveal the dog-like teeth that will rip apart Paul's throat.

Even if Paul had the strength to break out of her entwining arms, he couldn't hope to break free of the coiling serpents that seem to sprout from her waist. These serpents curl about them both like a rapidly spreading ivy. Only the woman's vast wings spread completely clear of these twisting, slithering snakes.

The Desire observes Paul's predicament with amused interest.

'You sure you want me to freeze it like this?' she asks doubtfully. 'I mean, he _is_ with another girl – well, if you could _call_ it a girl.'

'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

'But it's such perfect retribution, don't you think? We can watch as his bloo–'

'Stop, stop! I don't want to hear, thank you! Yes, yes; keep it all _frozen_!'

She sighs, looking at Paul once again like she's regretting postponing his demise.

'You _sure_? I mean – he's caused you an awful lot of hurt in his time, hasn't he? It would be quick; almost painless, maybe, too?'

The way she's elatedly taking in how close the woman's teeth are to Paul's throat, I doubt that she believes for a moment that it will be either quick or painless.

'I'm _sure_.'

I was about to reply to her query with a 'Yes', but realised I couldn't really trust her not to twist that answer into a 'Yes' for letting Paul's suffering continue. By the time I'd realised my mistake, it would have been too late for Paul.

'He _has_ been awful to me,' I admit. 'But I couldn't let him suffer _that_!'

'Pity.'

'Yes, pity is what _I'm_ displaying, thanks.'

She peers at the entwined couple curiously.

'He certainly knows how to pick 'em, doesn't he? A Fury I mean: not you.'

'Ah, that's what she is, is she? A Fury? Well, Paul's certainly made a lot of girls furious in his time.'

'See what I mean?' the Desire said brightly, warming to her theme. 'It would be nicely ironic wouldn't it: letting him die like this?'

I shake my head.

She sighs in disappointment.

'Is this really because you pity him? Or because you pity yourself? Do you fear losing him?'

'Of course it's not just because I fear losing him! I fear seeing him get killed!'

'So...if you don't fear losing him, why did you allow him to change you so much?'

She nonchalantly flicks my long, dark hair. The hair I'd had styled the way Paul had asked me to have it styled.

Because he preferred it that way.

'They were only small changes!' I retort defensively.

' _Small_ changes? Constantly feeling insecure? Not good enough for him? You're not really sure who you are anymore, are you?'

'Well...I'm me of course!'

' _Me_ being?'

'What sort of question is _that_?'

'A very _important_ one, I think.'

'But isn't that your role? Spreading _desire_?'

'Fearing losing someone is hardly desire. That's placing your happiness in someone else's hands. What right has he to say who _you_ are? He's so busy telling you who you are, he hasn't really worked out who _he_ is yet.'

The Fury's eyes still seem curiously alive, strangely aware. Her lips, too, I imagine, are curling back slightly, as if she's in readiness to strike.

'You desire _love_ ; but is that _really_ what you're receiving? Asking for love is asking for the energy of the soul. You don't prey upon someone whose wellbeing is in your heart. What do you give him? Concern, genuine concern. Don't you have the right to desire the same in return?'

'I've forgiven him.'

'Have you? So you can honestly declare that there has never, ever been a flare up of resentment? We may fool ourselves that our more charitable side has forgiven, but how often are we merely refusing to recognise our supposedly suppressed – and yet ultimately _stronger_ – vindictive side?'

Suddenly, the Fury lunges forwards, her teeth fully bared. She snaps at Paul's bared throat.

Paul's scream is cut short. He slumps into the maze of writhing serpents.

There's no blood: the Fury drinks it all, hungrily.

Then, thankfully, they are both stilled once more.

'No no!' I gasp, horrified. 'You let him die!'

'No, no; not _me_!' the Desire blithely insists.

'No, not _her_.'

The voice, coming from behind me, is warm, calm. Male.

I turn around.

The man purposely striding towards us glows with the brightest, whitest light. His wings are immense, glittering as if made from the stars.

'An _angel_!'

I'm in awe, in a daze. Nothing seems real to me anymore. I'm lost in the perfect beauty of the oncoming angel, lost in the emanation of power, of the expansion of spirit, of soul.

Alongside me, the Desire smiles awkwardly, says;

'A very _particular_ angel, I'm afraid.'

*

# Chapter 31

When you place your self-worth in another's hands

You have no power

Even if you win everything

The Desire

'Afraid? You're never afraid?' the oncoming angel says.

The Desire ignores him. She glances down and back towards Paul, slipping an arm around my shoulder to prevent me from looking the same way.

'Such a _shame_ he didn't come as a _Terminator_ robot after all!'

Although neither I nor the Desire are walking, along with the angel we both swiftly slide away from the surrounding scene. Within a split second, we appear elsewhere amongst the thankfully stilled, yet still murderous crowd.

No one, however, looks angrier than the approaching angel.

'I...I think he's going to kill us!' I stammer.

Letting go of my shoulder, the Desire steps away from me and towards the angel

'My darling! I _wondered_ when you'd find me!'

Reaching for each other, they embrace, instantly becoming once more the enamoured lovers I'd originally taken them to be. They kiss, unhurriedly, hungrily.

Parting at last, they still remain close, keeping hold of each other's hands.

The angel looks about him, taking in the continuing chaos with a wry frown.

'I think it's time to leave.'

'Surely you can't blame _me_ for all this?' the Desire playfully admonishes him.

'How else was I supposed to follow you here?'

' _I_ wasn't causing so much harm. Your route here, as always, is so much more _brutal_!'

