

## THE ARCHITECT

By David M. Antonelli

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

David Antonelli on Smashwords

The Architect

Copyright © 2015 by David M. Antonelli

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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There are a few people I'd like to acknowledge:

Paula Baticioto Benato is thanked for designing the cover page. Joanne Kellock and Marylu Walters are thanked for guidance on early versions of this manuscript.

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## THE ARCHITECT

### By David Antonelli

The water's so cold! But let's not worry! It's too

late now. It will always be too late. Fortunately!

Albert Camus

The path up and the path down are the same thing.

Heraclitus

## 1. LATE WINTER

## I

It was late in the morning. Stephen gazed about his room, noticing - seemingly for the first time - all the boxes, books, and scraps of old newspaper strewn all over the floor. He climbed out of bed and dressed slowly, the cold winter air chilling his body into a state of damp rigidity. It was Saturday and he had no plans until later that evening. He put on his boots and stepped out onto the sidewalk on his way for his usual morning coffee. He lived in a small room in a shared house off the Kilburn High Street with a widowed Scotswoman Doris and her two teenage daughters, Muriel and Leyda. Clusters of slate-gray clouds rolled indifferently through the March sky above and a cold rain drizzled down as he walked briskly past a few Kilburn pubs in an effort to keep warm. The metallic screech of brakes and smothering odor of motor oil filled the air, seeming to form an impenetrable shell around the crowds of people that spread out into the distance, first down the mess of winding streets, and then over the gentle green hills that colored the horizon like strokes of graffiti paint on a dilapidated wall. He passed a line of shops. A bakery. A toy store with model war planes hanging temptingly in the window. A clothes shop. Finally the Kilburn High Street tube, just a block past a privately owned newsagent and directly across from a grocery store. Lines of people stood, carefully regimented like a battalion, in front of the bus stop. He searched his pockets for his underground pass as he walked through the station entrance.

Since moving to London almost two years ago his life had turned into a prison. In leaving Montreal he had hoped not only to gain practical experience as an architect by working for a leading west-end firm, but also to escape the fashionable ennui of student existence. Back in Montreal his life had never really oozed with excitement. Not to say that he had lead a dull existence - far from it. He was deeply involved in student politics and regularly attended meetings with a far-left separatist group in Lachine. He even did layout for a few editions of a short-lived underground newspaper called _The Watchlight_. Weekend nights he often spent in dimly lit clubs on St. Catherine's Street with their cacophony of dyed hair, blue smoke, and chest heaving base lines.

He also led a rich personal life and for several years had a serious girl friend named Nadia. She was a nervy Quebecoise arts student with dark brown hair - clipped strait across the forehead - and narrow, ever so slightly slanted eyes. Although on the surface she seemed quiet and unassuming, underneath she was bold and often unpredictable - something he could never decide was a good or bad combination of traits. After dating for three years, she disappeared one morning without warning or explanation as if whisked away on behalf of a transcendental edict into some higher state of existence. All she left was a letter. One tiny letter. It was short but almost melodramatic in its unsettling sense of abstraction. It read:

Dearest Stephen,

Please forgive me - I'll never truly understand why I'm leaving you. By the time you read this I'll be far gone - for better or for worse. I'll never forget the years I spent with you. Your dark eyes and the delicate touch of your heavy hands on my shoulders. I used to lie at home dreaming of you on my couch when I should have been studying. I would imagine that we had just made love and you were in the kitchen making coffee.

But I couldn't go on. Everything between us seemed to unfold as if orchestrated by some vast natural law. You fit inside me like a missing piece of a puzzle. I felt so close to you. It seemed so perfect, but in reality we were slowly losing our identities, gradually fading into nothingness. I never felt complete when I was at your side. I needed to escape.

The nihilism of love and sensual ecstasy, the denial of the self, the slow swoon into the forest of the other. Emptiness in fullness, distance in proximity. How I hated you Stephen. Even in loving you I hated you.

Now I am alone. The future pointed at me like a gun. Please don't come looking for me. I'm afraid that I'll want to come back to the security of your love. Forever yours, forever sorry.

Love, Nadia

At first he couldn't believe she could be so cruel as to just vanish from his life without any explanation - or even hint of a warning - on account of what seemed to be little more than an existential whim. It was something that happened in movies and even then only bad ones. Real people were never that heartless. They had only argued two or three times in the last year and there was no lack of physical intimacy between them. Her existential outpourings were little more than a fabrication of some childish, perhaps even vindictive imagination bent on humiliating him and ultimately ruining his life. But a few days later, after the initial shock had worn off, he began to feel sympathy for her. He tried his hardest to show understanding and began conjuring up excuses for her, which he wrote down in numerical order on a sheet of notepaper. She was a weak and tormented woman who needed time to be alone and sort out her feelings. He had done something to upset her and had been too callous to read her feelings and locate the source of his obtuse behavior. But maybe it was something simpler, like a death in the family or maybe even her period. However sexist it was of him to even think this, it was like calling black white to deny it as all men knew that many women acted irrationally during menstruation. It had never been a problem with her before, but there was always a first time. Even at the best of times she could be a sensitive and volatile creature, and this was just one more example of this aspect of her character, something that would erupt into a blinding flash and then die out like all of her other moods. She would surely come back, he convinced himself one bright morning while watching the crowds walking down St. Denis as he sat stirring his coffee in a quiet café frequented by artists and groups of liberal young professionals.

After several months without a word from her, his patience transformed to pain and his pain in turn became hatred – a numb, deadening hatred. Eventually - after almost a year - this hatred hardened into a cement cocoon around the void she'd left inside him. He knew she would never come back and he was a fool for ever thinking she would. No matter how much he wished he could go on hating her, while always secretly hoping she would come back, he had to succumb to truth and let the internal hardness he had fought so hard to stave off take over. So he buried his feelings for her, leaving only a flawed, but - at least for the time being - sturdy emotional foundation for him to move on and rebuild his life. By the time he'd moved to London – a full two years after she had left him - he had almost forgiven her and come to feel that his involvement with her was worth it. Worth the intoxication of new love and the steady warmth and security of a long-term relationship she had afforded him as much as the pain and anguish he had suffered on account of her loss, without which he would certainly not be the mature man and budding professional he had grown into since she left. Whatever the reason for her actions, it was the closest he'd ever come to experiencing anything _fully_ , to crossing that magical portal between his imagination and the outer world whose threshold had up to then seemed impenetrable. For this much he owed her something.

So in his first few months of London he was possessed by a rich and ultimately satisfying feeling that he had led what could be considered, at least from the outside, a full and meaningful life, although sometimes, most often as he walked home alone from the Kilburn Underground station to his apartment, he couldn't help but think that something was missing. Apart from Nadia's sudden departure, all of his experiences - emblems of a well-rounded life - had never really engaged him as fully as they should have. It wasn't that he lacked passion or was too reserved to throw himself with total abandon into whatever he was doing. Nor was it, more simply, that he hadn't found the _right_ experiences to _turn him on_. No matter where he was, what he was doing, or who he was with, he was always left with the feeling that he was standing on the outside of some great exhibition of life and experience waiting to be let in. A man yet to be initiated into something - he knew not what - that would finally usher him into the world of the living.

Stephen got off at Charing Cross and went directly to _Foyles_ to pick up a book on Florentine architecture that he had ordered a month earlier. He paid quietly and left. He had never liked the place because of its endless corridors and bookshelf ladders with titles arranged by publisher rather than subject or author. He walked southward towards a nearby coffee shop on Shaftsbury Avenue where he hoped he might meet some friends to chat with until five o'clock. After that he had to meet The Fat Man and The Seducer over dinner at _The Red Eagle_. He had met them a week earlier at a pub in Harlesdon. After spending the evening playing pool, they had agreed to give him a small interest-free loan for a few months until he could get a raise or find a more advanced position at another architects firm. Although he had considerable reason to distrust them, he really had no choice but to take them up on their suspiciously attractive offer. How many people give out interest free loans to total strangers without there being at least some hidden strings attached? Several banks had refused to grant him a loan on grounds of bad credit. In fact, he hadn't paid rent for three months. If Doris wasn't so generous he would have been evicted a long time ago. _Eviction_. The word burned through his head as he walked past Leicester Square towards the coffee shop. He needed money quickly.

He crossed an intersection and walked across the street to the coffee shop, narrowly avoiding a black cab as he stepped up on the far curb. He inserted a few coins into a newspaper vending machine and pulled out a paper before walked inside. After ordering a latté, he sat alone in the corner to read the _Guardian_. His gaze drifted from the jumbled lines and characters, spread across the newsprint like meaningless scribblings in sand, and meandered out the window and across the street to meet a row of nearly identical town houses standing behind a fifty meter long wrought iron gate. The awnings were new and brightly colored, but the roofs of the houses were sagging and sun-bleached. He took a deep breath, admiring the gentle contours of the arches and how they flowed so effortlessly around and over the heavy oak doors. After all, he was an architect and could appreciate such things; buildings to him were more than just functional allotments of space, they were expressions of ideas, of forms.

He liked to think that his tastes in architecture were broad and unbiased. His own designs were influenced not only by the quivering geometries of those modern glass towers that were popping up out of nowhere the last few years in the City, smaller scale replicas of the more dramatic Asian structures seemed to reach upwards to the sky like giant tuning forks, but also by the intricately carved stone arches so ubiquitous in Christian architecture. The festooning buttresses and rippling folds of Romanesque cathedrals mirrored the cavernous expanses of the soul while the prosaic exterior of the Byzantine cruciform church stood as an expression of the banality of corporeal existence. Yet everyday warehouses, dwellings and schools also had their charms. Some were daringly angular and modern, expressing perhaps the domination of technology over nature, while others were frumpy and plain as if reaffirming older, simpler values. Sometimes he would walk silently through unexplored neighborhoods, following just the jut and flow of the houses and buildings as he passed. The transcendence of matter through matter itself. Not mere buildings, but a poetry of lines and space. Clay tiles, pillars, steps, windows, garages, attic rooms, and steeples: colorful geometries against a stolid, gray sky.

His eyes scanned one last moment over the flawed rooftops of the houses across the street and then returned to the table in front of him. His coffee was cold and the newspaper had blown onto the floor. He picked it up and glanced at it for a moment before setting it on the chair beside him. There was nothing of special interest and the day was passing slowly. He leaned back and yawned. He looked at his watch. He had been staring across the street at the toppling span of colored rooftops for over an hour. He collected his coat and paid the waitress. The tube was crammed with the usual assortment of wan tubercular faces. Some were grimacing in boredom while others were merely bored, staring at nothing and thinking of nothing. Mired in their routine lives, accepting themselves as mere _objects in the world_. Garden hoses and shoehorns. Inanimate, but functional. He shuddered when he thought he might be a part of it all. Part of _their_ world, part of London - soft, pale, lifeless, but somehow still glowing. At one point, he had been staring at a cluster of weekend shoppers for so long, without so much as a wrinkle of his eyelid, that their figures seemed to melt away from existence and become mere lines and shapes spread across the far wall of the train. Colors faded and boundaries dissolved. Faces were reduced to charcoal circles and arms to mere lines.

The train reached his stop and he snapped to life again, squeezing through a group of Italian tourists to step out the door. Then he sauntered towards the escalator, up and past the ticket booth and out onto the drizzly street. Two blocks further and he was home. When he got home the girls were nowhere to be seen but the television set was still on. He shook off his wet coat and flicked off the light switch. Then he went upstairs to take a nap. A few moths thumped their wings importunately against his window as he drifted off to sleep.

## II

The Fat Man sat across the table from Stephen chewing on a long stalk of asparagus hanging half way out of his mouth as it swung back and forth in short pendulous motions, keeping perfect timing with the motion of his jaw. Stephen looked down into his beer glass and tightened his fist. In the manner of a subliminal response The Fat Man rubbed his eye with a dirty handkerchief and as though following this secret cue the Seducer and Lindqvist walked past a nearby snooker table to join them. Steven smiled nervously and looked around the room. The walls of the pub almost seemed to change color as the gray light of day slowly faded, giving way to the orange glow from the glittering chandeliers overhead.

"Before we move on to more serious matters, I'd like to show you a game," said Lindqvist. He pulled a deck of Tarot cards out of his satin vest. "Karok."

"A game?" The Seducer asked derisively.

Lindqvist took the Tarot deck and fanned it out before them on the table as he began to separate the major and minor arcana into two piles. When he had finished he put the minor arcana into numerical order starting from the ace of cups and continuing through wands and pentacles until finally placing the Knight of Swords on top of the pile.

"The deck you see before you, as you may already know, is the Rider Tarot deck. It has been used for generations to read fortunes and many believe it to be endowed with mystical powers. These so called powers have never interested me as I hold them as the superstitious outpourings of charlatans and fools. The symbolism, however, has always fascinated me. Take _The Tower_ for example. Absolute, unforgiving chaos - destruction... violence... ruination." He adjusted his cufflink and then paused for an instant to gather his thoughts before continuing. "But let's not get sidetracked. The rules of Karok are as follows: there are four players and each one is dealt a hand of seven from a deck consisting of both arcana. The remaining cards are placed in a pile in the center of the table and the first card is turned over to initiate a discard pile next to it. The players then begin to draw and discard in turn. If a player chooses to draw from the discard pile, he loses his next turn. The object of the game is to collect certain groupings of cards in a given order. The first task is to get four of a kind from the four suits of the minor arcana."

"This is utter bollocks!" interrupted The Fat Man as he stuffed another stalk of asparagus into his mouth. "I've got an idea for a better game. It has only one bloody rule. You can't fucking well cheat!"

He laughed uproariously as if he had just told the funniest joke ever heard.

"So you want a loan, do you?" asked The Fat Man, his laughter still simmering. "A loan from The Fat Man."

"I'm absolutely broke," said Stephen with a shrug of his shoulders. He looked over at Lindqvist, who seemed visibly annoyed at the Fat Man's interruption.

"I don't give out money to any old wanker, you know," The Fat Man replied churlishly. "What I mean is that you have to do us a little favor first to _earn_ our respect."

"What do you mean by a favor?" asked Stephen.

"We're planning a little _something_ and we need some help." The Fat Man's throat jiggled like a bowl of tapioca as he spoke.

"Help?" Stephen queried.

"There's some paintings we're planning to steal."

"Wait a minute..." Stephen pulled back. "I thought you were a pawnbroker. All I want is a simple loan."

"Any self-respecting pawnbroker wouldn't just hand out a few thousand quid to some rotter that just showed up on a bloody canoe from Canada. They're not that stupid."

"If I get caught my career will be over and I'll get deported. It's hardly worth it."

"Keep your voice down," The Fat Man leaned over to whisper into Stephen's ear. "What are you trying to do, get us kicked out? You'd be best advised to listen. These men are bloody experts." He pointed to The Seducer and Lindqvist. "Shut up and learn. We can all learn something sometimes and this is your big chance. Don't blow it."

"First of all," The Seducer intoned without any noticeable expression. He paused and Stephen looked into his calm blue eyes. It was almost as though there was no inside beyond the surface, as though they were infinite pools of nothingness, barren of all life or form. The Seducer continued. "You've no criminal record...or at least I assume you don't."

Lindqvist raised his reading glasses and looked over at Stephen. "Perhaps I should explain."

"Fine, but just get one thing clear," said Stephen. "I'm no thief and don't intend to start any time soon."

"I'm getting another wanking drink, then," said The Fat Man. "I've had enough of Stevie-boy's art-school bollocks."

The Seducer followed and they walked together over to the bar.

Lindqvist leaned towards Stephen and cleared his throat.

"My interests in art theft began about seven years ago. I was formally trained as an art historian in Stockholm but eventually decided to take up painting myself. Although I had enough talent to gain notoriety in Sweden, but I could never support myself through my work. The Swedish art market is small and insulated from the international market where all of the real money is. I had to make a living teaching in a small college in rural Sweden. After four years living this bland existence, I became disillusioned and gradually began to loath my talent. It was one day as I was walking home that it dawned upon me that I was a failure. I was only a second rate artist, and besides, art itself was nothing but a cruel mockery of life. While art may be beautiful, it lies gently in its beauty. Even the most visually abusive contemporary art has a certain _negative beauty_ to it. I'd spent years foolishly chasing this ideal of art as some kind of divine mirror of life before finally realizing that it was a complete travesty. Because of this cruel revelation I sank into a deep depression for almost two years. But one morning I saw a woman walking down the street that reminded me of the first girl I ever fell in love with and in a flash I realized how pathetic I had become in my abject state of self-pity. That very day I finally snapped out of it and a week later I quit my job to move to London." He coughed into his handkerchief and adjusted his glasses.

"There I left my interests in art completely behind and became avidly interested in politics. I joined and quickly resigned from several anarchist groups and once even did some work with the IRA. I didn't stay with any organization for long since I always found them clumsy and obtuse in their tactics. I was more drawn towards the _pure idea_ of revolt rather than the revolt itself. Chaos, I came to believe, was perfection. There are even strict mathematical rules that govern it. Elegant equations which arbitrate destruction and catastrophe in much the same way that abstract rules of tonality and scale lie beneath Bach's most sublime music. The only problem with destruction, however, is that it is always perpetrated by clods and morons with no feeling for its abstract beauty and purity."

Stephen raised his eyebrow in disbelief and looked down into his now-empty beer glass. "You don't look too convinced," Lindquist continued. "Let me cite an example." He paused as he struggled to find a suitable paradigm. "In concept, the Spanish Civil War was a masterpiece of sedition, but in practice it was a mere playground for idiots and fools. Thousands brutally executed by the bumbling hands of militant dunces and trigger-happy morons. It doesn't take a fool to see that wanton violence like this only besmirches the splendor of _pure_ destruction."

Stephen moved his beer glass in small pensive arcs across the table as Lindqvist continued. While only moments before Stephen was impatient and visibly bored, he now viewed the man in much the same way that he would a flamboyant beggar who had just accosted him on the street - with a kind of exaggerated sense of interest that bordered on pity and contempt. It wasn't that he had any genuine disregard for the man. It was just that Lindqvist's ideas just seemed so bizarre that he didn't really know how to react.

"The Khmer Rouge, the Shining Path. All based on noble ideas but ultimately they gave birth to nothing but dogma and stasis, the antithesis of revolt. Terrorists are useless and fail to see how ridiculous they really are. They see themselves as some great insurgent minority whose rebellious acts will somehow harrow the bourgeois to such an alarming extreme that society will have no choice but to bend to their will. They try bombings - churches, museums, hospitals, parliament buildings are the standard targets. They try kidnappings, murders, assassinations, and torture. They even start wars. But, what's the point? Society doesn't care. The middle class just pours on with its frivolous and drab existence. When they read about a bombing they only shudder for a few minutes and hope that it never happens to them before returning to their shallow existence. Nothing is changed.

"You see," he continued, speaking through his thin earnest lips as if he were delivering a landmark lecture before a panel of celebrated intellectuals. "the average terrorist is no different than the average politician. They all believe they're the center of all social change and authority and don't care about anything above or beyond themselves in the grand order of things. They see themselves as being at the top of some mountain peak looking down at the rabble in a mixture of contempt and pity. But do you think they want change? Of course not. The politician wants to pass bills and the terrorist wants to bomb. They don't want society to change at all. Of course they'll say so. It gives them a greater sense of purpose and morally justifies their dubious actions. But change?" he paused for a minute as his throat bulged outwards. "No. And furthermore, they really have no appreciation for the abstract beauty of what they're doing. Revolts and terrorist acts are really just a subsection of the whole socio-historical framework. The politician, the banker, the terrorist. All just cogs in the great wheel of lies. That's why I quit the IRA. I made the discovery that what is generally thought to be violence directed against the bourgeois really only reinforces their petty values. It makes them think how wonderful it is that they aren't depraved and mad like the violent perpetrators. Thus, the only true revolt is a revolt of ideas. Abstract destruction - _the concept of violence_.

"The concept of violence!" he exclaimed. "The one problem with destruction as an idea is that it can never, or so I thought, be actualized in its full abstract beauty. This, in some ways, makes it less perfect."

"Violence and revolt as mere concepts?" Stephen shook his head in doubt. "How is that going to change anything? It's even worse than terrorism in that regard."

"Be patient. I'll explain. One night three years ago while walking through Kentish town in the rain I stumbled upon the idea of the perfect expression of destruction: the theft and desecration of art. Think, Stephen. It involves no mass riots or cretins who are incapable of appreciating the pernicious beauty of the act. Art theft is subtle, adroit, and elegant. And most of all it's perpetrated against the ultimate vessel of lies in existence: art. Yes, you see, in stealing art one becomes consecrated in his service to the pure idea of destruction, and in desecrating its false sublimity through its complete ruination, he becomes almost godly. Currently, if my reasoning is correct, I'm merely a saint. Figuratively only, of course. But, a saint nonetheless."

He tilted his head backwards in contemplation as if he were about to divulge a great cosmic secret, but couldn't quite find the proper words.

"Merely canonized... You see, the money that can be made in the resale of stolen art makes it almost worthwhile to postpone divinity. So maybe I'll save that for my later days. One must have something to look forward to. They say life can be so boring in your old age. Some moments are to be saved for later so they can be more fully appreciated. Just as a child is not ready to comprehend Aristotle's _Metaphysics_ , I may not be ready to fully appreciate the destruction of art until later in life. But then again, maybe I am! But I guess that only history will be the judge of that."

Lindqvist looked towards the ceiling through his cloudy spectacles and lit the thin cigarillo he produced from his jacket pocket. Stephen turned and looked across the room to catch The Seducer was standing by the bar speaking to a slim young woman of about twenty. He moved his hand almost roboticly up and down her right leg, which extended provocatively from inside her loose cotton skirt.

Stephen cleared his throat and assumed a more severe tone as he spoke:

"You're a hypocrite." Then he pointed across the room to the Fat Man, who was now slumped over the bar and seemed to have fallen asleep, a string of mucous visibly creeping out of his nose and running down his cheek. "And what about him?"

"Let me explain," Lindqvist continued.

"Eckermann is only a middle man. As is Singleton. They just resell the goods to collectors. I'd rather mastermind a grand plan than besmirch my hands with the actual theft. That would be nothing less than crude. We'd be contradicting ourselves if we actually partook in the theft. That's why we need you. In the realization of the concept of destruction it is unreasonable to expect that we could avoid having at least one corporeal act. But we want to avoid carrying it out ourselves. It's against my philosophy, so to speak. I just want someone who appreciates art and the dark pulchritudes of its theft to be the "hands" in our operation. It would thus be _more perfect_ , if one could say such a thing without violating the rules of grammar."

"What makes you think I'd appreciate it? If you take your idea to its logical conclusion, then the most perfect crime or revolt is one that isn't even executed."

"A legitimate point. However, there's a counter-argument that states that something is less perfect if it doesn't exist. I think it was St. Anselm in reference to the proof of God's existence. Thus, if this is true, and I see no reason to doubt it, the crime must at least be committed to be perfect. What we're aiming at, then, is the most ideological crime possible without being solely an idea."

Stephen raised an eyebrow in disbelief and looked down at his watch. It was nearing eleven.

"I have to go," he said as he yawned impatiently. "Work tomorrow morning."

"Well, shall I assume that you're not interested?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "I really need the loan."

"All we need is someone to give us a hand. If it's a problem, we could make it a payment rather than a loan."

"Can I think about it?"

"The sooner the better."

"I'd like to..."

"Fine. Either contact us by phone or meet us back here sometime next month. But if you wait too long, the deal's off. We can only afford to wait for so long."

The Fat Man rolled off his chair and fell into a sticky puddle of half-dried ale on the floor. His face was completely still until Lindqvist shook his shoulder from behind.

"Get up you drunken fool, he's going."

Stephen made no effort to avoid the perception of having slammed the door as he left the pub. As he made his way out into the darkness of the street he could hear the hanging wooden sign above the door swinging back and forth. The proposal disturbed him. A theft might be an interesting adventure, but it was far too drastic a measure to help him out of his financial troubles. Especially with such ridiculous men. He was certainly no tea toddler, and had even stolen a cheap calculator from an appliance store when he was thirteen on a dare from his friends just to prove he could get away with it, but if he were ever caught involved in a major theft the consequences would be disastrous: imprisonment, deportation, or both. On the other hand, a large sum of money would more than alleviate his financial problems. He'd have to think.

On his way home he entertained himself by reading the ads above the windows in the tube cars and trying to hum the melodies of a few songs he couldn't quite remember. He sat alone by the door, watching people as they stepped in and out at the passing stations. He transferred off the Bakerloo line to the Metropolitan line at Baker Street and got home by eleven-thirty.

## III

The lights of New Cross glimmer and sparkle like Christmas tree ornaments. A thin film of light reflects off the roofs of a row of nearby tenement buildings, assuming the appearance of snow before vanishing into nothingness. The traffic begins to die down as a conversation echoes in a nearby alleyway. Darkness spreads through the vast and incomprehensible network of streets like a nerve gas into an empty prison cell. Steam hisses from a rusted vent in the back of a restaurant and then dissipates into the evening air. A taxi rushes past and then slows down, searching for a late fare. Crowds of people stream relentlessly through the exit of a movie theater like marbles poured from a jar onto the floor. A man stops to pick up a soiled five-pound note, and a boy lies awake listening to an old radio while he stares at a broken toy castle on his shelf.

The Seducer sits alone on a wooden chair, his silhouette cast against the window by the weak light of a forty-watt bulb. His eyes open, giving the impression of two freshly carved slits in sheet metal. He looks around the room. The shadows cast by the filament of the bulb stretch across the room like a quivering hand, making strange and intricate patterns resembling those on Asian tiles or carvings in Moorish pillars. There is an old army cot nestled in the corner and a television set standing against the far wall. A plate sits on top of the stove, which is shut off except for the front right burner and a knife and fork are arranged neatly on the small oval table in the corner.

The Seducer looks over towards the cot. Although the sheets are dishevelled, he can still distinguish the imprint of a woman's body. _Where is she now?_ he thinks. Perhaps she is lying alone at home, or perhaps she is still walking the streets of London. He doesn't care. His eyes widen slightly as he remembers her soft, cloth-like skin and the warmth of her feet against his feet.

He stands up and walks to the refrigerator. It is empty except for a loaf of bread inside a plastic bag. He takes out one slice. Then two. He eats both and returns to the chair. He taps his fingers on his knee and looks up at the shelf beside him. There is a book. The cover is missing and the pages are yellowed. He stands up and reaches for it. It is an encyclopaedia of nautical facts. He leafs through it for a moment and returns it to the shelf.

He takes out a pencil and holds it to his pristine lips. Then he takes out a notebook. It is a diary of sorts. The entries are not arranged by date, but by person. He begins to write, carefully describing the scenario, which transpired only two hours ago in his apartment. The pencil moves slowly and deliberately over the surface of the page. The hiss of the gas stove fills the silence of the room as he continues.

An hour later, he finishes. He puts the diary back on the shelf and lights a cigarette. He returns to the same chair and leans backwards to examine the yellowed cracks in the ceiling. There are several and they are all stained around the edges. There is a wire dangling alone and functionless from the center. Outside, he can hear a conversation between two detached voices. They echo and weave through the darkness as if belonging only to the shadows cast by the dim light effusing from the windows overhead. Muted and low, they are barely detectable over the murderous hum of the streetlights.

## IV

Stephen slid quietly through the freshly painted wrought iron gate into the garden, marking with his gaze its borders, which extended from the tool shed all the way to a row of flowers that grew directly below the kitchen window. He sat down on the rain spattered wicker loveseat leaning against the back wall of the house. The moon hung in the sky, its sallow light reflecting off the dew droplets resting on the leaves of the outstretched oak branch beside him. He rubbed his thumb against his boots to see how wet they were and then reclined back in the chair as he thought of the evening's affairs. An uneasy feeling stirred inside him.

London. Decay. Its maddening roads twisting away like spools of yarn in every possible direction. You could walk north and suddenly realize you were walking south. Or one road could cross another five or six times during an hour-long walk. Bridges over underpasses. Tunnel heaped upon tunnel like wires inside an old television. The roads, the bridges, and the sidewalks: a tangled network of nerves spanning through the brain of a drunken angel. And growing like a tumor in the middle of this urban grey-matter was The Fat Man. Sure, his vulgarity could be amusing at times, but this hardly made up for his crude behavior that evening. Stephen wondered how such an individual could come to have any influence in the world. The Seducer, however, seemed so totally different that Stephen wondered how he could ever have come to be involved with such dubious accomplices. His chilling reticence and stoic reserve were both frightening and intriguing; behind his cold but strangely disarming eyes lurked a vast and impenetrable darkness. He was a pyramid of mystery whose comparatively simple and harmonious exterior gave no hint of the ineffable secrets hidden inside.

"The destruction of Art, it could be inferred, is hence the highest principle and leads to the beatification of Man," Stephen muttered in a fake Swedish accent. "A saint is only a saint in so far as he steals Art. And a God is only a God in so far as he destroys it." He inserted his key into the back door lock and stepped inside. He pulled off his waterlogged boots and squeezed out his socks in the sink beside the door. The kitchen had just been cleaned and he didn't want to mess it up again with his footprints. Everyone was asleep and the only sound he could hear was the metallic ticking of the old grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. He noticed that the banister had just been polished as he slid his hand along its silky contours on his way upstairs to his bedroom. The sheets on his bed were freshly washed and ironed and a cool breeze flowed through the open French windows. The girls must have had a big clean up while he was gone.

The next morning he came downstairs to find Doris gardening on the patio. She was carefully potting a sickly looking orange tree adorned with shrivelled greenish fruit as she hummed a sweet tune to herself. She looked up buoyantly at Stephen.

"Good morning, young man. Help yourself to some tea...it's in the blue china pot."

"Where?"

"You know - in the dining room."

"Oh...thanks," he said as he stroked back his hair. "I'll need some. Are the girls around?"

"Muriel's got music lessons 'till noon and I don't quite know about Leyda. It's my guess she's either watching a video in her room, or she's just snuck out to meet some friends down at the shops. I haven't seen her all morning."

"I noticed you cleaned up. I would've helped if I'd known." He leaned against the blue enamelled brick wall that stood parallel to the patio. "I had to go out last night to meet some people about borrowing some money. That guy at the pawn shop that I told you about."

"Oh, dearie, don't trouble yourself. You can't trust these sorts of people anyway. Just pay me when you've got the money. You know I'm a little short now, but we'll get by, I'm sure"

She smiled and set the uprooted tree into the new ceramic pot standing in front of her. He wasn't sure if he detected a note of insincerity in her voice or whether he was just imagining it from his guilt over the unpaid rent.

"Now, I hope this poor darling tree does better in this pot. The poor wee thing. This soil is supposed to be better for tropical plants. The man at the store assured me if I kept it by the sunniest window and used this new soil that it would recover in a matter of weeks. We'll see."

"If you need a hand, I'll be around for a while."

"I think I'll be alright," she replied. "Oh, I almost forgot. I was thinking that the girls might want to see a play. Muriel's been studying too hard and I think Leyda could use a little culture in her life. There's a performance of _The Tempest_ at the Barbican that's getting good reviews." She stood up and brushed the loose clumps of dirt off her soiled jeans.

"I'm sure they'd be delighted."

"But you know Leyda, you'll have to catch her before she goes out to some club or other. How about you? I think they'd appreciate it if you went with them."

"How much is it?"

"Don't worry. My sister gets free tickets to these things."

"Well if that's the case, just name a date."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Sounds good...I'll look forward to it."

Doris unfurled the kitchen curtains and pulled open the window. Then she turned to Stephen and winked. "It's an absolutely wonderful day, and I'm not going to waste it gardening. I'm going to see my sister down in Newhaven when Muriel gets back. She and my brother in law just bought a new house and I'm dying to see it. Then I can arrange for the tickets."

They walked into the dining room and Stephen poured himself some tea. He sipped it slowly as he read the paper while Doris showered upstairs. Just has the hiss of water stopped Leyda barged through the front door carrying a few shopping bags, a colorful Nepalese wool purse slung over her shoulder. Her plaited hair was wet at the tips and she ran her slender fingers through her chestnut-brown bangs before setting the bags down on the floor.

"Guess what I just bought." Her voice was a mattress of delight. She pulled out a red-velvet tank top and a pair of faded indigo bell-bottoms and spread them on the table in front of Stephen.

"I got them at the Camden market."

She beamed with satisfaction and then draped the garments across her forearm.

"Now I can call you the _Duchess of Camden Town_ ," he bantered.

"Is that like _The Pope of Greenwich Villiage_?" asked Leyda.

"They'll look good on you." Stephen imagined her dancing and sweaty under a hot din of lights on a crowded dance floor. She'd changed so much over the last year. She was more relaxed and somehow seemed much older, brimming with a confident sexuality he had never noticed before. He had been spending so much time on work since he moved to London that he had almost forgotten how delightful a presence young woman could really be.

She kicked off her stylishly worn black shoes without undoing the buckle and rushed upstairs to the bathroom. On her way up she threw off her leather jacket and tossed a stick of gum over the banister to Stephen. He caught it and smiled.

"We were thinking of going to _The Tempest_ tomorrow," he said just as she reached the top of the staircase. "Do you want to come?"

She disappeared into the bathroom without answering and emerged five minutes later wearing her new clothes. He could see the outline of her breasts beneath her tight red top and her baggy new bellbottoms stretched all the way down past her ankles to touch the floor, as was the fashion that year.

"The answer's yes," she said. "But, I'll have to check my schedule. I think there was something at Brixton that I wanted to see." She paused and rested her finger in her open mouth. "What about Muriel? If we go tomorrow she probably can't come because of her homework."

"I'll have to ask her," he plucked a flower from the slender ceramic vase standing in front of him and twisted it in his fingers. "We'll talk over dinner."

The next day he took the girls to _The Tempest_. The theatre was crowded, but Stephen found three seats in a row close enough to the front and off to the far left. He took a seat beside the wall. Leyda brushed ahead of Muriel and took the seat beside Stephen. After Muriel had taken her place, Leyda put her purse down and leaned ever so slightly into Stephen's arm and shoulder. He turned his head the other way, trying to ignore the warmth of her forearm next to his.

"This is exciting," she whispered into his ear as the lights dimmed and the curtain began to move upwards.

At first Stephen tried to concentrate on the play. The stage was decorated like a desert island with a few palm trees and an old hut. An old man walked on stage and faced the audience. After he delivered a long soliloquy, a small group of men and women dressed in elaborate costumes walked on stage. In no time they were swooning before the audience in a lush ballet of colour and sound. Their English was so beautiful and intricate Stephen could hardly keep up with their lines. By the end of the first act he had completely lost track of the plot. He looked over at Leyda. She was noticeably distracted and kept playing with her watch and adjusting her belt as the performance continued. Under the yellow glow of the stage lights he thought he could see her eyes turning expectantly towards him, yet he couldn't be sure. At one point their eyes met. They gazed at each other for a long moment before he sharply turned his head back to the action on stage. An instant later, he looked back to see if she was still staring at him. But all he could see in the dim light were her moist, shining lips.

After what seemed like hours, Prospero finally delivered his famous soliloquy. _As you from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free_ , were his last towering words. The gold brocade curtain fell, leaving the audience in utter darkness until the muted lights on the ceiling blinked on. After the encore he stood up with the girls and walked towards the rapidly crowding aisle. Stephen could feel the warm bulge of her breasts pushing impatiently against his back as they shuffled towards the exit. When they got outside he checked to see if he still had his underground pass.

They walked out into the foggy streets. Muriel turned her face diffidently towards the ground, while Leyda kept looking over at Stephen as though waiting for some penetrating critical statement about the quality of the performance. Her eyes were blueprints: sharp and exact. He imagined them cursing like a spectrometer over the forms and angles of houses and buildings, noting every strength and flaw. Or was he just projecting his own traits on her in search of some sign of common ground?

As they crossed the street she locked her arm nervously around his. As if by instinct only he turned around and kissed Leyda's cheek when he was sure Muriel wasn't looking. Obviously surprised by this sudden advance, Leyda pulled her arm away and shoved her hands into her pockets as she quickly switched places with Muriel such that her sister now walked between them.

Prospero's final line echoed through Stephen's head as they descended into the Barbican Underground: _As you from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free._

Stephen watched her as she stepped through the turnstile. He loved her pretty red head. He craved it. He wanted her to indulge in him. He wanted her indulgence to set him free. The dancing, the sweat-filled nights, the gloriously wrinkled sheets in the dull gray of the morning's hangover.

On the train home Leyda was silent and picked at her nails until they reached Kilburn. The crowd rushed out and sundered apart, leaving the three of them alone on the escalator. It made a dull sound like a wooden block rubbing against a steel railing.

That night he stayed up late and played solitaire with only the erratic ticking of the clock to keep him company. Sometimes, he imagined that it sped up, or that it was a shrill voice whispering an insipid song into his ear. Struggling for hours to make sense out of Leyda's behavior, he convinced himself of the explanation that she had taken his arm as a friendly gesture only without thinking of how it could be misinterpreted. When he kissed her she realized that he had misunderstood and she prudently dropped her arm. She was silent for the remainder of the evening out of either embarrassment or the desire to let him know that she wasn't interested in him. But even if he was wrong and she did like him, romance was still impossible. She was his landlady's daughter and he was already well behind in the rent. Anything that happened between them could only worsen his situation. Doris would demand the rent. He wouldn't be able to pay. He'd be labelled a pervert and get kicked out. No, any romance with Leyda, no matter how ready and willing she was, would be disastrous.

## V

The Fat Man tucked in his crusted yellow shirt as he looked around his shop, wheezing heavily as his eyes patrolled the sloppily decorated windows, tawdry cuttings from low-budget porno magazines hanging like makeshift blinds to conceal the activities of his shop from the gaze of passers by. He rubbed his eyes languidly and squinted in the din of the metal-halogen lamp overhead. It was raining outside and tiny veins of water were running down the windowpanes. How bloody well fortunate, he thought, that such an exquisite collection of hangings was safely taped to the inside windows, sheltered from any damage the water could incur. He plucked up a dead fly from the under the shelf in front of him. It had been cocooned inside a ball of dust for who knows how long, nestled beneath a set of used vacuum cleaner hoses and nozzles, their waning colors blending in perfectly with those of the nude cuttings above, but his eyes were sharp for such dim details as he had been aware of its presence for several weeks now, only waiting for the perfect moment to disinter it from its shadowy mausoleum and flush it down the toilet to a deeper more fitting grave, amongst the rat-infested sewage that trickled daily into the thick brown meanderings of the Thames.

He turned on the cathode-ray television beside him and flicked through the channels, looking for a football match. The reception was poor and the picture jittered in lifeless black and white. He slapped the side of the ancient Toshiba unit a few times before resigning himself to defeat. It was nearly four o'clock and he was expecting a delivery from Comrade Rucinski. Guns, bullets, he couldn't quite remember. It was really of no consequence and he wasn't looking forward to dealing with him anyway, since they had argued the last time they met. Something to do with the previous FA cup. After some effort he remembered: Rucinski claimed that Tottenham won it on a lucky gust of wind, otherwise Manchester would've taken the game. This, of course, was utter bollocks. Manchester wouldn't even have come close if they hadn't got that lucky penalty. Besides, Tottenham was simply a better team and there was no question in The Fat Man's mind - therefore no question at all - that they deserved to win. What kind of place had the world become where some foreign wanker like Comrade Rucinski could claim to know anything about English football? What would a Russian know anyway? Perhaps how to scrub down a Borzoi with a jug of wood alcohol passed off as vodka, but little more.

He wiped a layer of half-dried sweat from his head and stared pensively at his watch. Eventually the door opened and a customer walked in. He was gaunt and sickly as though emerging only hours before from the drunk tank and wore a torn cardigan and a Scottish sailors cap. Someone for his amusement.

"Good day, sir."

"What can I do for you?" The Fat Man said without energy or enthusiasm.

"Well, I was wondering...would you be interested in some radios?"

"I buy things of value."

"I've got them out in the car if you want to see them."

