 
Bright Lights & Glass Houses

By Ashton Raze

Published by Ashton Raze

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Ashton Raze

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 recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Thanks & Dedication

I - Single Bullet Theory

II - The Earth Crawled

III - Over Easy

IV - Dustland

V - The Last Voice You'll Ever Hear

VI - Bad Company

VII - The Optometrist

VIII - Column Inches

IX - Blind Right

X - Kissing Games

XI - This Message Has No Subject

XII - The Albatross Corridor

XIII - Home Video

XIV - Fusion

XV - Acronyms

XVI - So Long, Good Luck & Thanks For All The Memories

XVII - The Signal Master

XVIII - Bright Lights & Glass Houses

XIX - A Bitter End

XX - Lonely & Sympathetic

XXI - Final Broadcast

XXII - XX (13th Variation)

About the Author

Special thanks:

Emily Richardson, Tom Hoggins, Molly Carroll

Tiarny McNulty, Richard Warner, Lewis Denby

&

My parents.

For Brian & Nora

I - Single Bullet Theory

"Have you ever seen a gun before?" the boy asked.

The girl nodded. Of course she had. Not everyone had led such a sheltered life as the boy.

"You're thinking I've led a sheltered life," the boy said. "And you'd be right."

The girl smiled. The boy had a way of doing this.

"I'm not stupid," the boy went on. "I knew the answer was yes. But you've never seen a gun like this."

He held it out and the girl took it. "Is it loaded?"

"That's the thing," the boy said. "Who knows?"

"You obviously do," the girl replied.

"No, seriously, just listen," the boy said. "These are strange and wonderful times, right? The world's changing. Everything's changing."

The girl nodded. He was right. "Get to the point, then."

The boy was unfazed. "This gun isn't anything special, actually," he said, taking it back. "It's the bullet which is special."

"I thought you said you didn't know if it was loaded," the girl retorted.

"I don't. Just listen! Seriously. The gun houses a magic bullet. You can't see it, or hear it, and you don't know where the bullet will hit. But believe me, it'll hit somewhere. It could shoot a star out the sky, or it could kill the President. Who knows?"

"You're either delusional, or this is the worst pick-up line ever," the girl said.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Don't believe me? Go on, fire it."

He handed the gun back to the girl, and she took it. She looked him in the eye, then pointed it at him. She'd been expecting a reaction, fear perhaps, but got none. He merely smiled.

"Not at me, that's not as fun then. Shoot it into the sky," he said.

The girl pointed the gun heavenwards. Her finger rested on the trigger.

"Okay, ready?" she asked.

"Yes. Fire," the boy said.

The girl wavered for a moment, then her index finger tensed. She squeezed, bracing herself like she'd been taught.

The hammer clicked. Silence.

Together, the boy and the girl watched the invisible, magic bullet sail in a glorious arc towards the sun. Then it was gone.

"Who knows what we just killed?" the boy said, and the girl laughed and kissed him.

II - The Earth Crawled

It began in Greece.

More specifically, it began on the island of Crete. Prison of Icarus, lair of the Minotaur, birthplace of Zeus. Popular holiday destination for droves of sex-starved, sun-bleached tourists. Mythology drenched in booze and bodily fluids. An unlikely destination for me, perhaps, but such misguidance can be attributed to the folly of youth and the persuasive abilities of a pretty girl.

Jules wasn't really my type. I think that's why, during University, we went so well together. There are certain expectations which one such as me has to live up to, and being in a relationship with a grant-funded state school graduate was far from one of them. I won't lie; Jules' working-class background and, as my friends said, 'common' upbringing was part of the attraction. She was also incredibly outgoing, extroverted and bubbly. I was--and still am--insular, sullen and problematic. We were not a typical match. I liked this. My inner rebel liked this. My friends found it a constant source of amusement. They accepted her, though. They had no choice with Jules. She wasn't the type to apologize for her lack of airs and graces. You liked it, or, no, well, you just liked it. She was that kind of person. And I liked her, I did. A lot.

That's why, a month after my Oxford graduation, I found myself amongst the throngs of sweaty twenty-somethings clamoring for a pint at a Heraklion bar. Jules was off somewhere, dancing. I was tasked with bringing the drinks over. It wasn't an easy task. We'd met up with a former schoolfriend of mine who I hadn't seen for a few years due to his Cambridge attendance. His name was Jim and he was here on holiday with a crowd of braying, sandy-haired lads. His entourage, although he called them his friends. Being the stubborn, frustrating guy I was, I'd decided to try and retrieve drinks for the entire group. Navigating through a crowd of holiday makers with eight beverages is no easy task. It was no surprise, really, when I made that fateful collision that changed my life forever.

When people talk about first meeting the love of their life, they usually tell you a heart-warming, romantic story. Me, I chucked beer down my beloved's top. Not just one beer, either. Four. Four pints, straight down the front of her stunning black dress. The other four tumbled backwards onto me.

I looked up at the stranger. She stared back. The world fell silent.

"I am so, so, sorry," I muttered. "Shit."

She was stunning. It isn't a cliche to say she took my breath away, and only in part because of the icy beer pooling at my waistband. Beautiful. Dark hair with a tinge of red. Pale skin. Eyes you could fall into. A smile that could melt your heart. And she was smiling, the tip of her tongue poking out the left side of her mouth. Normally, that kind of thing would annoy me. Here, it was endearing, and relieving. Despite the alcohol shower, she seemed amused.

She thrust out her hand, dripping with beer, shimmering in the lights from the club. "Hi," she said. "I'm Katie."

"Did you have fun?" Jules asked. She smiled at me lazily, drunkenly. She lay sprawled across our hotel bed, naked save for her bra which hung off one shoulder. She was tracing concentric circles on her stomach.

"Yeah, it was good," I told her, undoing my trousers. "Was good to see Jim again."

"Did I look nice tonight?" Jules asked. I was taken aback. It wasn't like her to seek reassurance.

"You looked great," I told her. I climbed onto the bed beside her and she rested her head on my shoulder.

"Edward, do you wanna fuck?" she asked.

I frowned. "It's late, and you're drunk. We have that tour tomorrow, don't we?"

"That's Tuesday," she mumbled, leaning against my neck. Her breath was warm. She began sliding my t-shirt up, her mouth moving to my chest, kissing, biting gently. She moved upwards, our lips touching. I kissed her. I thought of Katie. Of her lips, her skin, her smile. Jules' hand toyed with me. I reached down and took it.

"I don't like this when you're drunk," I told her. She pouted at me.

"You're such a square."

I raised an eyebrow. "Gentleman, maybe."

Jules snorted with laughter. "Yeah, whatever."

She guided my hand down between her legs. "Jules, come on," I said. I was finding it hard to resist.

"We can do anything, Edward," Jules slurred.

"Then let's go to sleep," I said. I saw the hurt in her eyes. I relented. I entered Jules. I thought of Katie.

The next day passed by in a blur of intimacy. We stayed in the hotel room almost until late, when we took a walk and joined the other guests for our evening meal. Thankfully, I'd been able to persuade Jules to choose a slightly more remote hotel, so that between hectic party times we would be able to retreat somewhat. To say it wasn't crowded would be a lie, but the majority of tourists here were older than us, and less prone to antics.

There was a part of me which hoped I'd never see Katie again. That she'd be staying on a different part of the island, that ours was a chance meeting, never to be repeated. I hoped I could forget her, that she'd drift out of my life just as quickly as she'd drifted in.

That part soon evaporated at dinner. As Jules and I headed to our table, plates in hand, I saw her sitting across the room, her mouth open in silent mirth. She was not alone. Across from her sat a portly lad of ruddy skin and a Hollywood stare. Propped upon his forehead was a pair of Aviators. He roared with laughter at something Katie said. Reached across the table, squeezed her hand. I felt a stab of jealousy.

"Uh, Edward?" Jules asked. "You coming?"

I saw her looking across at the table, at Katie and the unknown boy. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

The night before, she had not met Katie. An hour after disappearing for drinks, I'd returned to my group with a story of roughnecked Greeks and plenty of shoulder-barging. Katie and I had spent an hour together. One single, solitary hour. Sitting outside, beer drying on our clothes, smoking and talking. We knew nothing about one another even after that time. There had been chemistry, no doubt about it. Harmless, no-contact chemistry. And that was all it should have been. But here she was, again, sitting nearby. Calling my name.

"Edward!" she called again.

Jules nudged me. "You know that girl?"

"Yeah," I said, offering no further explanation. "Come on, let's go over. You two will get on."

So the boy's name was Chuck, and he was a prick. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't decided this before we even reached the table, but it was reassuring to discover I was right. Typical brash, obnoxious American in his early twenties. Also; Katie's boyfriend. That should have put a lid on it. It didn't, of course. Not by a long shot. Katie was American too. Of course, I knew that. It made explaining things to Jules hard, though.

"So how do you two know each other, then?" she asked, as our main course arrived.

Foolishly, I hadn't thought to prepare a story should this situation arise. Katie winked at me, and to this day I'm sure Jules saw and said nothing.

"Old friend of the family," Katie said. "We used to go to school together back when Eddie lived in the US, as a kid."

I was glad I'd told her about that.

"Oh really?" Jules said. "He's never mentioned you. Huh. Should probably warn you, he hates being called Eddie!"

She beamed at me and tussled my hair. I sat there, dazed.

"Ah, I've always gotten away with it," Katie quipped back. I stole a glance at Chuck. He'd been possessive from the moment we'd turned up, moving his chair closer to Katie's, squeezing her hand that bit too tight. Now he looked positively apoplectic. I almost felt sorry for him. Looking back, now, I'm not proud of my behavior, or of Katie's. But we had that thrill thing going on, that electric, secret chemistry between us. It was a game to us back then, to all of us. We were kids. Heartbreak was in our nature, dramatics our drug. We're a vile, vacuous lot when you think about it. Katie was anything but, I hasten to add. She was just caught up in the moment. Simply being my company seemed to lift her spirits, and the same was true for me.

We talked, then, all four of us, and the mood eventually lightened somewhat. Truth weaved with lies, the effortless way in which Katie spun anecdotes about our childhood had me almost believing it at points. I kept silent at those times, lying never being my strong point. Chuck and Katie's situation amusingly mirrored that of mine and Jules'. He was rich, she was from a poor background. They'd met at University (or college, as they called it). She'd neglected to mention Chuck at all the night before. I couldn't complain. I hadn't mentioned Jules either.

I had no idea what she saw in him. Of course I didn't. I'd already decided Katie was meant for me, even if I wasn't totally aware of it by then. Chuck seemed oafish, boorish and overly opinionated. He spoke loudly of sports and politics, of his admiration of Bush and his dislike of Clinton. He talked, and talked, about the Republicans and the MLB and the NFL, he asked asinine questions about soccer and Blair.

Katie, Jules and I talked too. Handily, Katie thought to throw in the caveat that we'd lost touch for some years, which sidestepped the majority of pitfalls our deception could have caused. Throughout our discourse, Jules' hand danced across my arm, brushing my shoulder, reaching onto my plate to swipe bits of my food. Obvious signs of defensiveness and possession, I realized much later.

The truth is, I can remember almost nothing of that night. The wine was flowing freely, and perhaps that was a factor, but when I think back, all I can picture is Katie. From the first time I laid eyes on her, right up until the very moment I write this now, she was in my head. She filled my thoughts, intoxicating and beautiful. I'd spent no more than three hours with her in total, but she'd already become the most important thing in my life. From that night on, this never changed.

The change one undergoes when one first falls in love--for sure enough, there's no doubt that I had done so--has been well documented in all manner of fact and fiction. To tread that old, self-indulgent ground would do a disservice to my feelings for her. It was quite extraordinary. A powerful, almost terrifying force, obsessive and devouring. To feel love, at least at first, isn't a nice feeling. It's like a fever or a withdrawal, an injection of nerves and nervousness, a psychotropic, mind-altering reaction kicking off in your brain. Distance hurts, closeness hurts. Paranoia rises and doubt clouds. I never understood it before Katie. Since that day, I've never forgotten it. And I wonder, sometimes, has anyone ever felt that way about me without my knowledge? Have they suffered, silently, in love with me until it eats them from the inside out, knowing I was unobtainable?

Lying, unspeaking in the dark, the sounds of the Greek nightlife fading outside our window. There had been no sex, no intimacy. Just myself and Jules, lying side by side, staring at the ceiling, both lost in our own thoughts.

An hour passed, and then a bit more. Eventually Jules spoke.

"They were very nice," she said.

I tried to clear images from my mind. Images of Katie lying in bed, Chuck looming over her, sweat dripping from his fatty chest, grunting as she parted her legs for him. Perhaps, on her lips, a grimace, a slight 'o' of distaste. A sense of resignation. I felt sick.

"Chuck seems a bit much," I said.

"Yeah, maybe," Jules replied. "You really have never mentioned Katie."

"We lost touch a long time ago."

"It was funny, really," Jules said, "that she managed to recognize you across the restaurant. Small world, isn't it? And you didn't seem surprised to see each other at all. Huh."

I sighed. "I saw her last night," I told her. "Bumped into her near the bar. Thought I mentioned that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jules looking at me. I didn't turn.

"You didn't grow up with her at all, did you?" she asked.

"No."