She glances my way, offering a lamentful explanation.

'He lives through the death of others. It's far more destructive than drawing on all that wonderfully latent desire I detected here, don't you think?'

The angel's gaze alights on the book I'm holding.

'Not the best place to bring such a book.'

'I wasn't to know.'

'No, you weren't: and the fault is far more mine than yours. Suffering as I watched her wane, I saw no harm in allowing her a modicum of influence. I foolishly let her dictate the words of reason and logic that are supposed to placate and constrain her.'

'Then you _are_ her jailer?'

'And I _his_ – the perfect match! We _contain_ each other.'

The Desire slips an arm around the angel's waist, who looks back towards me.

'What else finally curbs desire but death?'

'And what can possibly beat death but the desire to stay alive? Would life be even worth living without desire?'

'The kiss of death.'

'The death of desire.'

'The desire for death.'

At the start and end of each phrase, they kiss each other desirously.

The Desire pouts, as if a little spoilt, a little annoyed with him.

'Personally, I think _I_ could be given a little more leeway.'

'You may help her; then we go.'

'Help me?' I say hopefully. 'You...you can bring Paul back to life? You can make everything okay again?'

'Ahh; if only it were so _easy_.' The angel shakes his head sadly.

'But there is _something_ I can do: if you're open to it, off course?'

The Desire steps back towards me, taking my hand gently in hers once more.

'Yes, yes! Anything!' I say eagerly.

'Well, for a start, you shouldn't be so open to making changes just on someone's say so!' The Desire gives me a disappointed, admonishing frown.

'Ah, yes, yes; of course!'

'Although you weren't aware of it, you were a mess of conflicting desires. Career. Beauty. Lover. No matter what your intent, at times one or the other of your restrained, festering desires would win out.'

She takes both my hands in hers.

I see the girl upon the office floor, realise she is me, sense her desire for a career, everything that has happened to her, and what she had wanted to be.

I see the girl, angelically beautiful, upon the bedroom floor, sense her desire for an unbelievable, untouchable beauty.

I see me, how I was laid in a stupor upon the bed – my desire for another.

'How could you choose which you desired most as long as you refused to recognise their existence and hold over you? Define your desires, don't let them define you. Never suppress an emotion, or disregard what you feel. It is only awareness of what lies behind each choice, and the consequences of each choice, that allows you to challenge it.'

Letting go of one of my hands, she reaches out for her lover's. He gladly takes it and, at the same time, reaches out for my free hand.

I expected the grip of the Angel of Death to be cold, clammy. It isn't. It is as warm as the Desire's.

'It's not whom, what, or what you are led to believe you should desire. Simply desire to be the real you, and all your other desires will form around it. Free yourself of all expectations, and other people and their actions hardly ever affect you.'

There was still something worrying me.

'But...Paul? Yes, I realise now, I wanted, _had_ , to be free of him to be myself. But...I _didn't_ want him to _die_.'

The angel's face is beatific.

'A desire made manifest, that you're now aware of? Well, that _can_ be dealt with.'

'So, tell me now: what do you desire most?'

'To be me: the _real_ me.'

'So you desire another; another, better you. Then it must be all three of us who embrace. For those parts holding you back must be sacrificed.'

And, as three, we embraced.

*

# Chapter 32

You are not of ashes, nor are you earth, or of the soil

You will not return to dust

You will not rot and fade away

How could that possibly be

When the earth, the world, the universe, is you?

The Desire

'Kate! Kate! Where are you _going_? I've been looking all over for you!'

I whirl around. As I thought, it's Paul. I'd recognised his voice.

His _strident, demanding, whining_ voice.

He's got a long smear of lipstick running along his throat. He looks angry, a look that changes to disbelief as he takes in the way I look.

'What _have_ you done to yourself? To your _hair_?' he sniggers. 'And the way you're dressed! Did you bring all that strange getup with you? You know I don't like you dressing like _that_!'

Around us, the other partygoers all seem shell-shocked, weary, ashamed. Their costumes are dishevelled and torn, with limp tails, crushed horns, broken wings. Many of them are already streaming out of the front door, eager to leave before too many questions are asked of them. They avert their eyes, fearing that someone will recognise and challenge them over their earlier behaviour.

_The Desire_ is in my hand.

Ignoring Paul, ignoring his questions, I flip the book open.

Everything is back to how it was.

There is no uniformed girl lying in an office.

No angel lying on a floor.

No me lying on a bed.

The man and woman are amorous lovers once more. They hold each other tenderly, lovingly. As if they could never let each other go.

'Are you _ignoring_ me?'

Paul is glaring at me. His face stern. His lips grimly set.

'You do know you look completely ludicrous?' he continues sneeringly. 'I mean, Kate – you really _can't_ expect me to go out with you looking like _that_. Don't you realise what you're doing? That now it's _over_ between us?'

When you change, when you change your idea of yourself, everything around you changes.

You can do things that you couldn't do before.

'Paul,' I say, 'I really think that's for the best, don't you?'

His eyes widen in surprise. He grins, waiting for the tears. For my tears.

I spin around on my heels, and head for the door.

What is beauty, what's success, but the way someone perceives you?

If the one you desire believes you're beautiful, then you truly are; for you have successfully attained what you most desire.

And if he or she doesn't believe you're beautiful?

Then obviously, your own kind of beauty is wasted on them.

Why should _they_ determine _your_ worth?

I'm _someone_.

And _I_ know I'm beautiful.

And _I_ know I'm a success.

And you know?

That's good enough for _me_!

What _more_ could I desire?

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