"How many?"

"Eight."

"What did you do, spend the weekend picking through a junkyard?"

"Not quite. I used to be a collector and last week the wife told me to clean a few out of the closet to make room for her new dresses."

"And you let the silly cow push you around?"

"It was either that or the couch."

The Fat Man stared pitilessly into the man's eyes. "I'll take a look at them."

The man ran out to the car and returned shortly with an expectant grin on his face. He dumped a corrugate paper box on the counter directly in front of The Fat Man, and sighed optimistically as he opened it. Then he stood back, as though to allow his wares a chance to speak for themselves.

"They look like they've fucking well been in a closet since the Boer War. Do they even work? You'd better not be wasting my time. I'm a busy man. A man of class and distinction. Do you expect me to bloody well plug the whole lot in and check?"

"I assure you they work. I'll even do it for you."

The Fat Man pointed to a plug-in on the wall and scowled. The customer proceeded to demonstrate how each one was in perfect working order, being sure to check the tuner and volume-dial each time.

"Two pounds each," The Fat Man grunted.

"What?" the man protested. They were worth at least three times that.

"You heard me. Two pounds. I've got enough of these stinking things to fill an aircraft carrier. Do you think I'd be stupid enough to pay a king's ransom for eight more?"

"But, sir. Please. These could easily sell for a tenner apiece. At least you could give me half."

"Two pounds. Sixteen in total."

The customer pushed the box reluctantly across the counter. The Fat Man counted out sixteen pounds from the register and stowed the box in the corner behind him.

"How about material – cloth, I mean?" asked the man. "I've got a role of red felt in the car. It's in perfect condition. The wife used it to make the children some elf costumes for the school play. It could sell for a fiver at least."

The Fat Man gazed in disbelief at the pathetic creature begging before him. His posture was weak, his face ageing and pale. And now he wanted to sell him felt. Ordered around by his wife, mired in a pallid existence centred around taking children dressed as elves to insipid school performances where they were probably buggered _en masse_ in the bathrooms by gangs of salivating teachers and parents done up like Santa's reindeer during intermission: the thought was to much to stomach.

"I'm not even going to answer to that."

"It's almost brand new."

"What do you take me for, an idiot? Do you actually think that I could sell a dingy old roll of felt? Put yourself in my position. I'm running a business here - a classy establishment of sorts - and trying to make a living. I have to sell what I buy or my store goes under."

" _Someone_ might be interested." The man winked as he stuck his hand into his pants and scratched his crotch.

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting, but don't waste my time. What you need is a spine. I'd go and tell that frigging old lady of yours to lay off. Why doesn't _she_ sell the damn stuff? Why did she even buy it in the first place? Anybody who'd dress their kids up in felt should be locked up for pederasty."

"It was on sale."

"I see," he said patronizingly, "you save enough dosh to fly the family to Spain by buying ten times as much as you need. I'll have to try that some time."

"What about magazines? Do you have any?"

"Are you sure you can afford them? What would the old lady say?"

"She won't find out."

"That's the spirit. Finally a little backbone. Give the old moose what she deserves." He gestured to the walls. "These express the essence of womanhood as I see it. Paste them all over her closet. That'll get her dander up. Judging by the looks of you, I'd bet there isn't much of anything getting up in her life."

The Fat Man escorted the wiry figure through piles of junk and old newsprint, through a torn curtain fashioned out of dirty, pink, condom-like plastic and finally into a back room. Along the left wall stood three shelves of porno magazines with festive titles like _Easter Bun-day, No Cunt Tree for Old Men,_ and _Horn of Plenty_. The man grabbed a handful.

"How much?"

"Five each, six for twenty-five."

The man leafed through them for several minutes and then pulled out the sixteen pounds he had just received from The Fat Man.

"Why not go the extra mile? Three more for nine."

The customer hesitated and looked doubtfully through his pockets.

"Not enough money? I'll give you a deal. I'll give you four for sixteen. I couldn't stand to see a man go home dissatisfied."

"You've got a deal. Thanks a million, you're a generous soul."

"I try my best," The Fat Man replied smugly.

Just then the curtain pulled open and Comrade Rucinski stepped in. He was a tall bearded man in his late forties. He always wore the same black fur coat and walked with a slight limp he always claimed was the result of some childhood accident about which he would never fully elaborate. He was wearing a wool cap and carried a small manicured poodle in his left arm. The Fat Man nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Well, I must be off," said the customer anxiously, the sudden presence of the daunting black-clad figure beside him seeming to have put him on edge. He tucked the magazines under his arm and scurried out of the room.

"Good day," The Fat Man replied dismissively. He pulled out a pad of paper and quickly added-up some figures. Then he escorted Rucinsky to the back of the room and put on the teakettle.

"A customer?" asked Rucinski gruffly.

"A stupid tosser as well. Human trash. Meek and flabby."

"Typical Tory," Rucinski added.

"Keep your pinko politics to yourself," The Fat Man snapped. "We're here for business not banter. So where's the goods?"

"In the back of my truck."

"How much?"

"It'll be more than usual. There's a new tariff on C-4 from Pakistan."

"No bother."

He pulled out a wad of money and tossed it on the table.

"This should cover it."

"Ten thousand?"

"There's nine thousand there."

"That'll be fine. Pay me the rest next time."

Rucinsky stepped up and walked out the back door into the street. The Fat Man could hear the hiss of rain splattering on the pavement outside. He poured himself a cup of tea and leaned back against the stained yellow wall. He despised revolutionary _poseurs_ like Rucinsky. They were all show, no action. The rare moment they troubled themselves to get off their fat asses to do something meaningful it was always for some empty political reason. As far as he was concerned they occupied the same social rung as circus freaks and organ grinders. Putting up with people like him was definitely one of the downsides of _the business_.

"Just another mindless follower," he mumbled as he took a slurp of his lukewarm tea and rubbed his filthy hands across his waist. Then he picked up a newspaper and started reading a story about a police officer who was mauled and ripped apart by his own dog. He laughed with the smugness of a man about to lay down a winning poker hand in a Monte Carlo casino. "What a stupid fuck," he mumbled. "Should have hacked the dog's nuts off while he still had a chance. Just goes to show what sort of hopeless spotters are patrolling the streets these days."

## VI

The night of the play Stephen sank into dream that seemed to last from the very moment he fell asleep until the moment he woke up to the sound of the alarm clock ringing in the morning. On several occasions he awoke, struggling to wrest his mind from its grip, only to sink back moments later into its infinite labyrinths of darkness and weight. It took the form of a mood or _existence_ , rather than a story of identifiable sequence of events. It was as if his entire life had been transcribed into an alternate world, completely devoid of hope or promise. Future and past alike were empty and lifeless, while the present was equally so, only more real, intransigent, and obtrusive.

In the dream he walked through an alleyway. The sky was the colour of pencil lead. Its dim mantle spread a thick greyish film over the sidewalk beneath him. Overhead loomed a marble arch carved with interlocking patterns criss-crossing as they extended like ivy from the ground. The edges were blackened with soot, but the top had been bleached to whiteness by the elements. He lifted his head as a car passed. It sputtered noisily as it slowed to a halt at the traffic light half a block ahead. The light turned green and it roared off into the distance. He brushed some green paint chips off the back of his pants and crossed the street, passing a building with a sign that read: KEEP OUT. METAL WORKS. Inside, it was alternately dark and light. Cones of blinding white light extended to the floor from halogen lamps on the ceiling. Metal, bright orange, glowing, and fluid, poured like liquid light into a set of moulds. Drops splattered and solidified on the floor. A stoker fuelled the furnace and looked up at the ceiling. There were intermeshed bars and hanging wires - like a catwalk above a stage. The roof behind was translucent and gray. Occasionally Stephen could hear the loud holler of the foreman over the incessant gnashing of engines and gears. Whistles blew, jets of steam hissed and whined, echoing against the bare walls. At times he felt he was inside an aircraft hangar. The worker's muscles, sleek with sweat, shined in the flashing lights from overhead. The floors were waxy and roughened with dirt and dust, while people worked like robots, their mouths twisted and small like loose cuttings from a ball of twine. Nothing was said, little was thought. There was only the heat, the metal, and the pounding and screeching of metal against metal.

Stephen stood back. It was not how he imagined life as a child. The sound of jackhammers and hydraulic drills filled the air giving the impression of action in the midst of stillness. In the distance, a lake spread evenly across the horizon. The air was bright, the sky was bright, and somewhere inside him it was also bright. His life unfolded before him like a giant map. There were rivers, gurgling and fresh; towers, stark and intolerant; and whistling trains, their wheels gleaming and grinding in the empty night - the wandering alleyways and footpaths of the soul. The sky is darkening, but it's _always_ darkening, he thought. The air is dry, but it's _always_ dry. My mind is tired, but it's _always_ tired.

He picked up a leaf and crumbled it in his hand. He took the bare stem and pulled away the last remnants of the withered leaf with his fingernail. Another car zoomed past, leaving a trail of swirling dust in its slipstream. He reclined and tossed the stem on the ground in front of him. A gust of wind blew it off the pavement and out into the street, where it disappeared behind the curb. He continued to stare into space and thought: once it was _my_ life, but now it is _just_ my life. Once they were _my_ thoughts, but now they are _just_ my thoughts.

He quickened his pace. He crossed a stone bridge, which bent gently upwards as it joined two fragments of land. His feet were cold. He searched in vain through his pockets for some spare change. The sky darkened and he could no longer tell whether or not he was cold. He looked to the horizon to find that it had vanished. But, even if it hadn't, he wasn't sure he could tell anyway. It was merely blackness for the sake of blackness. He looked around him. All was dark. Everything was absent. But _this_ absence wasn't not even absence for its own sake. It was merely absence. That simple. It was something he had never encountered before and never wanted to again. He started to run. Sweeping by alleyways, telephone poles and fire hydrants he quickly made his way homeward.

When he awoke to the clatter of the alarm clock it was dawn. At first he felt safe, as though he expected the morning light to vanquish every last trace of the dream from his mind. Yet, as soon he got out of bed to go to the bathroom he knew that something had changed inside him. The emotional texture – or rather landscape, the dream presented came from a different world than he was used to. He knew then, as he filled his cupped hands with water and splashed it across his face, that his life could never be the same. Perhaps it was related to his recent meeting with the three criminals, or maybe it had something to do with his new and potentially disastrous attraction to Leyda, but whatever the origin a new perspective had opened up inside him. A new and darker way of looking at himself and the world.

As he turned the handle of the bathroom door he realized that from that day onwards he could no longer be _Stephen the architect_ or _Stephen the man that was dumped by his girl friend_ or, more simply, _Stephen the Canadian in England_. The dream would always prevent this. His life would have to take a new shape or form. Whatever shape that was, he didn't yet know. He dressed and caught the bus to work a full hour earlier than normal, waiting in a café until the caretaker unlocked the front door of the building in which he worked.

## 2. THE DEVIANT REFLECTS

## I

Stephen awoke to the sun's brilliant dome gleaming through his window. The past two weeks since taking the girls to see _The Tempest_ he had done his best to focus as much as possible on work, a strategy that seemed like his best option for solving his short-term financial troubles and finally getting out of debt. He slid on his slippers and went over the day's itinerary. In only an hour and a half he had to be at Paddington station to catch the train to Bristol. Just a week earlier his boss had nominated him to go to an important architect's conference. Bernoulli, a well-known Italian architect, would be in Bristol showing some of his latest work. Bernoulli was famous for his flagrantly neo-classical designs: public buildings and office towers buttressed by huge marble pillars supporting grandiose stone verandas, stark geometric shapes and stylized urns carved into the imposing front panels. As far as Stephen was concerned, the Italian's work was dry and conventional. The man had no concept of shape. No concept of perspective. Everything he did was square. Ninety degrees was _his_ angle. His one and only.

On the way out Stephen checked the mailbox. Inside, tucked between a few bills and flyers, he found a letter addressed to him. His old address in Montreal had been scribbled out in black ink, indicating that it had been redirected by Canada Post. There was no return address. Judging by the faded appearance of the ink and the grainy yellow envelope it was probably sent months ago, perhaps even as early as the end of the last calendar year. He thought he recognized the handwriting, but couldn't quite place the origin.

He slipped it into the open pocket of his leather jacket. While he had no reason to believe it could be something negative, there was still something daunting and ominous about it, so he decided it was best to read it on the way to Bristol. Besides, it was getting late and he didn't want to miss his train and the last thing he needed was for some old debt to resurface and distract him. He hurried, the heels of his freshly polished shoes grinding into the pavement on his way to the Kilburn underground station. A few gulls flew overhead, darting down occasionally to scoop up small bits of floating food from the surface of the pools of rainwater standing in the gutters; the sidewalk was mottled with large white blotches as if acid had been splattered all over the surface, bleaching the clumps of gray-green moss stubbornly entrenched in the cracks between the individual cement blocks. He threw a fistful of pebbles at a flock of pigeons gathered beside a fence. They fluttered away like frightened old women, flying across the street in a large spherical formation as though part of some greater organism conjoined by invisible nerve fibers.

He looked at his watch. If he was lucky, he would get to Bristol by 10:45 AM and could be at the conference as early as 11 AM. He could then check out a few of the more important displays and later have lunch with Bernoulli. In the afternoon he was scheduled to meet with a group of architects from Germany who were considering the possibility of a merger with his firm. But the train scraped into Paddington station twenty minutes late. A few people impatiently grabbed their bags and funnelled towards the platform. The conductor's detached metallic voice shouted some indiscernible command as it screeched to a halt. A mass of passengers spread out into the station like a flood of water spilling out onto a patch of oily pavement before gradually sundering apart into a thousand tiny droplets. Some of them rushed into the underground terminal while others ducked quickly into the newsagents.

He clenched his fist in his pocket and made his way to the boarding platform. The train was virtually empty. He took a seat at the end of a car and leafed through the morning paper. There was a bombing in Victoria Station: nobody injured, some fire damage. He ordered a coke from the concierge, taking small anxious sips as he awaited their departure. An elderly man carrying a walking stick entered the car and took the seat directly across from him just as the train began to grind out of the station. It crept through a long tunnel as it slowly gained more speed. When it re-emerged, they were surrounded by shabby fifties style apartments, their plaster walls chipped and marred with soot. The sky had the appearance of old custard: dense and dull, solid but still moist. On the balconies of the apartments laundry billowed from hanging wires and a few rusted bicycles leaned up against the railings. A middle-aged woman stared over the ledge of a four-story building and dropped what looked like a tin of beer onto the pavement below. He felt like a voyeur peering into a world not meant to be seen by those who stood outside of it. Telephone wires and steel girders jostled crudely against the background of the smoky sky. This was the other England. Not the England of the Pre-Raphaelites, but the England of squatter's rights, unemployment lines and leaking rooftops.

He finished his coke and stuffed his hand into his pocket and immediately felt something with his fingertips. The letter. He'd almost forgotten it. He pulled it out and quickly opened it. It was from Nadia! Of all people, he least expected to hear from her. Although he was relieved that it wasn't a bill, there was still something about her unexpected letter that made him feel uneasy. He wiped his nose and began to read it with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. It was written on translucent paper in blue ink.

Dear Stephen,

I really don't know where to start. It's been so long. It's like peering into a deep and murky well. So much has happened between us that you're probably cringing with hatred as you read this. I just felt I had to get in touch with you again. Something was missing. It's like a big empty space inside me.

Life is quite a lot different for me now. I finished my degree at Columbia Journalism School last year and now have a part time job on a local newspaper in Manhattan. I really like it here, although the weather is a bit too muggy for my liking. You might be shocked at this: last year I married my journalism teacher. His name's Tom Hernandez (that makes me Nadia Hernandez!) and he's a young sessional hoping to get something more permanent. You'd like him. He's very witty and likes a lot of the same writers that you do. His parents own some property in Connecticut and let us use their chalet there on weekends. I'm really enjoying life with him and I'm expecting a child in a few months. I'm very excited and I never thought that I'd be a mother at such a young age. It will be an adventure, but New York is no place to raise a kid. We're thinking of moving to Dartmouth where Tom's been offered a more stable job teaching. It'll be better for the baby, and we can still come into Manhattan when we need to and visit Tom's friends.

Your mother tells me you're working as an apprentice for an architecture firm in London. That sounds exciting - I've always wanted to go to there, but never got a chance. I went to Paris with my parents when I was a kid, but don't remember very much. Tom and I are planning a big trip to Europe next year after the baby's old enough to be left with my mother. We thought about doing the hostel circuit but decided that we're too old for that now and would rather stay in hotels. Besides, it's safer - you never quite know what sort of characters bum around Europe these days.

I'm looking out my office window now and can see our garden in the back. Tom's working on the fence - it needs a new paint job - and we've got guests coming over for a barbecue. I should be working on the food now, but I have a few more important things to say. When I left you several years ago it was to run away to New York. At first I told no one - not even my family. I felt so suffocated and depressed. Our relationship was killing me. It wasn't you're fault, it was so complex, and I had to get away to prove myself on my own. With you and I it was always as if everything just happened to us and neither of us had any say. It was like we were drifting down a stream like aphids on a floating leaf, completely powerless to alter the course of the moving water beneath us.

At first I worked as a waitress in Manhattan, living at the YWCA for a few months until I could afford something better. It's all a big blur now. All I did was work and sleep. It was pretty tough for a while and all along I felt so guilty about leaving you like that. Several times I dialled your number and hung up at the last minute. I frequently thought about returning, but something inside me like a tether pole kept me from straying too far from my goals.

After a year, I applied for journalism school and got accepted. I was lucky enough to get a teaching fellowship to support myself and soon thereafter I met Tom. Within six months we were living together. It was simple and natural. I started to notice he would look at me during exams and would smile warmly when I passed him in the hall. After his course finished, he asked me to meet him for coffee on the pretext that he wanted to discuss some of my work and on our first date he confessed his attraction to me. I was apprehensive at first, but there was something about him that drew me closer. We went to a few movies and then to the opera and before I knew it we were in love.

That was a few years ago. For the first time in my life, I'm truly happy and looking forward to the future. I don't know what else to say. I'd like to hear from you and find out what you're up to. It's like a big gap in my heart and I would honestly like to know. You must have a girlfriend with those dark eyes of yours and your gentle manner. Will you be coming through New York any time soon?

I have to go and fix the drinks now. Please write soon.

Love, Nadia

The train rumbled ahead inexorably. They passed through a small town bisected into two roughly even halves by a winding river. Spanning this river at several points stood a variety of footbridges. Some of them were long and narrow, arching upwards like an inverted bow, while others were flat and broad, presumably for bicycle traffic. On the Eastern border of the town towered a sprawling mass of derelict factories and corrugated iron walled warehouses, which would have looked like an architect's model of an industrial village from the train had it not been so rusted and dilapidated. On the far horizon stood a massive edifice looming despotically above the pastoral landscape. Connected to the main conglomerate of buildings only by a dirt road extending into the distance in a straight line, it was like a medieval fortress redone in steel and glass. He could also discern what appeared to be tractors and forklifts teeming about the shining glass walls like moths around a porch light.

Gradually the warehouses and smokestacks gave way to a series of brick town houses arranged in regular enfilading rows in the manner of soldiers awaiting a firing squad. Most of the houses were capped by colored tile roofs, which had noticeably faded from years of rain and humidity. In a field to the left, he could see a group of young school children playing soccer. One team was dressed in an almost blinding shade of yellow with narrow vertical blue stripes, while the other sported a sort of matador red-and-black color scheme. Behind them, a Victorian Neo Gothic schoolhouse seemed almost to hover in front of a dense thicket that lined the bank of the river. A scull knifed through the glimmering water, leaving an almost invisible trace on the still surface behind it.

Torn between the lush scenery before him and gusts of anger surging inside of him, he tried as hard as he could to calmly meditate on the significance of the unexpected letter. It was both shocking and painfully disappointing to think that a woman he once loved and pined over for many years, a woman he often thought he could never forget, had blossomed into little more than an inconsequential faculty wife in Brooklyn. She had left him so dramatically and abruptly, leaving only that damaging letter, which so boldly and selfishly expressed her uncontrollable desire to venture off on some sort of ontological quest for individuality and freedom. But, so soon afterwards, so very soon, she had already surrendered to her materialistic instincts and became the sort of inconsequential person she had once always detested. It was apostasy.

His anger welled up inside him with the force of a tropical storm. Just the thought of her sent surges of hatred down his back. He walked slowly to the bathroom, staggering as the train rocked back and forth. The window was open and the light gusts of wind blew a candy-bar wrapper across on the floor. As he undid his fly to piss into the metal toilet, he kicked the wall in frustration, knocking over a soap dispenser beside the faucet.

Nadia had made a complete fool of him when she disappeared and now she had the audacity to rub it in with this patronizing letter about _her new and wonderful life_. It was repulsive. He had to strike back. But what? If she had written him before his meeting with the three men he would have certainly felt differently. He would have tried like a weakling to make excuses for her - just like he did before when she left. He would have done his best to be forgiving and uphold propriety and his sense of _the common good_. But things were different now. Different since he moved to London and different because of his dream. Not only were beautiful young women like Leyda interested in him, but he was also considering offers from hardened criminals, no longer afraid to lash out and express his deepest shades of anger - even if it meant exposing a more warped and destructive side to his personality. By not replying he could show her that he no longer gave a damn about her, but something inside him wanted to torment her even more. Indifference was not enough. This situation called for something far more extreme. He thought of myriad possible letters he could write in revenge, but none of them would do. They simply weren't caustic enough. He wanted to bludgeon her with a shovel and smash her fleshy face. All those years of gutless doting and fawning - the wine, the coffee, the clothes strewn lazily across the floor. Her first letter like a steel turbine ripping through his chest. And now _this_. He was left with no other choice but to strike back with an instant of pure and unfettered anger, an _epiphany of hatred and deception_.

Ten minutes passed. His anger thinned out like a puddle of acid spreading out across a cement floor. For a moment he felt foolish for letting something as distant and abstract as a letter from a past lover so deeply affect his current state of mind. He relaxed his posture and took a deep breath. He was calm. Taking his seat beside the window, he studied the landscape as they roared through a small village, spindling outwards from a small crumbling stone church. The trees, the brooks, the sculls like slashing daggers, the row-houses, the factories humming indifferently in the distance, and most certainly the people around him - even the ones he hadn't met - were all an intimate part of psyche. All the sounds that would rattle and clamor around him as he walked down the streets to work each morning now reverberated through his soul like Pythagorean harp music; the maddening chaos of London slowly filled him like wine pouring into an empty glass.

He blankly traced a circular pattern on the window and stuffed the letter into his coat pocket, noticing that the train had stopped to pick up some passengers at yet another minor station. It would be another half hour until they reached Bristol, so he walked to the concession car and bought a can of _Guinness_ , some peanuts, and a Styrofoam cup of tepid coffee.

When he returned, a girl who looked to be in her early twenties, had taken the seat directly beside him and was reading the styles section of the New York Times. She wore a broad smile and had a pale but salubrious complexion. Her eyes were dark and her hands as slender and white as marble. Looped around a finger was a thin strand of knotted blue embroidery thread. She nervously tapped her fingers on her thigh as she gazed stolidly at the paper. He noticed that her feet looked disproportionately large, like the feet of a Rodin statue, because she was wearing a pair of heavily soiled army boots, an style that contrasted starkly to her wavy chestnut hair tied back sloppily with a rubber band. He examined the other people in the car. Their charcoal-gray business suits and punctilious eyes, their uniform brief cases, their elegant but grimly unadventurous Gucci watches, and their neatly polished oxfords made them seem like letters typed in some bland utility font like _Helvetica_. Beside such pallid examples of humanity, the woman beside him seemed like an entree from a fine menu presented in a far more stylish typeface like _Venice_.

He stared admiringly at her for several minutes as she continued reading intently, occasionally glancing down at her watch but never once turning her eyes in his direction.

Several stops later, she collected her baggage and alighted onto the platform. He tried again to catch her eye as the train began to roll off, yet she turned sharply away and walked onto the main concourse.

Soon they were approaching the outskirts of Bristol. Fiberglass rooftops and small, hemmed-in gardens filled the window's view. Suddenly he could smell the salt-heavy ocean air over the acrid diesel stench that permeated the interior of the train. Taking out a map from his conference papers and laying it on the table in front of him, he tried to locate the convention center. It seemed to be close to the main station downtown, so any cab driver could take him there. He checked his watch - they were running a little late and he'd have to hurry if he hoped to have any time to peruse the architecture displays before his appointment with Bernoulli.

When the train ground to a halt, he stood up and fumbled through the baggage bin for his shoulder bag, but he couldn't find it. He was sure that he'd left it in the front compartment. When all the passengers had left, he asked a porter, but he had seen nothing like it. Fortunately, there were only a few personal effects inside: his toothbrush, a change of socks and underwear, and a few other sundry items like a comb and a shaver.

He quickly filed a missing bag complaint to the stationmaster, and then hurried off to hail a taxi. He had no time to waste. He could always get the firm to buy him a new bag, claiming it on some form of business insurance. The most annoying thing was that he had hoped to stay for at least a few days, and now he needed to get replacements for at least all the toiletries in the bag if he didn't want to walk around smelling like a wet dog.

It was 11 AM sharp when he entered the convention center, so he had only an hour to take in the other firm's displays before his lunch with Bernoulli. The central court was shaped like an extended telescope, tall, cylindrical, and dizzying. Its walls were made of smoked glass and the roof was constructed from small hexagonal plates, giving it the appearance of honeycomb, which, in combination with the frenzied activity inside, gave the meeting a kind of neurotic beehive atmosphere.

Stephen carefully digested the displays. In what seemed like no time he already had less than half an hour before he was supposed to meet Bernoulli in front of the beverage kiosk. He cringed at the thought. Bernoulli's presentations were hopelessly mundane except for a few in the west corner. The best material came from other firms. One German group had designed a hospital in the shape of a tetrahedron with no windows on the outside and an artificial source of sunlight on the inside, while another from Spain presented a small-scale model of a church built out of translucent granite triangles to symbolize the divine light of the Trinity.

At noon he met Bernoulli. The Italian was a short, balding man with tight, astringent lips and a bushy, red moustache. Carrying an unfurled umbrella and a shining new briefcase, he hobbled up to Stephen, removed his floppy hat, and extended his hand ingratiatingly. They shook hands and took a seat in the nearby restaurant. Bernoulli set his brief case down on the table and raised his hand to order a round of drinks.

"Architecture is, my...my love, my passion!" Bernoulli exclaimed. "It's always a pleasure to meet young men like yourself that share my excitement. It's also impressive that your firm has such confidence in you. It says they believe in youth... in new ideas!"

Stephen nodded his head enthusiastically, disguising his indifference. His mind was already drifting to other things. What would he do about Nadia? When would he next have a chance to be alone with Leyda?

At one thirty, Bernoulli apologized unctuously for having to leave early and promptly paid the bill. They shook hands and promised to have a drink sometime and the Italian rushed off to a seminar .

Two hours later, after Stephen had killed some time at a poster session, he met with some members of a German firm to discuss the possibility of a corporate merger. Trying to avoid any possible repercussions at work, Stephen repeated verbatim what his supervisor had told him to say. "We're a firm with a view to the future and we welcome fresh ideas and vibrant minds," he said almost mechanically. "The possibility of a merger is definitely on the horizon and we would be open to discuss it in more detail at some juncture in the not too distant future."

The day wore on slowly. By five o'clock he was exhausted and went to check in at the hotel that the firm had reserved for him. It was only a few blocks away, sandwiched cozily between a busy street and a small park filled with poplars and rose bushes.

His room was on the top floor and overlooked the park. The floors were varnished teak and there was a night table to the left of the bed. Apart from an excusable musty smell, the room was refreshing and generally agreeable. He opened the window. In the distance he thought he could see the ocean, but he wasn't sure as he had never been to Bristol and had no idea where the water was with respect to his hotel.

He collapsed like a straw dummy on the freshly made bed and suddenly remembered his lost shoulder bag. He picked up the phone beside him and called the train station.

"There's little we can do," the British Rail official said indifferently. "Besides, your carry on luggage is your responsibility. If it turns up, we'll certainly be in touch, but you may want to report it stolen to the Police. It's their business."

"Thanks for your help," he snapped.

Stephen tossed the receiver on the bed and unplugged the phone. He had no time for such petty bureaucracy. It was getting late and he wanted to get a bite to eat and look into what was going on that evening. Perhaps he could catch a band or find a good after hours club.

After eating at a fish and chips shop around the corner, he walked towards a record shop he spotted at the far end of the street. The sun was already sagging on the horizon and a few silver rimmed storm clouds, the color of fresh bruises, were stalking through the amber sky. He bought a copy of the local entertainment magazine from the record shop and read it as he leaned against the moist brick wall outside. At first glance, it seemed like there was little to do, but on closer inspection he managed to find a listing for a band he'd read about recently in _Melody Maker_ playing at a small club that was, according to his map, only a few blocks away. They were from New York and were called _The Ventriloquists_. Their first single, _Love or Death_ , recently released on an obscure German label, was already netting rave reviews from the traditionally fickle British press.

"An abusive blend of psychedelic guitar stylings and punk rock," the listing in the paper said. "Like _The Damned_ through rose colored glasses."

He walked in the general direction of the club, keeping his eye open for a decent pub on the way, but could find nothing appealing. Most of them were too shabby and dusty, filled with old locals playing darts, or too glitzy and new with American beers on tap and over-dressed bartenders.

Eventually, he found a place he liked. Apart from a bank of glittering green tinsel hanging from the rear wall and an aluminium ceiling fan, he found the decor agreeable. Although there were only a few patrons inside, they were younger, possibly students, and seemed more his type - at least from the way they dressed – than most of the people at the conference.

He had a few pints in the corner and listened to the jukebox selections. After an hour, he buttoned up his coat and walked out into the cool night air. He had half an hour to get to the gig and figured that he could make it there in twenty minutes. The streets were more crowded than before he entered the pub, but there was a sinister quiet to everything - a merciless contrition of sorts. People were strangely tense and voices hushed, as if anticipating some great impending disaster.

His vision suddenly sharpened and he became acutely aware of the geometry of buildings, walls, peoples profiles, and their distorted shadows under the flickering light of the street lamps. He noticed that certain shapes seemed to occur at regular intervals, so he started to amuse himself by tallying the number of acute angles versus the number of obtuse ones. After four blocks, he concluded that acute angles were more common by a factor of three to one.

"Perhaps its some universal law," he thought. "Sharpness over dullness, cones over spheres. A building with only acute angles, jagged edges. That would be nice. Perhaps I'll be the first. Needle sharp bird baths in the rhomboid courtyard, star shaped mirrors, tetrahedral kitchens. Even the beds would have to be acute. Diamond shaped perhaps. Or, better, a bed of nails."

He drifted off in thought as he wandered through the narrow streets. A policeman strolled by, his radio clenched tightly in his fist. A cat screeched and hissed on a fire escape overhead. The air was crammed with the smell of salt and exhaust fumes.

The club was located at the end of a back alley across from a pub and a barrister's office in an otherwise uneventful neighborhood. The outer walls were grimy with soot and moss, and the window of the ticket box was smashed and sloppily covered with masking tape and yellowed newspaper. When he got there he was surprised to find that there was no line up. He paid and walked inside. The interior looked like an old theater lined with garish carpeting and a once glamorous chandelier – now missing half its jewels - hanging in the front hall. The walls were a dirty pink color and he could see mildew stains between the ceramic tiles that bordered the top of the vanilla-yellow baseboards. The doors into the main concert area were replaced by what looked like translucent shower curtains. Near the stage, the walls were mat black and there was a modest bar at either side of the back end. Again, there was a cheap-looking chandelier on the ceiling, although this one was _more impressively_ cheap with diamond-like jewels the size of walnuts hanging from the central ring. He ordered a pint of bitter and stood in the back corner as he watched the people slowly fill the room from the main entrance.

Just as he was finishing his beer the woman from the train walked past him. His eyes followed her as she made her way to the stage. She was now wearing a black velvet top with a silver amulet the shape of an inverted heart dangling from a blue string necklace. She had a small brass safety pin jutting from her ear and a tiny jewel just above her lips. Her indigo velvet pants, gripping like a tourniquet around her slim ankles were lined with a pair of suggestive zippers running down either side of her legs. He studied the reckless sway of her hips as she walked with strangely vacant eyes fixed on a point just a foot in front of her face. She must be drunk, he thought.

For some reason it suddenly occurred to him that _she_ might have stolen his shoulder bag. He remembered seeing it when he went to the bathroom about five minutes before she got off, and there weren't that many people left in the car by the time the train got to her station. He moved walked over and stood beside her in front of the stage, occasionally looking over to see if she noticed him. After ten minutes he went to get another beer. When he came back she smiled warmly to him as he reclaimed his place beside her.

"Have you seen them before?" she asked, leaning towards him. His knees quivered. She'd finally approached him.

"No, I haven't, but I heard them on the John Peel show and they were brilliant. It'll be good. I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too. I just missed them last week at the _Ecstasy_ in Berlin. That would've been great."

She had that stunning blend of innocence and decadence in her style. She was _marvellous_. That simple.

"You were in Berlin?"

"Yes, but not for long, I just went with a guy from work to get away. England can be such a dead end sometimes."

"I like it here, but I'm an outsider and can always leave."

"You're American?" Her gaze reached beneath the surface of his dark eyes. He imagined she was wondering what he was like as a boy. Endless days kicking bottles around vacant lots, lonely evenings in front of the television set: her vision of America.

"Canadian. Montreal. And what about you?"

She looked down at the floor and yawned lazily, crunching a plastic beer glass with her heel.

"Durham, originally. Too far north for most people."

He sipped from his beer and then set a nervous but determined palm on her shoulder.

"Wasn't it you that I saw on the train this morning?"

"It could've been," she replied with the confused and violated look of a person confronted by a total stranger who seems to know them intimately.

"I was in the seat next to you. I wouldn't have recognized you if you hadn't _stolen_ my seat," he said ironically as he let his hand drop.

"I'm sorry, I'm a born thief. It's my nature." Her words were cast lightly and ambiguously. Perhaps it _was_ her and it was an unconscious slip of the tongue. Yet she made no attempt to correct herself, suggesting she may only have been joking.

She laughed and put her palm on his shoulder in seeming reciprocation. It was as if he'd suddenly broken through the icy veneer and was facing a different person.

"I'm Stephen, and you?"

"Constance."

She paused for a strenuous moment and then continued.

"So, what do you do?"

"I'm an architect, or rather just training to be one. That's why I'm here. There was this architect's convention today, and for some reason, unbeknownst to me, they sent me down to represent them."

"They must like you. You're lucky. At least you have something. I'm a waitress, but I want to go back to school. I've been out a few years. Dabbled around in arts and economics, never did settle in."

Just then the small crowd began to cheer. _The Ventriloquists_ had taken the stage. The lights dimmed and a loud distorted buzz resonated throughout the room. The first chord hung like a thick fog in the room, finally giving way to a thin vapory melody. There was something about their sound that was at once like slamming your fifth-grade teacher's head through a wrought iron fence and floating down a river like a wilted poppy. Stephen stood transfixed and mesmerized amidst the clouds of distortion. The velvety rage of the angular guitar riffs. The mechanical grinding of the bass. It was like staring into a massive cinematic eye capable of peering into the darkest regions of the mind and reflecting back whatever dark Boschian images it recorded there in the tiny mirror and lens system hiding behind its shutter. The electric lights formed a hazy halo over the small, cluttered stage. Stephen felt a sudden euphoria surge through his being as he gazed over at Constance. Her hair was shiny with sweat and her hips were moving rhythmically with the music. He leaned towards her and his finger touched hers with the delicacy of a sable-hair brush on rice paper. She slipped her arm around his and rested her head against his shoulder.

When the band finished their second encore they left from the stage as quickly as they had appeared. The crowd moved slowly away from the center of the room. Stephen walked towards the exit, Constance only a few steps behind.

"Would you like to come back to my apartment?" she asked. "I have a bottle of wine, I think."

Her face was gentle and expectant. He touched her eyelash as he nodded his head. There was something at once terrible and beautiful about going home with a woman he'd just met and may also have stolen his bag...exciting.

She flinched and smiled.

They walked half a block before hailing a Taxi. After what seemed like hours of meandering through industrial parks, residential neighborhoods, and shopping areas, they finally reached her apartment. She lived in a modest attic suite in a duplex row house. The exterior was painted brick, but Stephen couldn't tell the exact color, although under the sparse light of the waning moon it had a silvery-gray appearance.

Her living room walls were plastered with cut outs from magazines and art deco posters and the wooden floors were sagging and worn. In the corner, by a large bay window, stood a bare pine table with a bright reading light beaming insolently on top.

She took his jacket and hung it in the closet in the hexagonal foyer connecting the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room to her bedroom. The ceilings were so low his hair brushed against the doorframe as he followed her into the kitchen.

In a single motion they kissed. Her lips tasted like clay and flowers. His were only like clay, parched and heavy. At first he felt guilty, as if he was somehow betraying his feelings - however tenuous and distant they were - for Leyda. But he quickly realised he was only succumbing to the false expectations he had projected on the teenaged girl. After all, there was nothing going on between him and Leyda, so why should he feel committed to her? He looked over at Constance. Her face appeared tight and proper in the light of the kitchen, almost like the sheet of a freshly made bed – hardly the decadent child of the evening she had seemed in the club. She poured two glasses of wine and set them solemnly down on the counter. It was strange how different she looked. It was even stranger that he was standing alone with her in her apartment when only that morning she had seemed so cold and aloof. Her head dropped like a stone into his chest.

## II

Rachel Eckerman tied back her hair and opened the closet to pull out the vacuum cleaner. Her husband and Lindqvist were due to arrive in less than half an hour and the living room was a shambles. The floor was covered with old newspapers, dirty dishes and piles of undone laundry and the rug smelled of smoke and stale beer, a combination of odors she found particularly sickening, but tolerated only because she loved her husband in all his noble qualities of genius and devotion. While he wasn't the tidiest of men he was certainly strong and courageous and in all their years of marriage they were never once left unable to pay the bills. She unravelled the power cord and moved a pile of magazines out of the way to reach the electrical outlet behind the television.

Pacing about the room in her spotted brown dress she bought on sale the week before from Debenhams, she gradually became aware of all the little emptinesses that comprised her day-to-day life. Pens, the TV remote control, and even an old toy - bought for the baby by her aunt before the miscarriage - were strewn carelessly across the coffee table. The fading photographs on the wall depicting the early days of her marriage shone in ironic contrast to those taken more recently, which seemed even more grim and colorless in comparison. Her husband standing there with his pouchy face holding up the sign for the new store in Harlesdon. Her husband and his brother on a fishing trip to the Lake District. Her mother and sister at the old house in Leeds. Objects glowing with apparent significance, yet now little more than dots on paper. Even the toy, however emblematic of the child she so desperately wanted to fill out her days, was now little more than a lump of colored plastic dumped in the corner, ultimately representing nothing. The child never existed and that was final: textbook.

She finished up the vacuuming, tidied the living room and did the dishes before reclining back on the great armchair that yawned before of the television set. She flicked through the channels before deciding on an old episode of a soap opera she had not followed in years.

Twenty minutes later the door opened and The Fat Man barged in. "What a dismal day," he said as he made his way into the living room. "No sales, no nothing. Just rain." He pulled off his coat. Rachel shrugged her shoulders and hung up their jackets.

Lindqvist then entered the room, a mottled French scarf wrapped around his neck and his wide rimmed hat was slanted over his eyes, giving the impression of a character from some nineteenth-century cloak-and-dagger play.

"Perhaps you two would like a little sherry?" Rachel asked.

"That would be marvellous," beamed Lindqvist.

She disappeared into the kitchen and came back a minute later with two half-filled glasses and a plate of crackers. Lindqvist was already seated on the edge of the sofa while The Fat Man had spread himself luxuriously over the armchair in front of the television. She served the refreshments and returned to the kitchen. Lindqvist smiled graciously.