I began to say more, to come up with an excuse for the lie, but Jules had turned over onto her side, and very soon after I could hear the gentle, rhythmic sound of her breathing.

I checked my watch. Almost 2 am. I had no idea if the hotel gym would still be open this late, or if they locked it up, but I needed a walk. As luck would have it, the place was open and seemingly unstaffed. I walked down the dimly-lit corridor, past the windows overlooking the pool. Underwater spotlights cast rippling shadows across cerulean tile. I saw a shape in the water, beneath the surface. I wasn't alone. I almost decided to pass by the pool altogether, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, the lonely, dreamlike state of a swimming pool at night. Or perhaps it was hope. Either way, I stepped inside. I did not make my presence known at first. I kept to the shadows, and stood watching the figure in the pool in silence. Her majestic, graceful strokes carried her deftly through the water, an aquatic ballerina. Her every movement struck me with its beauty. There was no mistaking her.

Eventually, she broke the surface, the water parting to make way for this goddess. She looked directly at me, and I stepped forward.

"Hello, Katie," I said.

She did not seem alarmed by my presence, almost as if she'd been expecting it.

"Edward," she said, more a confirmation than a greeting.

"Didn't mean to disturb you. Don't stop on my account."

"Not at all," she said. "I was just getting out."

Katie kicked her way over to the steps and emerged from the water. I tried to stop myself from staring, but I could not. Her skin, so pale in the bluish light, was like porcelain. Her eyes, red from chlorine, wide and vulnerable. And her body, lithe and perfect, covered only by her bathing suit. She saw me looking and smiled.

"Hand me that towel, will you?" she said, pointing to a chair. Silently, I reached for it and passed it to her. She dried her face, her hair, approached me. She was so close I could touch her. Holding the towel in front of her, she spoke.

"Jules not around, then?"

There was a smile in her eyes, the promise of mystery.

"Chuck not about, then?"

Katie shook her head.

There was static between us. Everything ever went through my mind. My heart was beating far too fast. I reached out, took the towel from her, and tossed it back onto the chair. She stepped towards me before I could even guide her. My hands touched her back, her hands touched my arms. She looked up at me, our lips brushed together, we kissed. She tasted of chlorine and cinnamon, bitter sweet and beautiful. We kissed, more, passionately, hungrily, like this was what we were always meant to do. She reached down, pulled my shirt up. My hands found the neckline of her bathing suit and slid it down over her shoulders, down to her waist. She let it fall, stepping out of it, stumbling against me and laughing quietly as it caught on her foot. I held her, one hand brushing against the soft skin of her left breast. Then she was upright, against me, on me, pushing me down. We made love there, then, on the rough hard tiles of the pool room floor. We fit like we were made together, each of our movements mirroring the other's, every breath, every thrust a perfect unity. Time lost all meaning. I was lost in her, and she in me.

When we were finished, she stood up, a shy look passing across her face. I followed her, grabbing up the towel so she could cover her nakedness.

"Edward, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know... I don't know what..."

I shook my head, put my finger to her lips, and drew her close into another kiss. We could deal with the complications in the morning. I just wanted to hold her close, in the shimmering darkness, as our hearts beat the rhythm of war drums.

Tuesday morning guilt turned into a frantic scramble to reach the tour bus, Jules and I too busy to even look at each other. Finally prepared and dressed, we thundered down the hotel staircase and outside, bundling into the tour bus. The bus was almost full, heaving with elderly vacationers.

"Eddie, Jules, over here!" I heard Katie call out. She was sat at the back of the bus with Chuck.

"We saved y'all some seats," Chuck said as we made our way down the aisle, apologizing to overweight old ladies whose arms caught our thighs. Something told me the reservations hadn't been Chuck's idea.

Jules quickly took the seat next to Katie, and I was forced to squeeze past her to get to my window seat. As the bus engine kicked into life, metalwork rattling dangerously, the sinking feeling of guilt kicked in. I thought back to the night before.

I won't lie. It wasn't the first time I'd cheated on Jules. There had been someone else, during my final year of University, a girl I'd met while visiting a friend in Newcastle. It hadn't been much, but it had been something. This was different, though. Jules knew the person in question. She was sitting right next to her, talking to her. The risk was far greater.

I didn't know where it was going, really. I was in love with Katie. I wanted to be with her. So why was I already planning ways to keep this thing a secret? I needed to talk to her, to find out where I stood. It suddenly felt like the most important thing in the world. Instead, I listened in while Jules and Katie talked about life, distance, countries. Chuck tried to join in, occasionally. Neither of them seemed interested. I simply kept quiet and surveyed the Greek countryside.

The bus pulled into the designated car park and I got my first glimpse of Knossos. Even in its state of disrepair, the palace took my breath away. While the rest of my traveling companions chattered and laughed, I traipsed out of the vehicle in a daze. Certain places have an effect on me. Important, powerful places, commanding presences that cloud my senses. Knossos was one such place. The history here, the beauty. The sense that it was the epicenter of Crete. Thinking of the myth, the tale, Theseus creeping through darkened corridors, the terrible Minotaur's hot, stinking breath teasing the back of his neck. A dank, musky animal smell, one of death and raw power.

We followed the tour guide. He talked. I dreamed. The palace, the architecture, the labyrinth. I felt a hand brush mine. Jules' or Katie's, I wasn't sure. I took it. I closed my eyes. We walked, listened. I heard Katie speaking, Jules, Chuck, tourists, strangers and friends. The stone spoke out to me. I sensed it, something, beneath the earth. Something ancient, unspoken.

"Everything is about to change," I heard it whisper. I felt a pain in my head, in my chest. The palace of Knossos melted away, stone crumbling to dust, and I saw. Burning, scorched sky. A shadow passing across the sun. I looked up, stared at the broiling flame above my head. This crucible in which sat our world, expectantly waiting, pregnant with a fury so terrible that I knew, then, we were on the brink. I felt the ground give way and I was falling, the abyss opening up to swallow me whole. I stared down as I fell, down upon the wretched earth. And with blinking albino eyes, the earth stared back. With a ravenous snarl and a hungry smile, the earth crawled up to meet me.

"Pass out often then, do you?"

We were sat on a hill, gazing over Knossos, a picnic spread at our feet. My head still hurt from the blow I'd taken, collapsing to the floor like that.

It was a warm day, but a chill had crept into my bones. Nothing felt right. Only Katie's smile, that curious look with the tip of her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth, could do anything to make me feel human again.

"I've never known you to pass out. It's not common, is it Eddie?" Jules said. I hated her calling me that. I'd also noticed that she'd taken to answering whenever Katie addressed me.

"No, it is not," I said moodily. I could not get those eyes out of my head. And so I looked at Katie's instead. Blue, almost green, wide and twinkling. I saw the world in those eyes. I smiled at her.

"Did Eddie tell you he's something of a writer?" Jules asked. It was something she knew I liked to keep to myself.

"Oh really?" Chuck piped up. "Anything I might have read?"

This was exactly why. It 's impossible to talk about writing without having to defend the fact you're unpublished. It was little more than a pipe dream for me. I knew my narrative voice was far too textbook, too dry for fiction. Nevertheless, Jules spoke the truth, I was working on a novel. Looking back at it now, it was little more than folly. At the time, though, I held onto the work with a fierce pride, occasionally tapping out a paragraph or two when feeling particularly brooding. I was around thirty thousand words in by then.

I explained that I was just starting out, that it was something I was doing for myself, that I was under no illusion that I'd ever get published. A lie, of course. Back then I dreamed of it every time I sat at the keyboard.

They quizzed me on genre, subject matter, plans. I explained as best I could.

"Eddie says I'm his muse," Jules said pointedly. "Can't write without me in the house, can you?"

It was true. I couldn't. I liked her being there, reading each page when I was done, telling me what she thought.

"That's really nice," Katie said. "I'm working on something myself, actually."

"Katie fancies herself as a bit of a writer too," Chuck added. "She's not bad."

"You'll have to let me read something of yours," I said, without thinking.

For a while, the vision from earlier was stripped from my mind. We talked of books, of writers we admired, of the trouble with starting out. Chuck's family were big media tycoons.

"I always tell her I could get her a book deal no problem," he said to me. "But she has this notion of doing it herself. Silly, really. Take the bull by the horns, I say."

"I can understand it," I said.

"I can't," Chuck confessed. If he had any idea about Katie and I, then he certainly didn't show it, and something told me Chuck wasn't one for pretense or subtlety. "The offer's there, why not take it? Say, if you're ever looking for a bit of help..."

I thanked him and told him I'd love to take him up on the offer one day, knowing I never would. I longed for him to leave, and take Jules with him. I was bored of them both. It's hard not to be cruel thinking back, but it's how I felt. I wanted Katie, I wanted to hold her again, to be inside her, to taste her lips. I wanted to stroke her smooth alabaster skin, to run my fingers through her ebony hair. I didn't care what pain it might cause the others. Images of the night before pounded through my head, interspersed with the gaping, vile maw of the horror I'd seen in my dream. The juxtaposition wasn't entirely unpleasant. To this day, I can't explain the exact thought process I was going through. People are strange when they're young.

Finally, I had my chance to get Katie alone and took it without hesitation. We'd finished our picnic and resumed our exploration of Knossos, drifting apart from the main tour as I stopped to admire the frescoes. Katie joined me, crouching beside me, brushing my shoulder with her mouth.

"Eddie," she whispered. I took her hand and led her away, not caring if anyone should see. The blazing Greek sun beat down upon us as we stepped from the labyrinth.

"Katie," I said breathlessly, pulling her towards me. "This is crazy, and I'm sorry if you think so, but I've never felt like this before. I love you and I'm in love with you and I need to be with you. I need you in my life, now and forever."

I didn't even wait for a reply. I drew her into a kiss, hungry and passionate. I could feel her heart beating against mine. I could taste the lunch time wine, sweet and red.

"I love you," I said again.

"Edward," Katie said. "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't."

Like a coward, I spent the rest of the tour avoiding everyone. Even Jules, who tried her utmost to gain my attention. Frequently I'd wander off, lost in my own thoughts, my mind awash with apocalyptic emptiness. I ached, physically and mentally. Despite the heat, I kept erupting in a cold sweat and on the occasions where Jules caught up with me, she commented that I looked pale and sick. I lost interest in the palace, the labyrinth, the mythology. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, alone, and wait out the rest of my life. For how could life be worth living if my soulmate was unobtainable?

Back at the hotel, and Jules grew frustrated with my dark mood. She left, taking her purse with her, promising to be back before midnight. I pulled down the blinds and lay on the bed, willing sleep to come but feeling edgy and awake. Soon, my anger descended into sickness and I spent nigh on thirty minutes gripping porcelain, retching into the toilet bowl. If only Katie could see me now, I thought. I wanted her pity. I wanted her to feel guilty.

She'd explained, of course. Petty, childish reasoning. She owed a lot to Chuck. She couldn't just leave him. He'd stuck by her through some very tough times. He wasn't the pig I insisted he was. When I asked her how she felt about me, she refused to say. Tears welled up in her eyes. I could see the longing there.

"It wouldn't work, Edward," she'd told me. "It couldn't." Bullshit. All bullshit. Love conquers all. Love never dies.

To be young and naive like that again would be both a blessing and a curse.

I checked my watch. Just gone nine. I had no idea when Jules would return. I decided to take a walk. It was just around sunset when I got outside. I walked to the edge of the hotel grounds. Emerging from a copse of trees I reached a cliff-side edge, and despite my sadness the view took my breath away. Heraklion lay before me, beneath me, the lights of the city twinkling in the oncoming darkness. To the left sat Knossos, its twisting corridors a shadowy scar on the landscape. And beyond all that the ocean, moonlight bouncing off the black mirror waves, expansive and terrifying and beautiful.

I stood there, in silent reverie for eternity. I heard footsteps, and sensed a figure stepping from the trees behind me. I did not turn. Somehow I knew who it would be.

"Imagine what it would feel like to jump," Chuck said. His voice was full of wonder. "To jump, to feel that freedom. To soar up, on the breeze, above the clouds. To touch the moon, to glide beneath the stars."

"We can only dream," I told him curtly. "Mankind has no such freedom."

"There's a trick to it," he said. "You only fly at night. There's no sun to burn you, then. Schoolboy error."

He laughed quietly. I nodded.

"I'm not blind, you know," he went on. "I could see exactly what had happened. I don't blame you, either. She's bewitching."

I thought about protesting, then decided against it. I sensed no malice from the American.

"Love's a funny thing," I told him.

"She doesn't love me," he said quietly. "She's never loved me. I know this. I've accepted this a long time ago."

"Do you love her?"

Chuck was silent for a while. I turned to look at him, gazed into the inky blackness of his eyes. Then, a glint of silver in the darkness. I looked down, saw the penknife in his hand. Chuck smiled at me, and in his other hand produced a stick. Quietly, he began to strip the bark away. I watched him work until the branch was yellow and raw.

"See this," Chuck said, holding it out to me. "Return this to me and I'll let you know."

And with that he drew back his arm and hurled the stick from the cliff-side. I watched it fall in an arc, coming to rest somewhere just out of sight. I turned to leave.

"Giving up that easily?" he said. "I'm serious."

At first, it struck me as demeaning, as if I was being treated like a dog. But there was something in his face, something earnest and desperate. Without a word, I walked to the cliff edge. The path down was steep, but not impassible. I scrambled down, and Chuck disappeared from view.

It took me an hour to find that goddamn stick, but by Christ I found it. Once I'd taken the first step, I knew I wouldn't give up until I returned with my prize. With torn clothes and dusty skin, I pulled myself back up into that clearing. Chuck was gone, so I headed back to the hotel. Katie sat in the reception, and came running to meet me as soon as she saw me.

"Have you seen Chuck?" she asked. I told her that I had, that we'd been chatting. She looked down at the stick I held, then back at me. She frowned, confused.

"He's gone," she said.

"Probably still taking a walk."

"No, he's gone. Taken all his stuff. Left me a note telling me goodbye. That he was moving on. That I should too."

I swallowed hard. "That doesn't sound like him."

Katie disagreed. "It sounds exactly like him. You don't know him, Eddie. Reception confirmed that he checked out. He's gone."

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

"I think so. It's... it's what I wanted. You know it is. It's just, y'know. It's weird. Hard to take it all in."

"Do you want to go somewhere?"

Katie nodded. We went back to her room. All trace of Chuck was gone. We were together.

When I eventually returned to my hotel room, I discovered Jules was back from her jaunt into the city. Her face was flushed, and she swayed tipsily as she stood up to hug me.

"Oh, hello!" she slurred in my ear. "How're you feeling babe?"

I held her, tersely, muscles screaming tension. My heart was pounding. I'd imagined her walking in, sober, ready to sit down and listen to what I had to say. Of course, why would that be the case?

"I'm fine. Listen, Jules, there's something I need to talk to you about," I said. Jules laughed, and spun me round in a kind of manic dance.

"Edward, shhh," she replied. "It's okay, it's okay."

She kissed me, hard, and I tasted booze on her breath. She pushed me backwards, towards the bed. I tried to resist. Her hand dropped to the waistband of my trousers, clawing hungrily, desperately. I stumbled back, falling onto the mattress, and saw a glimpse of something pass across her face. A predatory, haunting look. Maniacal. I lay there as Jules straddled me.

"Edward," she whispered, her breath harsh and ragged. "I'm sorry. I found it."

Proudly Jules extended her hand to me, and there it was. The elephant in the room, something I should've thought to deal with the moment I first met Katie. An engagement ring, a reminder of a time which felt like centuries ago, when I'd planned on asking Jules to marry me.

I looked up at her. She was flustered, drunk, possession sparkling in her eyes.

"I do," she said, and leaned down to kiss me. I put my arms around her. A chill, like icy ocean water, flowed down my throat, into my chest. And for a moment I was back under that apocalyptic sky. I could smell the singed hairs on my arms, could hear the screams of suffering from distant trauma.

There was a presence. Something on my chest, crushing me, sucking the breath from my body.

'Everything is changing,' the voice whispered, and the immediacy terrified me.

"I'm not ready," I gasped. "Not yet."

The weight lifted. I was back in the hotel room. Jules had stood up, off me, and was now staring.

"Edward," she said. "What are you talking about?"

I looked into her eyes, then to the ring and back at her. I thought of Katie, alone now in her room, waiting for me. I thought of the lies I'd have to tell, of the typical youthful heartache evoked by those who can't say what they have to. Of convention and cliche, of how this would pan out. How I'd pretend, how I'd string Jules along, the love triangle, the longing.

I looked into her eyes again. She knew. She'd always known.

'Everything is changing.'

"Jules," I said, numb courage replacing the coldness. "It's not working. I'm sorry. There's someone else."

I won't lie and pretend it was easy. It wasn't. Jules took it remarkably well though, I thought. She insisted on seeing the holiday through to its bitter end. Even spent a lot of time with Katie and I. It was awkward, strained, but what could we say? She was being so nice about everything. Even took Katie shopping one day. That made me feel sick. I didn't like the thought that they were talking about me. Katie told me they hadn't, at all, and somehow that made me feel worse.

In the Times Without Jules, we talked and planned. I tried not to think about the fact only days before, Katie had told me it would never work. I'd changed her mind, I thought, or maybe it had been Chuck. But whatever had happened, I was determined to make it work. At first I tried to persuade Katie to come back to the UK with me. Wasn't happening. So, I decided, I'd be the one to give way. Move to the US. Work on my book. Nothing was stopping me going straight there. Apply for a Visa once I got there. Get my stuff shipped over. I had money--lots of it--and plenty of time.

I was surprised just how easily I managed to persuade Katie. We'd get a place together, dive in at the deep end.

When Jules was ready to leave, I accompanied her to the airport. She bid me a tearful farewell, and promised we'd always stay friends. Telephone, email, visits, she'd always be there.

I never heard from her again.

From that moment on, Katie was my life. I had no friends in America, and we'd moved to Utah (on a whim; Katie literally stuck a pin in a map) which was a distance from her home as well. We had each other, and we had the small town whose outskirts we haunted.

We spent a lot of time in the bedroom, of course. But we also spent a lot of time separately, as individuals, writing. We had our own offices. It was very bohemian. I'd be hard at work and she'd come in, a cup of tea in hand (she always found my love of tea very quaint and amusing), or I'd go and visit her and kiss the back of her neck, try to distract her.

Almost a year passed. A beautiful, blissful year. Every so often I'd try to contact Jules, only to find out her number was still inactive, or that emails would bounce back. It made me sad, but I tried not to let Katie see this.

Katie was perfect. "I love you," she'd say, over breakfast, and for the first time in my life I believed someone when they said that. The closeness, the companionship, it was something I'd always dreamed of, something I'd never had in quite such a way before. In summer, we'd sit in the garden reading or scribbling in little notebooks. In winter, we curled up by the fire and drank and talked and laughed.

It was almost a year to the day that we'd met in Crete when Katie got the letter.

'Dear Ms. Gabriel,' it read. 'Thank you for your article submission.'

"They want it!" Katie shrieked. "They actually want to publish it!"

She ran up to me and thrust herself into my arms, her face glowing. She'd submitted numerous articles to numerous publications over the past year, and I knew she'd been beginning to lose hope. But this, this wasn't some small rag either. It was a big-deal New York publication, lifestyle and fashion and current affairs. I couldn't even recall what her article was about. She'd written so many.

I looked down at her, at her smile, her happiness. I felt like I'd taken a punch to the gut.

You see, while she'd been pursuing a career in journalism, I'd never given up on my dreams of fiction. There was the book, of course, that illusive novel that I couldn't quite pin down. But to offset that, I'd been working on various short stories, sending them off to anthologies, magazines, the like. Waiting for someone to bite. There was no market, they said. I wasn't what they were looking for, they said. Solid ideas but a lack of mainstream appeal, they said.

"Edward?" Katie asked.

"I'm so, so proud of you," I lied. I was too bitter to even start hating myself, in that moment. I hugged her and kissed her head. Her touch stung like thorns.

Unless you're the kind of person to experience envy, it's hard for you to understand what I mean here. It's a terrible feeling, resenting the person you love the most. Yet there it was.

'Everything is changing,' that nagging, taunting voice sang in my head. Fire. Wreckage. Metal twisting against stone. Hatred.

I tried to shrug it off. I promised myself I'd keep working on my book, that this would be my break. After Katie's first article, the commissions came in thick and fast. Sometimes she'd have to travel, to meet editors, to network. Those times were the worst. I'd stay at home, mulling over my book, which to be honest was quite obviously a piece of shit. I scrapped chapters like meat cuttings. I didn't have writer's block; it was worse than that. I could churn out pages and pages, only to read them back and realize they were utter tripe. I missed Jules. She wasn't a writer, she would read my stuff and help, and give me feedback, and set me on the right track. I never liked to ask Katie. She was busy, and worse, she was creeping into my writing. I saw her in every character, on every face. The story became one-dimensional, love destroying creativity, obsession tainting each word.

Katie had just returned from a trip to New York. She'd been gone nearly a week. I'd spent the entire time pawing through loose leaves, tearing up printouts and shredding paragraphs. The bed was cold, I missed her, and every so often I'd burn with a seething jealousy, both of her success and of what she might be up to. She called me every night, of course. She knew nothing of how I felt. She knew I was struggling, of course, and she was forever supportive. It made me more resentful.

The worst part is, I still loved her more than anything. And by then, the self-hatred had crept in. I resented myself for resenting her.

I heard her key turn in the lock, echoing through the dead air.

"Eddie! I'm home!" she called. I deliberately took my time before answering.

As we hugged, kissed, exchanged pleasantries, I knew this time I was struggling to hide how I felt. She unpacked and we sat in the living room, awkwardly like strangers.

"How was it, then?" I asked her.

"It was good," Katie said.

"You never called yesterday."

"I did. You didn't answer."

I shrugged. "Must've been busy."

"Eddie, you okay?" she said.

"Yeah, sure," I replied, too angrily. "So, meet any nice guys out there?"

"What? No. Oh God, you're not gonna be like this are you?"

"Like what?" I snapped. "Legitimate question, isn't it?"

"You know I didn't," she said.

I could see the hurt in her eyes, and I willed myself to stop. But the resentment was bubbling up inside me, coloring my vision.

"Don't know anything," I said. "Dunno what your New York mates are like, do I?"

"I asked you to come with me!" she said. "It's not like I'm trying to keep you away."

I took a sip of wine. "Fuck it," I said. My heart was beating fast. I pulled her to me and tried to kiss her. She moved away.

"Stop it."

I slammed my glass down on the coffee table, and barely heard it topple and break as I stormed out the room.

The next day, I emailed Jules. Over and over and over. Every time, they bounced back. Of course they did. Katie would barely speak to me. I'd barely speak to her. I could tell she had no idea what she'd done wrong. How could I explain it? She'd done nothing. Nothing at all.

We reconciled that night, but things were strained. I kept telling myself that if I could just get my break, just get one editor to take a chance with me, I'd be fine. We'd be fine.

The next time Katie got a request to visit New York, she turned it down. This annoyed me even more. I was annoyed at myself, of course, but I took it out on her. I called her stupid, petulant. She called me an asshole, we slept in separate rooms for two nights. As I lay there, thinking about her alone in the guest bed, all I wanted to do was hold her. She invaded my every thought.

This is love, I thought. This is how it'll always be. I began to understand--or at least believe I understood--why Chuck and Jules could walk away so easily.

We were fine after a couple of days. Always were. The next time they asked her to go to New York, she said yes. I was okay with it. I kept telling myself I was okay with it. She was gone a fortnight.

"Edward," Katie said. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to think really hard about it, and don't dismiss it outright, because I think it'll be good for you as well as me."

I looked up from my breakfast. "Hmm?"

"I think we should move to New York."

"Why?" I asked. "You're a freelancer. You don't need to be there all the time."

"They've offered me a job," she said. "It's an editorial role."

"Oh."

I was still getting nowhere with my own writing.

"Oh?"

"Congratulations," I muttered. "What more do you want?"

Katie sighed. "Does it have to be like this every time? Edward, I love you, so much. I want you to be happy for me. I want us to be in this together."

What she didn't say was; I don't want you to ruin this for me. But she was thinking it. I was thinking it.

"I'm not moving to New York," I said.

She hid the regret well. "Then neither am I."

A month passed, then two. The whole time, every day, every fucking minute, Katie tried to make the best of things. Tried to see the best in me.

I was having nightmares. Visions, much like the one I'd had in Crete, haunted my sleep. Katie suggested I channel them, write about them. I told her, affronted, that this would lead to genre fiction. I walked to my study door and locked it. She stopped trying to help after that.

What particularly struck me about this dark and sordid time was just how tender and loving we were with one another even despite the strife. We'd argue, snap, deride, but when we held each other it was like that first time, by the swimming pool. That never changed. No matter how angry I felt, how resentful, I always knew one thing. I loved her so much. She loved me too.

In the end, though, it was too much.

One day, Katie was gone. She'd taken the job and left. She must have known she was going to do it for a while before it happened. I never suspected a thing. She didn't even leave a note. She called me from New York, as soon as she got there. Explained herself. She couldn't do this any more. She loved me, more than anything, but we were hurting each other. It wasn't working.

She was right. I knew that, but I hated her for it anyway. Hated her and loved her and missed her. For the first week, I'd slam the phone down as soon as I heard her voice. During the second week I spoke to her, tersely at first, then eventually warmed up. It was guilt, though. Inside I burned with rage. She seemed happy, and I was miserable, and I resented this even more.

"Have you met anyone else?" I asked once.

"No?" she replied. She sounded shocked. "I still love you, Eddie. I don't want things to be like this."

She told me she'd wait for me. At the time, I didn't understand what she meant.

Three, four, five months passed. We spoke every day. There was a sadness in her voice a lot of the time, a longing. We missed each other. We needed each other. It was pathetic, I knew it, but I refused to do anything about it.

Then, one night, I gathered up everything I'd written since meeting her. I took it outside, and put it in a metal oil drum. Then, I went back in and got everything I'd written before we'd met too. It joined the pile. Then petrol. Then a match.

I stood and watched the flames consume my life's work. I smiled. It was okay. It meant nothing. I stared into the flames, the abyss, and the only thing I saw looking back was Katie. Her touch still lingered in the house. Her scent, her taste, photographs and memories.