"It's good to see she's finally doing her job around here," said The Fat Man. "I was starting to bloody well worry. Lately the house has been a pigsty. And its not like the bird works during the day like I do. When you think about it, she's pretty lucky to have a decent man like me to look after her. She'd be lost otherwise."

"Indeed," Lindqvist replied, a shade of irony in his voice.

The Fat Man held up his glass of sherry and coughed. "This is culture at its best - the best fucking sherry known to man. You should consider yourself lucky to get so much as a sniff of it. You and all that sorry lot up in Norway or wherever it is you come from. What would a bloody Viking know about a good drink anyway?"

"Rubbish. Culture doesn't exist. What do you know? It's fine sherry, indeed, but culture doesn't exist. It's a fabrication of university professors and all the pointless cacophony they call libraries. If there was no written language, there would be no culture. Take a look around you. It's all commodities and products, rated and endorsed by this man or that. And it's _all_ in writing. Without written language, there would be no ratings, no recommendations and therefore everything would be equal."

"What a load of crap. Nothing's ever been equal and it never bloody well will be." The Fat Man took a huge gulp of sherry and puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish. "This fucking sherry, _pour example_ , has no equal and the fact you cant even see that proves you aren't my equal and never will be."

"Another glass?" Rachel asked as she leaned in from the kitchen.

"That would be perfect," replied Lindqvist. "You are so very civilized."

"You're always so fucking polite," The Fat Man snapped. He picked up his napkin and blew his nose into it. "You need a lesson in vulgarity. It's a tonic to the soul."

"You see, without language," Lindquist continued, "we would only have the pure and unconditioned preverbal explosion of the self into the world, resulting in a condition where art and rebellion would be indistinguishable. Calendar time would cease to exist and creative expression would take the form of sedition while violence would become an artistic act, elegantly framed like a Rubens in the continuous gallery of the present. Logic would take the place of nonsense, because it is ultimately inseparable from language. Hence, even the slightest allusion to mathematics would be deemed an absurdity. Insurrection would supplant art and art would exist only as the ecstatic thrust of the mind into the phenomena of being."

He took a sip of his sherry and gazed up at a pattern of water stains on the ceiling before continuing. "Now, if we were able to dismantle language into its constituent parts and individually eliminate each one from the world, and hence create a society of new primitives, destruction would become the highest creative act, and rebellion would be demoted to the mere status quo.

"This is because all order in society, all authority, at all levels, including the government and the art world, stems from language. Any attack on these power structures would be considered an act of rebellion aimed at the dismantling and deconstruction of order in the service of chaos. It thus follows that annihilation of language would lead to complete anarchy and dissolution of culture, which is tantamount to power. In this state of complete atomization of the social framework, all acts would be random and society would be in a continuous state of destruction. It would be like the universe before the big bang. Each man would be indistinguishable from the next because there would be no past and no future, no history. Nothing to set man A apart from man B. There wouldn't even be an A or B to label them."

Rachel walked in the room and smiled luxuriously. She never understood what Linquist was talking about, but it was always such a pleasure to entertain such highly educated men, and it just stood as further proof she had made the right choice in marrying her husband.

"I think you're full of bollocks," The Fat Man shouted. "The wife might be impressed but that's only because she's a stupid whore. It's all hot air and it doesn't make sense to anyone but you."

"Perhaps, but..." Lindqvist retreated further into the sofa.

"That's a load if I ever heard one. Art has nothing to do with anything. As far as I can see it's for loafers and snobs. It hasn't a fart's thing to do with either history _or_ rebellion. Its all just a skin flute concerto for all those cornhole conductors from Oxbridge!"

"I believe we are in agreement, then. Art is the highest form of destruction possible in the primordial horizon. In any ordered society, art is merely the propagation of lies and exists only to applaud its pompous hierarchies. Without language, there is no order and art serves chaos, with language, however, it becomes dogma. Of course, this is all conjecture. But conjecture does have more than just the token value it has traditionally been granted."

The Fat Man's face turned beet red as he grimaced. "Absolute fallacies." He slammed his hand on the table.

"You're just jealous, sweetie," said Rachel.

"Of what, his receding hairline? And who told you to call me that? You know I bloody well hate it when you call me sweetie as there isn't anything sweet about me."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You haven't answered me yet. What am I cunting well jealous of?"

"You know," she said knowingly, her gaze almost rivetting him to the chair.

The Fat Man pounded his fist on the table. "You got a lot of nerve," he said. His voice was muffled as though a wad of paper was stuck in his throat. He struggled to stand up but his heaping mound of a body went nowhere.

"Now dear," she said in a hushed, more sensitive tone. "It's never too late to get an education."

"You oughta tell him that - he's the one who doesn't know a good sherry when he tastes one!" Rachel shook her head and left the room. The Fat Man belched in satisfaction. Then he stretched back and took a long sip of his sherry. His body relaxed and he turned to Lindqvist.

"Enough of that bollocks," The Fat Man said. "Let's get on to business. I saw Comrade Rucinski the other day. He delivered a cracking shipment of grenades. I could easily sell them at double the price to those IRA quacks. One pull of the pin and an entire city block goes to dust."

"Excellent," said Lindqvist.

"So, on to more important matters...how the hell are we going to pull off this stupid art heist of yours?"

"I've been thinking about it for several weeks and I've concluded that the best way would be to somehow use the police as a decoy and do it right under their noses. The way I see it, the police are frighteningly dim. It would require no measure of adroitness to elude them. All we'd have to do is set an explosion near the target and then come back later. And if we dressed as policemen we could somehow use both the public's trust of authority and their fear of bombings to get close to the paintings. Then it would be easy to steal them. The public has a remarkable love-hate relationship with both the police and explosions. A bombing is always newsworthy, even if nobody gets injured, but people run like cowards to the police when ever they suspect even the slightest hint of terrorism."

"I fucking well like this," said The Fat Man. "A big, gray bomb. Like a huge metallic dump in the bog. That's the way it's done."

"We must be careful, however, not to act like blunt-headed terrorists and succumb to the temptation to revel in the pleasure of such crudities. The explosion must be seen as a mere prelude to the more rarefied and abstract violence to follow. That's the true _pith_ of any crime."

"So how are we going to plant the fucking explosives, then?"

"I'll work on it. But, first we have a few practical matter to attend to."

"You mean Stevie-boy? That art school wanker is as wet as they come. He oughta lift his girlie face out of those tossing books of his and get out on the piss like the rest of us. That'd sort him out. There's nothing ten pints of Tetley's can't cure."

"We'll have to follow up on him. We need somebody soon. There's a fellow named Bottomly who has a priceless collection of paintings, apparently in his basement gallery. They'd make a perfect target."

"We'll have to _scope it out_ ," said The Fat Man as if he'd just said the most brilliant thing in his life. "I like that one. _Scope it out._ You never would've thought of that one would you have, you stinking Swede? Take that with a few of your lousy pickled herrings and chew on it!"

Lindqvist ignored him and continued. "We need somebody to insinuate himself into Bottomly's circle to gather more data. Reconnaissance...the heart of any great campaign. Ideally, I'd like to get a floor plan of his house, grounds and gallery before we do anything more. The crime itself must be executed with utmost precision to hold any real impact or meaning. So we need as much information as we can get. He apparently only gives viewings to his private guests."

The Fat Man searched through his pockets for a moment before producing a crinkled piece of paper about the size of a paperback book. It had some names and phone numbers on it.

"There must be somebody here." His eyes lingered on the sheet of paper for a moment before he passed it over to Lindqvist. He studied it briefly, monocle in eye, and then set it down beside the dusty lamp to his right.

"What about Singleton's friend?" asked Linquist.

"Who?"

"His number's right here." The Fat Man leaned over with some difficulty and looked again at the crumpled piece of paper.

"That quaint Algerian fellow. _He_ would be perfect."

"You mean Miné? He's a raving queer. I even been over to his flat once. But don't get any ideas. It was just for business. I can't stand queers."

"He could easily pass for an art student. All we'd have to do is get him to use his charm to get invited to one of Bottomly's parties. He could go to a public opening, meet him, and then gradually penetrate into his inner sphere."

"Penetration. Now you're talking! I'm sure he's an expert in _that_ area."

Lindqvist arched his eyebrow in stark reproval. "His sexual preference is of no concern to the plan. I'll contact Singleton as soon as possible about him and in the meantime, we'll follow up on Stephen. I have a feeling he'll change his mind. He needs the money and I can tell he's not a great stickler for public obedience. I sense he's just afraid of getting caught."

The lights suddenly dimmed. The kitchen light had burnt out and the sound of Rachel cursing and scrubbing the basement floor echoed through the house over the suddenly more audible hum of the refrigerator. Lindqvist stood up and collected his coat.

"I really must be going. I'm not feeling well. I'll have to take a rain check on dinner."

The Fat Man nodded listlessly as Lindquist walked to the door. He pulled out a diffused grenade and tossed it to the Swede, who caught it in his palm and placed it on the floor beside the umbrella rack before backing out onto the porch. Then he closed the door and walked down the steps into the dimly lit street.

## III

The faint yellow light flowed through the open curtains, illuminating Constance's supple white breasts as she pulled off her black velvet top. Stephen kissed her cheek and rubbed her naked thigh. Her skin was soft and delicate, like the hair of a child. They fell to their knees and began to kiss on the bed. The coarse hair between her thighs rubbed gently against his knee as he gazed into her half-shut eyes. For a moment he had the feeling that she was reaching out to him another realm, staring deeply into his eyes as if to lure him across some invisible threshold. Then he was inside her.

He felt the world disintegrating around him. He turned his head and looked out the window as her fingers dug into his back. How different everything looked. Outside there was only pavement, tar, concrete, metal, wood, smoke, air, light. But, they were all merely things - inanimate and cold, devoid of life. He heard the sound of a ship passing in the distance, its foghorn bellowing like an oboe through the dark moonlit air. This too, was merely a thing: vibrations in the ether and nothing more. The rustling of damp leaves in the cool night air. As he melted into her, he felt as if he were soaring above the world of objects and day-to-day life, outside of the realm of things, almost even, outside himself.

Her eyes became glittering reflections in glass, hovering like beacon lights over his head as he was drawn deeper and deeper inside her. The moonlight winked as it reflected off her tongue – or was it only his imagination? She opened her mouth further and her face stretched out like a vast and beautiful landscape, her brows arching over her eyes like a grove of trees opening up on the expansive plains of her forehead.

"...the slow swoon into the forest of the other", he remembered from Nadia's first letter. He sensed the vague borders of his being fade gently into hers. Her hair tumbled over his face and he watched the play of her eyelids as she rolled her head backwards to meet the wall behind her.

As he cupped his hands around her breasts he thought of a book he had once read about St. Theresa of Avila. On the cover was a photo of a slender statue depicting the holy woman lying backwards on a stone bench gazing imploringly towards the icy dome of heaven. This image should have been beautiful, yet somehow it was unsettling. It was her eyes. Wide, gray, complex. They hadn't the look of solemn devotion or pious surrender one might expect. No, they gleamed with reckless craving, as if she were staring passionately into the eyes of God. His airy hands blowing gently over her thighs and her leaden body trembling weakly beneath the power of His gaze. It was as if chaste devotion and burning desire had become one in the frightful yearning for rapt surrender and eternal nothingness.

Exstasis. The journey of the self into the rushing waters of _the other_. _Enthusiasmus_ : being God-possessed, and _extasis_. The explosion of the soul into the world of _the other_. Sex, music, alcohol - even pain: all of these words tumbled through his head as Constance gyrated her hips feverishly into his. It was like swooning into a warm and turbulent pool, all about him shined like burnished silver as the skin of her breasts brushed lightly against his sweating chin.

In a great surging explosion, he came. His body shook, and then relaxed. Then a second paroxysm, like an aftershock. _Experience_.

His trembling arms were suddenly like liquid. He could feel the bed underneath him, but not the borders of his body. She continued to grind against his body as he slowly descended away from her and back into himself. It was over.

He looked about the room. It was small and cramped. Her body had ceased to be a vessel of rapturous pleasure. It was now a mere inanimate object - heavy and obtrusive like the walls and buildings off in the distance. He lay still, hoping she'd stop. The coarse grainy hairs of her vulva continued to chafe roughly against the delicate skin of his penis. Her face looked flabby and corpulent. In his exasperation he closed his eyes and imagined he was alone in a forest or by a gurgling stream.

When he opened his eyes he suddenly noticed his shoulder bag leaning against the wall in the open closet, illuminated by a shaft of light from the kitchen as though to make a subliminal statement. It _was_ her, after all. He tried to conceal his outrage by turning his gaze downwards towards her chest. The moonlight revealed tiny beads of sweat on her breast and he thought he could see a bird flying over the building next door. How he hated the way she kept thrusting and heaving her hot sweaty body against his. His penis was now flaccid and the smell of nail polish remover wafted into his face from the window ledge. He thought of everything he had to do the next morning. He was anxious and wished he could somehow vanish from the room altogether.

Looking over at the bag again, he shoved her feathery body off of him. Her head thumped loudly against the wall. Then he clutched his hands around her throat.

"What's the matter, are you crazy?" she gargled desperately. She looked both hostile and threatened, like a frightened animal. Her eyes burned like two match sticks. He loosened his grip.

"You stole my bag, and you knew it was me, you knew!"

"What are you talking about? Are you mad? What bag? You're lucky I don't call the police."

"It's there, in the closet." He stood up and walked across the room like an attorney. He picked it up out of the corner. She turned on the light.

The bag was red, it wasn't his.

"That's my bag, you jerk. I bought it in Birmingham last winter."

"Well, then who stole mine? You were the only other one on the car."

By this time she'd collected his clothes and tossed them out the bedroom door.

"You're leaving NOW. You could've hurt me badly."

He felt subdued and mortified as he backed towards the door.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what got into me. I've never been violent before," he pleaded. He was genuinely disgusted and terrified with himself. "I'm really sorry. Are you hurt?"

"No. Just leave and I won't call the cops."

"I really thought you might've. You never know."

"I'm not a thief. I was only joking earlier." Her eyes were hard and severe and she tightened her lips.

"Sorry."

"Now leave, I don't trust you. You're violent." She stared coldly into his face. He was ruffled with embarrassment.

He collected his clothes and solemnly dressed in the kitchen. Perhaps there was some way she would forgive him, but her words echoed harsh and grating - like the slow ripping of corrugated paper - through his head.

Constance went to the bathroom and he stared out the kitchen window at the long lines of dangling cables and telephone wires hanging over the back alley - just barely visible in the low light - and thought of what had just happened. Just as in his dream, he knew he couldn't continue being the same person after such an experience. But what had just happened was much more powerful and real than any dream or nightmare could be. He'd seen a dark glimpse of something both awful and wondrous - something like a nativity in Hell - and was eager to explore its beauties and terrors. Yet, he'd have to be careful to tell no one. While he was truly remorseful at his behavior, he could not deny that he had actually felt a sense of release bordering on a kind of incorrigible enjoyment in tightening his hands around her throat. Her imagined death, or the concept of it at any rate, was like the lifting of a great burden off his chest. An affair is an affair, he thought: enjoyable, but sordid - perhaps even more enjoyable as a result of its squalor. His sudden violent eruption, on the other hand, was an exponential leap further. _The other side_ of some metaphysical threshold was now in full view. He could feel it pulsing inside him.

"Are you going to just stand there all day or are you going to leave and let me go back to bed?" she asked from behind, not having noticed that he she had just returned from the bathroom. He smiled and she followed him to the foyer. He tried to kiss her as he opened the door to leave but she pulled away and looked down at his shoes. He thought he heard her coughing as he walked down the hall and out onto the street.

As he made his way out into the jarring bustle of the city he imagined graphs and lines being drawn on great black chalkboards by men in white lab coats in order to trace the path of his decay since he moved to London. There was, indeed, an almost geometric progression that could be extracted from this degeneration. Yet he couldn't deny it. In some convoluted and bizarre way these projections represented a step forward in his life. A _negative transcendence_ of sorts.

## IV

It is almost midnight. Paper cups and old magazines litter the gutters. A bright orange plastic belt hangs loosely around a fire hydrant. A damp wind hisses through a vacant schoolyard past a young woman wearing a slender blue overcoat and a dangling silk scarf. She glances at her watch as she steps over the curb and walks across the street. She takes out her keys as she approaches a three-story apartment building. She fumbles with them momentarily before inserting the longest one into the keyhole. She walks up the stairs slowly, and stops to massage her knee on the second landing. Her legs are drained of life, like driftwood or dried grass. When she reaches her apartment she tests the door before slipping a second key into the lock. She steps inside and pulls off her shoes. Then she throws them into the closet.

She hears a sound like the breathing and a man emerges from the darkness. His eyes are cold pools of water and his face is sharp. Angular. In his left hand he holds a book of nautical facts. _Do not be afraid_ , he says. He puts his hand softly on her shoulder. She steps back for an instant. Then she relaxes. His presence is strangely comforting. His eyes are not assailant's eyes.

"Who are you?" she asks.

The Seducer turns to her, but remains silent.

"I should call the police but you look too harmless," she says. "But they always say the meek ones are the most dangerous."

She turns away from him and walks into the living room. Empty bottles and used ashtrays are strewn across the floor and the radio is playing softly. She turns it off and reclines on the sofa. She stares into space for a few moments before turning on the television. She flicks through the channels but can only find test patterns and black and white nature films. With a sharp click she turns off the television and then averts her glance to the floor, studying the elaborate intricacies of the Persian carpet beneath her feet.

The Seducer walks into the room. He closes the window and sits beside her. The room is silent except for his breathing, her breathing, and the tranquil hum of the radiator beneath the window.

"I know. You're the strong silent type. If that's the case, I give up. I've had a lot of men come through here, but none as quiet as you." She undoes the top button of her blouse. "I don't know how you got in here, but just leave the money on the counter when you're done. That's what I tell everyone. Just make sure the little boy sleeping in the other room doesn't hear anything."

The Seducer sits like a mannequin. Taciturn...motionless. A shadow falls across his face and, as if suddenly brought to life by an inaudible whistle, he turns his head and reaches over to undo her blouse. It is like cotton gauze, flimsy and light. She is suddenly afraid and pulls back, repositioning herself on the opposite end of the sofa. His eyes darken and change shape. They are suddenly hard and clear like two black pearls. He grabs her wrist and tightens his grip. She kicks him and pulls her hand away. She runs into the bedroom and locks the door. He calmly stands up and walks across the room. He raises his fist to the door as though to pound on it. Then he stops. His hand becomes limp and his arm drops indecisively to his side. He returns to the sofa and sits down. The television stares blankly into the room like a mechanical eye, watching everything, understanding nothing.

## V

The first buses of the morning were already running as Stephen stepped out into the street in search of his hotel. The dawn sky was faintly lit and a gust of cold air bit into his lips. How different he felt from the Stephen who arrived, so numb and lifeless, in London a few years earlier. The image of Constance lying beside him after they made love was still fresh in his memory. In his mind's eye she looked frail and weak and had a distinctly lethargic air about her. While at the club and even on the train he found her lusciously attractive, something inside him had changed and he couldn't believe that he had gone home with her. It was like a compressed version of his experiences with Nadia. What a ridiculous turn her life had taken. He could almost picture her organizing a Tupperware party while her husband discussed 'faculty matters' with a bunch of moribund old farts from Columbia. And what audacity she had to write to him after all this time! It was genuinely disgusting.

He passed an abandoned store that looked like it may once have been a butcher shop. He felt a tightening in his testicles and felt the sudden urge to urinate through the locked doors of a bank on the corner. There was no one around so what risk could it possibly be? He undid his trousers and held the tip of his penis against the space between the two doors and watched the puddle spread across the carpet in the lobby. When he was satisfied, he continued down towards the docks, the image of Constance, naked and glowering, her whitened, pendulous breasts jiggling as she hollered down at him from the sky, hovered in his imagination. There was something like a circus act about it all: meeting at a concert, going home, fucking, and finally arguing. "She probably _did_ steal my shoulder bag and hid it in the other room while she was pouring the wine," he thought.

The area around the docks looked like an abandoned city from a nuclear-holocaust documentary. He could see the looming shadows of cranes, crooked and gray, against a flat background of neatly arranged loading towers in the faint morning light. The air smelt salty, like fresh sperm, and a few gulls circled around a searchlight by the shore. He picked up a handful of pebbles and threw them, one by one, against the metal walls of an aircraft hangar. They hit harmlessly and bounced off as if deflected by a powerful magnet. Each one took an entirely different course than the others even though he threw them all in exactly the same direction with the same amount of force.

He looked down at his shoes. They were covered with a pale green film of morning dew that must have rubbed off from the grass. His feet felt cold and his toes were getting stiff. Walking further towards the docks and into a fenced-off quadrant - which seemed to be a parking area for commercial vehicles - he suddenly noticed that one of his hands appeared slightly bigger than the other. The fingers were longer and the thumb thicker. He pressed his palms together - as one does in a game of patty cake - to make sure he was not imagining things. Certainly, the right thumb was larger by about a half centimeter over the left, but the index fingers were the same size. He stretched out his fingers as he reached towards the top of a barbed wire fence in front of him. For an instant, it was as if he were standing beside himself, watching. He laughed ironically, when it occurred to him that he probably looked like a high priest raising his arms in supplication to the rising sun.

A security guard marched vigilantly across the other side of the lot - his flashlight almost equal in intensity to the grainy morning light. No good. Stephen leapt over the fence and continued towards a long loading dock, which protruded like a peninsula into the merciless span of the ocean.

The salt-cold water chopped and sucked the limpet-covered pier. The boards beneath his feet were soggy and forgiving. He passed a sign. It read in bold black letters: NO TRESPASSERS. Spitting impudently in its direction, he continued to walk towards the end, which sagged noticeably towards the surface of the water. There, he could watch the boats passing by. He watched them studiously, almost taking mental notes, as they slipped like gentle thieves through the harbor. He tried not to blink, but the ocean air was like sandpaper on his eyes. Instead, he blinked his eyes as fast as he could - like the wings of a fly - to see if it might create a strobe effect. His perceptual field became like shattered glass, fragmented into a vast, collage or panorama. Everything was splintered, as if somebody had taken a photo of the scene in front of him and cut it into hundreds of tiny pieces and then thoughtlessly reassembled them. The edges of objects were jagged, their corners fuzzy and broken. Then he lit a match on his teeth and held it up in front of his nose while continuing to blink his eyes rapidly. The soft orange light spread evenly across the water, casting a Latin American ambience over everything. Even a destroyer pacing nervously in the distance seemed to have a certain Hispanic look.

He continued to blink and watch for several minutes as the images began to dance around the center of the dock in the manner of moths around a light. They no longer had the appearance of _things_. It was as if they were detached from their parent objects and were now nothing more than perceptual entelchies hovering meaninglessly in front of him like driftwood. "Form without content...".

Everything seemed empty and false. He wouldn't have been surprised to find out that the ships passing by were actually balsa wood replicas floating in a child's aquarium and he was really standing in a toy store looking at some intricate shop display.

He turned and looked behind him towards a massive metal crane constructed out of criss-crossing steel bars. Walking towards it, he began to pelt its freshly painted base with a fistful of rocks. One, two, three - then a stray one. It hit a rooftop, disturbing a flock of pigeons; the birds made a strange trilling sound as they flew upwards like a puff of blue-gray smoke. Then, with the largest rock, he shattered the window of the operator's carriage on the top of the massive hammer-shaped crane. Instead of running for cover - like he might have done a few weeks earlier - he stood there and laughed uproariously. He wasn't afraid - and besides, it was funny. Someone _had_ to laugh.

Gazing towards the granite sheet of the sky, he detected a strange smell wafting through the air. Like ozone. Everything was charged with an inner electricity which spilled out effortlessly into the humming silence around him. Everything was slanted, etched, and buzzing - like an image on a television with the contrast button turned to the maximum position. Or, even better, he thought, everything was in _italics_. Yes, that was it.

_The world at five AM today is officially in italics,_ he shouted.

He heard only the echo as it slowly gave way to the sound of an airplane flying overhead. The world vibrated around him. It was as if he were seeing everything from another angle, as if from _the_ _other side_. Everything was drenched in a strange and evil light. Even the rocks were distinctly unrock-like. In a way it was transcendence: release from everything around him, even himself.

The rocks, the salt, the lapping waves, the crane, the warehouses, Bristol. Even the air molecules were in italics. He threw a handful of gravel in the air and began to dance madly about. He ran to a tree and ripped off a small branch. Using it to whip a corrugated iron wall, he shrieked with laughter. It was ugly and rusted. Paint flaking blandly away from it. It was so unappealing it was an imposition even to look at it. So, he reasoned, it would be a crime _not_ to whip it.

Then, after he was satisfied that the wall had received the proper dose of punishment, he ran out to a small wooden platform which extended invitingly over the water. He couldn't figure out why it was there. There were no ropes, no metal fixtures, and it was far too small to be a fishing pier. Perhaps it was just for people like him who'd just been turned away by their lovers for accusing them of theft! He sat on the edge and pulled out a piece of blue string that he had kept in his pocket since he found it on the street the previous morning in London. Then he tried to make a net with it around his fingers as one does with a cat's cradle.

Just then, he heard some steps and felt the pier beneath him shake. He turned his head askance to see two haggard men standing threateningly behind him. One of them, the tallest, was dressed in a tight muscle shirt with narrow horizontal stripes in blue and black running across the front. His face was tight, and narrow - like a mule's - and a lit cigarette was hanging nonchalantly out of his mouth.

The other was nearly bald and was wearing an oversized green raincoat. He held an automatic pistol in his black-gloved hand, its long, tubular nozzle pointing resolutely at Stephen's head.

"Listen mate, just put your hands on your head and lie on your stomach and there won't be any trouble."

The man's voice was thin and peevish. He poked the barrel into Stephen's neck. The metal felt cold and sharp against his skin. He hesitated as he put up his hands. He couldn't believe he was being robbed by such a pair, especially so early in the morning in what was now broad daylight. They looked more like characters in a television re-enactment of a mugging than real thugs. The tall one had an unseemly cut under his eye and a garish skull tattoo on his arm. The scene was all too comical to be taken seriously.

"No funny stuff! Are you deaf?" He kicked Stephen in the leg with his soiled army boots. Stephen fell back onto the wooden planks beneath him. The salty-wet air burned into his bleeding lip.

"It looks as though we've got a live wire here. It don't do nobody no good to be a smart ass around us, mate. Blokes like you just get their fucking faces smashed in. Just give us your wallet, or you'll get your head blown off as well."

The tall one spoke as if he'd just risen out of a coma. His voice was thick and dull, like old rubber thumping on metal.

"I can't find it. I must've lost it on the way out here."

"Don't fucking lie to me," blurted the bald one.

He took out a machine gun and slammed the magazine into Stephen's head as he desperately searched through his pockets for his wallet.

"Here it is!"

It was hiding in his coat, between the lining and the outer shell. He threw it at their feet just before he began to lose consciousness.

Grabbing helplessly at the air, he collapsed in a heap in front of them. The tall one aimed the machine gun at his head and pretended to fire while the other laughed hysterically.

"What a good-for-nothing skinflint. There's only forty quid in here."

They kicked him in the head a few times and ran off into the distance, slipping their weapons under their jackets as they disappeared like shadows into the morning fog.

Stephen woke up several hours later to the strident rattling of heavy machinery. There were two policemen hunched over him. One was feeling his pulse expectantly, while the other was silent and was muttering something into a radio in his hand.

"His head's pretty bad. He must've got bashed pretty good. No wallet or ID either."

Stephen opened his eyes. The blazing sun was like an interrogation lamp and his head felt like it was being crushed in a vice.

"Hey, he's moving."

The policemen escorted him to the station and Stephen filed a complete report of the crime. A doctor ran a cursory examination and determined that there was no serious injury, although he was advised to get a lot of rest over the next week and be on guard for any sudden bouts of dizziness.

"You might as well have walked through Brixton with a basket full of money and a white supremacy shirt on. Be careful, there's murderers out there. It's a good thing they didn't blow your head off."

Stephen went back to his hotel room and undressed. If he stayed there a second night he could catch the first train back to London in the morning. After a few minutes of watching the television, he swallowed an aspirin and fell asleep.

## VI

The next morning Stephen threw on his clothes and took a cab to catch the first train back to London. When he got to the station, the streets were bustling with activity and the traffic was worse than he'd ever seen at rush hour. He handed the driver a twenty-pound note and as he leaned over the seat he noticed his shirt smelled of sweat. He backed away from the driver as soon as the bearded Pakistani man had finished counting out his change. What would people think if they noticed? Perhaps they'd take him for some kind of tramp. Worse, what if met a beautiful woman on the train like he had only two days before? She'd think he was a slob and would refuse to sit anywhere near him.

He took his seat on the train and set his coffee on the seat beside him to make sure nobody would sit next to him. A grey-haired military officer with a pugilistic curl in his lower lip shifted anxiously in his seat across the aisle. With his large bushy moustache he looked as if he were posing for some kind of nineteenth-century victory portrait. Stephen watched him as the train slowly rolled into motion. In looking at the man's face it suddenly seemed he was gazing directly at a physical embodiment of the newfound sense of fearlessness that had grown inside him since his experiences in Bristol. It was now almost certain that he'd have to take up Lindqvist's offer. It was the only solution. Before his trip to Bristol, he would never have been able to imagine himself committing a crime, but the robbery and beating the night before had convinced him that such moral transgressions were nowhere near as bad as people said. Crime was effortless, like a leaf falling from a tree, only more abrupt. It was also a natural process - like growth or decay. It could even be funny. That's why the two assailants laughed as they beat him. The fiber of the universe had not been defiled by their assault. No one came to any real harm and the pier was the same as it was before. Of course he _was_ injured. But not so seriously as to threaten his life. Ultimately, last night's event was as harmless as a violin recital and an art theft could be no less so.

The train rumbled numbly through station after station as it made its way through the countryside. A beam of light reflected off the window as he watched a group of children walking to school under a bridge. They were dressed in dark blue uniforms and walked in single file, kicking the pavement in gestures of boredom as they passed. One of them, a blond girl, dropped her handbag in the gutter and then started to cry when one of the uniformed boys picked it up and threw it across the street. The train crept into yet another station. Lonely, featureless faces filled the boarding platform like smoke in a cold room. He detected an odor, more intense than that of his own sweat, that was both sickly sweet and acrid, like peroxide solution, as they passed through Reading.

A nun stepped on and took the seat across from the officer. She smiled politely at Stephen as she passed. What would she think if she knew he would soon be involved in a theft? But what did she know anyway? Most likely raised on the Ten Commandments her morals were obviously skewed. Theft was little more than a series of actions conducted in order to relocate objects. Nobody is hurt in the process and nothing is changed - except for the location of the stolen item. It could be described in terms of simple physics: _Painting 'A' weighs twelve pounds and is moved 1.6 miles with a friction coefficient of 3. Calculate the force required to accelerate it to 70 miles per hour during the get-away. How much energy is expended?_

The num looked over at him a second time and again he wondered what she might think of his line of reasoning. After some thought he concluded that it didn't matter. After all, he was an architect and derived great pleasure from the bold and subtle geometries of the buildings around him. Pillars, girders, fences, signs, roofs, windowpanes and awnings. Architecture was the sublation of form over matter, the transcendence of substance through substance itself. Yet, sex, violence, and possibly even religion and theft also entailed a transcendence of sorts. A rising above the banalities of day-to-day existence. He had always longed for _escape_ in the most abstract sense of the word and perhaps theft really _was_ the answer - the key that would enable him to finally cross the threshold of _experience_. All you had to do was look at the Seducer. There was something in his eyes. Something both twisted and enlightened. Cool, immaculate, vibrating with a darker energy. A thief. He was a true inhabitant of _the other side_ , the emotional landscape of which was merely hinted at by Stephen's dream. Looking upon everything around him with pitiless contempt, revelling in his own beauty, The Seducer was a monk of some vast new religion into which Stephen was slowly being initiated. An oblique revelation blossomed before him. _An epiphany of hatred and deception_. His heart quickened. Stone walls and broken fences swirled by the window and the watery green horizon trembled in the distance. He felt reborn.

Entering the suburbs of London was like piercing the membrane of an enormous bubble of hot tallow. Everything had a dull waxy look to it. The rich green of the countryside suddenly faded to brown and the scarves of fog, which hung so elegantly over the meandering streams and gullies, gave way to clouds of hot smoke bellowing out of rusted metal exhaust pipes. He struggled to read the smatterings of graffiti on the sides of the dilapidated tenements that lined the tracks, but the words and characters were too obscured by layers of black soot. As they neared Paddington, he noticed that people's complexions became more pale and powdery, the further from the outskirts and into the city they were, and the sun seemed to almost vanish from the sky, as though it had been immersed in a glass cistern full of sewer water.

He took the usual Underground route home from Paddington Station. Baker St. was crowded, but once he got onto a Jubilee Line train he was allowed the luxury of his own car. Exhausted and weak, he got off at Kilburn and walked down a few side streets to avoid the traffic as he forged his way home. As he approached the door he noticed that his legs and pants were sticky with sweat and his hair was tangled and dirty. The house was empty when he stepped in. He showered and shaved, being careful not to leave puddles of water on the floor next to the bathtub. Without stopping to check for mail or notes from Doris he curled up on the bed and tried to fall asleep.

Lying awake and unable to sleep, he started to think of Nadia. It was a perfect time to write her! Merely describing his behavior last night would be a splatter of vitriol on her face. She had written him because she must have still cared about him in some way. So somewhere in her deepest feelings there was still a place for him. Somewhere in her heart he still existed, still breathed, and still loved her - or so she thought. What better a way of getting back at her than to let her know that the most sacred chapels of her heart were inhabited by a true deviant. All of her sweet memories of their time in Montreal would be forever tainted and blackened by the knowledge that he had transformed into a new and horrible creature. He took out a pen and rummaged around until he found a pad of paper in the drawer. Then he began to write:

Dear Nadia,

How wonderful to hear from you after all of these years! While I am overjoyed at the news that you are well and now married and expecting a child, I have to admit that I read your letter with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. When you left me, I was shattered and torn. I didn't know what to do with myself. It was unimaginable that an end could ever have come to such a perfect love. I remember the golden lights of St. Denis, the frosted windows of its cafés, and the probing searchlight on top of that tower whose name I no longer remember. We used to walk, sometimes in silence, sometimes holding hands, through those very streets like it was never meant to end.

I tried to understand the reason behind your actions but couldn't. I tried to convince myself that it was only a temporary whim and that you'd return shortly, pleading at my door. I was wrong. I realized that I was a victim of something inside of you that was out of my control, something that had always been lying dormant, waiting to unfold.

Yet time erodes feelings like sandstone on a riverbank and memory washes away like faint imprints in the sand. I moved to London. Gradually you ceased to matter, even ceased to exist as far as I was concerned. I realized what a fool I'd been to build my life around the security of someone as frivolous as you.

If only you could see what I've seen since moving here! The lights on Kilburn High Street, the hazy bands of fog stretching out like disembodied fingers across the Thames, the sickly enchanted faces of all the strangers on the underground. How silly your letter was. What happened to the quest for freedom, the pervasive anxiety, and the so-called 'annihilation of the self in the forest of the other'? It sounded so noble and grand - even I was convinced of your transcendental purpose.

But, now it is your turn to be shocked. I, too, have changed. I feel as if the world is quaking all around me with excitement and adventure, and I'm free to do whatever I choose. No longer am I fooled by false expectations and lies. No longer am I in love! I must admit a certain fondness, however, for a young girl. She's only seventeen - a girl indeed - but is really quite mature for her age. Often I lay awake thinking of her lush hair and soft skin touching against my bare chest. But am I in love? Who can say?

A few months ago I made the acquaintance of three men who made me a generous proposal. In short, they agreed to pay me handsomely for helping them in an art robbery. At first I wasn't sure, but now I feel differently. It started with a dream I had a few weeks ago in which all life seemed permeated by an infinite darkness. When I awoke, I experienced an unusual sense of newness, as if I'd been reborn. At first I was nervous, but I quickly became eager to discover the secrets of my new self.

The other night everything went a step further. I was assaulted by a gang of thugs and I found it more amusing than terrifying. It was as if I was in a movie and everything had a fake and rehearsed look to it. The same night I slept with a woman I'd just met and hurled her off of me with such force that she almost called the police. At first I was horrified with my behavior, but when I thought about it more deeply I realized that it was perfectly justified. Something welled up inside of me when I saw myself throwing her against the wall. Almost orgiastic. Primordial. Evil. A certain momentary transcendence of sorts in which everything else in life seemed bleak and dull in comparison.

So, what about the theft? Once a thief always a thief, they say. Marked for life. Yet when I think of myself leaping over the fence with a bundle of rolled up canvasses in my hands I feel an ineffable sense of release and euphoria rushing through my thighs - like standing on the high diving board at a pool and looking over the edge. My knees are wobbly and my mind is exploding with trepidation. Yet as I stare at the floorboards in this quaint little room I can only wonder what it will be like. Life on the other side. How will it change me? What hideous new forms will spring to life inside me? Whatever the outcome, I know I will never be the same again.

But now it is late, and I'm very tired.

Stephen.

He reread the letter. It was arrogant and exaggerated. Even fabricated. It would be perfect! He set it on the table and leaned back. His mind turned to the weeks ahead and what lay before him on his new path of destiny. As far as the theft was concerned, he'd have to disguise his true motives from Linquist. Feign innocence and act like a pawn who is only in it for the money. That's what Lindquist wanted after all. A quiet, intelligent young man to carry out his 'intellectual crime'. "Follow along with what they say and don't disrupt them," he muttered to himself like a father counselling his son. "Don't let them know that you're enjoying it. It could only complicate matters and besides, they'd never understand - they were too absorbed in their own foolish ideas to see the truth." Allowing these thoughts to resonate in his head, he curled up on his bed and fell asleep.

## VII

Leyda brushed back her sweaty hair and peered ahead into the thicket rustling just a few yards in front of her. The faint, grainy outlines of branches, leaves, trunks, and bushes were barely visible under the reticent light of the moon. The sound of an expressway buzzed from somewhere in the distance. She imagined cars, sleek and silvery, piercing impudently through the late-night air as they raced towards their final destinations. She was a full two miles from the outskirts of London and had to get home before dawn. She'd been to an all-night rave near Slough and had already given up trying to hitch a ride back. The warm thumping of the impossibly large outdoor speakers still seemed to pulse in metronomic rhythm through her tired legs and images of striped shirts, baggy pants and wool caps fluttered like butterflies around her head.

She walked past the thicket and stepped over a crumbled stone fence. Soon, all that masked the silence was the trilling gurgle of a nearby stream. In her mind's eye she pictured it winding and flowing all around her like a Tibetan spring. It splashed and surged. It lapped. It rushed. In fact, its existence could best be described as a _rushing-forth_ of sorts - perhaps a _rushing-into-the-world_. She thought of better words to describe it, but soon gave up. Words were dull and boring - like street signs. They might be good for Muriel, but not for her. Besides, why did everything have to have a name? To her, there were only things. A _rushing-forth_ of things. Trees rushed, leaves rushed, streams rushed. Even buildings, churches, roads, cars, stones and fence posts. They also _rushed_ , nameless and brilliant, like flowers or arrows, into the empty chalice of the world.

Into pools of nothingness, stones were once dropped, concentric rings were formed, and from this shining blemish came a _rushing-forth_ of things. That was _her_ creation myth. A horn sounded from within the thicket and she raised her hand to just below her chin and one by one felt out the tips of her fingers with her lips. Even though the skin was parched and cold from what seemed like hours of trying to lick away the sting of the wind with the tip of her tongue, her lips could still sense the hard ridges of her fingernails. After some deliberation she decided that her fingers were also a _rushing-forth_ of sorts. They sprang forth from her hand like water from a fountain.