It took me another fortnight to gather up the courage to ask if she'd forgive me.

I am flying, like a bird, soaring across the night sky. I am Icarus, and there is no sun to melt my wings. Everything is changing. I swoop and pirouette, my feathers catching the updrafts, I lack form and meaning. Up, up beyond the clouds, not to the sun but to the moon. I am Icarus, and there is only freedom. Up here, amongst the stars and the crows and the ravens. To freedom, to the future. Love and obsession is nothing. Everything is changing. I am Icarus with broken wings. I fly to the moon.

It's dark, still, when I land.

After gathering my luggage I take a cab through the busy streets of New York, to the hotel. The morning is tense, electric, or maybe it's just me. Commuters are emerging, bleary-eyed, onto the streets on this warm September morning. The world is waking, just another day for them, the beginning of the rest of my life for me.

Leaving my bags with a porter, I hurry to the address where she proposed we meet. A cafe More of a diner. Joe's Dinner, in fact. A mistake? It amused me.

As I step inside the door of the almost-empty coffee house, I see her sitting at a table, a booth near the window. Outside the sun shines upon her pale face and she looks like she's on fire. I think back to Crete, to visions, and to the sun.

She looks up immediately, and smiles, her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth in the way I love so much.

"Edward," she says, standing up.

"Katie."

We embrace.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

I have to fight to keep the tears from falling.

"It's okay. It's really okay," she tells me and we sit down.

The waitress comes over. Her name tag reads Barbie and I smile. She smiles back. Katie and I both order black coffee, which is brought over just as a ray of sunshine falls on Katie's face.

"Can you ever love me again?" I ask her.

"I already do," she says and smiles and I smile too and know she means it. We are lost in each others' eyes. Our hands join over the table. It's like nothing changed, ever.

'Everything has changed,' the voice whispers. I smile.

"Can we try again?"

"We already are."

I ask about her job, about her apartment. I realize I don't know where she lives; if she lives alone, or with a flatmate. She lives alone. The job's going well. She's told me these things on the phone, she says. She's not angry, though. She called to me, and I came to her. There is no anger, only love. It's perfect. It's what it always should have been. It's what it used to be. We are meant for each other. She is my world and always has been.

We kiss, plan, go outside. Katie has to go back to work, but only for a little while. She tells me her address, tells me to meet her there. Gives me a key.

"I had one cut for you," she says. "Don't lose it."

I don't want to let her go. Everything has changed. This is it, now.

"I'll see you soon, then."

"I look forward to it."

"Don't change your mind, Eddie. Please." She's only half joking. I promise that I won't. We hold hands as we separate, our fingers lingering together before we let go. She turns. I stare after her. She walks. I glance at my watch to check the time. Quarter to nine. Plenty of time to do a few things. I look at Katie again. She's at the street corner now. The lights turn red, and despite the crowded streets, she is the only one to cross the road. She's half way across and she freezes. Just freezes. She turns to me. I raise my eyebrows at her.

"Everything has changed," I call out. She's too far away. She won't hear me.

A hot, burning wind blows in, teasing my exposed flesh. I shiver, even though it's not cold.

Katie is looking at me. She's not moving. I feel a sensation like a punch to the back of my head, and suddenly ideas begin to flow. Novels, scripts, dialogue, words pounding my mind with perfect clarity. I close my eyes. Characters chatter, scenes play out. I have it all. I am inspired. Everything has changed.

Katie still hasn't moved. She stares, and a smile creeps across her face. A manic, predatory smile. No tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth. Just anger and temptation and a familiar expression that I haven't seen in years.

In my mind, chapters form and sentences ooze into life, boring through my brain like insidious worms.

I hear the sound of tires squealing. Everything happens in slow motion and as it does, rich white text forms across the world, narrative becomes reality.

As the car hits her, Katie's body is thrown to the side, like a beautiful porcelain doll, white and crimson on the stark road surface. Someone screams and I try to push forward, fighting against the crowd, the words, as they begin to circle around the prone form of my love. In a gap in the sea of faceless commuters I see the driver who ran the red light climbing out of his car, trembling and shaking his head, mouthing silently. I know what he's saying. I know what I'll write down later.

Someone shouts for the paramedics and the tears are already pouring down my face as I fight, breaking through the crowd.

I stare down at her. Neck at an improbable angle, smile on her lips. But it's not her, not any more. I see that face and I stare into those eyes and suddenly she's my soulmate again and time speeds up.

Seconds tick, 8:46 and 27, 28, 29.

Tick.

And eyes are no longer on Katie, bleeding her life away on the cold, hard ground. The maddening crowd freezes like a Polaroid There is a hideous noise, an echo of the beast just born. A deafening cry formed by metal on stone, a fanfare for the end of days.

As one, we turn and look, love and life and memories forgotten in that terrible, fateful instance. Our gaze shifts, we stare not to the earth but the heavens, as nearby the sky falls, and the world changes forever.

III - Over Easy

The smell of Buddy Kowalski's cheap cologne hung in the air. It drifted around the diner, an acrid miasma of solvent and citrus that had followed Buddy in and never really left. That smell, and beneath it, copper and bleach and the electric burn from the storm outside.

Tom Desmond stood, leaning against the Formica counter, his elbow just brushing the half-eaten pie sitting there. He didn't seem to notice. He was staring off into the middle distance, trying not to focus his gaze on any one point. He was trying not to look at her \- Courtney - sitting pale-faced and frozen in the corner. Every so often she let out a tiny sob, and in those times Tom stole a glance at her. Just as beautiful, as vulnerable and fragile as when she'd first started work at the diner six months ago.

Courtney let out a cough and Tom started, knocking the pie plate. He steadied it quickly, unwilling to soil the freshly-washed floor so soon. The mop was still in his other hand. He blinked, only now conscious of how tightly he'd been gripping it.

"Still raining," he said finally. It wasn't exactly riveting stuff but the silence, punctured only by the rain against the window and Courtney's sniffles, was getting to him. Courtney looked up and smiled, her mascara tracing forks down her cheeks.

"Yeah I guess it is," she said. Lightning. A clap of thunder sounded outside. Moments later the lightning hit again, freezing the interior of the diner like a still frame.

"You okay?" Tom asked. "You ready to do this now?"

Courtney nodded, solemnly, like a child. She stood up. "Put our game faces on," she stated, quoting the line Tom spoke at the beginning of every shift. Staying on the customer side of the counter, she retrieved the cleaning supplies and began to wipe down the surfaces. She'd done it a thousand times before, many times already that night, but now Tom detected an extra thoroughness. Good, he thought. No harm in that.

His own work waited behind the counter. "Keep an eye out," he told Courtney, pointing to his eyes then the door. The girl nodded.

"Will do, boss," she said. Tom detected that faint, flirty lilt to her voice. It reassured him. "Oh, and thanks."

Tom grunted something in response.

"I mean it. I didn't get to say it yet. Not a lot of men would've done what you did."

Tom could think of no real response. He just nodded again and stepped behind the counter. He carefully walked to the kitchen, stowing the mop in the supplies cupboard. The cleaning bucket was already back there, so he slowly emptied the water into the sink, following it down with a burst from the tap.

There was nothing else left to do but the night's main task; the elephant in the room, propped up in the kitchen doorway. Buddy Kowalski, paper napkins pressed into the gaping wound in his head, motionless, dead Buddy. Tom sighed, bent down, and grabbed the corpse under the arms.

Courtney was trying to keep calm. She really was. Every inch of her body, every synapse in her brain, was forcing the panic down. The sound of her boss dragging her boyfriend's body across the kitchen tiles was filtering through to the shop floor. She cast an eye at the diner door, just as another bolt of lightning struck. Courtney blinked, spots dancing before her eyes. If there was anyone out there, they wouldn't be seen until they got close enough to touch the door handle. The rain was kicking up a fine mist. Surely only a madman would be out in this weather?

"You alright out there?"

Tom, in the process of moving Buddy. Courtney nodded, remembered he couldn't see, called back 'yes'. They'd known each other no more than six months, but she had long sensed the fatherly care the older man had for her. Not that he was old enough to be her father; not that her own father was someone she wanted Tom to aspire to be. He was good-looking, she thought. Rugged, as they'd say in the magazines. Like someone who'd spent his life outdoors, had lived hard and well, not as a short-order cook in a diner he'd owned for many years. She'd wondered about his life story, his past, fantasized about it even. To learn, one quiet night, that he'd worked in the diner all his life was a bit of a comedown.

Courtney preferred the night shift, and so did Tom. Working days, with the assistant manager Hank Barton, or the weekend shift with Hank's wife Claire, Courtney had always felt self-conscious. A little bit clumsy, a bit useless, even though they assured her she wasn't. Tom liked that. He laughed when she spilled something. He made a joke with the customers if she ever got an order wrong, and very few got annoyed. Not that Courtney thought she was doing too badly, lately. Not at all. No sir. She seemed to improve under Tom's guidance, and he was noticing it.

In the kitchen, Tom muttered something. Courtney wondered if he'd sworn. She'd never heard him swear, not ever. Even that time, a few months ago, when the meth-head poured her scalding coffee on him, accidentally, while clamoring for a look at the tattoo in the crook of Tom's arm. After the cold water came a smile, then later a trip to the emergency room, but not before the shift ended. Courtney had driven him there. They'd both thought it for the best.

No, Tom never swore, never got angry. He let things be. And Courtney had been shocked, afraid, and a little in awe when her boss had, in that split second marked by a clap of thunder from outside, murdered her boyfriend.

The body was out back, wrapped in plastic, just waiting for the right moment. It did not move, nor breathe or speak, for it could not. Empty eyes stared into the vacuous blackness of a trash bag, empty chest rose and fell no more. It was no longer driven, powered by the mind and soul that was Buddy Kowalski. Just a tool, an item, a piece of garbage to be disposed of by the two that plotted in the other room. There was no life after death, at least within the confines of the flesh. It knew this now, it understood everything as all thoughts had faded, all life had slipped away.

Nearby, a creature darted up against the kitchen door, firmly shut. Its tiny feet scratched at the gap around the frame but could find nothing. The animal left; the body waited.

"What are you going to do with him now?"

Tom jerked his head around. "Didn't catch that, sorry."

The girl repeated her question. Tom thought for a second, noting the calm in Courtney's voice. She'd pulled herself together quicker than he could've hoped.

"Wait till the end of the shift, take him out in the desert maybe," Tom said. No point hiding it. Courtney was staring at him. Had he sounded too callous? Too calculated? Maybe the girl was expecting him to break down, to lose it.

No.

"After the shift?" she asked. "You're just going to leave him out there for another five hours?"

"Ain't nobody going back there, is there?" Tom replied.

"Guess not."

"I reckon we're gonna need to talk about this some time," Tom said. He saw the waitress's face fall. It's alright, he thought, I don't really wanna talk about it neither.

"Guess so."

"He was gonna hit you. He beat you before. You told me so." Statements, not questions. Courtney nodded. "And what happened, weren't nobody's fault, were it?"

They'd been over this part already. The first thing Courtney had said: "Wasn't your fault." Tom wanted to be sure. Wanted to know where the girl was coming from.

"So nobody saw him come in, we reckon. Nobody knew he was coming here. Storm outside, ain't likely anyone was on the road, and even if they were, picking Buddy out from any number of guys in the rain would've been a real bind."

"Yeah, Tom, yeah," Courtney replied, nodding emphatically. "Don't reckon anyone knows."

"We didn't see him, then? Haven't seen anyone, have we?"

"Not a soul." Courtney looked resolute. Tom had been poised, waiting for awkward questions, clarification, what-ifs. They never came. He was relieved.

"You're not angry at me, ma'am?" Tom studied her face for any signs of fear, hatred. None.

"No, Tom, you were looking out for me. You saw him, he was crazed. If you hadn't have been here... god..." Courtney wiped at the corner of her eye.

Tom folded his arms and turned away. He stared out the window, into the storm. "Thank you." Something in the girl's voice, more than her words perhaps, had told him what he needed to know.

"It's just..." Courtney went on. Tom turned. What's this?

"Hmm?"

"It's just... having him in here with us... I don't know if I can stand it. Knowing he's back there, just sitting there. Waiting. Can't we do something?"

Tom laughed inwardly. So that was it. The problem.

"What do you propose we do?" he asked.

"Reckon we do what you were saying," Courtney said, "but can't you do it now? I can hold down the fort here for an hour or so. I know it's a lot to ask, Tom, but I'm terrified. You understand that, right?"

Tom paused, nodded. What else could he do? This was quite the dilemma.

"I do, ma'am, but here's the thing," he said. "I've never left in the middle of a shift. Not once. Never done it."

"But I'm good now, Tom, you know I am," Courtney said. Her voice had adopted a whining quality. "I don't ever break plates any more, you said so yourself. And look, the rain's pouring down. Nobody's gonna come in."

"But what if they do? They'll think it's odd. And if, by some poor luck, they ever find Buddy's wretched body, then someone might remember 'hey, that night, old Tom left his shift for a while. Isn't that odd?'"

"Nobody would have to know," she insisted. "I'll just tell 'em you're out back."

Tom could see she was beginning to win the argument. Another bolt of lightning hit, illuminating the inside of the diner like a flash bulb. The solution was obvious.