Her soul almost seemed to spring and surge as she quickened her pace to leap across a stream whose location she could only guess from its gentle bubbling sound and the reflection of light off its surface. One. Two. Three. She jumped. Her feet slipped, but only slightly, as they landed in the mud on the other side. She stretched out her hands and then rolled her sleeves back. The silhouette of a church stood like a centurion about a hundred yards ahead. She could discern the smeared outline of its needle-sharp spire under the pale light of the moon. It had its own geometries. They, too, were _rushing-forth_ into the world.

There was an angry shout in the distance and she suddenly wished Stephen were there to guide her the rest of the way home. He would protect her. And he of all people would certainly understand her theories. He was an architect. He had a feeling for the rushing shapes, lines, faults, and contours of things. Lighthouses, clock towers, cathedrals, fountains, brooks, and branches. He'd appreciate all of them in like-fashion. The two of them had the same passion for lines, curves and angles – the very foundation of architecture. After all, her favorite subject was Maths. That's why she loved him. In an ideal world they would be united together by a love of shapes. A _rushing-forth_ of shapes. They would live in meticulously planned houses with oddly shaped gardens and a _blazing forth_ of flowers in the back. They would admire the perfect circles in each other's eyes as they walked, hand-in-hand, through labyrinths of leaves and stone just watching the fluff of clouds drifting by above. Yes, that was what it would be like.

A crow let out a loud imperious cry and her feet froze in mid-motion. She was too young. He didn't take her seriously. It was obvious. Even if he did like her - which was a painfully distant possibility - there was always mother and Muriel. They'd get in their way. The books, the angry stretching of their already-too-long faces, the early morning wake-up calls. They'd never let it happen. She hung her head and grasped desperately into the air. Maybe if she waited till she was older and got her own flat everything would be different.

She walked through a small forest until she came upon an industrial park. The air about her seemed to tense. She was afraid. It was suddenly colder and she could hear the hissing of a teakettle from a nearby office building. Then a dark figure: its eyes a frozen inferno, its fingers wriggling like white sea worms.

_Leyda_. He called.

She stopped.

_Leyda_.

"Get away!"

_Leyda. Don't be afraid_.

She stared into his eyes - - flaming rivers of logic. They tempted her with comfort like sleep to a hypothermic man. He stepped forward and she recognized him immediately. It was Singleton, the strange, but handsome man she met briefly in a pub with Stephen a few weeks earlier.

"Leave me alone!" she shouted.

She turned and ran towards a cluster of buildings, not once turning back until she reached a roundabout. She swivelled around and there was nothing. Singleton had vanished. Her breathing slowed down and she relaxed. The danger had receded. She was somewhere near Edgware and it was close to dawn. She skipped into a light jog and ran towards a bus that had just pulled up on the other side of the street. The door opened and she boarded. Her mother would be getting up soon and she didn't want to be caught.

## VIII

When Stephen awoke it was almost suppertime. The smell of boiled vegetables filled the air and he could hear the faint thudding of footsteps from down below. He threw on a tee shirt and old pair of jeans and wandered out of his room, almost tripping on his toes as he rounded the first turn before the staircase.

He felt awkward as he walked into the dining room. The table was beautifully set with new china and a bottle of wine stood open in the center. Doris was hunched over the stove stirring a pan of what smelled like beef Burgundy. It was as though he was an intruder entering the home of a person too kind and gentle for someone like him. Maybe she'd see through his thin facade. After all, wasn't he a thief to be? Perhaps she'd notice a change in his behavior that might give some hint of his new life - - a glimmer in his eye or a nervous twitch that might give him away.

"You're back," she said with enthusiasm. "We wondered what happened to you. We all thought you'd be back by yesterday evening."

"I had a bit of a rough time," Stephen said, putting on an air of vulnerability. "I made it back late from the conference and got mugged in front of my hotel." He could only tell her part of the truth. If she found out he was wandering around the docks at some absurd hour after being kicked out of bed by a woman he'd just met Doris would certainly judge him more harshly.

"Goodness me. You can't go anywhere these days. Were you hurt badly?"

"A bruise on my thigh and a nasty bump on my head. Otherwise only a few scratches. The doctor said to be careful of dizziness."

"Sit yourself down, then. We were going to have some guests from out of town, but they couldn't make it in because of last minute car trouble. So we're stuck with all of this food and wine."

"New china?" He asked. It seemed like a _safe_ question to ask.

"No. I hardly use it anymore. It's sort of sentimental. We got it on our wedding and decided to save it only for special occasions. It's a wonderful set. The best man bought it for us in France."

"Where are the girls?"

"Muriel's upstairs studying and Leyda's off at some concert with her friends. She'll not be joining us."

"If you don't mind..." He poured a finger of wine from the open bottle and took a small sip. He held up his glass in appreciation.

"Not at all. You know, I had an interesting time last night. I went out with an old friend from university whom I hadn't seen for a few years. Her husband just left her and she's in the process of getting back on her feet. She's got enough money, and has quite a few friends to support her, but she's still a bit down. She says it's not because of him. Well... it is and it isn't. He left her because he couldn't stand the way she dressed. He said it was too much like his first girlfriend who dumped him one night at their engagement party. Apparently, she was found in _his_ bed with some other guy. The confounded witch. He said he tried to ignore it, but it got so extreme that he had to do something. What really depresses her, is the fact that it's not her fault. If it were something she had done \- or something however more tangible - she could accept it. But, she feels as if she's paying for someone else's sins."

"Collective sins of the sex," said Stephen. "One of my friends from school got dumped so he went out the very next night and got completely plastered at a bar. Just as the place was closing he met a girl and got her phone number. They ended up going out on a few casual dates and just when it got to the point where they were about to kiss, he spat on her floor and ran off. He said it wasn't premeditated, but rather a sudden insurgence of anger towards his ex that just took over. Of course the poor girl was mortified and he never dared call her again - even to apologize."

"I hope you never called him again!" She paused as though she was re-evaluating a verdict in her head. "But I guess it works both ways, though. I remember the way I used to torment this one poor guy in high school who had a big crush on me. I don't think I would've been so nasty if the love of my life hadn't turned me down the year before."

Stephen relaxed. He'd passed his first test - she didn't suspect anything. He leaned against the counter and set his wine glass next to the wooden spice rack.

"Sorry to change the topic," he said. "You keep saying it doesn't matter, but I don't want to take advantage. It's just that I'll be able to pay you next week. My mother's sending me some money that was apparently part of my father's life insurance plan that was meant for me when I turned twenty-five. The forms had been collecting dust in her basement for a few years."

"That's wonderful," she said, "But I would have waited a few more months before giving you the boot!" She laughed and gave him a hug. "Lets celebrate, then. I hope you'll have some left for yourself! I'll call Muriel." She washed her hands and removed her apron.

When Muriel came down, she was wearing a bathrobe and had her hair was wrapped in a towel. "Just a minute," she said. "I just got out of the shower." She leapt up the stairs and within minutes was back dressed in a black wool sweater and a gray flannel skirt. She was carrying several books in her hand and tossed them casually on the side table in the dining room.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," she said to Stephen with concern. "It must've been terrifying. Did they have weapons?" There was something strangely incongruous about her facial expressions and the tone of her voice as she spoke: her eyes darkened as she seemed to hold back a burst of laughter and her arms suddenly tensed up in a gesture of recrimination as if she were defending herself in some dispute.

"They had guns..." He stopped without further elaboration as it almost seemed too commonplace to have mentioned in the first place. Doris raised her eyebrow in suspicion. Perhaps, thought Stephen, she had taken his flippant attitude towards the mugging as some form of tacit approval. "It was disgusting," he said with sudden disapproval. "People shouldn't be allowed to carry them...period."

"We've been reading _The Tempest_ at school," Muriel said out of the blue. "It's so much better now that I can understand it. I'd like to see it again." Her face froze and she looked at him imploringly, as though craving some form of silent recognition.

"I'm glad you liked it. I wasn't sure you did at the time."

The conversation tapered off and they pulled out their chairs from the table. Doris set down the pot of beef Burgundy and started pouring the wine. The filled glasses cast a ruby-red glow on the white tablecloth beneath it.

They chatted lightly until dessert. Doris brought out a chocolate mousse in a large and delicately carved glass bowl. Muriel's face lit up as her mother set it on the table. After coffee Muriel and Doris cleaned up the kitchen and then wandered upstairs. Stephen went into the living room to watch TV.

He flipped through the channels of the television until he found an old black-and-white movie. The room about him was dark and the matted blue glow of the screen cast moving shadows on the wall. He turned the sound off for an instant, and then turned it up again. The cable connection was poor and occasionally a flickering horizontal black bar would pass across the screen.

After five minutes he figured out that he was watching the American remake of Goddard's _Breathless_ , a movie he always felt fell far short of the original in terms of overall quality. He turned the channel to a test pattern and stared at it for several minutes while listening to the annoying droning sound hovering in the background. This broadcast was refreshingly empty, there were no complexities, just a few perpendicular bars. He averted his glance to the window where the reflection of the test pattern rippled against the ocean of darkness outside.

He grew bored and changed the channel to the evening news. Another terrorist attack. Three injured at Heathrow. The suspects were not identified. In Frankfurt, a fascist group had taken responsibility for an explosion killing a Muslim German bank manager and his two children in front of a grocery store. A revolt in Irkutsk led to the complete destruction of a small town and the potential starvation of thousands. Footage of an isolated battle between a soldier and a pedestrian flickered on the screen in front of him. Buddhist temple destroyed by extremists. Three killed, an estimated two million pounds in damage. Tibet remains under Chinese oppression. The sight of machine guns brandished in the faces of Buddhist monks on the television seemed demented and sick, yet for some reason he couldn't quite define Stephen also found it alluring.

The shadows continued to dance menacingly on the walls around him. In the corners of the room he could only make out the fuzzy outlines of furniture objects such as the hutch and stereo. It seemed he was suspended in a ball of blue-gray light floating aimlessly through an impinging sea of darkness as the light of the television slowly collapsed around him, tightening around him like a noose.

He looked back at the television, suddenly becoming aware of the high-pitched voice of the newscaster. A man sat on the ledge of a building in what looked like New York. He stood up and paced back and forth on the narrow ledge while police gathered around the streets below. Then he covered himself in fluid from a metal jug and lit himself on fire. A tail of flame stretched out behind him as his body plummeted to the ground below. A human meteor:

" _...and the police found a note. Apparently his girl friend had died in a plane crash the same day he lost his job._ "

The flames. The ledge. The desperate eyes of the man's mother on the street. The indifferent stream of taxi cabs in the background and droves of curious disaster-addicts struggling for front-row seats.

Stephen turned the channel yet again, the image of the burning corpse still lingering in his mind. Then he took turns muting and raising the volume as he watched an entire episode of the nineteen sixties spy show _Secret Agent_ , but it didn't seem to matter anyway because the words revealed nothing of the characters' hidden plots to undermine one another; they were unwittingly guided towards their own doom in a convoluted ballet of shadows and deceit.

When the program ended Stephen shut off the television. It was already midnight and Leyda had not yet returned. He bounded silently up the stairs and undressed. Looking in the mirror, he noticed that his penis seemed smaller than usual. It was withdrawn and wrinkled. He flapped it around. It was cold and numb and the skin seemed whitened and dry. The antithesis of sex.

Climbing between his covers, his mind filled with images of Leyda. He hadn't seen her for several days. He felt a sudden need to confront her about what happened at the play. His feelings had to be exposed. But, if he told her and she took it in the wrong way, she might think it was a ploy to get her into bed and in her disgust and peril would go and tell Doris. Yet, she might also think it was the advance she had been waiting for, in which case _she_ might try to seduce him. And if he couldn't resist her, the consequences would end up being disastrous. Doris would somehow find out and he would be kicked out for sure.

He stared at the ceiling trying to calculate the odds of Leyda understanding his feelings. To his dismay they were astronomically low. Ten thousand-to-one, he estimated. Maybe even less. There were too many random factors, too many potential hazards.

After trying to fall asleep for what seemed like hours, he finally got up and wrote her a note:

Dear Leyda,

I've felt a certain tension between us and would like it to end. You're astonishingly beautiful and I like your company, but I'd like to keep our relationship platonic because of the obvious consequences. I'm sorry about the other night when I kissed you. I couldn't control myself. If we were both the same age, it might work out. I suggest we put it in the past and just be friends.

Love, Stephen

He underlined _Love_ and reread it. It was honest, but ambiguous. Confused, self-contradictory and possibly true. He ripped it up, deciding it was too presumptuous. Racking his brains for a solution, he resolved to let it ride and wait for her to confront him. Any attempt on his part to clear up the tension might be misconstrued as an obvious advance.

He closed his eyes and images from _Secret Agent_ scrolled lifelessly through his head. There was something so cold and alien about the overall tone of the production, something like his dream that was powerful yet ineffable that made it far more sinister than even the image of the human meteor, his cindered flesh smouldering in the light of the sun. He stared at a reflection from a streetlamp cast through his window and onto his ceiling in an effort to protect his mind from the onslaught of negative imagery and eventually fell asleep.

## IX

The next day was a bank holiday, but as soon as he woke up Stephen knew his hopes of spending the afternoon walking through Hyde Park were ruined; heavy rain was beating against his windowpane and the sky was filled with a sickly yellow mist. So much for June, he thought. After grabbing a quick bite to eat he threw on his jacket and ran out the door to catch the first tube to Harlesdon. When he got to _The Red Eagle_ he found Lindqvist and The Fat Man sitting at a table in the far corner. Stephen lit a cigarette. Lindqvist was reading a newspaper as Stephen approached them, however neither man seemed to notice his presence in the room. The Swede's passionless gaze moved away from the paper and probed the room for a moment before stopping to ponder on an antique photograph hanging on the wall. He ground his teeth as though locked in the throes of some deep philosophical dilema.

"Put that blasted paper down, and listen for once," The Fat Man gibed at Lindquist.

"Listen to what - your thoughtless blather about beer?"

"Beer and thought are the same thing, haven't you heard?"

The Seducer walked out of the bathroom and grabbed a pint of beer that was sitting unattended at the bar. "Look who's come to join us," he said to Linquist and the Fat Man. The Seducer looked over at Stephen. "You're a bit late, aren't you?" he said. His ambrosial eyes glimmered as he took a sip of his beer.

Lindqvist took a puff of his pipe and stood up to shake Stephen's hand. "Good to see you again. We were beginning to give up on you and look for someone else."

"Well, I've been doing some thinking about all of this. Your proposal, I mean." Stephen reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-pound note.

"Sit down, this round's on me. I insist." Lindqvist marched over to the bar and returned a few minutes later with four pints of bitter braced between his hands.

"I just came here to let you know that I've changed my mind," Stephen said. "I had some doubts about your plan, but after thinking it over..."

"He must've got laid," The Fat Man whispered to the Seducer. "Stevie-boy got laid! I bet he's back because the lousy tart says she won't come back for seconds until she sees how much dosh he's got. That's it, isn't it Stevie-boy?"

"Well," said Lindqvist earnestly, "I take it this means you've decided to accept our offer?"

"If you pay me enough money to cover all of my debts plus five-hundred pounds - all up front, of course - and then pay me the rest of my share later, then the answer's yes. If not, I'm not interested."

"What about two-thousand?" asked Lindqvist. "Is that enough?"

"Well..." Stephen paused to add the figures in his head.

The Fat Man leaned over to Stephen. "It seems to me, Stevie-boy, that you're in no position to bargain. You ought to learn a few things about respect. We offered you a loan and once you get a little tottie you suddenly you want Fort Bloody Knox. What next?" The Fat Man stood up and pressed his stomach into Stephen's chest.

"Listen, you belligerent fool," Lindqvist shouted, "give him what he wants. There's enough money to go around. We have him on our side, so lets not ruin it. Besides, I already offered to give him a cut before, but you were too drunk to notice."

The Fat Man was strangely mollified by Lindqvist's rebuke and sat down in his chair, the crack of his buttocks peeking out above his belt. He leaned back and yawned with lazy satisfaction like a lion having just returned from a hunt. He took a gulp of beer and cast his glance down at the table for a moment before looking up again at Stephen. "Well...maybe we should arrange a time and place to discuss the details," he said in a tone that was all the more ominous being the first time Stephen had ever heard him speak so seriously. "But, no bollocks, Stevie-boy, no bollocks. If there's one thing The Fat Man hates it's bollocks."

A man walked by the table carrying a French horn under his arm and Lindqvist suddenly lit up. "Malraux," he proclaimed. "Now there's someone who understood the purity of insurgent sedition and ritual violence. Scandalously ignored here on _the Island_. You really ought to read _Man's Fate_. It portrays the life of a Chinese anarchist, who lives his life in service of destruction. He ends up blowing himself up in order to kill a politician. His attempt fails in some respects, but ultimately he wins because of his unflappable devotion to violence."

"Would you quit that rubbish for a second, we're about to make some progress here," The Fat Man said as he drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. "And as for you, Singleton," The Fat Man pointed over to The Seducer and frowned, "maybe you should open your mouth a little more, it might do you some good. A little input from the likes of you might be appreciated every now and then." The Seducer smiled as though posing for a portrait and then just shrugged his shoulders. "They say silence is golden but in your case the only golden glimmer is from the imaginary stream of whale piss trickling from the pages of that silly little book you carry around. Maybe you fancy yourself a sailor of sorts, perhaps even a Captain Ahab in the making, but the only harpooning you do is up some bird's skirt. In that regard I'm a bit of a sailor too, maybe even an Admiral, an admiral because my little Rachel always _admires_ my heaving waves of blubber as I take her on a journey through the seven seas of passion, something a cold hearted mute like Singleton here would never understand." He turned to Stephen and grinned. "To really please a woman you have to have feeling and this inflatable sailor's doll over here with his _Semen's Manifesto_ \- and that's _semen_ without an "a" - has none!" He slapped The Seducer on the back and turned to Stephen. "What do you think of that Stevie-boy?"

"Leave him alone, you big oaf," The Seducer said with an eerie sense of tranquillity. He turned to Stephen and winked as though affirming some new alliance between them, his blue eyes shining in the light of the overhanging chandelier like two Tahitian pearls radiant under a South Seas moon.

They talked for ten more minutes and agreed to meet for dinner the following Wednesday at Lindqvist's house. Lindquist wrote Stephen a check for two thousand pounds as Stephen drained the last sip of beer from his glass. Stephen thanked him, shook hands with the three men, and then left to catch the first bus back to Kilburn. The night air was cold and the streets were virtually empty. Apart from a group of garrulous teenagers dressed in trendy tartan and leather motorcycle jackets, he was the only passenger. The bus roared through the labyrinthine streets as though on some kind of rescue mission, the din of its diesel engines obscuring the conversation between the youths, who seemed to be grinning and pointing over at him as though to mock his appearance. But Stephen didn't care. He had gotten what he wanted for now. The money was in his hands. Now he could relax.

Over the next few days Stephen tried to concentrate on work - something that had gradually drifted away from his thoughts since his first meeting with Lindqvist. For starters, he resolved to get into the office early and work late for at least the next couple of weeks. On his desk were several unfinished drafts of houses, floor plans and commercial buildings, which he hadn't touched for at least a month and he wanted to complete them before the beginning of July. He had to impress his boss if there was any hope of getting an extension on his apprenticeship so he wouldn't have to go back to North America.

But the harder he tried to concentrate on work, the less he got done. All he could think about was his Bristol experience, the sheer ecstasy of it all. If only he could build on it. Then maybe he'd be free of boredom and drudgery forever. Architecture was dry and needlessly complex. His projects were going nowhere, and even if they weren't, he couldn't see the purpose of finishing them. His office looked like a place where other people worked, a place where _he_ didn't belong or fit in. His co-workers were fake and transparent, interested only in material gain and climbing the company ladder. Smarmy, underhanded ass-kissers! He wouldn't have been surprised if they were talking about him right then and there behind an office door. Oddly, before his Bristol experience, he used to get along with them all quite well. But now that he saw the world from a new, more transcendent perspective, he could readily see through their rice-paper façade; it was even becoming impossible to stand in the same room with them. They were little more than flat projections on paper, not too different from the floor plans they so carefully protracted every day. They said people eventually became their jobs after working at them long enough, so was this what was in store for him if he stuck to the same career path for the rest of his life? It was as though they existed in only two dimensions and had long ago ceased being anything remotely resembling human. One day, a few days before the dinner meeting at Lindqvist's, Stephen decided to amuse himself by cataloguing in detail in a notebook the faults of each of his co-workers. They were like the sorts of characters you'd see in an Australian soap opera - contrived, shallow, greedy, and worst of all, frightfully dull. Stephen could accept almost any shortcoming if was at least pulled off with a bit of panache, but there was no excuse for dullness. There was Michaelson with his brown tweed sports coats and Marks-and-Spencers penny-loafers. He was the dullest of them all, but in his puffy white shirts and black vests he seemed to think he was some sort of swarthy sword-swinging gigolo in a Dumasian mould, always boasting about his petty female conquests in the elevator on Monday morning. And Patricia: meticulous, fastidious, exact. Stephen pictured her gluing each hair individually into place every morning before she bussed into work. She kept track of her daily spending down to the fifteen pence she'd spend on a donut at tea. She was probably even keeping track of _his_ working hours in a little black booklet so if he ever got on her wrong side she could take it to the boss and ruin his career.

As though by synchronicity the very next day he came in ten minutes late and found a note from Patricia placed rudely on the top of his desk, concrete proof he had been right to doubt her. The note was a curt reminder to hand in his report from the meeting in Bristol. It was already a week late and although Williams, one of his two managers, hadn't yet said anything about it, he was usually the type to remain quiet until a situation was almost irreparably out of hand. Since she was in a meeting when Stephen found the note, he crumpled it up and tossed it on her desktop. But only a few minutes later she stepped out of the meeting with an anorexic frown on her face and a stack of papers cribbed between in her arms. She exhaled a loud sigh of frustration and let the papers drop on her desk, clearly sending the message that the pile was too heavy for her and he should have helped her carry them.

When she found the crumpled note on her desk she read it and quickly tossed it in the trashcan.

She turned to Stephen and glowered. "Williams says he wants to see you."

"What? You mean now?" Stephen said with sudden concern.

"Yes. Immediately. You haven't written the report yet. It's overdue."

"It's almost finished," he lied.

"Did you get my note?"

"What note?"

"The one I just threw in the garbage."

"No. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Who crumpled it up, then?"

"I don't know. I just got in."

She raised her eyebrows in an expression of disgust and then started searching through some documents in her drawer.

"Anyway," she said with a tone of reproval, "Williams wants to see you, so you'd better go to his office."

Stephen went to the bathroom and fixed his hair. Like Henderson, the second in command at the firm, Williams was very formal and always noticed even the slightest hint of a bad attitude. When Stephen was satisfied he looked presentable he walked down the hall and knocked on his door. Williams opened the door, a slim cigar hanging out of his mouth. "Come in, come in," he said cordially. They shook hands. "Sit down. Please. Sit down. It's not often I get a chance to talk to our best young people."

Stephen thanked him for his compliment and sat down.

"I heard from Henderson that your trip was a success," Williams continued, stretching back in his chair and brushing back his silver-grey hair.

"Yes. I'm sorry I haven't filed a full report yet."

"Oh, don't worry about that. For now you should get on with other things. The important thing was that you made a good impression on both Bernoulli and the Germans. Hand in the report when you get time - in a few weeks will do. You need to get some experience working on some real world projects. That's what the internship program is all about."

It was perfect, thought Stephen. It would give him a chance to concentrate on the art theft without having to worry about deadlines. Stephen went on to describe in as full a detail as possible what he thought was important about the meeting with the Germans and how he thought the merger would effect the company.

Williams was so impressed he gave Stephen the rest of the afternoon off to think about how he could contribute to some of the firm's hottest new projects. "You're our best young man," Williams said as he shook Stephen's hand at the end of the half-hour meeting. Stephen was surprised, but wasn't about to complain. On the way out Stephen passed Patricia's desk and grinned victoriously.

"Where are _you_ going?" she barbed him

"Afternoon off. See you later."

Patricia shook her head in disbelief.

When Stephen left the building the sun was pouring over the stone tenements and reflecting in glittering rubies off the deep red enamels of the double-decker busses. It was a lovely day. Everything was in its perfect place, he thought. Everything was _finally_ in place. As he entered Hyde Park he took a deep breath, holding it in for almost twenty seconds before exhaling.

He was alive at last.

## 3. THE DEVIANT REVEALED

## I

Lindqvist's house stood at the end of a cul de sac in some dank enclave of northeast London that looked as though it was once inhabited by an affluent class now long since passed their prime, having slipped gracefully over many generations into a lazy state of decay and, in many cases, borderline poverty. Linquist's front yard was large, but not lavish, hemmed in by a row of carefully trimmed neck-high bushes that lined either side of the main sidewalk. Clumps of moss sprang up between the cracks of the bare stone steps ascending gracefully to the front door. The house - a _petit_ mansion of sorts - was constructed out of worn brick, painted white except for the gray trim around the bay windows, and the bevelled stone arch over the front door clearly dated from the Victorian period. The roof was covered with crumbling ceramic tiles, several of which protruded a few inches beyond the draining troughs. Extending outwards from the left side of the house and opening up into a garden in the back was a large stone patio finished with carefully painted porcelain tiles which Stephen guessed were Moorish in origin.

Stephen knocked several times before the door finally opened. A young maid greeted him and took his jacket. She could have been either French or Belgian judging from her accent and coarse, voluptuous lips. She promptly escorted him into the central foyer where Stephen could suddenly discern the sound of Lindqvist coughing from somewhere deeper in the house.

"You're a little early," she said. "But, not to worry. I'll fetch him if you don't mind waiting. He's just in the library." She smiled apologetically before disappearing down the corridor.

While Stephen waited he admired the fluid contours of the varnished wood staircase coiling upwards to his left. The floors were also elegant, constructed from a combination of six different types of tile that fit together to form repeating patterns that spanned from base board to base board all the way down the hall. A wrought iron chandelier depended grandly from above and the ceiling curved seamlessly down into the almond-white walls. A clock chimed six times and Stephen adjusted his watch accordingly.

He let out a muffled sneeze into his fist and the maid returned to invite him in. He followed her down a long narrow corridor past three closed doors into what appeared to be either a study or conservatory. Lindqvist was seated on an antique red velvet couch with carved teak armrests. He looked like a statesman from another era in his elegant smoking jacket and black riding pants.

"It's so good to see you," Linquist said. "Always a pleasure to host such exacting company. Please have a seat."

Stephen sat down in the chair beside the couch.

"Port? Sherry?" he asked. "Or perhaps a little whiskey?"

"Whiskey would be fine."

"Scotch, Irish, Canadian, or American?"

"American?"

"Oh, you must forgive me. I guess you call it Bourbon on the other side of the Atlantic."

"Oh, of course," Stephen paused in a mixture of admiration and awe, his gaze fixed on the oriental carpet on the floor. "Some scotch would be fine, thank you."

"I have some delightful Islay single malt. I think you should find it satisfactory. I see you noticed the carpet. A fine piece. It used to be displayed in the Victoria and Albert Museum back in the forties. It must be worth a small fortune, but I've never bothered to have it appraised."

"And what about the house?"

Lindqvist appeared touched by Stephen's question, smiling eagerly as he poured the musty golden fluid into a sparkling tumbler. "Victorian. As Victorian as they come. I bought it from a modest old woman a few years ago. It was the best thing I ever did. The garden is constructed in an unusual rhombus shape, surrounded at the front by a stone wall and at the back by a tall iron gate with entrances at each vertex. The original owner apparently had it designed hoping that one day he would be able to seduce the woman of his dreams inside."

"Did he ever succeed?"

"Unfortunately not. He slid into depression, became ill and died of pneumonia soon after he found she had married another man. The house then fell into the hands of his sister who passed it on to her daughter. And that's who I bought it from."

"I like the front arch. It's quite a rare style, but distinctively Victorian - the shape is a dead give away."

"You know, Stephen, just as an aside, it's so rare that I entertain a young and vigorous intellect like yourself. It is most certainly a pleasure."

"The pleasure's mine." Stephen smiled uncomfortably as he sipped the thick pungent fluid from his glass.

"Do you like philosophy?"

"I took a few courses as an undergraduate."

"It seems to me that Man is defeated before he even begins. Science is a grandiose failure because it confines itself to the analysis and evaluation of the very Nature that it hopes to transcend, thus undermining its own position by making it impossible to achieve its goal. It is flawed in its very premise. Conquering Nature with thought is the same as enslaving thought in Nature. The scientist is hence chained to Nature, incarcerated in its coarse and twisted laws. Even the mathematician is in error, because all of his equations are the product of his brain, which itself is subject to the same physical laws that govern all matter. The main question then, upon which everything rests, is whether or not thought has an existence independent of matter. If so, then the mathematician is a slave to thought itself, hopelessly embroiled in its own abstract laws."

"If that's true, then man has no freedom at all," said Stephen. "In one case he's the slave to nature and in the other, he's a slave to his thoughts." He'd heard it all before from five-and-dime philosophers in McGill University cafés.

"Very good. _We're so much alike_. What confuses me is that one can prove that Man is a spectator in the world of Nature and thought, even if thought is merely a function of Nature, but I still feel that I am free to decide what to think and where to walk. It is as if Nature has given us a canvass, a frame, and a palette, and we can color in what we want. But does this really make us free? This is my major dilemma...Man's basic question: how free is a prisoner behind bars?"

"Free to escape. A man's always free to escape. It's his right."

"Assuming, of course that it is possible. And what if he's shot? Has he chosen his own death? That's hardly what can be considered free."

"Yes, but perhaps what you consider freedom is only a concept, itself subject to the physical laws of the brain."

"That's tacitly assumed from the start," Linqvist said sharply. "Please, don't take me for a fool." He took a languorous sip of port and sank back into his chair. The sound of a police siren whined from somewhere in the blackness of the night.

Stephen raised his gaze from his glass to the ceiling. The stuccoed plaster seemed to possess a life all its own. It had valleys, gullies, ridges, and troughs. Some parts inhabited regions of covered in shadow, while others were lit by the yellowish light of the chandelier hanging neatly over the center of the room.

Just then The Fat Man stumbled into the room, his wife hovering helplessly behind him - almost invisible in the wake of such a surly and daunting presence. A pasty grin broke across his face as he flicked the ashes of his cigar onto the Persian carpet beneath him.

"Don't you have any ash trays in this place?" he complained with a burp. "We're a little late because Rachel's been a bit sick and we had to take a few detours to get some medicine. It's so blasted expensive."

"If you could be so kind." Lindqvist handed him a jade ashtray from the table beside him. The Fat Man walked over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka. Then he fished out a can of warm beer from his coat pocket, opened it and poured in the vodka until it overflowed. He licked the foam off the sides of the can, raised it in the air and proceeded to chug down its entire contents.

"Have you seen Singleton?" asked Lindqvist.

"He's with that little mincer. What's his name? You know."

"Miné," said Rachel. "Can't you remember anything?" She swooned and sank down to her knees.

"Oh, yes," said Lindqvist. "Miné. I almost forgot." He turned to Stephen. "You haven't met him yet. He's going to help you in a few areas. You'll find him wonderful company. We felt that you might benefit from the luxury of a special colleague in this fascinating little endeavor of ours. He's well acquainted with the trade and may be of assistance if anything goes awry. But we're going to make sure we never get to that point, aren't we?" He winked at Stephen as though to reassure him that everything was under control.

"What the..." The Fat Man looked over his shoulder to see his wife passed out next to the curtain, clutching onto its golden frills like a child holding a security blanket. "Birds. They're good for nothing." He opened another beer and poured it down her shirt until she stirred.

"Where am I?" asked Rachel, a rapt and vacant smile on her face. "I must be in heaven. Everything looks so wonderful. So much light. So many clouds. I can't wait to see my first angel."

"You're not in blasted heaven, you stinking whore. You're at Lindqvist's house and you just had five pints of cider down at the local to go with the half bottle of cough syrup you took this afternoon for your cold. Now get up and stop embarrassing me."

"Oh, glory, be! It's a cherub. I really am in heaven." Rachel's eyes sparkled like starlight.

"I'm not a bloody cherub, you old cow."

She rubbed her eyes and looked again. She shrieked.

"Oh, my God. I never thought the cherubim could be so ugly. Is this some kind of joke?" She shrunk back in horror.

The Fat Man's face burst like a boil as she stood up precariously, balancing herself just barely by holding on tightly to the curtain, which looked like it was about to collapse, rod and all, under the strain of her weight.

"Help me, somebody. There's a wicked angel on my cloud."

"Get some sense, woman!" The Fat Man hollered. Just then she fainted again, collapsing on the floor, the curtain spread across her like a sheet.

Lindqvist rushed over and pulled the curtain away protectively. "These are the finest Kashmiri silk! I can't invite you anywhere," he snapped, glaring angrily into The Fat Man's eyes. "This is disgusting. Don't you have any manners?"

"She's bloody well sick you fascist. What kind of a host are you anyway, you should be calling the doctor if you had any class. Besides, manners were invented by the rich and privileged to make their slaves feel inferior." Lindqvist walked across the room in a huff and rang the bell on the far wall to summon the maid.

The door opened and The Seducer walked in followed by Lindquist's maid and a diminutive North African man with long, flowing hair and smoothly bronzed skin. He was dressed in a pair of baggy cotton pants and black tee shirt sprinkled with shiny green flakes. His slender feet were wrapped in a pair of light brown leather sandals and the scent of perfume wafted through the door as he stepped fastidiously over Rachel's body towards the sofa. The Seducer shook his head in apparent amusement and took a seat on the couch. The effeminate man, who looked like he was on the younger side of twenty, smiled at Stephen coyly, his shoulder leaning against the doorframe.

"This, my good man, is my Algerian accomplice Miné," announced Lindqvist. Stephen stood up and shook the Algerian's hand lightly. He had supple, almost feminine palms and his fingers passed over Stephen's wrist as he loosened his grip.

"Pleased to meet you," said Stephen.

"I've heard a lot about you," Miné replied in a deep musical voice, which seemed to flow from his mouth like a stream of warm honey. The Seducer curled his lip wryly as he picked with his thumbnail at a dirty-white bandage wrapped around his finger.

"We were detained at Regent's Park for an hour by a couple of cops," The Seducer explained. "They thought they recognized Miné from some drug bust and questioned us down at the station. When we finally got out, the train was late and we missed our connection."

"Not to worry, said Lindqvist. "My wonderful cook has prepared a marvellous feast, which has only been awaiting your arrival to begin. Please, follow Angela into the dining hall while I change into my dinner attire."

"It's about bleedin' time," The Fat Man grumbled.

"That reminds me - I should have introduced Angela earlier, she has been my maid for almost three years now."

Lindqvist left the room and they followed the maid down the corridor, through the main foyer, and down a second corridor until they reached a spacious room, a long oak table dominating the center. Fine crystal wine glasses and hand-painted antique china glittered in the light of the chandelier. There was no tablecloth, but each of the six places was set with a different embroidered place mat. They took their seats, The Fat Man claiming the head of the table with Stephen taking the seat directly to his right and Miné sitting down across from Stephen and to The Fat Man's left. The Seducer pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table and picked up his wine glass. He stared into it with calm, mesmerized eyes as though into a crystal ball.

"So, Stevie-boy's never met Miné," The Fat Man blurted. "He takes his ass very seriously. Very bleeding seriously. It's his business."

"I do take it very seriously. It's my business. I'd be lost without it," repeated Miné without a trace of shame, as he swivelled his hips sensuously in his chair.

"He _peddles_ it on the street, Stevie-boy. You got that? It's his business." The Fat Man grinned menacingly at Stephen as he spoke. Stephen stared down at the table to avoid his gaze. "This is only rumor or course, but I hear he takes it so bleeding seriously he's got at least twelve creams and seventeen powders to keep it smooth and firm. And I say _bleeding seriously_ because when those Lords and Ministers give it to him up the chute there's always a little blood that dribbles out, isn't there? Like honey from the _bleeding_ hive \- and that's _hive_ with a capital H, I and V I'm talking about."

"That's enough, you stupid baboon," Miné snapped. "Business is business and pleasure is pleasure. Let's just drop all this taunting and just enjoy ourselves." He turned his head to Stephen. "And what do you do?"

"I'm an architect."

Stephen looked into Miné's eyes and just then he became aware of the dull drone of an invisible water heater. It seemed to posit a menacing counter-world of resolve, absolution and perfection, standing in stark contrast to the scene laid out before him.

"Singleton tells me we're going to be together for a while on this heist, so it's best we learn a little about each other."

A bell sounded from outside the door and Lindqvist marched into the room. He had changed into what appeared to be a Swedish officer's uniform. His lapels were flat and crisp and an impressive collection of badges were pinned across the left breast. His boots smelled strongly of polish and his beard was neatly trimmed. He sat down between Stephen and The Seducer and lifted up the glass to propose a toast, but his arm dropped when he realized that all the glasses were empty.

"My apologies." He summoned Angela, who quickly returned with three bottles of wine. She filled all of the glasses generously and Lindqvist smiled grandly. "I'd like to propose a toast to the success of this, our most ambitious project yet. To the perfect crime!"

The Fat Man, who was still glaring at Miné, lifted his glass into the air like a hunting horn and drained it in a single gulp. He burst out laughing and the others, sensing the tension had been broken, followed accordingly.

"I think this is going to be the beginning of something special," affirmed Miné, his eyes shining like tiny dark pools.

"The destruction of art," added Lindqvist. "The decimation of all aesthetic imperatives in the service of pure unadulterated revolt. I can't think of anything more splendid."

Angela walked in carrying an intricately carved silver tray with contoured floral patterns festooning across the surface. On the tray were six silver bowls of French Onion soup arranged in a perfect hexagon. She set them on the table one by one, as she gracefully rounded the table.

"This looks wonderful," Stephen said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" The Fat Man sneered. "This is damn crap. That's what it is. There's no meat, no potatoes, just this lump of cheese floating in this pissy little broth. Or maybe it's _Whale Piss Florentino_ for our friend here Singleton, and we should all be gaping in awe at such fine culinary delights."

"Be quiet, you big pumpkin," Miné remonstrated as he held his spoon blithely in the air. "When I used to live in Paris, onion soup is all we ate. One must acquire a taste for the simple subtleties of life."

"I hate fucking subtleties. They're the work of the French. They want to invade our culture. Infiltrate it with subtleties. A conspiracy against the hard working Englishman. Detestable."

"Why?"

"Shut up, you bender."

The Fat Man's remark leaned for a moment, dark and shadow-like, across the room, but was quickly vanquished by the light of Miné's eyes. It seemed there was no insult or indignity he couldn't brush away with a smile. Stephen tried to gauge what the Algerian's childhood must have been like. Perhaps his parents abandoned him when he was young, and he spent years on the streets of Paris living the life of a male prostitute, and like someone who has nothing, he learned to appreciate - and even embrace - everything.

Over the next few minutes they nursed their soup with quiet downcast eyes, with the exception of The Fat Man, who gurgled loudly as he sucked it out of his bowl.

"Not as bad as I thought. But perhaps you could give us a little more next time," he said as he wiped his mouth on his cuff. "If there's one thing I hate its bloody _nouveau cuisine_ \- you need tweezers and a microscope just to eat the overpriced trash."

"I'm sorry there wasn't enough, but I'm sure you'll be more than satisfied with the next course." Lindqvist gestured to the maid, who shuffled quickly out of the room, her apron string flowing flirtatiously behind her.

Ten minutes later she brought in the next course: a fresh, expansive Waldorf salad. This was quickly followed by roast goose with cranberry and Pernod sauce, the large silver platter garnished with turnips, asparagus, potatoes, wild rice, and truffles. The Fat Man roared in appreciation as Angela set it on the table before them and in a strange way Stephen thought he looked like Santa Claus as he carved himself a large and dripping slice from the top of the breast.

"Now we're talking. This is what The Fat Man likes to see."

Then the door opened and Rachel stepped in with passive reluctant eyes, now apparently more sober, her hair wet and dishevelled, and her dress soaked and torn at the shoulder.

"I'm so sorry that you had to start without me. And my dress is torn! What an embarrassment I must be." She bowed with contrition.

"Not at all," said Lindquist. "You seemed to have fainted and we thought that you'd appreciate a little rest. You're most certainly welcome to join us."

Lindqvist gestured to the empty place setting between Miné and The Seducer. She avoided meeting eyes with her husband as she pulled out the chair to sit down. Her dress split even more as her rear end spread out onto the wooden seat beneath her.

They ate in almost ritual silence for the next half hour. Every now and then Miné would turn to Stephen and smile. Stephen would respond by smiling back and then politely resuming his meal. But there was something about the incessant gaze of The Seducer that made him uncomfortable. Whenever Stephen looked across the table, he quickly averted his glance because The Seducer's eyes always seemed glued in his direction. Stephen was sure he was being scrutinized. As dinner went on, Stephen slowly grew impatient. When were they going to discuss the plans so he could get out and grab a pint or catch a show downtown? The sooner the better, as far as he was concerned. He kept looking at his watch as the minutes rolled by with the seeming urgency of an old mill.

Finally, dessert was served. It was German chocolate cake and Stephen declined. He was already too stuffed and opted for just a coffee. But The Fat Man was ecstatic and had at least four slices by Stephen's count.

"I'm glad you like it," said Lindqvist appreciatively.

"Like it? This, you fool, is heaven."

After dessert, the maid brought out some cognac in large glasses the shape of flower bulbs. It came from Linqvist's private stock, which he boasted he only tapped on the most special occasions.

"The last time I indulged was before I moved here," said Lindqvist. "A wedding, I believe it was." He smiled munificently and urged everyone to pour themselves a second glass. "No. Now I remember. It wasn't a wedding at all. It was a celebration in honor of a retiring art historian in Stockholm. Wilhelm Sundin. A specialist in the Northern Renaissance, Dürer in particular. His erudition was incredible, but we often disagreed about the influence of Rubens in post-Napoleonic art.

When the Fat Man finished his glass he belched in satisfaction and collapsed, white-faced in a heap, his head resting neatly in the center of his plate.

"Oh, the poor dear," said Rachel, seemingly more animated in the reassuring knowledge that she was now not the only one to have fallen unconscious. "And I forgot to bring my smelling salts." She rummaged through her purse.

She finally produced a handkerchief and wiped the cake crumbs off his face.

"He looks so cuddly with his mouth shut and eyes closed," she said, "almost like a baby walrus."

"He looks more dead to me," The Seducer muttered ironically, a warm aura radiating from his face.

"Wait, what was that?" she said, her eyes only inches from The Fat Man's face. "He's saying something in his sleep. I wonder what it could be." She huddled up next to him and cupped her hand beside her ear to listen. The others looked on in curious disbelief as she tried to decipher his mumblings. Then, after several minutes of hushed silence, she turned to Lindqvist and Miné. She batted her eyelashes and whispered: "He thinks he's in Disneyland being chased by the Devil. He says the Devil looks like Donald Duck, except he has horns."

"Astonishing," Lindqvist remarked. "What a brilliant image. I wish I'd thought of it first. He obviously associates evil with childhood." He raised his arm and leaned back. "This is definitely publishable material." He nodded his head emphatically and took a long draw from his pipe.

"Wait. He's saying something else."

"What is it?" asked Stephen.

"Wait. It can't be. Yes...yes, it is. He thinks he's talking to the Devil and he's asking him if there's any bitter in Hell."

Miné shook his head in disbelief as he played with the shiny braids that streamed from the back of his head, his eyes fixed upon the bizarre scene before him.

"Oh my God," Rachel exclaimed. "He's frightened and angry. He just punched the Devil in the bill because he told him that Hell didn't allow drinking of any sort."

"Not even port?" Lindqvist's eyebrows tightened in horror. "What a travesty. Any self-respecting establishment serves port. What kind of slapdash place are they running down there? Tell him to complain to the manager immediately."

The Fat Man's body suddenly lurched and his head popped up like a jack-in-the-box. He opened his eyes and groggily looked at Rachel.

"Bollocks! Bollocks! They can't. Those bastards. There's no bitter. _No_ bitter in Hell. Not even bloody _Tetley's_ I'll show them. I'll tear his blasted beak off." He reeled around desperately like a frightened animal and slammed his fist into the table. Beads of sweat sprayed across the room as he swung his head around to look at Stephen. The Seducer laughed so hard he fell backwards on his chair.

"It's only a dream, dear," Rachel reassured him. "Calm down, calm down."

"Does he always have such bad dreams?" asked Stephen.

"Perhaps we should go, I think he's had enough," said Rachel contritely.

"I'll call a cab," offered Miné.

"No need. I'll summon Angela." Lindqvist left the room and called down the hall.

The Fat Man slowly regained his senses after he gulped down a glass of water that Miné had brought him. Stephen remained motionless in his chair waiting for The Fat Man to provide the next cue.

"It was dog's bollocks terrifying. The Devil was Donald Duck. He had horns and was followed by a bunch of fairies with flaming heads and stingers. He said I was next. I ran and ran, but wherever I went he was there with his thin ducky face and small ducky eyes. He said there wasn't no bitter in hell. No booze at all, in fact. So, then I bopped him one in his fat bill and then he started prodding me with his big fork thing." He waved his hands about frantically as he spoke, drooling on the table in front of him.

Rachel left the room and returned a moment later with his coat. She draped it around his hulking shoulders and started pulling him towards the door. "The maid says that the cab is already here, dearie, so we ought to go."

"No bitter. It was horrible. I can still smell his hot, ducky breath. It was like old tuna fish."

At first he resisted her beckoning, but he soon succumbed. In his unusual state of distress it was as though he had become like a frightened skittish child.

After The Fat Man and Rachel left, Lindqvist returned to the dining room and invited the remaining guests into the conservatory to discuss in detail the plans for the impending theft. The Seducer declined and gathered his raincoat and umbrella.

"I have another engagement this evening," he said. "But that shouldn't be a problem since we've already agreed on a plan, haven't we?" He winked at Lindqvist. "If there are any changes, just fill me in later." He rubbed his knuckles together and walked out into the foyer. Buttoning up his jacket, he set off into the cold murky evening.

Lindqvist closed the door and returned to the living room. Stephen and Miné quickly followed and the three men sat down. Lindquist turned on an old radio that was sitting on a small wooden side table. According to the news, visibility was dangerously low and there was a weather warning in effect. Heathrow was backed up for at least another twelve hours and the air traffic had to be re-routed to Gatwick and Manchester. The situation was further exacerbated in London by the earlier terrorist attacks which had forced the emergency closing of several major stations. Victoria and Piccadilly Circus were both under police patrol until further notice and the entire Circle Line was out of operation. People were advised to stay inside, and if they absolutely had to go out to use the bus service instead of the Underground. As far as Stephen could tell it was going to be a long night.

## II

As Stephen peered through the window out into the darkness, distant headlights smeared across the quiet black city like thousands of tiny galaxies floating through a midnight sky, he wondered if the Seducer had noticed anything different about him since their last meeting. Was there something in Stephen's gestures and manner that had changed since his experiences in Bristol that the mysterious sailor may have detected? And if so, had a new connection been established between them that would continue to unfold as the lead up to the theft progressed? Stephen toyed with the disturbing notion that in some arcane metaphysical way the Seducer had somehow projected a nest of derelict thoughts and images into his mind, the first concrete manifestation of which was his dream, and that only now were they beginning to emerge in all their glory from their dark cocoon. Soon, the traffic lights seemed to wink out in unison and all Stephen could see was a faint shadow smeared against the yellow cone etched into the fog by a distant streetlight. He closed the curtain and turned to Miné and Lindqvist, who were quietly standing behind him.

"Shall we relocate to the conservatory?" asked Lindqvist.

Stephen and Miné followed Lindqvist into a chilly and poorly lit room situated at the back of the house. Stephen took a seat in a wicker chair beside an old bookcase. An antique globe stood in the center of the room and several empty brass birdcages hung from the ceiling.

"The family who used to own this house took pride in their birds. Since I've lived here, however, I've been too preoccupied to revive them, but one day I'll get around to it." Lindqvist took a seat in an arm chair next to Stephen and motioned for Miné, who was admiring a set of old maps hanging on the North wall, to come and join them.

"There's so much space in this room," Miné marvelled as he walked across the room. "Lush, beautiful space!" He sat down in a third chair beside them.

Lindqvist smiled and lit his pipe. "Yes, the high ceilings give it a certain sense of volume which you rarely find in more modern structures. Perhaps Stephen can comment."

"It's such an original construction," replied Stephen. "There's just no money anymore for novelty. Everything these days is prefab. Nobody takes pride in their houses. Especially in North America."

"An astute observation, indeed! This is the age of mass production and consumption where ideas are only valuable if they represent tangible profit margins."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said Miné, moving his arms about elastic fluidity as he spoke, "but I think this room could benefit from a little velour or crushed velvet. I've got a friend..."

"I eschew the use of velour in all of its facets," Lindqvist protested. "Velour is the very hallmark of the kind of fake aristocratic decadence you find in low-class brothels, and for this very reason must be abolished!"

"Well, I'm sorry," said Miné. "I guess there's no accounting for taste."

Lindqvist spread out his arms and stood up sharply. Then he marched over to a cabinet on the south wall and unlocked it. "I must apologize. I only have an old bottle of Madeira to offer you." He poured three glasses and brought them over to a side table situated in the center of the triangle defined by the three chairs. They sipped and contemplated the sweet musty fluid for several minutes until Lindqvist took a deep almost ceremonial breath, as though to signal he had just arisen from the depths of thought to communicate some new profundity to the world.

"Now, about our little plan. I've been thinking for several weeks on how to best execute the actual theft. Miné has been helpful in doing some secret investigations for us that we originally hoped you might help out with. Since you didn't seem so sure at first, we decided to get some help from elsewhere while you made up your mind. Miné was perfect."

Stephen adjusted his cuff and took a long sip of his Madeira. He felt a tingling sensation move up his legs as he stretched out his feet in the direction of the table.

"There's a private collector in London whose collection is rumored to own several major works, including ones by Dubuffet, Cézanne, and Goya. His name is Bottomly and he lives in a fortified West London mansion during the summer. He spends his winters in Madrid. Miné posed as an aspiring young artist and attended several major parties in order to get invited to a more intimate gathering inside his house."

"I went to an opening at a private gallery and introduced myself to another artist," Miné said, now assuming the reigns of the conversation. "Wadsworth was his name and his works have recently been embraced by Bottomly and his circle of critics. I claimed to be a student of a well-respected Parisian art school who was just visiting London for a few months. I talked to Wadsworth for almost half an hour before he invited me to a party at one of his friend's houses. There I met Bottomly."

"And they believed you?"

"They had no reason to doubt me. I picked up a lot from years of living on the streets of Paris. I dropped a few names. Jim Dine. Jasper Johns. Even Anthony Carro. The secret is that you have to malign all of the big names. Then people start thinking you know something they don't. It gets under their skin and they feel threatened. Then they all want to get to know you better so they can find a way to expose you and prove that you really don't know a damn thing. Then they can let the cat out of the bag and tell everybody how much of a bullshit artist you really are. For example, I told Bottomly that Carro was outdated because of his dogmatic use of negative curvature. Boy, did that piss him off. But that was only the start. Then I boasted that I was part of a new coterie of punk artists from the Algerian ghettos of Paris. I told him we ate cold ramen from rusty soup cans and painted day glow Madonnas on Rolls Royce hubcaps with our dicks. Metaphorically speaking, we pissed on Stella before dinner and spread Rothko on our bread for breakfast.

"By the end of the evening, after hours of arguing about the relative merits of this or that art school, I had him completely convinced that I was the key member of a new group of radical artists living in abject poverty in the streets of Paris, blowing smoke rings of malaise into the faces of all the biggest critics in France. Then, just as I predicted, he gave me his card and expressed interest in seeing me again."

"He must've been putting you on," Stephen said incredulously. "If he's as big as Lindqvist says, he must be in touch with all the latest art developments. I mean, don't you think he would've been at least a bit suspicious about the fact that he'd never heard of this new art movement of yours?"

"Yes, of course. But it was precisely that suspicion that whetted his curiosity. I told him that we were as yet unaccomplished in the gallery scene and were planning our first assault on the art world in September. Our first show would be staged on the roof of the Louvre and nobody would be invited. That way it would have even more impact. I told him we had already started posting graffiti all over Paris reading 'By Invite Only' yet we weren't planning on sending out any invitations at all! That way only the police would show up in response to a few local complaint calls. They'd force us off the roof and then we'd be famous. The first art show busted before any guests arrived. _Il faut jeter un bomb_.

"He was captivated and invited me to his party the next week. No doubt, he just wants to prove to himself that our imaginary coterie is composed of little more than arrogant frauds and talentless poseurs so he can sleep better. After all, he must find it disturbing that such an extreme underground movement is blossoming right under his nose without him ever having heard of it."

"Humanity is feeble and vain," Lindqvist suddenly proclaimed in the tone of a math professor concluding the derivation of some grand equation. He filled up the glasses of Madeira and then coughed lightly into his fist.

"So, what did you find out at his party?" asked Stephen.

"I was surrounded by too many people for most of the time, but I managed to memorize the layout of the main floor and reproduce it on a napkin in the bathroom."

"Brilliant," said Lindqvist. "That's exactly what we need. Only those capable of strokes of pure genius have the right to tread the road to ritual theft and the destruction of art!"

"There's very little to worry about once you get behind the outer security system. The paintings are kept in a private gallery on the second floor. Bottomly was kind enough to treat us to a short viewing, but I wasn't able to map out the rest of the second floor. The main problem, as far as I could tell, is distracting the guards for long enough to get inside."

"Don't worry," exclaimed Lindqvist. "With the details you gave me yesterday, I was able to devise a flawless plan of attack. Duplicity. That's the key to any great crime."

"And that's exactly how I got the information," Miné added.

"So what is this plan, then?" asked Stephen.

"At 12:36 a.m. a train passes near Bottomly's house. The loud rumble will be enough to distract the dogs guarding his lawn. According to our investigations, the dogs always bark for about a minute when the train roars by. So, even if the dogs see you, Bottomly won't suspect anything unusual is going on. While the train is passing Singleton will plant a bomb on the south wall as a decoy. He's had extensive experience in the Navy and calculated that it should only take him about two minutes at the most. Exactly twenty-nine minutes later the explosion will go off."

"Why twenty-nine?"

"A random prime number I picked out of a hat. The more chaos, the better."

"But the explosion will only attract the cops," Stephen said doubtfully.

"Precisely," exclaimed Lindqvist. "They will arrive shortly after they've either heard it themselves or been notified by Bottomly or one of his neighbors. And this is where my - or should I say _our_ \- unique genius comes in. We already know that area is serviced by a precinct about two blocks away, and that there are normally only six officers on duty after midnight, since it's a relatively crime-free district. Half an hour before the explosion, Eckermann and Singleton will drug the police officers with sleeping gas. Then they'll switch into the officer's uniforms and be manning the precinct when the bomb goes off. When they get to the scene of the explosion, they'll file a complete report and escort Bottomly over to their car. Then, while Singleton is pretending to radio the headquarters, Eckermann will gain entry to the house under the pretext of needing to use the facilities. There, he'll quickly dismantle the alarm device connected to the outer wall and replace it with an identical replica. This is necessary, because his doors use sophisticated voice recognition technology in place of keys. The doors can be picked easily, but the alarm needs to be shut down. Later, once Bottomly is convinced that everything is under control, officers Eckermann and Singleton will return to the station, where you and Miné will be waiting in the guise of policemen. Then, a full hour later, you can return to the mansion with Miné and he will pick the lock. Bottomly uses sleeping pills, so you don't have to worry about waking him up. As you are picking the lock, Singleton and Eckermann will gas the dogs to make sure you'll be able to enter in complete stealth. There will be no security alarm, no dogs, and no police. The true image of perfection!"

"What about the video cameras in the gallery?" asked Miné.

"Let them roll. The lights will be off and they'd never be able to tell who you are anyway when they review the footage. Besides, wouldn't it be nice to see your silhouettes in cameo on the evening news? It will only add to the high art of the crime for it to be recorded on film!"

"I don't think it will work," Stephen objected. "I think the chances of gassing an entire precinct without being caught would be pretty remote. What if they are spotted before they have a chance to gas the place? What if other precincts call over by radio and suspect something? I think it would be a lot better if we just leave the cops alone. Let them come to the explosion and investigate. When they leave, _then_ Singleton and Eckermann can come dressed as police, claiming that they've come for further questioning. That'll give them the chance to disconnect the alarm so we can move in later."

"Hmm, perhaps you're right," mused Lindqvist as he pulled on the end of his beard.

"But there's one strange thing about all this that I just don't understand," Stephen continued. "What's going to happen to the paintings after you steal them? Let's just say you get too eager for divinity, so to speak, and chose to destroy them as soon as you get your hands on them? What would be in it for the others? I guess what I'm getting at is why they'd even want to help you when as far as I can see there's nothing in it for them? At least I am getting some money out of it."

"I'm paying everyone a negotiated sum out of my own pocket. As for the paintings, I may destroy them immediately, or I may postpone my exaltation and save the pleasure for later in life. Divinity is such a serious issue, my good man!"

"What if I choose to destroy them first?" Miné asked, his eyebrow raised flippantly as he swirled the Madeira around in his glass.

Lindqvist smiled wisely. "Then so be it. It's only natural that the actual thief would want a say in determining the destiny of the object of theft. However, if you do decide to destroy a few, let me be there to witness the beatitudes of the moment. Perhaps a pair of shining wings will sprout out of your back!"

Miné burst into a rich, profluent laughter as he adjusted the brass bracelet around his wrist. "I was just curious. I don't want to spoil your fun, so I'll save them all for you. But I still don't understand why destroying the paintings is such a big deal."

"Let me explain it one more time," said Lindqvist. "It's important that you understand. If you don't understand, then it sullies the abstract beauty of the crime and in this case we might just as well let a bunch of thugs do it instead. You see, art is a sick and lying child. It presents an ideal of beauty, or ugliness in the case of the moderns – and this ugliness is really only beauty in disguise as far as I'm concerned \- and holds it menacingly above the observer. 'Follow me,' it says, 'into my inner world of beauty, leave your workaday lives behind, for they have no meaning. Only I possess true meaning.' And this is a lie. There is no beauty beyond the drabness of the day-to-day. Art is nothing but a crazed siren, luring the unwary into the depths of despair. Therefore, the highest moral responsibility of man, one that can ultimately sanctify his life, is the pure defilement of art. It's destruction and its theft are thus shining beacons on the path to enlightenment. The only true art is violence and revolt, but even then only in the abstract sense. If only one could isolate violence from the violent act, then he would be an artist greater than Titian or Rubens. That is the only true beauty."

Lindqvist looked piquantly into Miné's eyes as he rubbed his bushy eyebrows. Miné nodded his head in confused acknowledgement. "OK. I think I understand about as much as I want to," he said with resignation.

"Yes," Lindquist chimed on. "Now that I think of it, Stephen's is better. The thought of the police arriving in the flesh just hours before the actual theft is simply marvellous. Right under their noses. Just think how foolish they'll all look the next day in the paper." Lindqvist stood up precariously and hobbled towards the window as though feeling the effects of the wine.

"But, what if Bottomly insists on having police protection for the entire night after the explosion?" Miné protested. "He's likely to be shaken up after an explosion. So we might have a real cop to deal with when we get there."

"You may be right," added Stephen as he smoothed his hair back in contemplation. "We'll have to see. But it's certainly better than having an entire precinct to deal with. If Singleton and The Fat Man can gas the dogs, an extra cop should be no trouble – unless of course he has an emergency switch on his radio."

"They'll just have to gas him or shoot him. There's no way around it." Lindqvist squinted as he gazed up at the rotating blades of the ceiling fan.

"I guess there will always be a few random factors in any crime," said Miné. "But at this stage we don't even know if a cop will be there at all. So why worry so much? I say we assume there won't be one, and if we're unlucky and one actually does show up we'll just have to _ad lib_ a bit."

"Absolutely not. I won't allow it." Lindqvist glared at Miné. "This is no time for dawdling flippancy. I say we settle on two plans. The first if the place is guarded and the second if it isn't. It has to be as perfect as possible or it's not worth doing at all. I will simply _not_ tolerate sloppiness. The theft of art must be executed with the same consummate skill as its creation. You must think of yourselves as artists working on the forefront of a new and revolutionary movement. There were Surrealists, Cubists, Expressionists, and now there is a new movement spearheaded by yourself and Stephen. Your medium is theft and your tools are cunning and stealth. Together you will forge ahead on the vanguard of crime. You will be like Rubens, Velasquez, Monet, Picasso and Rodin as you leap over the wall and slip into Bottomly's unprotected gallery like a sculptor's hand into bucket of wet plaster."

Miné clapped with enthusiasm at the end of Lindquist's bombastic speech. But Stephen wasn't so convinced. He tightened his lips doubtfully and kept tapping his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. The plan seemed flawed. There were so many things that could go wrong that he couldn't possibly imagine it working. But on the other hand, it was a theft, and therefore a conduit to _the other side_. The next step in whatever transformation had started with his dream and began to bud during his experiences with Constance in Bristol. And for this reason it didn't matter if it was a failure. Crime is crime, whether it is flawed or not.

"So. Are we decided then?" said Lindquist. "Two plans, A and B. Plan A is the default plan and assumes that there will be no policeman on watch after the explosion. Plan B will come into effect only if there is such an added nuisance. In this case, Eckermann and Singleton will deal with the problem as they see fit. Apart from this possible twist, everything will be as I originally stated, except we will leave the precinct out of it as suggested so astutely by Stephen. Any further questions? Lindqvist stared boldly into their eyes as he stuffed a pinch of tobacco into his pipe.

"So we are agreed. The theft is scheduled for next Thursday night. The longer we wait, the worse off we'll be. Like a fresh idea that must be recorded before it slips away into oblivion, our plan must begin before we lose our chance. We'll meet here next Tuesday to correct any last minute uncertainties. If there is nothing more to add, I must ask you to be so kind as to allow me the pleasure of retiring early. It's been an arduous evening and I think the port has gone to my head."

Lindqvist bowed politely and rang for Angela. She promptly popped out from behind the door as if she had been waiting there listening all along and escorted Stephen and Miné to the foyer. Lindqvist thanked them both for coming and they nodded their heads in mutual gratitude, shaking the Swede's hand in turn before venturing out into the darkness.

## III

A small child sits alone in a room. It is lit by a dim table lamp and a fourteen-inch television sitting on a wooden box on the floor in the corner. The volume is loud and a cartoon plays on the screen. The child sits on a milk crate, drawing a picture of a boat with a new set of colored pencils. In the distance, a yellow buoy floats on the blue-green water. The child is wearing a purple sweater and sings to himself as he kicks his foot rhythmically on the floor. He pulls a piece of blue string out of his pocket and makes a thrashing sound as he hits the table with it. Bored and alone, but too young to understand boredom and loneliness, he doesn't seem unhappy.

In another room a man sits typing at a desk in a room upstairs. The floors are varnished wood and are bare except for an Asian rug covering the area in front of the large stately desk. The walls are cluttered with maps and photos and the air is heavy with smoke from his burning pipe. The man hums an unidentifiable tune as he scratches himself behind the ears. On the desk are laid out several apparently unrelated blueprints of what could be office buildings and electronic circuitry. In the corner to the left of his desk stand several intertwined plants, their sinewy vines spilling out onto the floor. The man hears the whistle of a teakettle from the kitchen and stands up.

In a third room, a middle-aged woman is reclined on a couch reading a book about travelling in the Orient. Her hair is black and tied back with a rubber band. Her eyes are deep blue and large and the bridge of her nose is sloped gently upward to her furrowed forehead. The walls are virtually bare except for a photograph of an elderly couple posing beside a railroad track. The background is bleached with snow and the sky is also whitened, possibly from overexposure. She sets the book down and selects a compact disc from a small box beside the stereo. Before she has a chance to put it on, she seems overcome by apathy and decides to sit down again. She sighs and stares blankly at the ceiling. Her knuckles are cold and she slips her left hand into her pants. She begins to masturbate. Through the window she sees the face of a man watching her as he holds a book in his hands. He looks handsome and strong with fair skin and calm blue eyes. She cannot tell for sure but he seems to be taking notes. Their eyes meet and he vanishes instantly as though becoming one with the shadows and fog.

The child is now playing with a small car. He holds it up with his soft hands and walks about the room staring at it. The television is now off and the window is open. He puts the car down on the television and picks up the telephone. He dials a number and waits for an answer. There is none. He wanders back to his table and scribbles with a black pastel all over the picture of the boat. Then he walks over to the television and turns it back on. A war movie enters the room. The images seem unreal and contrived and the rain drizzles through the open window, forming a puddle on the floor beside the television. The boy seems oblivious and eventually falls asleep on the couch.

There is a scream and the child wakes up and looks around for his blanket. He finds it next to his table and runs upstairs into his bedroom. The walls are covered in pictures from _Where The Wild Things Are_ and _Alice in Wonderland_. He takes a small sip from the glass next to his bed and slips under his covers. The night light casts elongated shadows across the cluttered floor of his room. The child looks afraid and hides his face under his thin blanket.

In the third room the woman is now lying on the floor of the bare room. A broken glass is in her hand and wine is spilled in a dark pool on the floor beside her. Music is playing loudly, but she is unconscious. Her hair is undone and her pants are unzipped. The shadows of the curios on top of the stereo dance on the far wall in the light of a dying candle.

The man enters the child's room and turns on the light. The child is now asleep and his blanket has fallen on the floor. He rearranges the stuffed animals on a red wooden shelf beside the bed. The child stirs and opens his eyes. The man picks up the blanket and wraps it snugly around him. He turns off the light. The man looks at the child's bookshelf. There are drummers, flagmen, pikers, and swordsman. Some are on horseback, others on foot. He leaves the room and turns out the light.

## IV

The air smelled of burning saltpetre as Stephen and Miné walked to the closest underground station. Seven Sisters. A sign hung forebodingly over the boarded entranceway: Closed Until Further Notice Due to Bomb Threat. Miné picked up a rock and pelted it at the ground. The rock deflected away harmlessly and then bounced off into the street.

"Let's get a drink," Miné said. "I know a good pub nearby. It's called The Angel. Then we can go to a club downtown."

Stephen gave a nod of approval as he blew his warm breath over his knuckles and slipped his hands into his pocket. The air was cool and damp like that in a bathroom in winter. It was getting late and his legs felt stiff and weak. He followed Miné through a series of alleys and streets, which seemed to criss-cross randomly as if the entire city was suspended in a dream; escorted by the yellow light of the streetlamps, they walked until they reached The Angel. It was a small and unpretentious pub with black vinyl upholstery and an ageing Wurlitzer standing in the corner like a monument to a bygone age. Miné selected a few songs and rejoined Stephen, who was already sitting in front of two bottles of _Pilsner Urquell_.

"I used to be afraid of theft and crime," Miné said openly. "I thought it was only for violent and demented individuals. Then I changed. It started with my personal life. One November I grew sick of my girlfriend - all girls, in fact. I told her I was going to leave the streets of Paris and start school in Germany. I made up a big story about how I hated Parisians - all of them - because of their petty affectations. On top of that the streets were too wet, there were too many tourists, and it was a dying city devoured by its own great history. I could never be Miné, but only Miné the Parisian with five hundred years of art and war behind me to answer to. I was almost shocked at how readily she believed my story and how quickly she offered to support me, even by paying my way through University as long as I stayed in Paris with her. So I went even further. I feigned depression and told her I had started seeing an analyst. She stood by me for many long months, but soon I could see my problems were starting to get to her. Then, one cold January afternoon, as we were boarding a bus to the Latin Quarter, I broke the news to her that I was accepted for the following year at a renowned chef's school in Frankfurt. I had a friend type up a fake letter of invitation and I even left Paris for a weekend under the pretext of wanting to go to look for an apartment. But I really went to the country with the same friend to test drive his new car. The chilling thing was that no matter how much I tried to be broken up about my impending departure, deep down I just didn't care. I only wanted to get rid of her and start a new life with someone else, maybe even a man. We spent a last romantic summer together - or at least that's how she looked at it - and we parted ways in September. I remember it was a dry windy day with hosts of long clouds cutting through the sky. Her lips were noticeably chapped. We kissed as I boarded the train and I wiped a tear out of her deep, brown eyes. I promised to write often and visit at Christmas. She stood on the platform crying as the train rolled forward and I waved through the dusty window."

"Did you ever see her again?"

"No. And I have no idea what she's doing now. I jumped off two stops later and grabbed an espresso at the Cafe St. Denis. It was perfect. I lived with my brother on the other side of town for the next few years and then I moved here. I felt guilty about it for a while, and was even afraid of bumping into her by accident, but the sense of elation at the freedom I'd attained through such a brilliant piece of acting was far too powerful to ever turn back. It wasn't as if I'd done her any harm either. It was really only a white lie of sorts. I'm sure she's doing well now. Some men get a sense of satisfaction out of knowing that the girl they just ditched is in shambles. I don't care - in fact, I wish her the best. She deserves far better than me."

"The perfect escape," said Stephen, nodding in approval. Weren't Miné's actions a strange and indirect retribution against Nadia?

"Whatever you want to call it, it was the beginning of something new in my life. I took kitchen jobs for a few years and soon realized I definitely preferred men over women. Now I sell myself on the streets to make a living. It's not as bad as you'd think."

Stephen played with the label on his beer bottle, picking it off fastidiously with his fingernail as he stared into Miné's large oval eyes. _He_ would understand what happened to him in Bristol.

"Now, I really enjoy life in my own strange way. Each lover is like a new universe. That way I never feel trapped. I'm constantly renewing myself. By having a new lover every night, you rise above all the boring shit out there and never let yourself sink into attachments. If you start seeing the same person over and over, that's when you become trapped."

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Oh, of course. It must happen to everyone. When I was fifteen, I was in love with a girl for well over a year, but then I realized that she wasn't really all that special. She was merely a vehicle for the expression of my lust for woman. Once I figured that out, I began to desire every last woman I saw - even the ones who weren't so attractive. When I passed a woman on the street I would try to imagine how she'd groan in bed, or what her pubic hair looked like. I fell in love several times a day. After a while, however, this also became boring and I began to crave intimacy. I wanted to focus on one woman and one only. That was the only way I felt I could understand everything about human nature - I mean, by learning everything about one magical woman I could learn everything in the cosmos. Philosophy, religion, psychology: it would all lie waiting beneath her ivory skin. After almost a year of searching I finally met somebody that filled all the requirements. We lived together in a shabby loft in the Algerian section of Paris for almost three years."

"What happened?"

"I left her as I told you. I discovered that the more I knew about her, the less I knew about life in general. It's like words on a page, the closer you get, the cloudier they become until all you can see is a gray blur. No letters, no words, no paragraphs. The text becomes meaningless. So, I felt I was staring into a void whenever I stayed home with her, and the rest of the world was falling away from me more and more each day. I gradually came to resent her and couldn't bare to look at her when we made love. It was then that I came to the realization that I was only acting. My life had become a vacuous and insufferable performance. I had to escape, and what better a way than through acting. By pretending to love her I had attained a new level of perfection and everything gained new significance. People looked so alive and colorful in my mendacious exaltation. I had finally freed myself from the chains of others by living a lie. All connections to others became false. Only the persona I pretended to be was trapped by circumstance."

"Yes, but you're still _defined_ by your actions. You _were_ what you thought you were only _pretending to be_."

"Perhaps. But, philosophy is all crap anyway. No consequence to reality." He leaned back and looked gently at his watch.

"I had this old girl friend from college," Stephen began. "After years of what I thought was true love she left me out of the blue without even the slightest indication or warning; no arguments - nothing. All she left was this letter about how we were enslaving each other and she needed to discover her _true individuality_. All that business."

"Did you ever hear from her again?"

"Yes, a month or so ago."

"And?"

"She's married to a professor in New York. She's into barbecues, weekends in Connecticut, and faculty lunches. She's given up and _packed it in_ as far as I can tell."

"Disgusting."

"Yes."

"Did you write back?"

"Of course. I told her about how I'd become a criminal and how much I enjoy the 'pure ecstasy of theft' as a permanent substitute for sex or alcohol. I wanted to exaggerate – dig in as deep as I could. I still don't know what she was hoping to accomplish. I mean, after all these years to write back and want to be friends."

"Somewhere in her heart she still loves you and must think her new life is utterly pointless - that's why she's writing you. Take advantage of it. That's what I would do."

Miné looked around the room and tapped his keys anxiously on the table. "This place is starting to bug me. The décor is so eighties! Lets go to The Razz. Its just around the corner from Mornington Crescent."

They put their coats on and walked into the drizzle outside. Half an hour later, they were at The Razz. It was located at the end of a narrow cul de sac between two condemned apartment blocks. A few people were standing outside, smoking and drinking from plastic cups, and the sound of loud house music pounded through the walls. Hanging over the entranceway was a black shower curtain extending only about a third of the way to the ground. They stepped inside and walked down a narrow, crooked staircase.

"This place is great. There's always a different crowd here no matter how many times I come."

The stairs led to a coatroom. They took off their jackets and paid the woman at the counter. Stephen followed Miné through another door, which led to the main dancing area. There was a bar on either side and the otherwise black ceiling was smeared with tiny silvery flakes.

"What are you drinking?" asked Miné.

"I'll have a Fullers this time."

"I don't think they have it. You'll have to settle for a John Bull."

"Whatever. I don't care."

Miné walked to the bar and chatted to the bartender for a few minutes before returning.

"That's Henry. He's worked here since the place opened a year ago. He's a part time actor, but can't seem to get much work these days. He's a bit depressed."

"I read that ninety percent of actors are unemployed in London. It sounds like a tough profession."

Stephen paused and took a sip of his bitter. Miné lit a cigarette and then leaned over to whisper in his ear. He was so close that Stephen could feel the warmth air from his lips blowing inside his ear as he spoke.

"Do you like opium?" Miné asked in a seductive whisper.

"Only tried it once. Never did anything for me." Stephen pulled away and looked at the diminutive Algerian as though to question his motives.

" _De rigeure_. And by the way, I'm not after you if that's what you think. I find you attractive and a bit of a curiosity, but you're not really my type."

"I didn't think..."

Miné put his hand over Stephen's mouth as if to say that everything was cool and no further explanation was necessary. Then he pulled out a smallish lump from his pocket and set it on the bar. He smiled and began shaving off thin flakes with a razor. When he had enough for a cigarette, he took out some tobacco and rolled it in. The finished product was slender and uniform. He lit it and took a long puff as he stretched back in pleasure. Then he handed it to Stephen. He lifted it to his mouth and inhaled. At first all he could feel was the sudden dizzy rush of nicotine. Then he felt a pleasant sensation as if he were a tiny particle of dust lolling about on the insides of a big red balloon, it's tight, smooth walls stiff enough to pop as it floated upwards, reaching higher and higher into the subtle blue mass of the sky. For a long moment there was only silence, but suddenly there was a loud bang and somewhere in the distance he was sure he could hear a flute. He closed his eyes and listened. The music sounded flat and dull as if he were reaching him through a stethoscope.

"This heist should be simple. Once its over with, I'll be able to go back to Paris with the money and wait for things to settle down." Miné's voice was muffled and soft, like a heartbeat. Then the balloon burst and the room filled with house music.

They took to the dance floor and said almost nothing for the remainder of the evening. In the hot flash of strobe lights and the hypnotic drone of the dance music Stephen felt that in Miné he had finally met someone in whom he could confide. He was genial and witty, yet detached and irreverent \- the perfect combination for a partner in crime. As Stephen's body surged and spun in the myriad play of smoke and lights on the dance floor his mind kept coming back to the same image of he and Miné breaking into Bottomly's basement: over the barbed wire - a window smashed - the paintings already cut and rolled...

When the club shut down they walked out to the nearest taxi stand. Stephen shook hands with Miné and they agreed to meet for a drink before going to Lindqvist's the following week for the final debriefing session. Stephen got home after three and tiptoed lightly up the stairs. There was a note on his door from Doris. It read:

Dear Stephen,

Muriel just received notice of her acceptance to Christ Church! We're going up on Saturday for a tour if you'd like to come. She's overjoyed and can't wait to go. This is so exciting!

Doris

He wadded it up and went into his room. His feet were cold, and anxious thoughts about the upcoming heist rattled through his head. He turned on a light and immediately spotted a letter on his desk. Doris must have put it there and then forgot to mention it in her note. He picked it up and read the address. It was from Nadia! His heart leaped as he tore it open.

Dear Stephen,

I just got your letter the other day. At first, I wanted to write back immediately, but I couldn't quite find the right words to express the feelings it aroused. It seemed to be written by a different person than the one I remember - someone cold and calculating. It was truly disturbing to see what you've become.

I thought I still loved you somewhere in my heart. Even though I'm happily married - and intend to remain so - a certain nostalgia drove me to write to you. Perhaps you could call it love. But, after reading your letter, all I feel is a widening gap, a great crevice opening up between us. I don't think I understand you anymore and I am horrified with myself for ever loving the same person who somehow turned into what you are now. It makes me wonder if I can ever trust anyone. Maybe even Tom's got a darker side that I won't discover for years to come. And what about my own feelings? Can I trust them? They forced me to love you and look what you've become. It's horrible - horrible - horrible. I wish I'd never written to you. I wish I'd never read your letter. I wish I'd never met you.

Tell me it was only a joke, a lie - even an exaggeration would do. I need to re-evaluate everything. I can't feel this way. I could never have been attracted to a potential criminal. Please write back. Tell me it wasn't real.

Nadia.

Stephen folded it up and stuffed it into his drawer. His plan had worked! She was upset, just as he had hoped. He felt an unusual mixture of elation and pity as he reclined on his bed. But why should he pity her? Perhaps she was the one who should take pity on him and try to save him. Women, he had always heard, often developed strange motherly complexes with condemned men, hoping that somehow they could show them a vision of ultimate good before their execution. Give them a glimmer of salvation before their death; the last step before divine judgement. Wasn't this the ultimate ego trip? He would have to be careful that Nadia doesn't try such a diabolical thing. There was also always the chance that she would start to feel guilty for contributing to his demise - and indeed she should - and would then want to make it up to him by somehow undoing the damage she'd done to his life. No, he couldn't let down his guard yet. He'd have to dig even deeper.

He undressed and fell asleep with the light still on.

## V

The next day Stephen woke up to find his bedclothes strewn across the floor. He couldn't remember how they got there. Perhaps he had fallen from his mattress during the night and dragged them down with him and then returned to his bed without somehow ever waking up. He had never been caught sleep walking before, but anything was possible. His hair was messy and his socks were still on. He showered and dressed before going downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Leyda and Muriel sitting at the table arguing about whose turn it was to do the dishes. It was already past ten and Doris was out in the garden sweeping the sidewalk.

"Congratulations! You must be pleased," he said to Muriel, trying to hide his feelings of detachment.

"Oh, I bet she is. Three years of hard studying to look forward to," Leyda added with a tinge of envy in her voice. She looked directly into his eyes for the first time since the night of the play, but Stephen quickly turned away.

"But it's Oxford. I can't wait. They say that Christ Church is sort of a stuffy college, but still... I mean, have you seen the pictures of the central courtyard?" She fluttered her eyelids and let out an awestruck gasp. "I can't believe I'll be walking the very grounds that Cromwell's roundheads once fought on."

"If you're going to Oxford you should improve your grammar first. It should have been _the very grounds on which Cromwell's roundheads once fought_." She paused and burst out laughing. "Just kidding! Think of all of those handsome, square-shouldered rowers you'll meet."

Just then Doris came in from the patio and went upstairs to change.