"I can't bury him now because of the rain," Tom explained "I'll never be able to dig a grave for the fella. Rain will make it too shallow."

Courtney opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, looked at the floor. "Yeah, that makes sense," she said. "Just..."

"Tell you what," Tom reassured, "I'll stick him in the trunk ready."

This was not going to plan. Not at all. Buddy, dead. Tom, out back, struggling to get him into the trunk. Courtney studied her nails. The polish on her left index finger had begun to chip. Must reapply that later.

There wasn't time for such things now. She had to think fast, and on her feet. Once Buddy was six feet under... no. There were things to worry about before then.

Outside, at the door, a shape loomed in the storm. The tinkling of the bell. A hefty cough and those familiar tones.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Blair. The beat cop. Shit, of course, it's Friday. 'Come rain or shine...'

"Evening, Courtney," Blair said. Courtney looked at him, momentarily struck dumb. Blair was in his early 60s with a soft, kind face which now dripped rainwater. His gray hair was slicked against his scalp at the base of his hat.

Courtney found her voice. "Oh, evening Officer Blair," she said, trying to mask the beating of her heart. Tom was still out back. The noise from the rain outside masked any sounds he might be making. Courtney thanked her lucky stars for this.

"Where's the old feller?" Blair asked, referring to Tom. "He cooking something up for me? I don't smell anything."

Every Friday night, Blair came in at the same time. It had become such a routine for so many years, Courtney had learned, that Tom had taken to preparing dinner for the aging cop in advance. Always the same. Breakfast at midnight he called it, even though it was past that time. Hash browns, sausages, beans, egg over easy, steaming black coffee. And that time, every Friday, they'd all sit down and eat. Tom settling for an apple, Courtney having one of Tom's unbelievably delicious turkey sandwiches. A ritual. Normality. Something that never changed.

And now it had.

Blair approached the counter, dripping water all over the freshly-washed floor. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes sparkled, his never-endingly cheerful demeanor grating on Courtney as it always did. He was peering about the place, looking for Tom. Courtney tried to ignore his question. Where was Tom?

Think, Courtney, think!

Thought of a risk. Went to take it.

Courtney tried to force emotion into her voice. "Tom... he's..."

"Tom's what?"

Courtney whirled around. Tom was standing in the kitchen door. The storm had masked his entrance.

"Tom's here," she said quickly, turning back to Blair and smiling.

The slamming of the trunk seemed like a distant memory, or it would have if the body had been capable of storing data. It could feel its brain inside its head, a dead weight, no longer firing or functional. It was stifling inside the wrapping. The body's lungs hung limp in its ribcage, its respiratory system failed. It figured it didn't need to use it any more, anyway. Tom's trunk was dark, and probably smelled of damp, the body figured. When the owner of the diner had brought it to the car, the body had imagined it heard the rain battering plastic, leaking in through the gaps, soaking its shirt which was already drenched in coffee.

If the body could have felt uncomfortable, it realized, it would be feeling uncomfortable right now. Uncomfortable and claustrophobic. When the body had been a human, a real person instead of an inanimate pile of flesh and bones, it had hated small spaces. It was almost a relief, now, not to care. Almost.

Blair was looking at him expectantly. "Where's my dinner then?" he said, a laugh bubbling in his throat.

"I was just out back," Tom told him. "Disposing of a body."

He caught the look of alarm on Blair's face, whose eyes flicked to Courtney. The girl herself looked mortified. Tom laughed guiltily.

"Rat ran in from outside," he said. "Must've been antagonized by the rain. Reckon I spent a good forty five minutes chasing the critter around, isn't that right Courtney?"

"Yeah, yeah that rat was a bastard," Courtney said. "Pardon my language."

"Sorry about dinner," Tom told Blair.

The cop had pulled himself onto a stool and was eyeing the coffee machine.

"You ain't even got a pot of coffee on the go?" he said, chuckling.

Tom shrugged. "Can do, if you want." The coffee pot was currently in pieces, in the bottom of the plastic wrap holding Buddy. Luckily, with Courtney's previous clumsiness in mind, Tom had taken the initiative to buy a couple of spare coffee pots for the machine, one of which he now removed from under the counter and handed to Courtney.

"Make a couple for us too," he said. "Hey, Blair, what do you wanna do about dinner? I chased that rat all over the kitchen. Might wanna pass tonight till I can disinfect the place."

He noticed the disappointment in the cop's face before Blair even had a chance to reply.

"Nope, you know what," Tom said, "I'm gonna rustle up something quick. I'll give it a bit of a clean first, if that's alright with you sir."

Blair nodded emphatically. "Perfect, feller," he said. "Could murder some of your eggs right now."

"I'll see what I can do then," Tom replied. He heard the clinking of glass as Courtney removed the coffee pot. "Hold mine," he said. "I'll be back in a while."

Courtney sipped her drink and stared at Blair. The steam was rising from his mug, giving his skin a waxy shine. Normally Courtney would engage in conversation with the officer, no matter how much his disposition irritated her, but tonight she couldn't muster it. It was okay, she figured, because if he asked she could just say the rat had spooked her. He seemed dense enough to buy that.

"I saw Buddy earlier," Blair said.

Courtney felt her skin break out in goose pimples at the mention of her former boyfriend's name. Silly, really. Of course Blair had seen Buddy.

Buddy was a cop too, after all.

It was the one aspect Tom had refrained from mentioning when they were discussing everything. Killing anyone was bad. Killing a cop brought a whole world of pain down on you. Courtney presumed her boss had a plan. She didn't know -nor particularly care- what it was. It wasn't her problem, but his. He could deal with it, or not.

"Oh yeah? He's probably home by now, in bed if he's got any sense," Courtney replied, gesturing to the storm which still raged outside. The smell of Tom's hash browns was making her stomach hurt.

"Aye, I expect so. He's a good kid, is Buddy." He said this with an air of melancholy, and Courtney felt a momentary sense of paranoia which made her head pound.

"I'll miss him, and all the other guys, when I'm gone," Blair went on. Oh. He was harping on about his retirement again. Of course. It's all he ever talked about. Courtney tried not to roll her eyes.

She wanted to tell Blair just how much of a good kid Buddy wasn't, and the kind of things he said about the older cop whenever Courtney mentioned him. Buddy had little respect for anybody, much less a police officer who was 'past his sell-by date'. If only you knew, she thought. Might open your naive little eyes a bit.

All she saw when she looked at Blair was an overweight old man dressed up as a cop. She doubted he'd ever even fired his gun. Buddy had fired his gun plenty. He often bragged about it. Courtney had gone with him to the shooting range once, and her boyfriend's accuracy with his weapon had, she'd hated to admit, impressed her.

"This is why people don't fuck with me," Buddy had said. But someone had fucked with him now, fucked with him so hard he was lying dead in the trunk of an Oldsmobile. Courtney giggled into her coffee.

"Penny for your thoughts," Blair said.

Courtney shrugged. "Nothin', really. Just thinking about that rat."

"Anyway," Blair went on, as if she had said nothing, "I was chatting to Buddy about Lawson's new ride. You seen it?"

Niles Lawson was the bank manager. He was 'that guy', the one people talked about. Flashed his money around, thought he owned the town, young for a bank manager, a shyster Blair called him.

Really, Niles Lawson was responsible for everything which had happened that night. If you really thought about it like that, anyway. Niles Lawson and his untrustworthy ways. He'd led Courtney to find out just what she needed to know to plant the seeds of an idea in her mind.

Blair smacked his lips together and dropped his cutlery onto the plate with a clack. "Delicious as always, my good man," he said. "Shame you two didn't join me, makes a change!"

Tom looped his thumbs into his belt, his chest swelling with pride. Even after all these years, a compliment aimed at his cooking still felt good. Cooking was his biggest strength, he thought. Sure, there were other things he was good at, but nothing brought quite so much joy as preparing a perfectly cooked breakfast, a superb cherry pie, a pile of amazing pancakes. It wasn't something he talked about, of course, it would have been impolite to brag, but he did think he was a damn fine chef. You could keep your fancy, inner-city haute cuisine, Tom's style of home cooking was what people wanted. When the weather was better, even at night, people came to the diner. They liked it. They liked him. His regular clientele, people like Blair, relied on him. It was a lucrative relationship.

"Will you look at that," Blair said. "Rain's stopped. Just like the radio said it would."

"Gonna be dry for the rest of the evening?" Courtney asked. Tom thought she sounded eager.

"Nope," Blair said. "Got maybe an hour or so before the heaviest rain of the year hits, apparently. The calm-"

"Before the storm, yeah," Tom finished. "Damn. Well at least it's dry for now."

"Aye," Blair replied. "Hey, guys, I better get gone. Walk off this dinner, get dry before the typhoon."

Tom nodded as Courtney collected up the dishes. "You take care, Officer."

Courtney waited for a little time to pass. It felt like forever. The clock said five minutes. She spoke.

Tom found the girl's idea difficult to refute. He didn't need to any more, not now Blair had been and gone. But he figured he better put on a show anyway.

"Guess I'll head off, then," he said. "You're right. If the storm hits harder, we'll never get this body buried. Better take what we can get."

Courtney voiced her agreement. It had been her idea, after all.

"You sure you're going to be alright here alone?" Tom asked. "I'm trusting you, of course. Any signs of trouble, whatever, and you just lock them doors. No sense in you taking any risks."

He didn't foresee any trouble, or any customers at this time of night, and it wasn't like he was going to be gone long.

Once he'd allowed Courtney to spend enough time convincing him she'd be fine, he gathered up his coat and keys and went out to the car, where Buddy waited.

Courtney watched him from the doorway, a look of concern on her face. He glanced over his shoulder at her once, twice, then got into the car and started the engine. As he began to drive off, he saw her retreat back inside the restaurant and close the door. The little radio on his passenger seat crackled once, and Tom thought he heard a cough, before it fell silent. A few drops of rain hit the windshield as Tom guided the car around the corner.

Courtney stood at the back door listening to the sound of Tom's car disappearing into the night, then waited five more minutes to be sure. She headed into the diner, locked the door, checked it, gave one final glance around and flicked off the lights.

The stairs leading to Tom's living quarters were dark. Courtney made her way up there, wincing at every creak, knowing nobody was around to hear it. Tom's door was unlocked, as he'd once boasted it always was.

Tom Desmond and Niles Lawson did not see eye to eye. Tom didn't trust the bank manager, and he didn't trust banks. He'd happily told Courtney this.

"So you keep your money under a mattress?" she'd asked him, laughing.

Tom had taken her seriously. "Nope, in a safe upstairs. Safest place for it." And that had been the end of it.

Guessing the safe's combination had been easy. What Tom forgot, in his earnest, was what he'd told Courtney when she first started working at the diner. The place was open 24/7, but in case of emergencies, there was a burglar alarm. "Passcode is thirteen eighteen sixty five," Tom had said, then laughed. "My date of birth. No good with codes, not at all."

Of course, Courtney couldn't take the risk that he'd used the same combination for his safe. Getting access to the safe in advance was required. That had been easy too. Three months ago, Tom had been going out frequently when he wasn't at work. At the end of a shift with Hank, she told him she had a gift for Tom and could she wait upstairs. Tom was only going to be five more minutes, after all. And what harm could it do? It's not like she could steal anything. If anything was missing after her announced visit, the finger would be pointed at her. Telling Hank she was going upstairs instead of slipping away and potentially being caught had been a clever move. And a lucrative one. Upstairs, Courtney had made two fortuitous discoveries.

The safe was digital, unattached to the wall, and did indeed open with Tom's birth date. And inside that safe... Christ, Courtney hadn't been prepared. Stacks and stacks of bills, far more than she could've hoped for. Thousands of dollars, hundreds of thousands even.

Gently, Courtney had closed the safe, adrenaline pulsing through her body. Then she'd entered Tom's bedroom, removed her clothes and climbed into his bed.

Of course, Tom had been a perfect gentleman about it. Told her she'd misunderstood, that she was a beautiful girl but it wouldn't be right. And so, tearfully, wrapped in one of Tom's jackets, she'd told him about how Buddy treated her, how he hit her.

The nudity, the bruising around her stomach, had been a nice touch. Courtney had always known her clumsiness would pay off one day.

Then it had just been a case of waiting. Giving it some time. Making sure Tom trusted her, cared about her. The plan hadn't been for him to kill Buddy, of course. How could Courtney have predicted that? The plan was, that Tom and Buddy would get into an altercation and Buddy, being a hot-headed cop, would arrest Tom. Take him back to the station. Cool off. Apologize. Courtney would back him up. He didn't mean it. He just had a temper on him. She'd be shaken up, of course, because while they were gone the store was robbed. Three men in balaclavas, knocked her out, taken the till, some of Tom's possessions and the entire safe. Some pals of Buddy's from outside town. Crooked guys who Buddy said they could rely on. Courtney had never met them. Right now, they were probably sitting in a van somewhere, waiting for Buddy's call. By the time they got suspicious, it wouldn't matter. Courtney would be long gone. Tom could deal with it. They'd never find her, any of them.

Buddy's death hadn't been too unfortunate. Courtney was sick of him anyway. He was nothing but a small-town cop with no ambition. He'd been impressed by her plan, and he'd been up for it, but he was just a mindless loser who'd do anything to be edgy. No, having Buddy out the way was the best possible outcome. Courtney had even fantasized about it when she'd devised her plan. She never expected Tom to go that far, though. She almost felt a little respect for him now.

The safe hadn't moved. Of course it hadn't. Tom didn't change things. Courtney had already fished out Tom's large gym bag. She hoped it was big enough. It hadn't taken her long to find it. She'd seen it enough times, when he came in while she was on a shift with Hank. She tipped the contents out on the floor and peered at the safe. Punched in the combination, one ear cocked, listening for any signs of Tom returning. There were none.

Courtney was almost disappointed when the light on the safe turned green. She pulled open the door and stared at the money inside. If anything, there was even more now. She began to mentally spend it in her mind, dreaming of buying a car like Niles Lawson's. Her birthday was coming up. Maybe she'd treat herself to something special, for the first time in her life. And whatever she did, when she had all this money in her own safe, she wouldn't make the combination her date of birth like that fucking idiot Tom had done...

Courtney's mind flashed back to the moment she punched in the combination. One Three One Eight Sixty Five. Eighteenth of the thirteenth? That wasn't a date of birth. It wasn't even anything. Just a code he wanted her to remember.

Courtney began to turn, silently mouthing the word 'fuck' as the steel bar slammed down hard against her skull.

The body was feeling exceptionally uncomfortable and more than a little inconvenienced. A dead weight had been dumped on top of it, crushing its shoulder against Tom's car jack. Something about the weight seemed familiar, like the body had felt the same weight on top of it before. And something about the smell, a sweet vanilla perfume. But its mind would not work; it was dead, after all, and could not be expected to think for itself.

When the body had sensed Tom's car driving around the corner, it had realized this was the end. But then the engine had stopped, the weight of the vehicle shifting as its driver got out, leaving the body in the static darkness of the trunk to just wait, mindless and unafraid of the burial that awaited it. And yet it felt a faint glimmer of fear, and it knew this was wrong as it was just a body, and shouldn't be feeling anything. So it tried to tell itself not to worry, and to let things be, and to an extent it succeeded. But this new development, this weight, and the bumpy desert road the car now drove upon, had reignited that worry and the body wished it could go back to being dead again so it no longer had to care about that.

Courtney opened her eyes, and instantly wished she hadn't. The pain was incredible. She'd never felt anything like it. White-hot spears pierced her temples. She could feel blood running down the side of her neck. She was lying on her back, a pair of boots in her peripheral vision. Fighting through the pain, she looked up at Tom. Rain was falling heavily again, bouncing off the bonnet which Tom sat against, smoking.

"Bad habit," Courtney croaked. "Didn't know you smoked." She didn't know what else to say.

"A lot of things you don't know," Tom muttered. "You're not a smart girl, whatever you might think."

"How..."

"How what? How did I find out? How did I get the jump on you? How can you make it up to me?"

Courtney could taste blood in the back of her throat. She looked away from Tom and up at the stars. Rain fell in her eyes, so she closed them.

"All of it..."

"I knew because I'm not stupid. I reckon I know when someone's touched what's mine, whether you took anything or not," Tom told her. "Just had to wait and see how stupid you were. Chance you'd leave it, were just curious. But that, tonight, I could smell a setup from a mile away. Doing Buddy in brought me no end of satisfaction, let me tell you. Was fun to see how you reacted, too."

Courtney's head hurt too much to be surprised. Of course it had been too easy. Nothing ever fucking worked for her, did it? She turned to the other side now, to be greeted by the sight of a freshly-dug grave. She wondered if Buddy waited inside. Courtney tried to move. An intense pain flared in her legs, and she instinctively knew they were broken.

"Thought you said... it was no good digging a grave in this rain," she said, trying to grab onto something tangible. "Don't do this."

"It ain't no good," Tom said, "if people come looking. But they don't come out here, they don't look here. This is my patch. They know better than to look."

Tom stepped away from the car, walked over to Courtney and reached down. He grabbed her by the waist, sending bursts of pain through her limbs. She cried out. The pain exploded as Tom hurled her into the hole, as she crashed against the still form of Buddy, dirt crumbling from the sides of the grave and getting into her eyes. She wanted to cry. She felt something crawling on her hand. Tried to flick it away. Couldn't. Couldn't move at all.

Tom's voice echoed down to her. It felt like he was standing a thousand miles away. "Thing about small towns," he said, "is that people need help. They rely on people like me. You pair of cunts come along, think they're all backwards hicks, treat everyone as such. I reckon, ma'am, that you don't quite understand just how a small town sustains itself.

"All I want to do is cook good food, and make people happy," he continued. "But people came in, they'd talk to me, tell me their problems. And word got about that I was the guy who could help, from time to time. I don't enjoy this, but I don't mind it neither. And every small town has someone like me. And people like you, like Buddy, eventually people like Niles Lawson, you piss someone off enough and eventually you're just a problem.

"It's normally easy. I won't bore you with the details. But tonight is different. You're hurting me, here. Killing a cop is different."

He paused, to throw something into the hole. His gym bag. It landed beside Courtney's head, and she saw the wads of dollars pouring out.

"Only money I reckon," Tom said. "Can get it back. You two pretty much got the jump on me. Robbed me blind, knocked me out, disappeared. Doubt they'll ever find you, or my money. And poor Officer Blair, too. So shook up. Can't believe what you've done."

"Blair..." Courtney mumbled. She could barely even speak now. Mud was flowing into her mouth, making her want to retch. No energy to do so.

"Like I said," Tom told her. "It's a small town. We help each other out. Always have, always will. I guess you'll just have to come back when you understand that."

Courtney detected the faintest trace of anger in Tom's voice, but also disappointment. She wondered, if it were not for the pain, if she'd be feeling remorse now.

Her right hand still had a bit of movement in it. She clenched her fingers, gripping something beneath her. Buddy's wrist. She held tight.

The body knew this was the end. It had been thrown into its grave, then something else had joined it, then a smaller something. It was about to be buried, and it understood and accepted this, so why was its heart beating so fast? Why was its heart beating at all? It listened as Tom talked, and in its mind the man's words made sense. Even for a small town, crime was at a minimum. People came and went. Nobody asked any questions. Maybe if, in life, he'd been the kind of man who thought about things, he would've sensed something wrong. But he'd been a dead weight even then, just a lifeless sidekick with nothing to offer.

Courtney's hand fumbled at his wrist. Buddy twitched. Blinding pain shot through his head. Saliva flooded into his mouth. His hands and feet began to tingle. He was waking up. He wasn't dead! He'd never been dead! This was amazing! He tried to sit up, but Courtney pinned him down. He gasped for breath. He heard her gasp too.

"Tom," Courtney whispered. "Buddy... he's not..."

Tom had picked up the shovel and was standing over the grave. He just stared at her.

"Buddy's not..."

"Buddy's not dead?" Tom asked. "You're right."

He bent over and scooped up a pile of dirt with the shovel. Somewhere in the distance, lightning struck. The rain started to fall heavier, slowly filling up the grave. Tom tossed the dirt down. It landed with a thud on Courtney's stomach.

"You're right, he's not dead," Tom said, retrieving another shovelful of earth. "Not yet."

IV - Dustland

None of us could believe Jack actually went through with it.

He'd talked about it, of course. Hell, he'd talked about it one god-damn hell of a lot, but y'know. Teenage posturing, just a kid filled with bravado and wider-world dreams. So we thought. But he did it, and then he was gone.

The town was never the same without Jack Whittinger. Despite his youth he'd become a fixture; that James Dean glance, lounging against the wall of Yurkman's General Store, a comb in one hand and a cigarette smoldering in the other. His leather jacket thick with dust which cracked and billowed in clouds when he shifted. His hair, constantly slicked back with gel, reapplied five times a day when the elements dried it out. That sneer, that smile, a curl of the lip and a point of the finger to break a young girl's heart.

Jack's pa had died some ten years ago. A lousy, mean drunk who had one too many and got into a brawl with the wrong guys. Nobody could really tell you who the 'wrong guys' were. Pa Whittinger himself was the only 'wrong guy' we knew of. No-one much missed Pa Whittinger. Jack used to tell me the world was better off without guys like that, before lapsing into an uncharacteristically maudlin silence, but moments later that half-smile would be back on his lips as he ran a comb through his hair. I never pressed him on the subject. Didn't need to.

I remember one of the girls talking to me once, Jack's latest heartbreak, disappointed and angry that she hadn't been the one to tame him.

"Jack's broken, Thomas," she told me. "His pa done fucked him up good."

I laughed at her and put my arm around her.

"I'm serious," she went on. "He's gonna up and leave one day."

Of course, I'd heard this talk before. She wasn't unique. Jack played the damaged goods card when he wanted to move on. And yes, he talked about leaving all the time. Just upping sticks and getting the hell out of Dodge, pushing on through the dust and making it out the other side. But of course he'd never try it, we all thought. Leaving Weston wasn't just a case of packing your bags and going.

Everyone's heard about the Dustbowl, the Dirty Thirties. A mass exodus due to pestilence, famine and filth. Dust storms sweeping the Great Plains. Cattle dying, crops dying, people dying. And then the country got over it. The Dustbowl settled.

Not here.

The storm never ceased around Weston. Nobody knew why, or what to do, and so many years had passed that nobody much cared any more. The entire town was surrounded by an almost-impenetrable dust storm, trapping us like caged beasts. Or protecting us, some said. The storm was most severe at the town's borders, with the center being the eye, but that didn't shield us from the elements. Harsh winds and burning, biting dust clouds swept through the town most of the day, and in the nights it was only worse. It wasn't the kind of place for someone like Jack to grow up. The rest of us? Well, we were used to it. It was our own little place in the world and we made the best of what we could.

People used to come, of course. Some were lost, drawn into the dust clouds out of curiosity, perhaps. Daring tourists, here to see the town that never escaped the Thirties. They marveled at our lack of telephone communications. They asked us how we coped without television. None of us had an answer. Sometimes they'd come back and bring us books, bottled water, clothes. We accepted it graciously and stored it in the sheds once they'd gone. Occasionally we'd see the odd thrill-seeker, looters or ne'er-do-wells looking for a way to exploit us. We had nothing worth their time, though, and often they'd go away empty handed. There was some trouble with a few guys who took a shine to one of the girls one time, but who knows what happened to them after that?

About five years before Jack left, the dust storms got worse. Before, you could occasionally glimpse the outside world. Now you really had to strain to see the plains stretching beyond Weston. People stopped coming after that. Too risky, I suppose. It suited us fine. Not Jack, though. Jack used to love the visitors. He'd hungrily take in their stories of the outside world, of Bush and Obama, Iraq, Hollywood, music, the Internet. He'd ask questions when he thought none of us were listening. But he never asked them to save him, to let him come with them. Jack was too independent for that. If he was leaving, he said, he'd go his own way.

I remember one evening I sat reading in the dining room. It was a book I'd read before; I'd read most of the town library in truth. This time it was a romance novel, brought in by someone before I was born. I barely noticed my ma coming to sit in the chair opposite.

"Tommy?" she said. I looked up. My mother had inherited many of her ancestors' genes. Her skin was dark and leathery, worn in by the dust.

"Yes ma?"

"You won't go the way of the Whittinger boy, will you?" she asked me. I knew this would come up one day. Jack had been gone some six months by now. I saw the looks some of the others gave me. Would I be next to abandon them?

I shook my head. "No, ma," I told her firmly. "No, I'm not going anywhere."

I waited, expecting her to demand more reassurance. Ma just smiled at me, almost sadly, then looked away.

One night I stood outside, the chill wind biting into any skin I hadn't managed to cover. My throat was dry, as was often the case in the dustbowl, and I took a swig from my flask. The water helped only a little. Every night, a few of the townsmen stood guard in case of severe damage or danger. Everyone took their turn. Mostly it was boring work, but important nonetheless. We looked out for each other.

That night, Jack came home. I'd moved my post to the edge of town, staring out into the pounding, billowing waves beyond the town. The moon's glow had turned the dust white and smoky. I stared. There was a figure in the ocean of filth, gradually getting larger as it struggled forward. I blinked and stood firm.

Coughing and hacking, Jack stepped from the cloud. His hair was tussled and filthy. His clothes--the clothes he'd been wearing when he left, no less--were torn. Beneath the rip on his left shoulder I saw dried blood, caked in dirt.

I ran forward and Jack collapsed against me, his knees buckling.

"Thomas," he whispered, his voice sounding raspy and old.

"Jack."

"There's nothing out there, Thomas," he said. "Nothing."

I opened my mouth to reply but Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out a newspaper, mottled and yellow with age.

"Look at this."

I took the paper from him and unfolded it, my eyes still on Jack.

"Look!" he said.

I looked at this new, returning Jack, at his vacant, terrified eyes. A gust of wind spewed forth from the dust cloud, catching the newspaper in my hands, teasing it from me. Slowly, I relaxed my fingers. I felt the pulp slide across my fingertips. The paper billowed into the air for a second, then caught on the dust cloud. It vanished into the atmosphere with a snap, as if attached to an unseen rope. The pages slapped together once, and then it was gone.

All the while I stared at my friend. He blinked, and beneath the surface I saw a trace of the old Jack, the Jack he once was; that cocksure, James Dean boy, a giant in a small town.