"We have to leave in half an hour. The roads will start to get too crowded if we wait any longer and then we'll never get out of London. It can be such a long and boring drive if you get caught in the rush. Are you coming, Stephen?"

"Sure, I don't have to work today and I've been longing to go and check it out. I've seen quite a few pictures - it's stunning. There's a lot of late Victorian influence in the architecture. I want to take a look at it," he lied. In his current state he couldn't care less about architecture. The real reason was Leyda. When she had looked into his eyes a few minutes before he didn't respond. He was too distracted, and responding to such an obvious advance would have been a dead give away. But if he was too aloof she might take it as a snub. Oxford would be the perfect chance to bridge the space that had grown between them the last few weeks. As long as he was subtle and did his best to avoid any hint that he was involved with people like The Seducer, there was no way things could go awry between them.

Two hours later they were driving past a British Leyland factory through the dingy East end industrial sector of Oxford. As they wove through the midday traffic they decided to tour all of the main colleges north of High Street before making their way to Christ Church, which they wanted to save for last. Leyda had heard that the walk through Christ Church Meadow to the Magdelain Bridge was a must with tourists and that you could even picnic by the Isis as you watched the rowers practice if you wanted to.

They found a parking space beside the red stone walls of Keble College and gradually made their way through St. John's and Bailliol towards the city center. By the time they reached the Bodlean Library, Stephen had already lost interest and his mind was drifting to anxious thoughts about the upcoming week. However much he wanted to impress Leyda with his knowledge of Architecture, he couldn't suppress the violent upheaval taking place inside him. Every time he looked over at her he felt a lump in his stomach and his knees began to tremble. The sky was overcast - the color of bayonets - and the sun was barely visible. He tagged along in pensive silence for the rest of the day, feigning interest while the others marvelled, wide eyed and smiling, at the tall spires, domes, bridges, and battlements which towered so majestically above the narrow crooked streets.

"What's the matter?" Leyda finally asked as they walked by a fish and chips stand, an irresistible wellspring of fondness in her eyes.

"Nothing, just tired from last night," he said nervously. He gazed back and forth at the two sisters. Leyda with her soft face. Muriel with her innocence. Then his thoughts shifted. The theft. Bristol. He could never imagine being violent to _her_. _She_ wasn't a Nadia. However much he wanted to love her, something still stood between them. It had nothing to do with Doris and the fact that she was his landlady. That was just a convenient excuse. It was something much deeper than that. It was their age difference. It was a physical law - inflexible, with no concern for human feelings.

After visiting Magdelain, adorned on all sides with its highly unorthodox and almost comical gargoyles, they ambled down George Street to Christ Church College; as they approached they could see its large and eccentric dome bursting above the sandy-white battlements lining the east side of Abingdon Road. When they entered the broad central courtyard Doris gushed with pride.

"Just think," she enthused. "I'll be able to visit you behind _these_ walls."

"Yes, but only when she wants money," added Leyda sarcastically. Doris glowered at her in comic reciprocation and pulled out her camera. She ushered the three of them over to the fountain in the middle of the court and took a few hurried shots. Then they walked through the chapel, following its smoothly winding staircase to the chapterhouse and the dining hall before they reached the main grounds on the opposite side of the south wall. By the time they stepped back out onto the street it was almost dinner and everyone was hungry.

"We can see the meadow another time," said Doris. "Maybe we should just fetch the car and get a curry."

"Sounds fine to me," said Muriel. Stephen and Leyda nodded their consent.

They walked down Cowley Road until they found a good curry house. When they finished, they took one last stroll through the east end before going back to the car. It was so different from the rest of Oxford. The houses were small and cramped and their shingles loose and crumbling. Stephen found it comfortably unpretentious and became far more relaxed after twenty minutes of walking through its lazy sauntering streets.

Just before they reached the car, Doris and Muriel ducked into a shop, leaving Stephen and Leyda outside. It was the first time he had been alone with her for what seemed like months. She smiled diffidently and nudged into his back as he was leafing through a rack of postcards outside. Her hand touched his for a long instant. Without turning to face her, he leaned backwards to see if she'd yield. He felt her soft breasts against his back. He leaned a bit further. She stood firm, her breasts virtually melting into his torso. It _was_ an advance. His heart quickened - its stiff gray enamels softening in the warmth of her presence. He turned his head around. In almost the same motion their lips met. Just as he was about to run his hand up her back she stiffened and pushed him away.

"Wait," she said. "My mother's coming." He stepped back just as Doris and Muriel stepped out onto the street.

"Shall we go?" Doris prompted them.

"Sure," said Stephen, infusing a false air of adult responsibility in his voice.

When they got back to London it was already dark and they retired to their separate rooms, too exhausted from the day of sight seeing to stay up for tea. Stephen stretched back on his bed and read a few architecture journals while listening to his Walkman. Images of Lindqvist, The Fat Man, and The Seducer lingered menacingly in his head as he anticipated the theft with a mixture of cool reserve and anxious trepidation, awaiting it as one awaits a firing squad after several years of anguish on death row: terrified, yet still craving the ultimate exoneration which stands in glorious waiting like a promised land on _the_ _other side_.

A week later Stephen met Miné at the pub as planned and they took the tube over to Lindqvist's house for the final briefing. Lindqvist greeted them at the door, a three-cornered military hat planted firmly on his head. He clicked the heels of his officer's boots together and saluted. Stephen nodded his head in acknowledgement.

"Welcome, my good men," he said as he wiped his monocle with a handkerchief. They stepped inside and followed Lindqvist into the living room. The Fat Man and The Seducer were already there, sitting next to each other on the couch.

"Well if I hadn't just farted I might have thought Stevie-boy just walked in," The Fat Man bellowed. The Seducer grinned.

"I'll have none of your callous banter," Lindquist rebuked him.

Lindqvist poured them each a glass of port and then carefully went over the plan. The crime was to be conducted with smoothness and grace, like a ballet or opera. Once they had acquired the paintings, they were to hide them in Miné's apartment for a few weeks until the dust had settled. Then they would move them in the stealth of night to Lindqvist's basement. He spoke with the unyielding confidence of a Roman General planning his final victory. After each point was made The Fat Man socked his fist eagerly into his palm, a bloated smile expanding across his face. The Seducer was the same as ever: unbearably calm with a sinister halo almost seeming to hover above his head.

"When the time arrives," commanded Lindqvist, "I'll meet you at Miné's apartment to savor the victory. Order into chaos and form into decay! This will truly be a moment to celebrate." He swivelled around in his leather chair and narrowed his eyes truculently.

After half an hour they collected their coats and left. The plan was indelibly etched into Stephen's mind. He would meet Miné at six at The Angel. After a quick beer, The Seducer would pick them up. Miné and Stephen would then stand guard while The Seducer planted the explosives. Then they would hide by the front of the house until The Fat Man signalled with three blinks of his flashlight that all was clear for Miné to move in and pick the lock. The Fat Man and The Seducer would then wait out in the back for the paintings.

The message was clear: there were to be no mistakes or all further payment was void. _There were to be no mistakes_.

## 4. THE CONCEPT OF VIOLENCE

## I

A long, slow barge cuts like a dull blade through the black churning waters, only its dim searchlight there to guide it through the night. The rain has stopped. Voices shout from the deck below, but are helplessly drowned out by the sickly moan of a foghorn from somewhere in the distance. Something like the sound of grinding machinery is heard for a moment and then vanishes in its own tenacious echo. The distorted reflections of the moonlight dance on the rippling surface of the almost invisible waters, blending with the harbor lamps and the glittering lights of the city; together they look like shattered panes of glass floating through a deep and pitiless void. Another foghorn wails. The barge drifts off into the distance.

New Cross. A dank apartment with a yellow plastic flower hanging on a wire suspended from a wobbling lamp. The Seducer sits listlessly smoking a cigarette while gazing blankly at the television screen. He turns down the volume.

A teenage girl dressed in a skirt the color of light blue chalk is spread out on a squeaking army cot. She is drunk, almost unconscious. Her hair is chestnut and a pewter cross hangs from her chain-link necklace.

She ruffles her hair and stretches her arms back until her fingers touch the bed's rusted metal frame. Thoughts of meeting the man in a pub still fizz in her mind like bubbles in warm beer. The Seducer turns away from the television and slowly walks towards the open window. The cityscape reaches out like a crooked hand into the furthest corners of the evening. Tenement rooftops. Corrugated iron fences. Crumbling chimneys. Smokestacks belching forth swirling gray clouds, almost black under the blank light of the moon. The smell of burning kerosene permeates the air. He hears a gunshot in the distance. Then a scream. It echoes for a moment and then stops suddenly as if muffled by a wet towel.

He closes the window. His hands are cold and he steps towards her, softly setting his palm on her shoulder like a swallow landing on a frail branch. She looks up into his cool blue eyes glittering like ice in the sparse light of the lamp. She blinks once, then a second time, and then she loses consciousness.

The Seducer smiles and unbuttons her shirt. Her breasts are like fresh pears and her nipples a fleshy red color. Fully clothed, he unzips his pants and pulls her catatonic body towards him.

He: immaculate, imperious, an image of bleak perfection; a dark angel. She: weak, forgiving, yielding like a bed of autumn leaves. He: feigning emotion. She: still, almost dead.

His eyes purr like blue gas jets as her hair falls across her cold forehead. She stirs for an instant and then vanishes into an envelope of darkness.

The radiator beneath the window gurgles. Its silver paint is chipped and a steam valve drips silently. Something vague and tenuous, like an unthought idea, is lost in the barren hollows of the evening.

Hours have passed. He stands up and turns on his desk lamp. Leyda is still asleep. He towers over her bloodied figure like a grim and unforgiving colossus in a smouldering battlefield, proudly contemplating the success of his ruthless spoliations.

He takes out a small black book from his desk and opens it. Producing a pen, he gazes across the room at her still and peaceful figure. He chews on the tip.

He leafs through the book as he breaths heavily.

He begins to write.

She stirs in bed and buries her head in the pillow. A train whistle pierces through the air like a crossbow bolt through a dense thicket. He sets the book down and joins her in bed. Her skin has the appearance of eggshell in the cold light of the moon.

## II

It was 4 PM. People, nameless and distracted, rushed in and out of the underground like hoards of frenzied ants: Manor House - Archway - Mudchute - St. Paul's. Stephen adjusted his shoelace and looked upwards. The sky stretched out like a concave mirror, seeming almost to reflect the bitter iniquities of the world below. A shaft of bluish light pierced through a veil of smoke suffocating the east end of the city. He walked into the Seven Sisters tube station. His hands were sweaty and soiled. The sign above the platform flashed impatiently: CORRECTION: WALTHAMSTOW CENTRAL 3 MIN. He leaned against the wall and waited. A woman stepped in front of him carrying a bundle of books. A second woman took a place beside him and started reading a pamphlet on The Museum of Mankind. After what seemed like an eternity a train rumbled in. A sharp metallic smell, like electricity and diesel fuel, wafted up in Stephen's face as the doors slid open. He took a seat by himself in the far corner and calmly read the adverts overhead. When the train rolled into motion he checked his watch to make sure he was on schedule.

Green Park. Oxford Circus. Kings Cross - St. Pancras. The stops flipped by like stations on a television. Highbury and Islington. A few people got off and were quickly replaced by a few more. Even though each stop was decorated quite differently from the last, they all seemed equally bland and faceless. Seven Sisters. Light. He stepped furtively into the brightly lit station. The sloped gray ceiling gave it the appearance of a bomb shelter, claustrophobic and bare. Quickening his pace, he leapt up the stairs and darted through the turnstiles and out into the street. The sky had darkened slightly and the sun had slipped behind a few dense gray clouds that were draped across the horizon like musty blankets over old furniture

He made his way to The Angel and took a seat in the center of the bar. Miné was nowhere to be seen. He ordered a beer and sipped it nervously as he examined at the scattered trophies on the ledge beside the row of whiskey bottles and above the cash register.

Twenty minutes later, Miné finally walked in. His hair was dirty and wet and he was carrying a paperback book in his left hand.

"Sorry I'm a bit late. We still have a little while before Singleton shows up. I got held up at the bank earlier."

"No problem. I was just having a beer."

Miné took a seat and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and slipped the filter between his dark red lips in almost the same motion. Stephen felt a sudden trepidation. His eyes met Miné's but the Algerian just stood there lightly caressing the nape of his neck with his fingers.

"So, do you think it'll work?" Suddenly the whole plan seemed so far fetched and ridiculous Stephen wasn't sure why he had let himself get involved in the first place.

"How do you mean?"

"The theft."

"Oh...of course. I wouldn't be in it otherwise."

"What about the police?"

"Don't worry. We won't get hurt."

"It's not that. I just don't want to get caught."

"I doubt it will happen, but even so the worst that can happen is that we get charged with breaking and entry."

Miné grinned, holding back his laughter as he rolled up his sleeve. It was as if being charged with a crime was one of the funniest things that could happen to a person. Stephen rested his foot on the chair beside him and yawned in an effort to conceal his anxiety.

"I don't trust them," said Stephen.

"Maybe Lindqvist and Singleton. But The Fat Man is too much of an idiot to worry about."

"Tell me about it. I don't think he's said one intelligent thing since I've met him. But Lindqvist doesn't bother me. He's too caught up in his own crazy delusions to have any idea what's going on. Singleton..."

"...is an enigma," Miné interrupted. "I only know him through drug channels. Is he dangerous? I don't know. But, the real question is whether they trust us."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't think I'm so foolish as to only get a small cut out of this." His eyes sparkled defiantly as he blew a smoke ring and caught it with his index finger before crushing it into nothingness. "It took me years to learn to do this. The heat around your finger disturbs the smoke by creating a convection current. You have to blow them big and straight into your finger. Just one flinch and the smoke dissipates."

"If you're going to try anything outside of the plan, just leave me out of it."

"Fine." There was an air of calm acceptance in Miné's voice that was almost threatening.

A few minutes later The Seducer walked through the door wearing a freshly pressed polo shirt. He was swinging a flashlight nonchalantly in his left hand. Stephen greeted him with a sparse ' _hello'_ and followed him with Miné out to the car he had just parked in the street. It was already dusk and the rain droplets running down the windshield looked like the tiny granules suspended inside a kaleidoscope, reflecting the green, yellow and red of the traffic lights overhead.

The Seducer drove with hushed intensity through the evening traffic. Occasionally Stephen looked over at him in an effort to make some kind of connection, yet the further they drove, the more Stephen felt he was sitting beside a creature from a completely different world. His eyes were narrow and obscure, like those of a jackal. Every attempt Stephen made at conversation failed. No matter what he said, The Seducer would just raise his eyebrows or twist his lips in some kind of silent response. When they passed a small square, a statue of what looked like a huntsman standing in the middle, Stephen opened the rear window and stuck his head out into the onrushing air. Perhaps this might get The Seducer's attention, but the taciturn sailor continued staring straight ahead as if Stephen wasn't even there. A moment later they drove by a park, its trees blossoming copiously in the setting sun and then they rounded a corner off a High Street with a toyshop and a bakery. A small child looked expectantly at the fastidiously arranged display in the window.

Miné rolled up his sleeve and lit a cigarette and twenty minutes later they finally reached The Fat Man's house. He was waiting in the doorway wearing a clumsy pair of military boots and an official London Police raincoat.

Stephen and Miné waited in the car while The Seducer got out and walked across the lawn to greet The Fat Man. Stephen watched their motions carefully, trying to read their lips as they stood in the Fat Man's doorway talking. Several minutes later they walked up the sidewalk and opened the car door. The Fat Man squeezed into the front and pushed his seat back into Stephen's knees. The Seducer stepped behind the wheel and closed the door.

"Where to?" The Fat Man asked in a way that was strangely resigned and business-like.

"Lindqvist wants us over at his place before we go, so I guess it's off in that direction," The Seducer replied. It was the first Stephen had heard him speak since he arrived to pick him up half an hour earlier. He turned the ignition key and backed out of the parking spot.

"Do we have everything?" asked Miné.

"The bomb is in the back," said The Seducer. His face suddenly switched on. "I checked it last night to make sure the wiring was in order. It should work like a charm. It was lifted from an old Russian mine. The MI5 bought hundreds of them a few years ago for some secret project. I'll never understand why. Ours are better. A little less powerful, but a lot more reliable. A few years later the bombs showed up on the black market. They say one's enough to blow the side of a tank apart. There's also rope, chicken wire, two pistols, and the Police uniforms that I got from some guy in Limehouse."

"Comrade Rucinski?" asked The Fat Man derisively.

"Yes," The Seducer replied aloofly. "I met up with him last week. He's got everything."

"I saw the bugger a few weeks ago," said The Fat Man. "He's a loafer. A worthless scab. If there's one thing I hate its worthless loafers. They should be scooped out of society like wax from a dead man's ear." He slouched over the dashboard and picked his nose. "What about the bogus police IDs?"

"They're in the glove compartment," answered The Seducer.

Stephen had never seen The Fat Man so subdued and serious. He asked questions carefully and methodically - like a chess player moving his pieces - and spoke with deft simplicity. Apart from the occasional rude gesture, he seemed like a completely different man than the one that was needling him with insults the last time they met.

"We have lots of time, so let's not rush it," said The Seducer as they carved their way towards Lindqvist's house. When they got there, the Swede was standing impatiently by the curb, a newspaper tucked neatly under his arm. They parked and went inside. Lindqvist invited them into his study and laid out a hand-drawn map of Bottomly's estate. Over the depiction of the far wall was drawn an X in heavy charcoal.

"This mark is where the bomb is to be planted," Lindqvist indicated, "just as we discussed earlier. If it's as powerful as it should be, then it'll blast through the outer wall. That's when you leave the site and change into the police outfits which I assume you brought with you."

"We know, we know," The Fat Man interrupted. "We're not stinking idiots."

Lindqvist sank momentarily into himself as though he was experiencing some form of minor discomfort like chest pains or acid reflux. The others stared blankly at the map until he recovered and continued. "I want everything to be certain. I'm not calling anyone an idiot. You must understand, this is our ultimate moment, and nothing can go wrong."

"We're professionals," The Seducer reassured him. "We know what we're doing. If there's a weak link..." He glared accusingly at Stephen and then smiled.

"My young man, are you sure you know exactly what to do?" Lindqvist asked Stephen in a half whisper as though to emphasize the seriousness of the endeavor.

"Yes," Stephen replied. "I think so."

"Think so? That's not good enough. Let me just remind you of one thing...no fuck-ups, Stevie-boy. No fuck-ups."

"Just do what I say, and everything will be fine," Miné reassured Stephen. "We just stick with The Fat Man and The Seducer until they go to the door as policemen. When The Fat Man flashes his light, we go in. If there's a real policeman on guard, he gets shot." The word "shot" echoed darkly through Stephen's head as he fumbled through his pocket for matches.

"Be sure, above all, not to damage the paintings," said Lindqvist. "Especially the Dubuffet, the Goya, and the Cézanne."

"I never fuck up," Miné said defensively.

"Unless you get _fucked up_ the bloody ass," The Fat Man exploded. "And in your case I bet its as bloody as they come – or bloody when they come! That's a good one, isn't it? Bloody as they bloody well come!" He burst out laughing as he pounded his fist on the dashboard and The Seducer grinned portentously like a man holding a winning hand at a Monte Carlo Casino.

"And most of all, it must be done with elegance and grace. No blunders, no breakage. That's for cretins and clods. Your fingers must be nimble like those of artisans from the finest Antwerp guilds and your feet must move with the stealth and precision of ballerinas – true dancers of deception! Remember, first and foremost this is to be a work of sublime desecration and not just another clumsy greed-motivated robbery."

After pouring over the details one more time, they piled into the car and drove off towards Bottomly's estate. The roads were twisted confusingly like patterns on an Arabic urn and sheets of yellow light reflected off the puddles of rain in the gutters. Stephen was overcome by a weary sense of detachment as they roared through winding alleyways, up and down hills, through traffic lights and around sharp corners to their final destination. Occasionally he looked up into the rear view mirror. Through the helicopter blades of reflected traffic lights he could see the elongated horse-like face of The Seducer. His eyes betrayed nothing and his lashes twitched like parts of a Swiss watch. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into a dank alleyway. Stephen shivered as he opened the door and stepped out onto the muddy ground.

"You two stay here at the wheel in case anything goes wrong," The Seducer ordered. "Leave the back door open and don't turn on the engine." Surrounded by darkness, The Seducer began to take charge. He was suddenly more animated and talkative, dashing out orders like an expert saboteur breaking into a secret military installation. It was as if he felt more comfortable in a world devoid of all light. Even The Fat Man listened intently as The Seducer handed out last-minute instructions in his hushed, low-pitched voice.

"Wait here while I get the bomb from the trunk," The Seducer ordered. Like some kind of divine punisher unravelling the threads of God's darkest will, he removed a metal case from the trunk and slowly ascended the gentle slope leading to the wall of Bottomly's mansion. He moved with an eerie silence only occasionally punctuated by the brushing of wet grass beneath his feet. It was important that they elude the dogs until the train passed by at 11:36. Then they could plant the bomb beneath the sonic umbra of its loud metallic roar.

Stephen looked over his shoulder. The Fat Man was standing beside the car connecting two wires to a detonator box. Although his fingers were stubby and seemed slippery from dirt and sweat, he managed to hook the bare copper ends under the two tiny screws and tighten them without so much as a flinch. He nodded at Stephen and went up the hill, following the path taken by The Seducer. Stephen and Miné waited in the front seat of the car as instructed. Stephen's hands were cold and he blew into his fists to keep his fingers warm as he curled up his toes inside his shoes.

Stephen became gradually more impatient. The Fat Man and The Seducer had been gone for what seemed like over an hour, although for all he knew it could have been less than fifteen minutes. In his state of anxiety time ceased to have any tangible meaning. Miné sat beside him in utter silence in the drivers seat. Occasionally he glanced over at Stephen and raise an eyebrow in a gesture of ironic acknowledgement. There was a loud crash and a train rumbled loudly by. But was it the right one? A dog barked, but the sound came from the opposite direction from the house. Stephen heard a helicopter circling somewhere to the south and a jet screeched overhead. He tilted his head back and shut his eyes. He could see the images of the day flutter before him. Like a film projected over a ruffled sheet, they seemed faint and distorted: the dull, rounded faces staring down hollow-eyed at their feet or the subway platform - it was hard to tell the difference. The boy he saw at the toy store window; were his eyes blue or brown? Was he excited or bored, merely feigning interest for his mother's sake? There was no way of knowing. The morning's paper? He couldn't even recall the headlines.

After what seemed like hours later, Stephen opened his eyes to the stark glare of a flashlight. The Seducer had returned and was standing outside the car shining the light on his watch.

"Two minutes," he whispered under the rustling of the leaves. His face was sharp and hard, like cut glass. The Fat Man was standing beside him, his baggy eyelids half shut and his hands in his pocket.

"Now." Singleton's voice was like a bullet ripping off a wall. He pulled a lever and instantly the harsh clap of an explosion filled the air. There was an almost visceral sense of hot moving air and Stephen's knees trembled in the shock wave that followed. The Seducer leapt into the back seat and The Fat Man followed.

"Damn coat," said The Fat Man in a half shout-half whisper. His coat had caught on the door so The Seducer pulled out a hunting knife to cut him loose. The Fat Man stuffed his gargantuan frame into the back seat and slammed the door. The sound of what seemed like hoards of dogs barking filled the air as they raced off into the night. When The Fat Man and The Seducer returned they parked a few blocks away from Bottomly's. Next, they sent Miné to scout out the situation on foot. He came back twenty minutes later.

"The place is clear," Miné reported.

"What about the lights?" asked The Seducer.

"They're off all over. It looks like he's gone to sleep."

A smile spread like a thin film of water across The Seducer's face. He turned the ignition key and they drove to Bottomly's mansion. Stephen and Miné waited outside the house behind an overhanging branch as The Fat Man and The Seducer strolled leisurely to the front gate and rang the bell.

After a second attempt, the porch light went on and a servant opened the door, peaking his head out cautiously until he noticed the uniforms.

"We're here to double check," said The Fat Man. "It appears that the last officers missed a few important details."

"That's strange. They just called about fifteen minutes ago to ask if everything was OK. They said they weren't going to come back unless we asked," the servant explained politely.

"Well, we just wanted to make sure. You never know what sorts of maniacs might be prowling about," The Seducer assured him.

"Do you have any leads?" asked the servant.

"It was probably Islamic extremists," The Seducer replied with an air of measured authority. "We got a message an hour ago. Apparently some group has already taken responsibility. But, that doesn't prove anything unequivocally."

"Do you mind if we check the security system of the house?" asked The Fat Man. "We want to make extra-sure that everything is safe. That explosion could be just a prelude to something bigger."

"Be my guest. I've worked here for years and I've never seen anything like it. I just hope master Bottomly comes to no harm. I can't see why they'd single him out." The servant ushered them in.

The Fat Man remained silent and followed them inside. Stephen and Miné stood motionless behind the branch, occasionally whispering to each other.

"It looks fine so far," said Miné. "The Seducer is such a smooth bastard. He could chat his way into the Pope's underwear if he wanted to."

Stephen nodded and slipped his index finger between his lips. They waited for another fifteen minutes until the signal came. Three blinks of the flashlight. One. Two. Three. Stephen could see the rotund figure of The Fat Man bobbling out of the gate with The Seducer following in his shadow. The two men walked over to the car and drove off into the night.

"Any time now. We just have to hope they did their work properly. The Seducer apparently knows quite a bit about electronics from his days in the Royal Navy. I haven't picked a lock for quite a while, but this one's going to be a cinch." Miné produced a small leather pouch from his jacket and pulled out a flashlight. He opened it up. Inside were several hairpin-sized tools and a small vial of an oily yellow lubricant. "They're meant to be impossible to pick, but like anything, they have their flaws and seams," he continued. "You just have to know where they are."

They tiptoed to the gate. Stephen stood watch as Miné knelt down and began to fumble through the pouch. The first rays of daylight were already piercing through the black dome of the night. They had to hurry or they'd never finish before sunrise.

After about five minutes, Miné looked up and pushed the gate open in the same motion.

"There. That was no problem," he whispered. "They were all a cinch. Let's hope The Fat Man's taken care of the dogs."

He slipped through the gate and Stephen followed. The front yard was decorated with a few marble statues and a row of smoothly groomed bushes. They made their way down the front path, being careful to avoid the thin piles of gravel on either side. The house was built from brick and mortar, with small awnings over the windows and at least three wings. A tall fir tree stood like a pillar on the left side of the front porch. Miné took out his tools and inspected the lock. The only sound Stephen could hear was that of his own breathing.

"It's just as I remembered," said Miné. "This should only take a minute."

Stephen nodded his head in acknowledgement. He squatted on the stone steps that ascended to the front porch. He stared at the cracked sidewalk in front of him until he heard the click of the bolt lock. Miné turned the antique brass handle.

"If they did their work properly," he whispered, "we should be able to walk right in without a peep from the alarm."

He opened the door slowly. Apart from a slight squeaking from the hinges, all was quiet. Miné extended his right leg through the small opening and paused.

"Just like fucking a girl," he said. "Soft and easy. _Too easy_."

Stephen grinned. They stepped inside, being careful not to stumble over anything in the complete darkness. Miné turned on his pocket torch and walked towards a descending staircase. He moved effortlessly across the floor as if he were on skates. Stephen felt clumsy in his wake. They tiptoed down the stairs and through three more doorways until they reached the gallery. Miné took out his large flashlight and set it on the floor, pointing it at the ceiling. It cast a dim pattern of concentric yellow rings providing barely enough light to discern the outlines of the paintings on the wall. The room was large - roughly fifty feet by seventy feet - and there were several statues spaced evenly across the floor. It was too dim to see the details of the thirty odd paintings, but Stephen could clearly make out the outer borders of their frames. Stephen shook his head in a combination of awe and disbelief. Standing amongst so many art treasures without being able to see them in their full glory was like being blind in heaven, feeling the presence of divinity, yet seeing nothing.

Miné handed him a small tool with a razor sharp edge and whispered in his ear. "This is what the pros use. Just cut around the edges and don't press too hard or you'll push into the wall and it'll dull the blade."

Stephen's first attempt was marred by a mixture of clumsiness and exaggerated caution. By the time he finished cutting out his first painting - about two by one-and-a-half in dimensions - Miné had already finished three. Afraid of cutting too close to the frame and damaging the blade against the heavy wood, he guided the tool with his index finger, at one point cutting a small gash just below his fingernail. He wondered if any blood had dripped onto the painting as he sucked quietly on the wound. He would have to be careful not to let Miné find out.

Half an hour later they finished. Stephen had twelve paintings rolled up under his arm and Miné seventeen. He remembered from art class that oil paint could take decades or even centuries to dry, depending on whether or not a certain cobalt-based drying agent was used. That's why you could roll up most oils without any noticeable cracking on the surface. They collected the tools and moved cautiously upstairs. Stephen could see the light of dawn filtering through the windows as they stepped into the garden. So far everything had unfolded in a perfect and exact way, almost like a mathematical expression. Lindqvist would certainly be pleased.

They closed the gate behind them as they left. The sun had risen about three quarters over the horizon and the air was filled with the smell of wildflowers. They hid behind the same branch as before and set the paintings down on the ground. Then, for what seemed like the first time in hours, Stephen opened his mouth to speak.

"I guess Singleton should be waiting in the car behind the house."

Miné shook his head in a way that Stephen didn't like and then turned sharply towards him. His eyes glimmered inimically as he replied.

"Give me a break. You don't think that I'm actually going to give these to those maniacs, do you?"

He pulled out a knife and brandished it in Stephen's face. There was something almost feral in his eyes as the dawn sunlight reflected off the base of the blade.

"What are you talking about?" Stephen trembled as he stepped back. He was stunned.

"I'm getting out of this before Lindqvist gets his grimy hands on them. He's just going to destroy them anyway. And as a lover of great art I see it as my duty to save them and sell them on the black market. I've got a ticket to Dover and another to Dieppe."

"You're crazy."

"This is my big chance, and I'm not going to fuck up. What's better, a few thousand pounds from Lindqvist or a few hundred thousand from the underground market instead? So, I'll have to live like a fugitive for a few years. I've always been one anyway."

"But, if you take them all..."

"They'll kill you," Miné said ominously, the tip of the blade poked importunately against Stephen's chest. "Singleton's a trained killer. Years at sea. He doesn't care. Life, death. It all ends up in the ocean anyway. We came from the sea, and one way or another we'll end up there. That's the way he thinks. He's a fucking sociopath if you haven't noticed."

"You can't just..."

"Don't worry. I'm leaving you four or five of them. That way they might leave you alone. You may be a sucker, but you don't deserve to die. Just tell them that I stole them. They'll never get me. Not where I'm going."

"But they'll think we're in on it together. They'll never leave me alone."

"Let them think what they want. I'm giving you enough of a break now. You got yourself into this and it's down to you to talk your way out of it. Just be thankful I'm not taking them all." His eyes were pale and translucent. Like a saint's. Stephen trembled.

"They'll catch you. If not them, then the cops."

"Not where I'm going. Not even Christ himself could find me there. Not alone or with his twelve apostles."

He bundled up all the paintings but five and put them in a garbage bag he had folded away in his underwear. Then he smashed the butt of the knife against Stephen's head, knocking him to the ground.

"Sorry. Thanks for the great conversations." He tossed the knife into the bushes, his figure rippling before Stephen like a shadow in a moonlit pool.

Miné leapt over a waist-high wall and ran down the street, his slim figure seeming to flatten into his shadow as he receded in the distance. Soon, all Stephen could see was a blackish blob hovering on the horizon. It was as if he and his shadow were no longer distinguishable and had suddenly become consubstantial. A moment later Stephen passed out.

## IV

When Stephen came to he was lying face first on the ground. There was no sign of anybody. From the position of the sun he could tell it was still morning. His head was bloody and the five remaining paintings were rolled up squashed underneath him. If he remembered correctly, The Seducer and The Fat Man were supposed to have been waiting parked a few blocks away, but by now they would have probably long since given up and left. No doubt if they found him they would think he was lying about Miné and he would be finished. Stephen struggled to stand up, picking up the paintings one by one as he gradually regained full consciousness. Then he jogged as best he could through a park, over a creaky wooden footbridge and finally across a busy freeway. He didn't recognize any of the landmarks, but kept running anyway, the paintings tucked neatly under his arm and blood still trickling down the nape of his neck.

In a state of complete exhaustion, he tripped on a protruding root in a cemetery and stumbled to the ground. He crawled to the sanctuary of a nearby garage. He bundled the paintings up in his jacket and rested inside. The walls were covered with a smooth layer of live moss and the floors were hard and cold. He curled up and closed his eyes. The strident rumbling of morning traffic echoed in the distance. If he could just hide here until nightfall, then he could try to get back home. They didn't know where he lived and his name wasn't in the phone book. It would take them a while, but they'd find him sooner or later. The Fat Man would come knocking on his door with his fat bloated cheeks and eyes dull and black like wet leaches on white flesh. He'd be wearing a dirty mac and unpolished oxfords. He'd be holding a briefcase and in it would be a gun. The Seducer would be standing behind him smiling with those thin pristine lips as he stepped inside. Then they'd take him back to their place and squeeze the whereabouts of the remaining paintings from him like water out of a rag. They'd never believe him. He shivered and bit on his tongue.

When the sun had completely set and he was confident he could slip out unseen, he stood up, breathing as quietly as he could, and raced out across the cemetery grounds. He followed the streets, running through the darkness in search of a tube station. After about ten minutes, he saw a sign for Tottenham Hale on the Victoria line at the end of a winding murky street. The paintings stuffed awkwardly inside his tightly zippered jacket, he caught the first train and transferred to the Jubilee line at Green Park. By the time he got home it was past ten PM. The house was empty and a letter was taped loosely to his door. He tore it off and read it.

Dear Stephen,

Something dreadful has happened. Leyda has been missing for over a day and we fear something has happened to her. Muriel and I are staying at my mother's until she turns up. If you hear anything, please call us. We've left a message on the landline for her, so please leave it on until she gets back safely. We've got the police on a search and we're all waiting anxiously for any news.

Doris

He set the note down on the table by the window, hands trembling like milk on a plate. A siren ripped through the darkness and a light flicked on in a window across the alley. Leyda was in trouble. That was his first response. The news was like shrapnel in his stomach. He felt suddenly nauseous and his chest tightened. The geometry of the room seemed to soften and fold, like a wax figure in a flame. He touched the back of his head. The blood had dried, but there was a hard uneven lump throbbing in painful strokes to the rhythm of his heart.

After some thought it occurred to him that she'd just gone to a rave in Brighton. They had raves there all the time, and she'd gone to them several times before. It seemed unlikely, though, because it was already midweek and from what Doris had said she would have gone missing on a Tuesday. They never had raves on Tuesdays. But it was possible. There was always a first time. He undressed and climbed into the bathtub, running scalding water over his feet and toes. He thought of Leyda's silky chestnut hair and impossibly warm eyes. They could never come to harm. Maybe she just took a quick jaunt across the channel to Amsterdam or Paris with some friends. That would be perfectly in character. She'd taken off for weekends before without asking. It was a very Leyda thing to do. He convinced himself, nestled inside a cocoon of steam as he rinsed the blood out of his hair, that she'd turn up. She had to. She was safe. He laughed.

He dried himself and slipped into his bathrobe. The lights downstairs were still on so he went down to shut them off. When he was finished he locked the door and returned to his room. He felt safe and comfortable in the darkness.

As he drifted off into sleep his mind turned back to the theft. It was a complete disaster. Lindqvist would soon be after him. So much for the perfect abstract crime and all of its philosophical implications. With the perfect beauty of a mathematical equation...an algebraic matrix of pure deception...what a joke! Miné was probably in Dieppe by now. He obviously had connections and could sell the paintings in a week. He'd hide out somewhere in some musty Paris basement until he was safe. The hot French air would blow through his nut-brown curls and his bracelets would jingle on his wrists. The Algerian trickster was home free. The Fat Man and The Seducer would never find him there. They'd get him, _Stephen_ , instead. He'd have to do something with the rolled up paintings. They'd never believe him if he said Miné had the rest of them. They'd wonder why he didn't take them all. Why _didn't_ he take them all? It was no favor to anyone but himself. Perhaps Miné had left them with Stephen as a smoking gun and tipped off the police so they'd catch him, Lindqvist, The Seducer and The Fat Man while Miné would get away scot-free. A perfect set up. He was clever, indeed. Adroit. Perhaps too clever for even Lindqvist.

Stephen struggled for potential solutions. His best bet was to destroy the paintings to get rid of any evidence. But on the other hand, if there was no evidence left the police could never convict The Seducer, Lindqvist and The Fat Man. If he cleared himself from the police, he automatically cleared the others. Then they'd come after him. They'd forever think he had the rest of the paintings and even if they didn't they'd think he knew where Miné was. Everything seemed so tangled, so hopelessly knotted up and he couldn't find a loose thread anywhere. In his frantic and exhausted state, he decided that his only chance was to destroy the paintings and leave London. The evidence would be destroyed and the others would never find him.

The image of The Fat Man's belligerent white face tormented Stephen as he tried to fall asleep. It was hopeless. He went downstairs and poured himself some wine from the fridge. There was enough for a small glass. He gulped it down quickly and searched desperately for more. There wasn't any. He ran up the stairs, double-checking to make sure the door was locked, and then stretched out on his bed. He reached underneath, where he had stashed the paintings earlier. They hadn't moved. Then he turned on his radio. He jumped impatiently through the stations, giving each one a chance for five or ten seconds until he went on, dissatisfied, to the next. Eventually, he found a comfortable jazz station that soothed his nerves. They played Coltrane, Gillespie, and Davis. Then Dexter Gordon. He wouldn't have known unless the announcer's had said so.

Then the news came. At first he couldn't believe his ears. A man was sighted in front of an art collector's house after an explosion and a robbery. The police had been tipped off at dawn and rushed over to investigate. They found him suspiciously photographing the house by the front gate. He spotted the police and ran. Then he jumped into his car and drove away. The police followed him to Embankment, half way across the city, before finally losing him. The announcer urged any listeners to phone in if they had any information that could lead to the unknown man's arrest. It was obviously Lindqvist. Miné must have left some kind of tip, hoping to lead the police to The Fat Man and The Seducer while they were waiting in the car. He probably hoped to have knocked Stephen out for longer so that they would also find him with the paintings on the ground while the Algerian was already long gone, streaming off from Dover on his way to France. Lindqvist must have gone there to savor the moment of his _abstract victory_ by taking shots of the robbery while it was still in progress. The fool. He was lucky he wasn't caught. So blinded by his own crazy ideas he had lost all sense of self-preservation. Stephen was disappointed. He thought Lindqvist would have shown better judgement than that. It was only a matter of time before they found him and arrested him. He would surely crack under pressure and then turn in the rest of them. He didn't look like the type to resist interrogation for too long. Fortunately, he didn't even know Stephen's last name. The Swede was too wrapped up in his own convoluted rhetoric to ever bother asking.

Stephen looked at the paintings rolled up under bed in front of him. They had to be destroyed before anyone found them. The police, The Fat Man, The Seducer, they would all be arriving sooner or later. Guns, megaphones, dogs. Who knows? He rummaged through his drawer for a knife to gash them to pieces, but couldn't find anything sharp enough. He'd have burn them. And if he was quick, he could escape to the nearby station and catch the next train to Brighton. Then he could leave the country. He had enough money to last a month in some place like Amsterdam. He could lay low as a fugitive for just long enough to escape to America. Canada was still part of the Commonwealth and was thus too risky. As far as he knew, there was no extradition policy between Great Britain and the U.S.

He ran downstairs and pulled an _Exacto_ knife out from the tool chest. Then he grabbed an old rag and a can of kerosene. He had to destroy all evidence and scatter the ashes in the garden. The thought occurred to him that paint left ashes with metal traces from the pigment that any forensics team could identify, so he had to make sure he mixed the ashes thoroughly with the topsoil when he was finished.

## V

It is winter. A small child walks home from school. He is wearing baggy corduroy pants and a worn red sweater. His blond hair springs out from under his knit wool toque and his cheeks are a blush color - like pink grapefruit or watermelon. All around him is snow. There is the snow which falls like confetti from the bright sky, there is the snow that sits in tufts like little hats atop the fire hydrants, and there is the snow that hangs in thick sheets off the red-tiled roofs in the distance. There is even snow on top of the rocks that cross the warbling creek. He passes an old stone church. Its walls are peacefully crumbled and its spire is invisible through the screen of the blizzard. Impressions of summer threaten to break through but he does his best to banish them: its arches, its hills, its fields, its twisting paths, its hidden trees and its knotted vines. Then he walks on. He passes over a brick bridge. The water, frozen in places, is still and blades of frosted grass line the sloping embankment. Noticing that his feet are cold, he quickens his pace.

He passes a row of shops, their windows joyously decorated for Christmas. A nativity scene is arranged beside a tray of fine chocolate, and a silvery garland is looped around a tiny tree. He stops to look at a toy shop display: a coal train winds around a mountainous ridge, a soldier beats his rasping drum, and a marionette dances in tight, jerky movements in front of a stuffed bear.

He thinks of the fairgrounds. The whirling lights, the cotton candy, and the twisting rides. Then he turns his eyes downwards, trying to remember his last reading lesson. _Jason has blue eyes_ are the only words that come to mind. The sky is blue and so is the ocean. Some birds are blue, but others aren't. The soldier at the toyshop with the spiked helmet has a dark blue coat with a white belt. His eyes are also blue, but not like Jason's. Jason's are milky and blue but greener than blue and his eyelids are pink like a baby's skin. The lights on the tree are all blue. Last year they were every color under the rainbow, but they broke when the house burnt down. Mother's eyes are also blue. They're the bluest of all.

He continues to walk. Down the street. Past the shops. Around a corner with a row of tall, trembling houses, and through a zig-zag path. Then over a short brick fence and into a yard. The patio is littered with fallen tiles, pine branches and patches of ice spreading across the stone path like lichen. An old brick kiln smokes to his left and a frozen compost heap stands waist high in the opposite corner by the back fence. The house is taller than it is wide and the walls have the color of old paper.

He rings the doorbell several times. There is no answer. He knocks once. Then twice. Still, no answer. He fumbles in his pocket for a key.

At first he is unsuccessful, but then he throws off his big mittens and rummages through his coat. He pulls out a brass key and opens the door. A cloud of warm air wafts outwards as he stomps in. He kicks off his boots and shakes off his coat. The house is well lit and decorated in all its spacious rooms with gold and red garland, pine boughs, colored balls - some with shiny mirror-like wedges, some with tight, red thread, and others with neither. He runs into the living room to see the tree. It is tall and bushy like a lumberjack and a five pointed star glitters on the top. Some branches have little figurines dangling at their tips while others have balls or cookies instead.

He sits in front of it and waits. Several minutes pass as he traces out pictures of animals in the carpet. Owls, bears, panthers, fish. Even birds. Then he lies back on the couch and falls asleep.

The next morning he wakes up. He thinks it is Christmas, but there are no presents under the tree and the house is still empty. His daylong reverie is broken by the sound of a bird in the distance and he realizes it is still summer and Christmas is not for another six months. Once to be a child. His hands are cold and his toes are wet. He runs to get a mug and fills it with cocoa. He watches the foamy white islands swirl around as he stirs it. He can see mountains, trees, stars, oceans, and winds jostling over the rim as he calmly blinks his eyes.

The door opens. A teenaged girl walks in. He has never seen her before. She is young and smells of blood and wet grass. A man follows behind her. He remembers him from a few weeks ago when he came home with his mother and slept in her room. Maybe he knows where she is now? The man has a hunting knife attached to his belt and his eyes keep looking down at the blade. He smiles wanly at the boy and then runs his hands over the woman's thigh. Her hair is brown and her eyes are uncommonly blue. She tries to smile, but can't hide a look of terror on her face. A tear runs down the boy's cheek as he runs over to try and hug her.

## VI

Stephen pulled the paintings out from under the bed and tossed them on the bed in front of him. Now. The light in his room was on. It was dark outside. Ink-like. People could see him from the street below. Eyes. Doubtful and inquisitive. He drew the curtains and locked the door. For a moment he thought he heard a knock on the door. The Fat Man. When he played back the sound in his head he realized it was probably only a loose shingle falling on the patio below.

He turned on the radio and rolled up his sleeves. He had to destroy the paintings. But before he did anything, he wanted to take a last look at what it was that he was desecrating.

He unrolled the first. It was parched and stiff, but he managed to spread it out without too much difficulty over his blanket and used his two pillows as soft weights to hold it down. The oil was cracked and brittle. It was a Rubens or perhaps some nineteenth-century French romantic work. He could tell by the flamboyant brush strokes. He took art history in university. After all, he was an architect and architects were meant to know these sorts of things.

There was an obese sultan lying on a bed in a lavishly decorated room. Minarets, pillars. On the floor: a sprawling of bloodied bodies, scimitars and nude women. In the background: a throng of burning towers and onion domes stabbing ruthlessly into the bright and smoky sky. The paint was thick and the colors dense and blurred. There was a wild sense of violence streaming out of every line and every shadow. The Sultan sat back languorously with a disdainful yawn hanging on his face - his eyes ignoring the pitiless slaughter before him with casual disregard. Seeming to prefer the intricacies of the ceiling over the thoughtless inferno around him, he watched nothing. The concubine's screams, muffled by the dull thud of erotic knives into warm flesh. The assassins: elegant, dark skinned, well built - like dancers of from the pits of Hell - rippling across the canvass like blood in water.

Still, the Sultan's eyes were bored and colorless, painlessly awaiting his own downfall with neither trepidation nor wonder. Torpor. The city, at once strong and fragile, rises and sinks into the sky and sand. Indolence. Destruction of the world, disintegration. Murder, violence, languor, denial. Yes, there was even a shadow of euphoria in the face of the assassins. Ecstasy in the face of empty slaughter.

Stephen stood back. The scene was both disgusting and compelling. It was at once a cruel indictment against mankind and an affirmation of violent revelry as a primal imperative; it oozed through the very splashes of color, the shadows, and the bloodied nipples of the concubines.

He wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead and sat down at his desk. Then his mind turned to Nadia. He hadn't thought of her in days and wondered why. It must have been the pictures. That was it. There was something about the woman in the painting that reminded him of her. He had to write her again. It was the perfect moment. A follow-up to his last letter. It obviously wasn't strong enough. She deserted him and had to pay. A post card from _the other side_. Just like Miné had said, he knew that somewhere in her fragile little head she must still love him and it could only hurt her even more to know the truth.

He took a pen out of the top drawer and started to write. Words came slowly. After ten minutes he gave up. The pen tip was jammed and sticky and he couldn't come up with anything interesting to say. He was so far beyond words that any attempt to use them was rendered immediately futile. It was as if his deepest reflections were now fragmented like loose pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and whatever he wrote was either too mundane or the distorted expression of such a vast and complex associative web that it was hopelessly indecipherable to anybody, even himself. Words leapt off the page, had their own lives, their own world - a hidden and cryptic world of color, sound, and association that had nothing to do with the objects or thoughts they signified.

He stood up and looked about the room. It was messy and smelled of crusty sheets and masturbation. He rummaged through his desk drawer to find another pen, but gave up after only a few minutes. Then he walked over to the bed, removed the pillows, and rolled-up the painting.

The second one was a sketch. It showed a gang of what appeared to be French gendarmes sadistically torturing a man who was hung upside down from a tree. It could have been a Goya, but he couldn't tell for sure. The man was totally nude and his hair had been crudely cut off so as to resemble a convict groomed for execution. The rest of his body was bare and his pubic hair had been either shaved off or deliberately omitted by the artist. There were three soldiers. One was tall, lanky and awkward. He held the man's legs apart while another, shorter and rounder in build, seemed to be laughing as he brandished a sword menacingly over the genitalia. The third soldier, presumably the senior officer, stood back holding a bayonet resolutely against the man's stomach. The victim, still conscious, looked towards the earth, wide eyed, almost rapturous, as if he had given up struggling in order to enjoy his last minutes on Earth, however marred by gruesome torture and sexual humiliation.

The most unusual thing about the sketch was the inverted world order it seemed to proffer. The upside-down man, victimized, and punished, seemed _happier_ than his punishers. It occurred to Stephen that the real anguish was in the faces of the gendarmes, who, expecting to confront a scene rife with begging and piteous screaming, instead witnessed only blissful calm and rapture on the part of their victim. All power was lost, the punished becomes the punisher, and the world was thrown topsy-turvy.

He rolled it up less carefully than the first painting and stuffed it under his bed. The air was thick with the smell of kerosene. Or was it the smell of the oil paint? He checked his watch. It was getting later. He'd have to destroy the paintings soon and leave London as quickly as possible. He couldn't take any chances. Perhaps he could sleep at his office before leaving town the next morning. Although there was no bed there, he could construct a makeshift mattress out of the cushions from the chairs in the conference room.

He unrolled the third painting and set it on his bed. It was a Dubuffet. Unmistakable. The figures: jostling, flexural, slanted, trembling, oblique. Each one surrounded by a strange aura, hissing with its own negative energy. Like seeing the world in italics. The night by the Bristol quayside. The background was a deep green-blue and the figures were painted in black, pink and a darker green. Presenting a graffiti-world filled with jittering anti-people, it stood before him like a grim denial of everything around him. A harsh and jutting world of pavement, metal, light and darkness. Everything was a photographic negative, inverted and strangely alien: a world of flattened shadows and unhinged possibilities, corners, blades, whiteness and heat and glorious damnation. The world of The Seducer. Stephen looked away and carefully examined the room around him. Here, here in this world, the objects were hard and lifeless. His bed, his lamp, his desk, even his body. He picked up a book and hurled it on the floor. It fell open and tumbled as it landed, the pages spread apart and bent. Then it was still.

He turned back to the painting. He looked more closely at the figure dominating the central foreground. It effused a certain scabrous nihilism. Its face, parched and wriggling, its hands long and slender, its back hunched and twisted. In any other context it would've appeared pitifully weak, but within the borders defined by the work it was loaded with fire and darkness, bleached black and stained white against the grainy background. He compared it to the room around him. It shared its colors, it also had length and extension. Weight. Like a representation of a three-dimensional object presented in a two-dimensional format, it portrayed a vast and complex world, exploding with anguish and light, on a canvas that was itself a part of a lesser world - a world drowned in urinal shades and smothered emotions. He was suddenly possessed by its cruel energy and flung himself on the bed beside it. When he lifted his face up from the pillow he noticed that the radio had lost whatever Jazz station he had been listening to – how long had it been this way? - and all he could now hear was a sharp static buzz which seemed to enhance the power of the serrated figures in the painting.

He walked over to the desk and pulled out his Walkman. Then he rummaged through his CDs for a few minutes before settling on _Hex Enduction Hour_ by _The Fall_ , an old British band from the nineteen-eighties he had recently discovered. He skipped the track ahead to _Mere Pseud Mag Ed_ and listened to it several times before letting the entire disc play through. Moments of violent and orgiastic denial. Abnegation. Smoldering hatred of everything around him. The air, the rocks, the trees, and most of all, the people. People like Nadia. All other music was pale and flaccid in comparison, like boiled cabbage beside a high-powered machine gun.

When the last track ended he looked at his watch and realized that he'd just let almost an hour pass. Then he unrolled the fourth painting. It was calmer, more assuring. The pastel colors seemed faintly illuminated and floated with an ethereal beauty before him. The scene, separated into random spatial blocks, suggestive of Cézanne, depicted a rich and warm country landscape. There was a gently winding road, a throng of blossoming trees, a narrow brook, and a golden field spreading out into the horizon. On top of the hill stood a smallish house with a crumbling slate roof surrounded by a toppled stone fence. The walls were white plaster and the windows small and intimate. A few sheep grazed passively in the back yard beside a neatly arranged flower garden. Astral blues, rich velvety reds, buttery yellows. The sky was split between the sun's pale light and the saunter of the lazy clouds. Some were long and frilled while others were fat and rounded like pillows. The vast and expansive horizon rose daringly from the grainy fields into the cloudy sky. He wanted to step into the scene and lie, untroubled and serene, in the palm of that shining field. He could almost feel the breeze rustling through the hairs on his toes.

He set it on the floor against the wall and stepped back. The separation into disparate spatial blocks lent a certain subjective radiance to the canvas. It was almost to see his own vision splintered and rebuilt before him. It was like the time on the dock when he blinked so rapidly that the world seemed to transform around him, yet the painting showed that very blinking deconstructed and delineated before him. The phenomenal field, the field of nature, the hidden landscape, art. It now all stood before him. He wanted to swoon into it, disappear, vanish into the colors and lines. The painting was its own euphoria.

But this rich beauty could also be negative. Beauty was nihilism, denial, disruption. Unlike the Dubuffet, which posited a world of explosive and troubled counter-realm, this work held up a mirror to nature and tempted you to choose its virtual forms over those from the real world around you. Art was therefore evil. Or at least in so far as it draws man away from nature. Like a siren on the rocks. Lindqvist was right!

The last painting was also a landscape. It was simple, yet refined. Perhaps a Corot or a Rousseau. Stylistically it was in a different realm altogether than the last. It lacked the geniculate spatial contours and hovering perceptual blocks. These subjective elements were replaced by a certain prosaic candor. It was visually less impressive, but perhaps more honest in its presentation. Expansive, warm, a celebration of the eternal palace of nature. It was soft and peaceful like Leyda's eyes. As he stood there, he could almost feel its soft grasses, pleasant breezes and trembling fields of grain, hemmed in by rows of brown-branched oaks and poplars. A narrow path wound off into the distance, gently connecting the background and sky to the freshly tilled row of dirt in the foreground. It, too, invited the onlooker to indulge in its rustic beauty. To dissolve into nature and feel the airy hands of God blowing through your hair. Denial, rupture, diegisis. A Buddha, a saint, an opium addict. _Ecstasis_ , sex, art, and now theft. Did he not feel a similar elation as he slipped out of the gate with the paintings under his arm the previous evening?

He stepped away from the bed and looked out the window to the street outside. The dull sameness of his former life slid away from him. The tenement roofs, the iron fences and the carefully meted back yards and gardens. The stained corners in empty rooms, the worn and wooden floors and nine o'clock coffees. The underground with its endless stations and nameless people. No, these weren't even the anti-people of Dubuffet, these were _just_ people. Hardly slanted; empty, without electricity or venom. Their bodies were rounded, soft, and flat while their expressions were indecipherable and cold. Although each one of them had a unique story to tell, each was equally inane, fatuous and insignificant. They slipped on and off the tube cars like air molecules rushing in and out of a box. Hampstead, Shepherd's Bush, Ladbrooke Grove, Kings Cross: that strident meshing of steel and glass that assaulted you as soon as you rolled into London.

His gaze explored the damp and dusty room. There was nothing around him, nothing inside him. Nothing but anger and fear; that, and the shear euphoria inspired by the paintings on the bed and floor. And perhaps that, too, was a mere illusion ultimately amounting to nothing.

He gathered all the paintings and threw them on the bed. Next he ran to the bathroom to get an aluminium garbage bin. He took out his knife and began to thrash at the paintings. Piece by piece he shredded them into narrow strips, tossing them into the hollow metal container before moving onto the next one. Twice he cut his finger while feverishly slicing away. When he finished he doused the shreds with kerosene, lit a match, and tossed it into the bin. He watched as the flames shot up, almost reaching his shoulders. The room filled with thick black smoke and a tower of soot arouse from the hot orange blades to deposit a dark black circle on the far corner of the ceiling.

He coughed and held his hands over his eyes. The smoke was getting out of control. Certainly the flames would attract attention. He rushed over to open the window. Then he closed it. He ran out of the room to get a breath of fresh air in the hallway. Standing five feet from the door, he watched the flames jut and leap into the air. Orange, yellow, black. Like the colors of a wildflower.

He stared at the mesmerizing coils of smoke as they rose from the charred mess on the floor. The destruction of art emerging from the base fodder of fear and necessity, yet blooming strangely into the flowers of ecstasy and rapture. Two opposing forces at once colliding to form a final solution: the absolute and unconditional revolt against _everything_. Maybe Lindqvist wasn't such a fool after all.

When the flames finally died down Stephen heard some shouting from outside. He leaned against the wall and listened intently for a moment. He could make out a voice saying something about calling the fire department. He had to leave immediately. He checked the trashcan. All that remained were ashes. White ashes and black ashes. He emptied them into a plastic bag and stuffed it into his backpack. Gathering a few last things, he tossed on his jacket and ran downstairs. He had to reach his office undetected. He peeked through the curtains. Safe. Then he ran out into the darkness.

To the tube station. Avoiding glances. Eyes riveted to his feet. Stop after stop. Finally Holland Park. His office was just around the corner from the exit. He bought a chocolate bar and devoured it as he crept out into the street. The rain ripped at his face like tiny knives or splintered glass.

His office was empty as expected. The walls were septic and clean. Everything smacked of money and control. He tossed his backpack on the large sofa in the conference room and threw the candy bar wrapper into the dustbin beside him. He turned off all of the lights except for a low wattage desk light standing on the counter adjacent the sofa. He switched on the radio and turned the dial until he found a local news station. Nothing new.

He reclined on the sofa. It was unexpectedly comfortable. He hadn't slept for almost two days. He tried to sleep but couldn't. He was too deranged. So he found the nearest pen and began to write. The words came easier than before and his hand moved briskly across the paper.

Dear Nadia,

I'm so sorry to hear that you're so upset. I received your letter last week and I've tried to reply but what I want to say is almost beyond words, almost ineffable. You'd never understand the power and exhilaration of my last few days. Before the theft I was merely human and hardly living - a stain on the pavement, seeping into its mossy crevices, hiding from the light. But now...

The theft was a disaster. I was double-crossed by my accomplice, and the paintings he left me had to be burned to save me from the police and the suspicions of The Fat Man and The Seducer. As for Lindqvist, the half-mad Swede was almost caught outside the scene of the theft only a few hours later as he tried to take pictures.

In spite of all these blunders, I still feel an overwhelming sense of release - so strong in fact that it borders on euphoria. To leap over the fence with the stolen paintings, to watch as they burned on my bedroom floor: pleasures from the other side! For the last few my soul has surged with a negative energy - defiant, alive.

Do you remember - how could anyone forget - those long and rapturous nights back in Montreal? The scent of wet leaves hanging in the moist air with only ourselves to worry about. "The annihilation of the self into the forest of the other" - as you called it. The swooning violence of our evenings and the milky radiance of the dawn. The denial of everything outside of us. Our love existed like it was the only possibility.

And when you left you started the climb downwards into the world of things. Time, objects, appointments - life. The denial of denial itself. You drifted so far, so far in fact that I no longer know who you are - or even care to know for that matter. And me? Fugitive, thief, roué, aspiring lover of a teenage girl. Destroyer and defiler of art. Pursued by even himself. Pathetic, you say? Shocking? Yes, perhaps \- but perhaps not. Perhaps that is your fatal flaw.

I remember an old painting I once saw. It showed a woman staring wistfully out of a window, her eyes presumably focused on a ship's mast in the distance. Longing for escape. Yearning for voyage. For the other. The exoneration of the self. The desecration of values, the destruction of art. Disintegration. It all fits in. Liberation through debasement - that's my new credo. The conclusion? Don't even bother thinking about it, you'd never understand.

Now I've escaped. Pursued by everyone, yet free from everything. Theft has lifted me to a new level of existence. I stare down on the world of men like a titanic colossus revelling in his dark pulchritude. To savour the scent of every beauty and every ugliness. Even in pain there's beauty.

I wish you could join me here as I breathe the wild narcotic breezes that blow into my soul from the other side! But don't even come looking for me. As shadows evaporate into darkness, so to will I vanish, never to be found again!

Stephen

He threw his pen across the room defiantly and unzipped his pants. He pulled out his penis and urinated out the open window. A balmy breeze wafted in as he watched the glittering stream flow down to the sidewalk. He reread the letter. It was convoluted and obscure. Even pretentious. It was almost as if it had been written by somebody else. Yet, now he _was_ somebody else. Even Nadia could see that. The handwriting was scribbly and the grammar weak. He liked it. At the very least it would shock and disturb her, and _that_ was enough. Regardless of whether or not the letter was exaggerated, it was fair revenge for all that she put him through.

## VII

The next morning Stephen awoke to the sound of Henderson grinding coffee in the office espresso maker. Stephen's head felt heavy and swollen though he had shut down a bar the night before.

"You didn't sleep here last night, did you?" Henderson asked politely. He was a genial man with a rounded belly and a five o'clock shadow.

"No." Stephen stretched his arms and yawned as he stood up.

"Then what's with the pillows all over the place?"

Stephen hadn't noticed. There were sofa pillows scattered across the floor. Then he remembered: he woke up in the middle of the night and arranged them on the floor because the sofa was too small and the armrest was hurting his neck.

"Oh. I just came in about two hours ago to do some work. I couldn't sleep last night and woke up early. So I came down here. I lost some coins under the sofa and removed the pillows to look for them. I must've fallen asleep and forgotten about it.

Henderson's face lost a degree of softness and he raised his eyebrow in doubt.

"You don't have to lie to me. If you were in here late last night working on a project and decided to stay here because you missed the last bus, then that's fine with me. We like hard work around here. It's just the fire regulations. I don't think they approve of that sort of thing. Next time, just call me up if you need a lift."

"Thanks," Stephen replied as he tucked in his shirt.

Henderson relaxed his posture, becoming suddenly less formal.

"You know, I was thinking the other day. Those guys down at Riley's - you know, the firm in Green Park - are looking for someone. We'd like to keep you around here, but we're running out of money. When your apprenticeship is up, then you'll have nowhere to go. I don't know how long they're going to wait before filling the position, or whether or not they will insist on hiring a naturalized Brit..."

"Are they hiring?" he interjected. "If so, my mother was born in Ireland so I have the right to work here permanently."

"Well, they called me the other day and asked if I knew of anybody. They like to look around _inside_ the business before going through the trouble of advertising a position. It's too much of a pain to screen, interview, etc. Anyway, I told them about you. You're the best we've ever had on an exchange program. Most of these guys come over \- fresh out of university - and just want a holiday. They're OK, I guess, but they usually don't get a whole lot done. You're different. I'm sure management has already told you, but we were really impressed with the way you handled the conference in Bristol."

"Oh, Bristol..." he repeated wanly and paused as though recalling a long lost memory.

"Yes, you did a wonderful job. But, back to the vacancy. I feel you might be a good candidate for it. They need someone by September, but they may be willing to wait till you're finished here."

"Sound's like a great opportunity," he added, this time with more alacrity. "Should I call them?" In reality, he cared little. After what had just happened to him the firm, and even his career in architecture, had become little more than vestiges of a past life that was ever more rapidly fading in the distance.

"Just wait till they call you. It'll be better that way. I'll just tell them that you're interested and they'll get in touch."

He poured himself a cup of coffee and opened the newspaper. The headlines read: _Terrorist Attack on Art Collector's House. Suspect Still Loose_.

"Did you see this Stephen? Apparently a bomb was exploded at an art collector's house. Later the same evening, he was robbed of all his art treasures. It's preposterous. What would terrorists want with art? They're just a bunch of social dropouts looking for attention. But maybe they're after some kind of ransom money. After the theft, they saw some guy outside taking photos of all things. Just standing there like a sitting duck."

Stephen read the article in complete silence. There was no mention of anyone else being involved. Good. By the looks of it Lindqvist hadn't been caught yet. Stephen handed the paper back to Henderson and poured himself some coffee. With his arched eyebrows and dignified stance, he oozed a certain confidence. As Stephen stared at him, the world suddenly seemed much clearer than it had the night before.

"I was wondering," Stephen started diffidently," do you think I could have a week off? There are some relatives coming to town tomorrow and I haven't had a holiday since coming here."

"I don't see why not. But normally we don't allow it on such short notice. Next time please let us know a few weeks ahead of time."

Henderson backed away to the magazine rack and leafed listlessly through the various publications. Then he turned back to Stephen, not having found anything to captivate his curiosity.

"So, I'll call Riley's ASAP. Have a good holiday. I have some business to attend to." Henderson nodded and left the room without saying goodbye. Stephen was relieved.

Stephen collected his meagre belongings and left the building. The morning sun was bright and the air light and fresh. It didn't seem like London at all. He counted the money in his wallet and made up his mind. He would hide out in Brighton until it was safe to return. And on the off chance that it wasn't in a reasonable time frame, he would leave the country for Amsterdam.

He took the escalator into the underground station and walked over to the ticket machine. As he put the last coins into the slot he felt a hard jab in his back. He knew immediately what it was and who was standing behind him; he could feel the gun's slender nozzle, cold and hard, jutting rudely into his spine.

"Don't turn around, or I'll blow your fucking lungs all over the ticket machine. It would be a shame to see all of that nicely polished aluminium get all messy, wouldn't it Stevie-boy?"

"Just turn around slowly and walk in front of us. We're going to New Cross to have a little discussion." The Seducer's voice chimed in Stephen's ear like a church bell at a memorial service, both sweet and ominous.

Stephen slowly turned and walked down the tunnel towards the Piccadilly line, the gun pointed firmly into his back. On the walls hung several posters. Advertisements for holidays in Israel, the Tate Gallery, the London Symphony Orchestra, _The Tempest_ \- the very same show he'd taken Leyda to - and The Museum of the Moving Image. They passed a street musician before descending the stairs to the eastbound platform. He was playing a familiar jazz piece on the saxophone and an open violin case inch-deep with coins sat at his feet.

"We're taking the first train, Stevie-boy. When it comes just get in and shut up. If you try any fancy stuff, I'll fucking kill you."

Stephen looked directly at The Fat Man for the first time since the ticket machine ambush. He was wearing a large, baggy raincoat and galoshes. His face was gaunt and worn as ever, sagging like laundry from a clothesline, and his eyes were sullen and hard with huge black circles around them like bathtub rings.

They boarded the train and sat down three abreast in the middle of the car. The outline of the gun's nozzle had almost become imperceptible, lost in the expansive folds of The Fat Man's billowing tent-like mac. But he didn't need X-ray vision to know it was still there pointing at him.

"We're getting off at Shadwell and transferring to the East London line," whispered The Seducer. Stephen noticed a red handkerchief slung around his wrist. It reminded him of one that Leyda liked to wear. In all the action of the past day he had almost forgotten about her and wondered if she'd made it home yet.

As the train rumbled eastward, Stephen was mesmerized by the reflections in the window. He could see The Seducer standing beside him, cool and expressionless in his light windbreaker. Next to him was a woman wearing an expensive-looking suede jacket. Her face was round and doll-like. She was staring downwards so he couldn't tell what color her eyes were. With one hand she was holding a child's hand and she clutched the handle of a shopping bag in the other. He couldn't make out the label, but judging from the woman's apparent opulence, it was probably from some shop in Knightsbridge. The child was playing with a toy soldier, making hushed gunshot noises as he gibbered to himself.

When they reached Shadwell station, The Seducer grabbed Stephen's arm and escorted him off the car with The Fat Man wobbling directly behind in convoy. They transferred to a southbound train and alighted into New Cross station ten minutes later.

When they emerged from the underground the sky was overcast, silver-grey like a syringe needle. The pavement was wet and littered with beer cans and cigarette packages. They walked all of two blocks before reaching a row of shabby and glumly painted townhouses. The wrought iron designs supporting the awnings were rusted and the windows caked with grease and dust. The Fat Man poked the nozzle of the gun stiffly into Stephen's back.

"I hope you've been thinking long and hard, because you've got a lot of talking to do. Nobody fucks with The Fat Man, Stevie-boy."

Stephen nodded submissively, but his thoughts were angry and defiant. How could he explain his way out of this one? They'd never believe him if he told them Miné had the paintings and they'd probably kill him if they found out he had burned the last five. He racked his brains for a plausible story as they ascended a narrow staircase. The banister was chipped and wobbly and the marble stairs were heavily worn.

They entered a small room on the third floor. It was sparsely furnished and smelled of dust and beer. The kitchen was decorated with faded wallpaper depicting flowers and young women in garden dresses and the yellowed linoleum floor was charred in several places. One could imagine that the room may once have been cheery and bright but now the summery wallpaper only had the inverse effect, like an ageing prostitute flaunting her diminished beauty. They walked in short stiff strides into the living room where Lindqvist was sitting tied up in a chair. Given the otherwise hostile company Stephen found the Swede's unexpected presence strangely comforting. The Fat Man pushed Stephen brusquely down onto an army cot in the corner.

"This is preposterous," shouted Lindqvist. "Untie me immediately. I demand it."

"Shut your fucking mouth," The Fat Man snarled. "No. I have a better idea. I'm going to shut it for you. Somebody should have bloody well done this a long time ago." He tied a scarf around Lindqvist's mouth and then knocked him unconscious with the butt of his gun. Then he turned to Stephen. "Listen, Stevie-boy. Wait 'till you hear this one. Can you believe this cunting spotter here went out with a camera to take pictures to _commemorate the greatness of the crime_? What do you think of that, Stevie-boy? It's a good thing he wasn't caught because he would have certainly spilled the beans. I know a stool pigeon when I see one. We have to stick together, or we're all done in."

"I think we're safe, for now," Stephen retorted.

"How the fuck do you know? You don't know anything. You don't have a fart's clue about _safe_. You just sit there and shut up and I'll let you know when you're bloody well _safe_."

The Seducer approached Stephen and stopped. "Now, could you kindly tell us, a) where the paintings are, and b) why you and Miné took off. Either you fucked up and were hiding out until you could contact us, or you tried to dupe us and make off with the paintings yourselves. I suspect, unfortunately for you, that it was the latter."

Stephen moved around on the cot nervously, searching for an explanation. Then The Fat Man walked into the kitchen and returned with a blowtorch and some rope.

"You're going to tell it all. Truth or consequences, Stevie-boy."

"What are you going to do?"

"Just something I learned from some lazy IRA bastards a few years ago - or was it decades now? You don't hear much from those ass greasers anymore."

The Fat Man pulled Stephen up from the bed while The Seducer kept the gun pointed in his face. Then The Fat Man slammed Stephen down into a small wooden chair and slowly tied him up. The Seducer neatly placed the side table next to the chair and The Fat Man put the torch on top of it, the nozzle aimed wilfully at Stephen's face.

"The concept is brilliant and simple," announced The Seducer. "The more we think you're lying, the longer the flame gets. A lot of good men lost their faces like this. Some even told the truth. I guess the world isn't really a fair place, now, is it Stephen? Oh, well, I guess you just have to live with it."

"Now, Stevie-boy, where are the fucking paintings?" The Fat Man shouted.

"I don't know, Miné took them. He bashed my head with a knife butt and ran off."

"So, where is he then?" The Fat Man asked incredulously.

"I don't know. He said he was going to Dieppe and then somewhere in France to hide out until he was safe"

"Don't lie to me, Stevie-boy. You and him have the paintings and he's hiding out somewhere in London. You can't fool us. Nobody fools The Fat Man."

"What good would they do me?"

"Those paintings can be sold for exorbitant prices on any market," The Seducer argued. "Miné has the right connections. Paris, the underground. He could dump them off, split the cash with you, and you'd both be off to your respective countries."

The Fat Man turned up the gas. The cool blue flame came to a sharp point about six inches from Stephen's face. He winced from the beam of heat and struggled to push back in his chair. "You obviously take us for a bunch of sodding idiots, Stevie-boy. First, you play coy and inexperienced - trying to fool us all - and then you make off with the paintings. It just fucking pisses me off."

"It's not an easy story to believe," added The Seducer.

"You have to believe me, we cut the paintings out of their frames, left the premises, and as we were walking away, he turned on me with a knife and hit me with the handle. I was unconscious for I don't know how long. Then I awoke and wandered around London until I could make my way home."

"Why didn't you report all this to us?" The Fat Man pressed him. "There seems to be a hole in your loyalty, Stevie-boy. Besides, we looked all around for you."

"I was afraid."

"Afraid, now? This is new," said The Seducer.

"Bollocks," yelled The Fat Man. "Absolute bollocks. Afraid of what?"

"You have to listen. I don't have them. Miné does. I was afraid you wouldn't believe me."

"Bollocks. _Where_ are the paintings?" The Fat Man turned the gas up a quarter revolution and coughed. Stephen detected the faint smell of burning hair.

The Seducer lit a cigarette languorously and reclined on the cot. Then he turned to The Fat Man: "Perhaps he's telling the truth."

"Rubbish. He's lying and if he doesn't own-up soon he's going to lose his pretty little face. You won't get too much pussy anymore, now will you Stevie-boy, with a face like a plate of bloody meat loaf."

He pressed the nozzle of his gun to Stephen's head and turned up the flame yet again. Stephen grimaced in pain.

"All right! I'm lying!" he hollered in desperation.

The Fat Man beamed with smug satisfaction and turned the gas down a notch.

"Now we're making progress. It's so simple, isn't it? Punishment. Reward. That's how we operate. Now, where are they?"

The Fat Man clicked his heals together and turned towards him. Stephen could see a trio of glistening furrows crossing his forehead like tiny canals.

"I left them with Miné, he's staying with me at my place in Kilburn."

"Excellent. You see, the truth is so helpful sometimes, isn't it," reasoned The Seducer as he stood up and walked across the room in a way that was both casual and aggressive at the same time.

Stephen turned his head down in anguish. He could still feel the heat building up on his forehead and The Fat Man's face was beginning to sicken him. He averted his glance to the closet. When his eyes came into focus he suddenly noticed a jacket that was far too familiar. Leyda. And the red handkerchief on The Seducer's wrist. It was also hers. A grave feeling dawned inside him.

The Fat Man broke the silence.

"So, if I understand you correctly, we can go over to Kilburn and get them right this instant and they'll still be there."

"Yes," Stephen replied viciously. The thought of The Seducer slipping his waxy penis into Leyda's soft belly disgusted him. But was he mistaken?

"How do you know that Miné is still there?" asked The Fat Man.

Stephen gazed a second time at the jacket in the closet. He wasn't wrong. _It was hers_. It had all the right markings. The worn leather sleeves. Black. The union jack scribbled in paint on the left cuff. He gnashed his teeth.

"Answer me, you imbecile. I do the asking, and all that's required is that you answer truthfully." The Fat Man's voice echoed in the air like a trash can clattering in an alleyway.

"OK. I drugged him so I could take the paintings and sell them in Amsterdam. He's should still be unconscious in my room. Nobody can last that much Phenobarbital." His lie seemed to assuage The Fat Man. A slick smile spread across his face as if to say "Now we're making progress".

"Excellent. You've got more common sense than I'd expected. You intellectual sorts are always a bit off. Your address?"

"Eighty-five Teignmouth Road. Off the Kilburn tube."

"I have confidence that you're telling the truth. You have that glow about you like a liar that's just owned up. The truth is always preceded by a lie. A big juicy one." The Fat Man turned off the gas jet.

Stephen slurred as he tried to speak. He could feel the anger welling up in his chest. He stared hatefully at The Seducer who was reclining on the bed, dispassionately observing the scene before him, insouciant and almost amused by whatever violence had just transpired. Then Stephen turned abruptly. "Where is she?"

"Who?" interjected The Fat Man.

"Who's jacket is that?" Stephen turned his head sharply to point out the jacket.

"Just some girl's," said The Seducer. "You don't need to know."

"What girl's?"

"Prisoners should learn to mind their own business."

"What did you do to her?"

"What do you care?" The Seducer smiled.

The Fat Man slammed his fist on the table and Stephen flinched. "Listen, Stevie-boy. I do the questioning. Who in fuck's name do you think you are?"

Perhaps they met at a club, Stephen thought, completely ignoring the Fat Man's question. They went home. She must've been drunk. She wouldn't have.

"I asked you a question. Learn to listen Stevie-boy and you won't get hurt," repeated The Fat Man. "I'm going to get the paintings now. If I find out you're lying, I'll bloody well kill you. But that might be hard, going where you're going."

He pulled out a second gun and pointed it at Stephen as he slowly untied him. The Seducer looked suddenly puzzled and concerned. The Fat Man then handed the first gun to Stephen, while still pointing the other's nozzle in his face. He backed away to the door.

"There's so many poseurs and phonies out there these days. It's such a shame. Let's see how much of a _real_ criminal you are. _Shoot him_." The Fat Man gestured towards The Seducer's.

The Seducer, seeming to think it was a twisted game, smiled pertly at Stephen, the gun now trembling in his hand. The universe contracted. The room was suddenly claustrophobic, slanted, dark, and strangely akimbo. The walls closed in on him. It was like the inside of a submarine. He looked around. He could see what looked like urine stains on the walls. The Fat Man: his gun, long, gray and menacing. The Seducer: his enamelled cock bulging in his pants and smile like an oil slick. Leyda: her jacket and her soft imagined face.

"Shoot him, you coward," The Fat Man shouted as he lunged forward and thrust the gun into Stephen's cheek. It was cold and blunt. The Seducer remained motionless.

"Shoot him or I'll blow your fucking face all over the wall. Those paintings are mine and I'm not going to let any of you bastards have them."

Stephen cocked the gun and The Seducer's face suddenly changed. Like a cornered animal sensing immediate danger, he lunged out at Stephen. Stephen pulled the trigger. The action was stiffer than he'd expected. The Seducer jolted back.

He shot a second time. Then a third. He fell to the floor. His face was bloody and disfigured. A paroxysm followed, running up his leg and spreading to his arms. Stephen was both euphoric and terrified.

The Fat Man cocked the trigger of his gun and aimed it at Stephen.

"I could shoot you. But that would be foolish. You'll stay here until the police come. Then you'll be arrested for theft and murder. I'll get away. It doesn't matter what you say to them. It's all been perfectly planned. "

"Where is she?"

"How the bloody tarts should I know? Ask him again. You might find him more compliant now." He gestured towards The Seducer's motionless figure and smiled sardonically. Then his rough, muffled laughter filled the room.

The floor was wet with blood and wisps of smoke fumed gently from the gun's looming nozzle.

The Fat Man grabbed it from Stephen and spat in his face.

"Now things don't look so rosy, do they, Stevie-boy?"

"You're disgusting."

"What good does grace do you? Nothing." He bashed Stephen in the face with the butt of the gun. Stephen staggered and fell backwards on the Spartan army cot behind him. He closed his eyes and began to lose consciousness.

"That'll keep you here 'till I get back."

The Fat Man turned, slouching and slurping as he wobbled over towards Lindqvist, who was just now opening his eyes.

"You're coming with me," The Fat Man ordered. He pointed the gun at the Swede's head and untied him. "Once we find that little bender Miné, we're going back to your house to see what kind of goodies you have tucked away for me."

Lindqvist squirmed as The Fat Man guided him out the door, his gun pointed to the back of The Swede's head. Stephen could hear his tubercular wheeze over the creaking of the steps as the two men walked down the stairs. Soon all he could hear was the sharp hiss of the gas stove and the clamouring voice of a young girl from somewhere outside. It was high pitched and screeching like some metal cutter inside an aircraft hangar. Then he passed out.

## VIII

Leyda opened her eyes. Imagining she could feel the night air touching against her pupils, she tightened her hand around a clump of wet grass and then dug her nails into the muddy ground. She rolled over to her side and focussed her gaze in the direction of a few trees swaying in the distance. There were also bridges, barges, foghorns and searchlights. She guessed she was in a park on the Southeast bank of the Thames. She got up and walked towards the shore.