"Come on buddy," I said, helping him to his feet. "Let's get you home.

V - The Last Voice You'll Ever Hear

I like thinking of myself as a serial killer.

I have an M.O. I have victims. I have a reputation in the press. I have cops hard on my trail, desperately trying to shut me down. I have my methods, I have precautions. I have a gun, a knife, a garrote wire. Sedatives, ether, a mask.

I'm the real deal. Kinda.

The first time I did it established my pattern. She was a girl living alone. She'd just moved into the apartment complex. I didn't live there, of course. Can't work too close to home. But I'd been watching her very closely. She had a boyfriend called Derek, parents who loved her very much, a younger brother called Johnny and even a pet cat.

It's okay, I didn't hurt the cat.

I broke into her apartment on a Friday evening. It was summer. I'd noticed she wasn't the kind of girl to go out partying. I liked that. I caught her when she was coming out the bathroom. Dressed in a tank top and sweat pants. Conservative. I jabbed her in the neck with my needle -I don't like using ether if I can help it- then tied her to a kitchen chair and waited.

The girl woke up. I knew she wanted to scream, but I'd gagged her. My gun has a silencer. I was pointing it at her.

"I'm going to take the gag off," I said, "but it's in your interests not to scream."

I could see in her eyes that she understood. I removed the gag. She didn't scream.

"What do you want?" she whispered between sobs.

"I'm going to force you to make a choice," I said.

The girl began to cry quietly. She said nothing else.

"Do you want to live or die?" I asked.

She looked at me, then, hope blossoming in her eyes. "I want to live."

I holstered my gun, stood up straight. She flinched.

"Right you are then," I told her. "I'll be on my way, I guess!"

As I reached her apartment door, I turned back.

"Don't worry, I'll call the police once I'm a fair distance away. You won't have to stay tied up for long. Well, see ya!"

And then I left.

That first time, my highest ranking was a page 8. A couple papers didn't even run the story. I wasn't surprised, nor was I disappointed. I didn't expect to be hailed as the next Berkowitz or Bundy, at least not right away.

It only took a couple more victims before the press started taking interest. I followed the exact same pattern. Pretty girls, living alone. I always went for them, still do. Just a thing, I guess. Live or die? Live. Leave. The press started calling me The Pacifist. It had a ring to it. I liked it. At least I finally had a nickname.

The fourth, fifth and sixth victims weren't noteworthy. They were for me, of course, I cherish each one. But I'd only be repeating the same story. The seventh, though, she was different. A redhead. Feisty, they say. Her name was Victoria. She didn't live alone, but her roommate was out of town for Thanksgiving. I broke in, sedated her, did the usual. When she came to, when I removed the gag, Victoria said nothing.

"I'm going to force you to make a choice," I said. I'd gone for the knife this time, and I swung it back and forth in front of her like a metronome. "Do you want to live or die?"

Victoria smirked at me. "Live. Obviously."

"Alright," I told her. "I'll be off then."

"And that's it, right?" Victoria said. "You fuck off into the night, you'll call the police a few blocks away, and what? What do you get out of this? Isn't this a little pathetic?"

I turned back. "What do you mean?"

"Well, come on," she said. "You're just going to walk away?"

"I don't have to," I said. "You chose 'live', though."

"And I stand by that," Victoria said hastily. "I'm just curious. You're kind of a celebrity now."

I blushed. It was true, I guess. I'd even sent a threatening letter to the police and newspapers telling them I'd never stop. Written it like a proper ransom note and everything.

"So what are you asking, exactly?"

"I don't know," Victoria said. "Don't you ever want to... go further, maybe?"

I laughed politely. "I don't think this is a conversation we should be having," I told her. "Besides, if you stay tied up too long you'll get poor circulation. It's already been longer than I'd have liked. Make sure you clench your hands a bit while you wait for the cops to show up."

Victoria seemed like she had nothing more to say, so I thanked her for her time and left. The next day, it surprised me that none of our conversation was in the paper. Victoria had kept it to herself. I made sure to send her a bunch of flowers at work a month later, with a card reading 'good choice - thank you' and a smiley face. I think she appreciated it. She never told the police about that either. She was nice. I liked Victoria.

The fifteenth victim was a girl called Kelly. She was the quiet type, worked as a secretary in a large firm in the city. She seemed intelligent. I'd observed her going to the library quite often. More on that later.

When Kelly opened her eyes, a look of recognition passed across her face. I smiled warmly at her.

"I'm going to force you to make a choice," I said, after removing the gag. She nodded along to my every word.

"Live or die."

For a moment, Kelly was silent. Her eyes shone with tears. She looked down at the floor, then back up at me.

"Die," she whispered. I could sense the regret in her voice.

It threw me completely. She must have seen the shocked look I gave.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

I put the gun down on the sideboard, thought for a moment, turned around, removed my mask, ran my hands through my hair. I hesitated a second, then turned back. My eyes met hers.

"Hey," I said, crouching down beside her. "Hey, come on, why do you feel that way?"

I put my hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch. It was nice.

Kelly sniffed. "It doesn't matter, does it?" she said. "Just do it."

I squeezed her shoulder gently, then did something potentially very stupid. I untied her hands. Kelly brought them around to her front and rubbed her wrists.

"That rope kinda hurt," she said.

"Sorry," I told her, and I was. "Hey, listen, what's up? I can be a good shoulder to cry on, y'know."

Kelly looked at me, laughed sadly, then smiled. "This is ridiculous, isn't it? This, all this I mean."

I nodded. It was, I figured.

"Why don't we go make a cup of tea, sit down, then talk?"

We were on Kelly's couch, both of us clutching warm mugs. She took a sip, then said nothing.

"Is it financial troubles?" I asked her. "Something bad happen? Abusive partner?"

She winced at this last statement. "No, nothing like that. Please, don't feel sorry for me. It's pathetic. I know I'm pathetic, but I can't help it. I don't want to be here any more."

My shoulder brushed hers. "Try me," I said. "I'm quite understanding."

"It's a boy," Kelly said eventually. "He works in the library. He doesn't even know I'm alive. I'm fucking worthless. My boss doesn't appreciate me, the women at work gossip about me behind my back, and then when Ron won't even look at me, god... I'm sorry."

I thought about remarking on the fact I'd seen her going to the library often, but realized it would be inappropriate. I'd followed her inside though, and I thought I knew who this Ron was. Young guy, worked on the counter, seemed nice.

"Have you ever asked him out for a drink or anything?" I said.

Kelly looked horrified. "God, no. He'd just think I was some weird book geek. He's far too good for me."

"Sweetheart," I said, "he works in a library. He's not going to think you're a 'book geek', whatever that is."

"I can't ask him," Kelly said. "I get anxious, I'm scared. Like I said, pathetic. You must really hate me. I chose 'die'. I'm the first one, aren't I?"

"You're not pathetic," I told her. "I don't hate you. You are the first one though, yeah. Threw me a little bit, to be honest. But it's not pathetic. Everyone has their own reasons for feeling down."

"But there are far worse things that could be happening to me," she said, looking at me pointedly. I shifted awkwardly.

"Yeah, well..." I trailed off. "Listen. Don't do anything silly, Kelly. Please. You're a beautiful, wonderful girl and you should ask Ron out. And if he says no then fuck it, his loss."

Kelly laughed quietly. "Yeah, I guess. Look, I'm really sorry."

"Nah, I am," I told her. "Are your wrists okay?"

"My wrists? Oh, ah, yeah. They're fine. I almost forgot about the whole tying up thing. So uh, why do you do this then? I can guess maybe, but..."

I held up a hand to silence her. "It's best I don't explain it," I said softly. "I'm going to go now, Kelly. Things will work out for you, I promise."

In my haste, I almost forgot the gun on the sideboard. Probably just as well I didn't. I thought Kelly had started to rationalize, but you could never be sure. I didn't want to leave a gun lying about, even if it wasn't loaded. I mean, why would it be?

I gave it a few weeks. Unsurprisingly, Kelly's story never made it to the papers. I didn't call the cops since I'd untied her, and left it up to her whether she did so herself. I can only assume she didn't. I kept an eye on her, though. I think she saw me a couple times. I caught her smiling in my general direction once. She didn't ask Ron out, though. But it wasn't hard for me to slip a note in one of the books she was returning, a note for Ron. I guess he called her. The next time I saw her at the library, her and Ron were laughing and joking like old friends. He had his hand on her shoulder. It reminded me of the night I didn't kill her.

I did a few more, after that. Kelly was the only one who ever chose 'die'. I was relieved. I'd been drained for days after that. My victims were growing increasingly chipper, almost as if they felt proud to be chosen. We shared a few light-hearted jokes. If it wasn't for me calling the police to release them, I don't think any of them would've reported me. I'm glad they did, though. I liked the stories in the paper, the tales of The Pacifist. I liked the news reports on the investigation, the fact that despite everything, they were still trying to catch me. My heart wasn't in the actual act any more though, and I knew then it was over.

On the day I knew I had to stop, I sent a letter to police and press telling them I'd never stop. I signed it with a kiss. It was a lie, and I don't like lying but I had to, really. I knew that in a month or so they'd realize it was over, and eventually they'd lose interest, but I wanted my legend to last as long as possible.

I like to think of myself as a serial killer. A nice, non-murderous serial killer, then laugh at the irony. And I did all this, like this, because it was kinda funny. And I needed to smile. But I did it for other reasons too. I needed to see other girls, girls like me, who make a choice and get to keep it. I needed to see the look on their face when they realized they weren't going to die, and understand what I was missing out on. It was never about jealousy; I'm happy for them, and I'm happy that they get to carry on and I get to carry on through them. I'm happy that while my own body has stripped the choice from me, there are others who get the choice, to laugh and love and dream and live.

VI - Bad Company

The underground is the worst place to be, she thought, just as the lights from the station faded and the windows turned black. Only the flickery halogen lighting from the carriage's overhead strip kept things in perspective. Perspective and depth, and distance.

You have to keep your distance these days, she thought.

Most people no longer took the underground. Too risky and too isolated, which was ironic, she thought, since isolation was the current 'in' recommendation.

That's fine for the people who can afford it, she thought, and realized that these days she was doing far too much thinking, so tried to push her mind outside of her head and into the blackness of the tunnel.

The air in the train carriage, much like every other train carriage the girl had been in recently, smelled of disease. The smell had seeped into the stations, the miasma curling in silent tendrils as it crept up the stairs, out of the pit and into the city air. Or so it seemed to the girl. Increasingly, more places seemed touched by that smell. She'd mentioned it to Marla, the older secretary, but the woman had just shrugged and adjusted her blue-rinse perm. Marla did not put much credence in the scaremongering that went on these days.

At first the papers called it an outbreak. Then an epidemic, moving onto a pandemic, and finally just 'hell on earth'. Denny, the mail lad, had just been to Spain on his holidays.

"It didn't seem as bad there, really," he'd confided in the girl, in his usual coy and flirty whisper. His cheeks had been flush-red, a usual staple of Denny's conversations with the girl. She knew just how much he wanted to get with her. Maybe, before the thing, she'd have let him if he asked. Now even Denny would be kept at arm's length.

The girl's name was Jane. Jane Sands. A forgettable name, and one she'd always hated. Jane had become Janey, then back to Jane again. Just Jane. Nowadays, sharing your name with any new acquaintance was advised against.

Before the thing, Jane had always striven to stand out. A Goth phase in her teens, a punk phase in her early twenties. Her sister joked that she'd regress even further and be a hippy by the time she was twenty five. She'd had black, white, green, pink hair. Pale face or shocking make-up. Piercings; ears, lips, nose, a private one only a select few saw, and a couple others she did not mind showing but probably should.

Nowadays her wardrobe consisted almost entirely of baggy hoodies and faded jeans. More and more girls her age were adopting the style. It just did not pay to draw attention to yourself, especially if you were female.

Jane's hair, once a beacon of in the sea of uniformity, was cut short and boyish. Her face was pale, not through powder but a lack of sleep. Make-up had long since been abandoned.

"You really don't want people looking at you," Denny had warned one day, when Jane had dabbed on a bit of peach lipstick. Denny had been looking though, his eyes traveling across her lips with a sad kind of lust. Jane had almost felt sorry enough to invite him home. Instead she smiled, thanked him, and wiped the lipstick off in the bathroom. She used the same tissue to wipe her eyes.

Jane had always struggled with being subtle. It had gotten her into trouble as a young one, and she knew that one day it would now. She went through the same thing every time she took the Underground, which was six days a week now. Glances left and right, trying (obviously) not to stare, but scoping out the passengers all the same. One or two, she could relax. Three, the odds weren't great but there was still a chance. But four? Four was bad news, and God forbid if she ever found herself surrounded by more.

A week ago, she'd been in what she quite privately called a Foursome, and when the train had stopped at the station before hers, a man had been waiting on the platform. He'd taken a step towards the train and peered inside. Jane could hear him counting, even though it must have been in his (and her) head. One, two, three, four, Jane makes five. The man had taken a step back, and as the train pulled away Jane had seen him leaving the station. That had taken guts, she'd thought back then. He got my attention. Who knows who else's attention he got?

Jane had never seen the man again.