Her heart stopped when she suddenly relived in broken disjoint fragments what had happened the night before night and how she ended up on the ground. At first all she could remember was standing in a bar laughing and talking to Singleton. He was radiant, an Apollo in the flesh. She was afraid of him at first. But he persisted with gentle kindness. He bought her drinks the next time they met. He was nice to her. Then there was more. His apartment. Loose tiles on the bathroom floor, the bed spinning like a top. A dingy lamp in the corner. His eyes suddenly hard and glassy, reptilian. Then a second house and a child. But why the child?

She felt a sharp pain in her stomach. Then she slipped her hand down her pants. It stung when she touched herself. She held her hand up to a streetlight. It was dark and wet. All she could see as she stared into the pitiless sodium vapor light was the very embodiment of terror: cold and naked like a razor blade it cut into her.

She cringed in horror when the pieces finally fell together. Her legs froze and she fell to the pavement. Then she screamed. The world was now a jaw clamped savagely around her neck.

Holding onto her purse as if it were a buoy somehow anchored to a greater physical presence than herself, she settled herself for an instant. She had to tell someone. Get help. But what if Singleton found out? And how could she explain to Doris being with him in the first place? She crawled over to the shelter of a nearby tree and thought of Stephen. Maybe he could save her. But somewhere in her heart she knew this notion was useless, he was nowhere around and she was still falling. Spiralling downwards, ripped, gashed, and naked. Exposed. Defiled.

She pushed her elbows into her stomach and started chewing frantically on her fingernails. Tears pouring from her eyes, she searched her pockets for a cigarette. Not one. Then her fingers felt a small bottle. At first she took it for an airline whiskey bottle, but then she remembered: morphine. Even better. That would save her. She'd bought it in a club in Notting Hill before she met Singleton. The man she bought it from said helped you come down after raving for days on end. It even came with a needle and syringe that she still had in her purse. She'd only tried it once before at a party and couldn't remember how much to take. For no reason other than that it seemed like a safe amount, she decided on a half syringe full.

There was a quick throb of pain when she jabbed the needle into her arm. Then she felt a warm sensation spreading through her body. She resisted for a moment and then relaxed. She stood up and stumbled towards a nearby pier, stretching her hands outwards into the hard black air.

A star winked in the midnight sky and suddenly the darkness ganged up on her, changing shape like some mythic creature devoid of all thoughts and motives as it lunged towards her. First it spread out like a vast and windy airfield, engulfing the horizon in every direction. She felt like a rook on a giant chessboard, her very presence a violation of its pervasive flatness. Then it was a cyclone: spiralling and vertiginous. She lay down and pressed her palms against the creaky wood of the quay to keep her balance. Next, it was a brain. She watched its pink and gray neurons fire away in a symphony of mechanical perfection. Then, as she began to lose consciousness, it became an ugly yellow spot on a bare wall. She tried to wipe it away with her hands, but it only spread further every time she touched it. Finally, it was Singleton staring mockingly into her eyes. She gasped and fell backwards.

She curled up on the pier and wrapped her arms weakly around her knees. She was finally a baby again. The sound of lapping waves filled the air. She closed her eyes and rolled over to the edge of the pier where everything suddenly became safe and comforting. There was a sensation of warmth, blackness, and silence, followed in the end by only silence.

## IX

The horizon is the color of gunpowder. At once gray and black. The sun is hardly visible behind layers of thick cloud or smog. It is mute, helpless – a silent partner to the moon's icy light. Flocks of birds fly in rigid formations and airplanes tear into the blue twilight. The horizon is meted out by lines of houses, trees and shops. Some have flat roofs while others are sharp and angular. Inside, women serve tea on silver trays and people watch television. Events, functions. News of deaths, a few advertisements, little more.

So strange, these buildings, these towers, these shacks. Marble and glass, plastic and aluminum, paper and rust. There was once a beach, a forest, a pond. Dirt, grass, water, sand. And now this. Always _this_. Strips of cardboard hanging over crooked roofs, ripped and serried. Cracked asphalt and dusty streets: a labyrinth of sick ideas. Violins in cases and broken sets of drums. Sheet metal, tires and old books. Refrigerators, stoves, cups, spoons and pens. New leases are drawn up, contracts are signed: mail, paper and ink.

Men meet women. Empty greetings followed by empty partings. Perhaps in a quaint brick house with a stone fence and blue trim a young man lies on his bed thinking of a girl. Perhaps he contemplates marriage. Perhaps suicide. Somehow it seems irrelevant. A matter for statisticians and lawyers.

Then there are books on shelves. Always books. Large, small, thin, thick. Leather-bound and paperback. Always studies. Globes, tobacco, and plants. Carpeting and wallpaper, photographs and certificates.

An old man sits outside on a cement barrier, alternately watching the aircrafts flying overhead and the smoke curling up from the chimneys across the freeway. His face is parched and wrinkled, yet his eyes reveal a certain tenderness which belies his surroundings. He seems cruelly out of place. Incongruous and even superfluous. The concrete exists _without_ him. There are rows upon rows of brick townhouses like stacks of orange crates. Their walls appear disfigured and marred, like diseased skin, even from a distance. He clicks his feet together and tosses a rolled up gum wrapper into the bush beside him. His pants are stained and his shirt is faded. He contemplates the events of the day. They are distant and unimportant like facts in the newspaper, only less coherent and exact. Perhaps they happened to another like him. Others must have such days, cluttered with meaningless events, faces, names, tasks, always tasks, and countless objects.

He searches in his pocket. He can't find anything. He forgets what it was he wanted. He feels thirsty, yet his thirst is quenched. He feels hungry, but he's just eaten. His stomach is bloated and heavy. Then his glance drops heavily into his lap. Carrying an expression of reluctant acceptance on his face, he is neither happy nor sad, angry nor calm. It is this mood that he detests the most. Thus, he decides, reaching into his pocket to look for a bus ticket, that he really _is_ angry after all. He is angry for being indifferent. Yet he has no reason to be angry because he wasn't really indifferent any more - he is angry. His anger softens and then he feels indifferent again. His emotions well up and recede with the precision of a finely tuned oscilloscope. He hides all feelings he chooses to ignore, but reveals them in the process of ignoring them.

He gets up and ambles across the street in front of him. There are no cars. No busses. No ambulances. Perhaps it is a holiday. He can't remember. Memory. All there is is memory. It hangs around his neck like a noose. An action is only an action when it is free from necessity. Otherwise it is a reaction. The doctor cuts the umbilical cord and everything unfolds from there.

He turns down a sidewalk and walks up to a door. He opens it and walks in. He takes off his shoes and scrapes the mud onto an open newspaper spread across the floor. The walls are crisp white and the floors are polished wood. He sits down in the living room and reaches for the cello leaning obstinately against the wall beside him. He begins to play but quickly loses enthusiasm. His fingers are numb and he can no longer remember the pieces he once knew.

He struggles to remember what he did that day but soon forgets what it was he was trying to remember. He falls asleep. The room is filled with the indifferent hum of a water heater in the hallway. The smoke continues to curl out of the October chimneys and the airplanes continue to shriek inexorably through the twilight.

## X

When Stephen awoke it was dark and the room was cold and breezy from a window that had been left open. He rubbed the back of his head and turned on the lights. Lingering in his mind were the vague remnants of a dream. All he could remember was acting as an impartial observer to a world that manifested itself as a vast and hopeless panorama of meaningless events flitting by like images in a bad black and white movie print. He looked around the room. There was no sign of The Fat Man or Lindqvist. The floor was covered in dust and dried blood and the Seducer's wet frigid body lay before him like an imprecation. For the first time Stephen noticed that Singleton looked like he could have been his relative, maybe even his brother. His face was similar. The angular jaw, the aquiline nose. Only the hair color was markedly different. Stephen's was black, The Seducer's blond. It was like looking at a photographic negative of himself. Feeling an inexplicable and unjustifiable sense of regret at The Seducer's death, he walked over to the open window. The streets were empty and all he could see was a line of streetlights extending down the block like soldiers in a firing squad. The moon was semi-visible and a foghorn moaned over the din of a nearby motorway. The air was filled with a cloying acidity, which for some reason seemed to emanate from his skin and clothes.

He walked out into the hallway and carefully opened the bathroom door. Nobody was inside. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but he couldn't take any risks. He'd already been bashed in the head twice and a third time might cause a concussion. He washed his face. The floor was strewn with old condoms and newspapers. Even sex magazines. Leyda! How could he have forgotten? He ran back into the room. Her jacket was still in the closet. But why the condoms in the bathroom... No. It couldn't have been. She wouldn't. Not with him. He had to find her.

But first he had to get out of London. That was the only solution. Then he could tell the police about her without fear of being caught. Maybe he could leave an anonymous message. If he told them who he was, they'd most certainly arrest him and maybe then he'd somehow become a suspect.

He picked up the phone but stopped in mid-motion. The Fat Man would be back as soon as he found out he was lying about the paintings. He didn't even give him the correct address. The fat cunt was probably firing slugs into Lindqvist's face demanding the whereabouts of the paintings while Miné was probably hiding out in some unseemly hole in Amsterdam or Berlin. The sick bastard. It was all his fault. The theft was going so well. But here he was now, standing in an abandoned house in London facing the distinct possibility of murder charges. Momentary insanity? Extenuating circumstances? A gun to his head. A gas flame...

Even worse, Leyda was lost. Or possibly... No! He wouldn't let himself even think it. He walked over to the closet and took out her jacket. There were a few wrappers and receipts in her pockets. A concert ticket. A joint. A pair of gloves. A note from some guy about meeting last Thursday. Nothing that would betray her whereabouts.

He put on his jacket and folded Leyda'ss up under his arm. He locked the door behind him as he left. As he descended the stairs he passed a woman standing in an open doorway. A small boy had wrapped himself around her leg and an elderly man was sitting on a chair further inside the apartment. The woman was dressed in a tight mini-skirt and her eyelids were smeared with layers of heavy black mascara. She looked like a prostitute. She tried to make direct eye contact but he jerked his head quickly away as though to refuse her. When he made it to the first landing he crouched down to get a good view of the lobby. It was empty and there was nobody outside the door. He took a run for it, slipping slightly on the freshly waxed floor as he passed the mail slots. Then out into the street. Wet and dark: an invariant. He had never been in this neighborhood. It was shabby, uncomely and depressing. He didn't like it. After a few minutes he found a sign for the East London rail line. Then he remembered: they intercepted him at the station near his office the day before and took him here. How did they find him? If he found him once, The Fat Man could easily find him again. He was a pervasive oil, penetrating into every corner of Stephen's existence.

He passed a phone booth. There was nobody around. He slipped inside and started to call Doris but stopped and instead called the police. The inspector was casual and even sounded bored. Stephen told the story. He found a coat. The name was Leyda. He gave him The Seducer's address. The inspector replied derisively that he had more important affairs than to report lost jackets. Stephen stammered. If he said too much he'd be finished. After a long pause he remembered the note from Doris and replied, "You see I'm a friend of Leyda's and she's gone on the missing person's list." Then the inspector's voice changed. It was suddenly deeper and more concerned. They'd send someone over to the house immediately.

He thanked him and hung up. Then he continued down to the station. When he got there he noticed a pink plastic comb on the street. It looked like Leyda's. Or was it only his imagination? He dried it on his coat and then dusted it off. Recalling the night of the play, he mumbled to himself in a sullen and deflated monotone the last lines of the Tempest: _Let your indulgence set me free_.

Then he went to a phone booth to call Doris and Muriel. They'd certainly be distressed and worried, but the fact that he'd seen her coat would soothe them. But, he couldn't tell her about The Seducer or she'd be hysterical. He'd have to lie. He found the coat at a pub she hangs-out in. That was it.

How strange, he thought as he started dialling, that even as a bona fide murderer he could still feel a strong measure of sympathy for his fellow human beings. Inside his heart there was still a flower growing in the pit of ashes. Yes, there was room for compassion and forgiveness in his new life. It was not as he'd expected on _the other side_. Before the events of the last few days he used to think that all criminals and murderers were devoid of human feeling, empathy, tenderness. In fact, it was the opposite. If anything, he felt richer inside, more sympathetic, and more alive.

Doris answered the phone cheerlessly.

"Hello," she said. Her voice lacked its characteristic lilt.

"I found her jacket." He felt a sting in his chest. A sting like love.

"The police just called."

"You must be so worried."

"Yes. But hopeful, too," she said with an optimism that assuaged his feelings of guilt.

"How is Muriel?"

"She's asleep in her aunt's bed. She has an exam tomorrow. She's trying to contain her distress so as not to let it affect her school work."

"I'm sure Leyda's just run off with friends."

There was a long uncomfortable pause. "I hope so," she finally said.

The conversation continued and she asked when he'd be back. He told her he was going to Scotland for a meeting and would be back in a few days. He'd call her back that afternoon or the next day to see if Leyda had turned up.

"She'll be all right, love," she said tenderly. Then he hung up the receiver and walked slowly out into the street.

The station was crowded and sickening. The sea-foam-green tiles on the walls disgusted him. They were covered with mildew and condensation. A train came. He boarded and sat in the back. He would get off at Victoria Station and catch the first train to Brighton. He checked his wallet. He had loads of money. Almost too much to count. Surrey Quay. Rotherhithe. Places for other people. Wapping. He was across the Thames. He checked the map. He had to transfer at Whitechapel. When he got there he almost didn't want to get off. It was the cheapest property in British Monopoly. He went up an escalator and through a tunnel. The walls were cracked and coated in an oily brown film. He waited for twenty minutes before the next train came. The ride to Victoria was slow and tedious. Several times they stopped in between stations: peoples eyes rolled about but nothing was said. Finally they arrived. He shuffled briskly through the crowd to the ticket machine. He put in a ten pound note and collected his change. He'd have to wait. It would be over an hour. He bought a sports magazine and read it in the bathroom for so long that a custodian eventually knocked on his stall.

"Is everything all right in there, sir? It's been twenty minutes. If you're sick we can call an ambulance," the man said.

"I'm fine," Stephen said. He opened the door and walked out, ignoring the man's glance. He found a patch of unoccupied bench space on the concourse and sat down, dozing off lightly for the next hour until the boarding call alerted him.

He rolled up his magazine and checked for his ticket. The stub was in his pocket. He was safe. At least for the time being. Then he boarded. Angry faces. Puzzled looks. Tired children. He found a comfortable booth and awaited the departure. He started to get edgy when the train was delayed for ten minutes, but his anxiety eased up when it crunched back into motion and rolled out into the dawn sunlight. He looked out the window at the ubiquitous rows of glum apartments and warehouses that hemmed the rails on either side. Brick, dusted with soot and bent aluminum antennas. The buildings seemed to lean into his window and the sky was barely visible through the narrow alleyways and corridors between their walls. Eventually they sped up as the city began to thin out.

As they made their way into open country he felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and elation - as he used to feel on the last day of school before summer. He leaned back, reclining backwards into his seat and then himself. His more relaxed mood allowed detailed thoughts about the murder to surface for the first time since he pulled the trigger. It was a sudden release, even a liberation. Decay or transcendence? - it didn't really matter. They were one and the same. Everything that happened to him had been mere stages of some dark but ultimately necessary metamorphosis. He had thrown a woman off him while making love to her, stolen and destroyed some paintings, and finally even killed a man. He was a bona fide criminal. Even though The Fat Man had forced him to shoot at gunpoint, Stephen pulled the trigger willingly, hopefully. He could still picture the unexpected crack of fear that split open The Seducer's face just before he lunged across the room. His stoic beauty had been tarnished, the marble cornice had crumbled and all that remained were a pair of desperate and frenzied eyes. The trigger clicked and the gun sounded, as if a tape recording of the event had just switched on in Stephen's head. Yes, when The Seducer jolted backwards Stephen was overcome by a sense of euphoria. It was like plunging down the highest drop of a roller coaster or diving into an ice-cold pool. Murdering the ex-sailor had made Stephen feel both frightened and imperious at the same time, standing triumphant at the interface where victim and victimizer become one. And all there was on this magic invisible line was perfection, ecstasy.

Now Stephen burned with sanctimonious light and walked with more supple and powerful limbs. Other people - the mindless rabble - seemed like mere charcoal outlines or fading silhouettes in comparison. In pulling the trigger he had become more perfect, more radiant. Like Dubuffet's anti-people, he exuded a wry and savage energy. He was jagged, radiant and obscure. Beautiful and indomitable. He existed in a world of inverted signs and symbols, vibrating to some vast rhythm that nobody could understand. Thief and defiler of art, murderer, liberator, martyr. If only Nadia could see him. If only Leyda could be near him.

They passed a series of picturesque villages. Each had its own unique church and each church was flanked by an equally unusual pub. These towns were bucolic and quaint, but no doubt filled with mediocre people with bland and unadventurous lives, sipping their pointless teas and reading their vapid newspapers. But perhaps they were really only victims, as he once was, victims of a society that systematically neutered you and forced you to accept its sterile way of life as if that was all there was. And for that reason it was conceivable that such people should be pitied and not reviled. Yes, generosity and forgiveness were only some of the splendid fruits that could be savoured on _the other side_!

He stared at the woman across from him. She was young, bright, cheery. Possibly even intelligent. Her skin was silky and her lips luscious - with red lipstick. But it was all a front. Behind it all she was probably boring, weak, drab and empty. He could see by the way she blinked her eyes and wiped her nose. And the others on the train were no better. It was clear he had risen both above and beyond them. Their world was the world of _things_. Clocks, toast, books, money, jobs, houses, pavement, shingles, verandas, walls, rings, condoms, paper, pens, toys, holidays. Saturdays. Nadia's world. They were bound to their pathetic existence like trains to rails. Everything was perfunctory. Relationships, meetings, parenthood, bondage, entrapment and enslavement. Ecstasy breaks control of self by self and crime, control of self by others. And crime leads to ecstasy and ecstasy to crime. It was a new credo!

He lgazed out the window at the rushing scenery. The deep green downs rolled effortlessly across the landscape. Fields flecked with sheep. Low and heavy wooden fences, lazy and casual rivers meandering under gently arched bridges. Occasionally, a motorway would become visible in the background, gray-white and shiny with mirages like oil spills, and then vanish in the distance. There were also power lines and their support towers that stood like bizarre robots or futuristic weapons. They receded from the train in perfect rows, running parallel to a narrow service road beside the track. Cisterns, silos and oil tanks, standing in grim opposition to the rustic landscape in which they were rooted.

Soon the train approached Brighton. Large and disjoint clouds with dark gray bottoms and whitened tops floated through the sky. Some were the shape of animals, while others had no shape at all, or rather their outlines were so confused and poorly defined as to render them descriptionless. The train rumbled to a slow halt. He waited patiently for the other passengers to collect their articles and step out into the sea-salty air. He was in no hurry to go anywhere and decided to pass the time by picking up a copy of the newspaper and then, when he was finished reading it, playing some pinball on the quay. Then he could find a place to sleep and later in the evening he could go to see a band at _The Zap_. He had read about it once in _Time Out_. They said it was the best club in Brighton.

The thought of nightclubbing made him think of Leyda. He could almost see her standing right before him in her bright red tee shirt staring longingly into his eyes like she did the moment by the postcards that day in Oxford. The Seducer had most likely only found her jacket and scarf at a pub after she forgot it and then used it as leverage against him to get the location of the paintings out of him. She would turn up today or tomorrow. He was sure of it. Maybe even at _The Zap_. He could comfort her. But, he could never tell her that he killed the sick bastard. She might think him brave for a few weeks, but then her feelings would change. Murder imposed a strange complicity between them. She would see him as somehow being a part of The Seducer. She could never know. It would be _his_ secret. People were entitled to such secrets on _the other side_.

He stood up and took out his wallet. He had enough cash to last him for a week. That meant he could relax and think about where he was going to go next. So he resolved to wait until Leyda had turned up before he left.

He went to the nearest concession and bought a copy of _The Guardian_. He perused the first few sections. There was nothing about The Seducer. It probably hadn't made the news yet. Perhaps he could check an afternoon edition.

He strolled down to the pier and looked out towards the ocean. The water was lean and muscular. Acrobatic. A harsh metallic-green with caps of salty white foam. It fizzed and hissed as the waves reached out and drew back, chipping on the dirty rocks. People scattered across the beech. Some talking and some listening. Some animated, and others drab. He could easily tell by looking which ones were worth talking to. He walked along the quay and tossed some lint from his pocket in the direction of a forest green sports car screaming by. Then he sat on a bench and closed his eyes. The sounds around him were sweet, airy and pleasant. The soft churning of the water, the laughter and dalliance of the children on the nearby pier, music on a car radio, the whisper of the breeze. Even the traffic had a pleasant sound to it. He was weightless and free. The world had lifted its stony mask and everything was fresh and vibrant again. He reclined and stared off into the misty distance. He admired the onion domes of the Brighton Pavilion, gauche or elegant, it didn't matter. Further away, and in the opposite direction, he could see the beach extending outwards into the blue nothingness hanging defiantly over the rocks at the perimeter of his vision. The bare chalk cliffs lined the waters like a fortress wall as the waves clapped relentlessly into them. This was perfection. He tossed a coin in the air and then took off his shoes, throwing them into a nearby bush. Exoneration...

By noon, the sky had cleared up and he could already feel the sun's rays boring into his back. He gathered his shoes and walked across the street to a pinball parlor. It was empty inside except for a pair of teenage girls and a grubby dishevelled clerk at the change desk. He searched his pocket until he came up with a one-pound coin. Since he didn't recognize any of the machines he opted to play the one closest to him.

He inserted the coin into the slot and sprung the ball into play, watching it bounce helplessly around the table through a maze of bumpers and targets. The ball seemed to bounce willy-nilly in all directions, but he was too clever for that. Its course was clearly determined from the instant the ball was sprung into action until the moment it hit the flipper. And once it was propelled back up a ramp its course was completely determined by the machine until the moment it hit the flipper again. It was simple. It only had the illusion of random behavior.

"What do you think?" he asked the girl beside him. She was shy and shrugged her shoulders. Then he went to the counter and asked for more change.

"The ball bounces around the table," Stephen continued, hoping that the man might show more interest than the girl had. "It looks wild and uncontrollable. When it goes down the side, we get angry and blame it on luck. Really luck has nothing to do with it. Each bumper and each little mechanism has a specific energy that can be transferred to the ball. That energy is fixed. We're the only random element, but even we aren't random." The man looked at him as if Stephen was one of those crazy homeless people that seemed to frequent the streets of Brighton. "We control our fingers," Stephen went on. Then he paused, wondering if what he was saying had any real validity. "So, ultimately, if we knew every energy and every bounce, rebound and deflection, we could completely rule the machine and never lose. Luck has nothing to do with it. People like to attribute a lot of things to luck. It makes life more interesting when one takes responsibility for nothing. Winning, losing, luck. Really we're responsible for everything."

"If you say so," said the man. " _Pinball Wizard_ or not, if you want to play it till you're old and gray, its fine by me. More money for us."

He changed Stephen's five-pound note and threw the coins on the counter. Then the man turned around to watch the television set behind the till.

"Well, have a good day anyway," said Stephen as he walked over to the machine. He was going to master the machine and wasn't going to let the clerk's lack of enthusiasm deter him.

He played for another half hour without winning and eventually became bored and hungry. He found a nearby pub and ordered a pint of their best bitter and a fish sandwich. When he was finished he left and walked around the city for a few hours.

Busses, women with parasols, groceries, prams. Dresses, hats, shoes. Blue denim, green denim, purple denim. The city was all so full of life. Telephone wires had their own music, sidewalks, cornerstones, walk lights, painted brick: red for houses, white for tea houses, blue for day care, and gray for banks. There _was_ a scheme. He was sure. Everything was part of some vaguely discernible interlocking pattern. Streets connected to shoes, which connected to people which influenced their expressions and then their faces beamed out into the air, sky and water. And over the water was Amsterdam. Its canals and its cafes. A new life. He could work at a restaurant, or possibly he could get a job in construction. It didn't matter. The crisp airs of the continent were waiting for him. Hot summers with lizards crouched on church walls, trains. The expansive East. The Mediterranean. He imagined his legs bronzed and warm. Africa. Mosques, intricately carved pillars. The sooner he got there the better! He could even leave the very next day. What good was it wasting his time in Brighton? He could come back and get Leyda later. She would come for sure. It could be no other way.

Later that afternoon he bought a paper. Again their was nothing about the robbery or murder. It would most certainly be out by tomorrow. He'd get it in the morning and take the next boat to France or Holland.

That night he ate at the most expensive restaurant he could find. French - Vietnamese. He drank an entire bottle of wine and tipped forty percent. Then he went to the nearest pub and ordered two pints of Guinness at once, drinking them both in tandem, making sure that whenever he took a sip from one, he'd sip exactly the same amount from the other.

After dark he wandered around until he found _The Zap_. There weren't any bands scheduled that night. Instead, they were having a hardcore techno - rave night. He thought he'd try it out. Leyda would love him all the more for it and he might even luck out and find her there dancing with her friends. The music was hypnotic and loud. He had several more beers and danced for over an hour in a corner until he was heavy with sweat. For a moment he was overcome by the peculiar sensation that all of the people in the club were consubstantial. They vanished into the music and forgot who and what they were. Their jobs, their lives, their bodies, it all became irrelevant. Nobody noticed their sweaty clothes and smelly armpits and nobody cared. How different it was from North America where everyone was _hyper_ -self-conscious at a nightclub. A girl winked at him and as if following a magic cue he left. She reminded him too much of Leyda.

He found a hotel at about two in the morning and checked in. He fell asleep immediately after a hot bath and didn't wake up until the maid knocked on the door the next morning at eleven.

## XI

Stephen grabbed a quick continental breakfast in the hotel restaurant before heading downtown to buy a newspaper and last cup of coffee before buying a ticket to France. The roads were coated in a light drizzle and the sky had a milky-white complexion - reminiscent of a woman's skin. He stopped at the first newspaper box he could find and pulled a fifty pence piece out of his pocket, holding it between his middle and index fingers as if they were a pair of chopsticks and the coin was some morsel of food. He inserted the coin, opened the door, and pulled out the paper. Then he folded it under his arm and strolled through the streets until he found a trendy little coffee shop with a bright green sign hanging over the door. He bought a coffee and sat down. The place was virtually empty except for the staff and he smiled and nodded at the busboy as he cleared his table. The freckled youth looked bored and smiled back as if to say, "Christ, is this ever a drag." Then Stephen unfolded the paper and began to read.

REFORM IMMINENT IN SOUTH AFRICA. CHELSEA WIN THIRD STRAIGHT. EEC VOTES YES ON BALLOT.

He browsed indifferently through the front section, only occasionally finding something that whetted his curiosity. Eventually he made his way to the local news and sports pages. Nothing. So he decided to start at the top and check again, this time more carefully.

VETTEL LOSES. SOMALIA PROMISED AID. NEW WES ANDERSON FILM EVOCATIVE AND OBSCURE. MAX ERNST DISPLAY A SUBTLE TRIUMPH.

Then, he found it. In the bottom left corner of the eleventh page. MURDER LINKED TO ART THEFT. POLICE SHOOT GUNMAN. SUSPECT REMAINS SILENT.

Feeling a mixture of pride and trepidation, he flattened the paper on the table and gazed intently at the headlines. What could the local media could possibly know about what really happened? On top of this it seemed like a gross miscarriage of justice to have to read a vague and dispassionate report about something that had been so close to him for so long. He read the article slowly and deliberately, the sentences jittering out letter by letter like messages in Morse code.

The London Police, responding to a tip-off, discovered the body of a man in an East London apartment last night. Authorities believe the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head and are treating the case as a homicide, according to police spokesperson Barbara Lipton. The identity of the victim has not yet been confirmed.

Police found the body at 11 p.m. after receiving an anonymous phone call. Detectives have not established a motive for the shooting but believe it is linked to a shoot-out, which occurred two hours later in the Seven Sisters area, Ms. Lipton says. A gunman was later intercepted in an apparent break and enter and was shot by police after resisting arrest.

The incident apparently began when a man tried to force his way into the home of Jurgen Lindqvist, the man who was implicated last week under suspicion of art theft. Police say they were patrolling the Lindqvist house when they found the assailant on the premises carrying two handguns. The man resisted arrest and opened fire on two officers in a squad car parked nearby. A brief shoot-out followed and the gunman sustained several serious wounds to the chest. Wallace Eckermann, 35, is listed in critical condition at Archway Hospital.

Police have identified one of the guns seized in the shoot-out as the murder weapon used against the unknown victim found earlier in East London. Police are investigating a possible connection between the murder, the art heist and the break and enter at the Lindqvist house.

Detectives are still searching for the stolen paintings. Art theft suspect Lindqvist, who was found tied up in Eckermann's car after the incident, remained silent following his arrest. Police have charged Eckermann with break and enter, resisting arrest and assault with a deadly weapon.

Stephen breathed a ponderous sigh of relief. Lindqvist could claim innocence on account of being tied up, and The Fat Man would get pinned with The Seducer's murder. He'd die in the hospital before they could find anything to the contrary. The motive would be obvious: greed. The Fat Man shot The Seducer before he could get to the paintings, which he believed were hidden in Lindqvist's house. It was that simple. But why did he go there in the first place? He must have gone to the false address Stephen had given him and then raced back to Lindqvist's house to see if Miné was hiding there with the paintings. Then the police found him and tried to arrest him when they discovered he was armed. And The Fat Man being The Fat Man was not about to submit to anyone's authority and immediately opened fire.

He finished his coffee and left. While he had much to be relieved about, there was still no news of Leyda. He thought of calling Doris, but on the off chance that the Police had somehow found out and traced him back to her, he decided against it. Instead, he'd call Doris when he got to France. By then Leyda would most likely have turned up and she could come and stay with him in France. They could be together at last, unfettered by circumstance. Tall windows, a brightly painted wall. Her dress.

He took a taxi to the Newhaven pier and bought a ferry ticket. He'd have to wait about an hour before he could leave. With some extra money he went down to a nearby electronics shop and bought an old CD Walkman for the trip. Then he bought a few used CDs to get him through the ride and quickly returned to the pier. He walked out onto a small dock and dangled his legs over the edge. The wood was soft and pliant and the undersides of the planks were covered with limpets and algae. He put on his earphones and played a few songs from a tape before getting bored and turning to the radio. There wasn't anything interesting on Radio One either, so he decided to put the Walkman away and look at the sights from the harbor.

There were barges and tugboats trundling through the thick, oily water. To the left loomed a naval destroyer, its guns aimed despotically towards Brighton and, in the other direction, there was a yacht with a colored flag on its mast. On board, crowds of people hung over the railings, fatuously waving their hands and taking pictures.

Half an hour passed before he decided it was time to forge ahead to the boarding dock. There was a small line and he waited a few minutes before joining the end. When his turn came he showed the official his passport. The man asked a few perfunctory questions and Stephen was let on board without any trouble. Now he was truly safe. He took a seat on the upper deck and bought a beer.

Half an hour later, the boat began to rumble and the dock slowly receded away from the stern. Gray and white gulls squawked in the glittering sun and metallic-green waves clapped eagerly against the starboard. He looked around and listened sporadically to snatches of the conversations. He could hear Dutch, English, French and German, as well as a language he couldn't identify. Exotic...

## XII

A thin white line appeared on the horizon and slowly grew. France. Soon he was able to discern the smudged outlines of buildings and trees, now only barely visible against the horizon, but still definite and solid. Green-black waves sucked the side of the boat as people began to gather their belongings. A horn bellowed through the crisp air and passengers gathered eagerly to one side of the deck to view the approaching shoreline. It wasn't like England - the buildings were more brightly colored and they were all made of stone or wood instead of the brick that was so ubiquitous in London. He gazed ponderously into the churning waters ruffled up at the tail of the vessel. Foam blossomed forth from foam atop the cold and shiny darkness of the water and ripples spread out evenly in the wake of the rudder, gradually blending in with the choppy rhythm of the sea.

A squeaky groan filled the air - like two objects of large mass grinding together - as the ferry docked. He waited for the main mass of people to clear before heading towards the exit platform. The air felt warmer as he stepped off the vessel and out onto the pier.

He strolled through the streets near the quay for half an hour in search of a place to sit and collect his thoughts: a café, a bar, anything would do. But his search came up with nothing and so he eventually settled on a hotel room for the night. There, he went over his finances. He had the five thousand pounds that Lindqvist had given him. It was in a bank in London. He also had his banking card. The money would last him for at least two months and he could take odd jobs here and there before possibly going back to North America. He felt loose and unfettered as he unzipped his pants and reclined on the bed to rest.

He woke up several hours later to what at first seemed like a room in some unknown person's house. Where was he and why? He became aware of the decor scheme of his room as he slowly came to consciousness. It was sparse, but elegant and fastidiously organized. Two magazines were placed neatly on top of the television and a bible was in full view on the side table. The curtains were a sickly shade of ochre and the carpet was an unadventurous grayish brown. He turned on the television and flicked through until he found an international English news channel. First, an ad for soap claiming to be the beginning of _a new era in cleanliness_. Then sports. Norwich 3 - Chelsea 1, and then some international scores. He turned down the volume and watched as the images flickered through his room.

Then a shot of the Thames. A trawl, a crowd of officers. The bitter tar-black waters. A body, wet and half clothed. The camera zoomed in. The bright yellow of an emergency vehicle. Firemen. Paramedics. The languid river fuming below. The sky like a car park: wide, empty, without birds.

He turned up the volume and listened. At first he couldn't believe his ears. The room was suddenly a screeching turbine. A pain ripped through his chest. The announcer's voice was thin and authoritative. He tried to bend the words. Destroy the truth.

Coroner's tests found water in her lungs and traces of morphine in her system. The tests also showed evidence of internal bleeding from rape and abuse. Police say they are currently treating the case as a suicide. However, they haven't ruled out homicide although they have not named a suspect or established a motive.

On the basis of circumstantial evidence, police believe the girl knew the man who was found shot dead in East London yesterday and that she had been in his apartment as recently as last week. They have ordered DNA tests to determine if the dead man could have been the rapist.

The story has another bizarre twist. Police suspect the dead man was involved in an art theft with the gunman who was killed in a shootout with police yesterday. Tests show that the bullet that killed the first man came from a gun seized in the shootout.

Meanwhile, the owner of the stolen art works announced yesterday that the missing paintings were all copies forged for his own protection. The genuine paintings, he says, are kept in a secret vault...

Shadowy images rippled through his mind. He was suddenly catatonic. Leyda. Dead. Her body frail and lifeless, suspended in the inclement waters. The Seducer's cold penis throbbing inside her belly. Murky and tenebrous. The winding alleys, the dock. A syringe. Her arm. White. Her new pants. The yellow of police stripes. Barges and steam whistles. The Embankment.

He threw a glass at the television. It bounced off the screen harmlessly and landed on the floor without breaking. He felt a dark chord vibrate through his body. An anti-chord. Dissonant and angry. The paintings, a fucking forgery. The theft and destruction of art is the highest principle. Lindqvist was a fool. Paper and paint, not art at all. Leyda.

He laughed an ironic and heinous laugh. The walls of his room were a limp yellow-brown, like semen-stained sheets and droplets of water fell intermittently from the ceiling. Leyda was dead. Lindqvist was alive. He was a coward. He would tell. His theories were fucked and they'd all been screwed by Miné.

The room contracted and the walls looked slanted. Everything took on a sickly baroque look. Cluttered. Ornate. Depressing. Even the water droplets seemed baroque. Leyda. The water dripping from her harmless hand. The streets of London like veins in a rat's eye. Suffused in negative light. The water shines more. The water pipes on the ceiling above, tubular and cold like a gun or The Seducer's erect penis. A _s you from crimes would pardoned be_ , _let your indulgence set me free._

The murky waters of the mind. Trailing and penetrating. Canals of thought. Faces. The Seducer. The Fat Man. An Angel. A morphine injection. A hole in her arm. Defiled by a pig. Her wet skin in the Thames. It was all his fault. She never would have met The Seducer if he hadn't agreed to the theft. The newscaster's tinny voice chopped through his head like propeller blades _...Coroner's tests found water in her lungs and traces of morphine in her system. Police say they are treating the case as a suicide. However, they haven't ruled out homicide although they have not established a motive..._

He called room service and rudely demanded a bottle of Champagne. The maid couldn't speak English. He swore at her. She still didn't understand. He repeated himself. She left the room. Champaign. It came five minutes later. He paid without incident. Then he cried. This time he really _was_ in love _...The tests also showed evidence of rape and abuse..._

A shadow leapt across the wall and flickered on the ceiling. The television was still on. Leyda's hair was red. Muriel would be crying. The future stood before him like a medieval torture device. Black iron and cranks. The body bag. Parched faces. The fog lights. The bridges. The underground. The heater on The Seducer's wall. Condoms scattered thoughtlessly on the floor. Dirty linoleum. Stephen's hand shook as he poured another glass of champagne. A commercial for gum appeared on the screen. A woman playing tennis. Wide mouthed and smiling. White. God-like. He drank incontinently. He threw his glass at the television _._. _.Coroner's tests found water in her lungs and traces of morphine in her system..._

Her eyes, clear like only the clearest pieces of the sky. Perhaps he wasn't a murderer after all. He was forced to shoot. To shoot a filthy rapist. He avenged her death without even knowing it. That makes him a hero. But, he shot at him with contempt and revelled in his death. Thus he _was_ a murderer. Or was he? He wasn't even a thief. He stole paper and paint. Nothing. Now Leyda was nothing. Rope, wet and curled, on docks and barges. What happened in The Seducer's apartment? Why was she there? A drink. An invitation. His immaculate charm. Waxy and lifeless _._

_Let your indulgence set me free..._ The Seducer indulged in her and she was freed. Freed at last. He stood up. His knees shook as he walked resolutely to the door. The walls were yellow like nicotine stains or emergency stripes - he couldn't tell. The door opened easily. He walked down the stairs, drunk. The images still burned like a police flare in his head. The lobby was empty, but there were people in the street. Some were walking, and some stood still. Others shook clumps of dirt from their shoes. He kicked the door open and threw the empty bottle at a passing car. It didn't stop. Nobody did. They walked or removed dirt from their shoes. One woman glared at him reprovingly. He swore at her. She walked on. The streets were narrower than in England and the air was warm. There was only darkness ahead of him. Things became obfuscated. The borders of buildings were fuzzy. People's faces were hidden and covert. He continued walking _...Coroner's tests found water in her lungs and traces of morphine in her system..._

In her frightened and deluded state she injected a lethal dose of morphine into her arm and either fell or possibly threw herself in the river. He imagined Doris and Muriel, eyes sullen and wet, imperturbable and inviolate in their sobriety - soft voices fluttering through the empty air. One in the other's arms. Shattered and denuded by the indifferent flickerings of the evening news. Escaping from nothing. Incarcerated. Innocent. Sanctity and silence.

He crossed an intersection and was almost run over by a cab. He spat at the hood and shouted at the driver when he slammed on the brakes. Pavement, rain, bricks, shoes, Leyda's hair. He, too, might also die. He continued walking in a straight line, there were going to be no obstacles. The streets glistened with the reflections of headlights and a siren echoed in the distance. Yet what had he to be afraid of? He was a hero. He'd killed a _confirmed rapist_ at gunpoint, avenging the death of the woman he'd secretly loved. He wasn't even an art thief. All he did was burn a bunch of worthless paper. He had nothing to be afraid of. Nothing but _this_.

He shifted his eyes downwards and studied the cracks in the sidewalk. Transcendence and decay. The inky-bright sky, the piss on the pavement. Walls like shadows in glass. And nothing but lifeless molecules of air passing freely between them. He was merely an architect. Just another inhabitant of the dull world like everyone else. The entire world assumed an air of falsity as he lifted his head in the direction of the wind. There was no _other side_. There was only this. This and Leyda. But even she was gone - _nothing_.

His legs trembled incontinently as he stumbled over a curb and crossed the street. Leyda's face ripped through him like a guillotine blade. Shimmering and deadly. It was eleven-thirty and a small convoy of cars had come to a halt, blocking the middle of the intersection in front of him.

END

Thank you for your time! If you enjoyed this book please leave a good review and check out my other novels online! David M. Antonelli