Tonight, the carriage was a Foursome, and that set Jane on edge. The odds were very bad. One in five people were unacceptable to the disease, the papers had said. That meant almost certainly, a potential Watcher was riding the subway that night.

Jane pretended to study her iPhone, all the while watching the other passengers. Dead air passed through steel ribcage as the train hurtled forward, motes of dust and whatever else, dancing and twirling unseen, invading the synapses of her fellow travelers. They all just looked like people. The sickness could be hiding in any one of them.

They're probably thinking the same, including me in the equation, Jane realized, not for the first time. The thought comforted her somewhat.

At the end of the carriage was a businessman. He was sitting with his right shoulder pressed against the support rail, desperately trying to pass off the illusion of reading his newspaper. Every now and then, Jane saw his eyes flickering around the carriage. He had a glazed, vacant look. The man was sweating, a small droplet of perspiration tracing its way down from under his comb-over, catching on his eyebrow then carrying onto his cheek. Jane did not see him looking at her, but that did not mean he wasn't.

Next up was a couple of teens, holding hands. Jane hoped they'd been together for a long time. They were both dressed in black; understated, but somewhat noticeable anyway. Jane's own hoody was a nondescript gray. Black was inadvisable these days. Her teenage self at the back of her mind admired the kids' rebellion, but the newer, more sensible part of Jane was mentally chastising them for their choice of attire.

The two kids kept their eyes on the ground. Occasionally the girl's glance would shoot off to one side, not looking at anyone in particular.

The final member of the troupe was a large black woman who seemed to have a perpetual half-smile on her face. Her hair was tied back with a modest scarf, her body wrapped in a thick coat. Non-Caucasians seemed to suffer worse, the papers had said. They drew more attention. The city, once a thriving multicultural melting pot, had soon regressed back into a predominantly white population. Jane missed the days of walking down the street and seeing people from all cultural backgrounds. You never see Asians any more, either, she thought. For some reason, the Watchers picked up on them first. Most of them had left the city long ago.

The black woman was reading a book. It seemed to Jane that her interest in the tome was genuine, but one could never be sure these days. Jane felt the reassuring bulge of the knife against her thigh. She knew it was contraband, Denny had warned her enough times, but it made her feel more secure. Maybe an 8 inch blade was excessive, but the man in the Hunting & Fishing store had seemed to understand when she bought it. He had asked no questions.

The proposal to legalize concealed weaponry was taking its time. The public demanded it, the government procrastinated. Jane could not understand it. One needed to protect oneself more so than ever. It was just another piece of the government's puzzle of denial. They never outright confirmed the existence of the disease, no matter how many official scientific reports were issued. They said things were under control. More lies.

The Watchers could be anyone. They could be anywhere. And all one could do was look out for the signs. The most obvious was the watching. They would stare, stare, and stare some more. They became fixated on someone, and when they did, carnage followed. Tremors, sweating, a pallid complexion and skittish behavior were all signs too, but nowadays they applied to almost anyone. As the disease spread, it became harder to pinpoint the infected.

Jane had never been a fan of horror movies, but an old boyfriend - what was his name? She could no longer remember – had been a big fan. Jane had always found them dull, pedestrian.

Reality made this factual. The monsters weren't the undead, the wolfmen or the creeping horrors. People did not rise from their graves to feast on the flesh of the living. The monsters were living; they were alive, at least in some capacity. They lived amongst the population, waiting, watching and then, when they were content to watch no longer... they snapped.

It was a disease of some sort though. Something in the brain, swelling or bleeding or confusion or something. Jane tried to drown the science out. What did it matter why it happened? One just had to know how to avoid it.

"It'll be Christmas soon," a female voice said. Jane, along with the rest of the passengers, jumped. This had never, ever happened before. Nobody had ever spoken. It just wasn't what you did any more. Conversation drew attention and was best avoided, the papers said.

It was the black woman who had spoken. Her book was away and in her hands she held an unfinished red scarf. Knitting needles clacked as she spoke. Sharp steel needles. Jane swallowed hard. Who was the woman talking to? She was looking at nobody in particular.

"Is everyone ready?" the woman asked. She chuckled. "Of course you are. All young people."

Jane stole a glance at the businessman at the end of the carriage. He was sweating heavier now. Jane looked down and realized her hands were shaking. She was terrified. This just wasn't normal. This wasn't how things worked any more. What the hell was the woman playing at?

"I'm knitting this for my grandson," the woman told the carriage, holding the scarf up. Nobody spoke. "He lives in Camden Town. He's only four, bless him. Any of you got children? No, of course not, you're all too young."

Again, Jane looked at the businessman. He was not too young to have kids. He looked to be in his forties, at least. Had the woman not noticed him?

"I have a young sister."

Jane's head snapped around. It was the teenage girl. Her boyfriend (was he?) hissed something under his breath, and squeezed his girlfriend's hand. He looked fretful. The girl shook her head quickly and removed herself from his grasp.

"Chloe," she said. "Her name's Chloe. She's two."

"And what's your name, dear? I'm Bella," the older woman said. Her voice was warm.

"Elizabeth. Beth," the teenage girl replied.

"And what about your dashing young friend?"

For a moment, Jane thought the boy would stay silent. Then he scowled and softly said "Lee."

"Nice to meet you Beth, Lee," Bella said. "What about you?"

Jane was intently studying the floor of the train carriage. With a start, she realized Bella was talking to her. She considered ignoring her. For a moment, she tried.

"Yeah, what's your name?" Beth asked. Her voice was so tiny, so sad, that Jane could not help but look up.

"Jane," she said, and tried to smile. She glanced over at Bella, who in turn was trying to covertly look at the businessman. When she saw Jane looking she turned back to the center

"Jane's a pretty name," Bella told her, even though Jane thought it wasn't. "Do you have any brothers or sisters, Jane?"

Jane figured she had a brother, somewhere. She hadn't heard from Luke in years. She didn't even know, in fact, if he was still alive. Nowadays there was a good chance he was not.

"None," she lied. "Only child."

"Me too," Lee piped up. He sounded more enthusiastic now. The whole carriage felt lighter, the smell dissipating somewhat. Now it just lingered near the end, near the businessman. Jane stared at him for a moment, then glanced at Bella. Bella was looking at the man too.

Suddenly, Jane realized what was going on. The man was a Watcher. Bella had noticed something the others had not. She was drawing them into a group, trying to get their trust so they all banded together. That had to be it. Bella herself could not be a Watcher, they never spoke... did they?

There had been no reports ever, the papers said, of a Watcher attacking a group. They always went for lone targets, ripping, biting and tearing until they were pulled away, usually to be met with a bloody end at the hands of one of the many strike forces dotted around the city. The strike forces were never more than five minutes away from any given location, the papers said. Still, some Watchers got away. Others hid. Corpses were sometimes found in alleys, or in the underground tunnels, or even in buildings, the guilty Watcher long-gone.

Jane wondered if the businessman had killed before. He was scratching his knee and pretending not to notice the others.

They're getting smarter, Jane thought, keeping one eye on him. She could see his chest rising and falling in a shallow motion, and felt sweat trickling down her neck. A chill ran through her.

"Hey," Bella said, and Jane knew she was addressing her. She looked around.

"What do you do?" Bella asked. The teenage couple were regarding her with interest. Jane smiled at them without making eye contact.

"Secretary," she muttered. Her voice sounded hoarse and alien. Her heartbeat was growing rapid, pounding in her chest. She was terrified.

"Where do you work?" Beth asked. Jane felt a wave of suspicion. Why did the girl want to know? Her tone was friendly enough, she was no doubt asking in innocence... but what if the businessman got away? What if he was listening, then found Jane at her place of work one day, when Marla was out, when the suits were at lunch? Jane imagined his hands groping her, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her stomach, his mouth moving in towards her neck. She shuddered.

"Just some office," she told them. "Nothing really exciting."

"I work in a record shop," Lee said. "And I play guitar."

"He's in a band," Beth added.

"Nothing big," Lee told them, sounding embarrassed. "Just a local thing."

Jane wondered if she'd ever heard his music. It seemed a strange thing to do nowadays, play music. How did they gig? Just in private?

"I'm retired now," Bella told them all. "Just been shopping."

Jane looked at the floor by Bella. Sure enough, there were a few plastic carrier bags there. She had not noticed them before.

Her eyes returned to the businessman. He had his head in his hands. His body rocked slightly as he tapped one foot silently on the ground.

"Jane, look at this." Bella's voice, calling her. Jane turned. Bella was holding out what seemed to be a diary. On the front was a crudely-drawn cartoon girl, the word 'princess' plastered across the girl's torso. Jane reached out and took the diary from Bella's outstretched hand.

"I've bought this for my niece," Bella told her. "Do you think it's suitable?"

Jane flicked through the book. It was an empty teenager's diary. One page was marked 'secret crushes', another 'homework'. The rest was divided into months and days.

"Yeah it's nice," Jane assured her. It was hard to focus on the book; her hands were still shaking. A glance at her watch told her that the train would be pulling into a station any moment. Not her stop, but the one before. The one where she'd seen the man who didn't get on. Jane decided she'd get off there. Maybe everyone else would too, leaving the businessman, the Watcher, to go on alone.

As she reached across to Bella to hand the diary back, Jane's eyes fell on the businessman one last time. He was looking at the ground, then turned to face her. Their eyes locked. Jane could see his lip trembling.

The train was slowing down.

The man opened his mouth, and Jane's heart pounded once, hard, in her chest. He was watching her. This was it. She had to protect herself. Do or die.

As she lunged forward, someone screamed quietly. Maybe it was her. The diary fell from her hand and landed on the floor with a thud. The knife nicked her thigh as she pulled it from her waistband, darting towards the businessman. He was rising from his seat, his arms outstretched, pointed towards her. From behind, Bella was saying something in a calm voice. Jane ignored her. The businessman was standing up just as Jane reached him, the knife clutched tightly in her clammy palm. Without even pausing, she dove it forwards, the blade sinking into the man's stomach. She heard a grinding noise, felt some resistance as the sharp edge caught on the man's hip bone. His lips curled into a snarl and he howled in pain.

Jane twisted the knife, and balling her left hand into a fist, punched the businessman in the jaw. She felt something brittle snap beneath her fingers. A thin spray of blood and spittle flew from the corner of his lip, catching Jane in the face. Her vision clouded with fury.

Jane barely noticed the train stopping as with a sharp tug she pulled the knife sideways, cutting into the man's belly. Warm, viscous liquid flowed over her wrist and the man collapsed forwards and downwards, pulling Jane with him. She rolled and the body rolled with her, blood now bubbling from his mouth. His eyes were glazed but open wide, staring directly at Jane. Watching her, even now. Behind her, she could hear someone crying. Probably Beth. Jane's breathing was heavy, the adrenaline flowing through her body along with relief. It was okay. She'd survived, and taken one of those bastards with her.

Jane barely noticed the train doors opening, or the sound of heavy, regimental footfalls racing up behind her.

"I tried to distract her!" Bella was calling. "I saw her looking. I tried to..."

"Ma'am, please," a voice said, just as Jane felt a hand grip her shoulder tightly. She was wrenched backwards off the Watcher, her knees banging painfully against a seat. Someone was dragging her across the floor. Her hoody rode up around her stomach and she tried to pull the top down. One must not show flesh, the papers said. It sends them wild.

"We got one," a man said, above her. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into her collar bone, and Jane thrashed her arms in panic. "Tore a man apart."

Jane tried to look the man in the eye, but he held her down.

"Stop!" she tried to say. She had to explain. "He was after me..." But no words came out, just a low moan. Her chest was too tight, her heartbeat too fast.

"You might want to look away," Jane's captor said, to someone who was not Jane. "This is never pretty."

Jane was thrown forward, coming to rest against the businessman's body. His eyes stared into hers and all she could do was watch his dull gaze. Cold steel pressed against her temple, and somewhere far off Jane heard a click.

VII - The Optometrist

Jackson Regis was, by and large, a thoroughly nice man. All of his acquaintances said so, and even some of his friends. He was a simple man, of simple tastes. Each day, to work, he wore a starched white shirt, fastened to his sensible brown trousers with braces of beige. When he sat down they revealed clean white socks emerging from brown Brogue shoes. Some of the more gossipy co-workers often joked that his trousers were too short, but they weren't, not really. His legs were too long, perhaps. He was a tall, thin man who had the appearance of a walking stick with spindly limbs, although for such a lanky fellow, Jackson Regis moved with a remarkable grace. His hands, especially, were rather remarkable. Long, thin, elegant fingers which were perfect for tap tap tapping away at a calculator. Steady, precise surgical hands. Were anyone to ask him, which they never had, Jackson Regis would have cited his hands as being his favorite body part.

He was balding, and had been for quite some time, so he wore the remaining strands of his hair in a comb-over. Below this, a pair of small, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his not inconsiderable nose. Overall, people often remarked, Jackson Regis looked very much like an accountant or a mathematician, which was convenient as he was both. He worked in the city as an accountant at Stockard & Leigh, and had done so for many, many years. He enjoyed his job, even if it was entirely mundane and nothing to write home about. Not that Jackson Regis ever wrote home, having lost both his parents to a tragic murder-suicide pact when he was only ten. He had no siblings, no wife, no children, not even any pets. And with this simple arrangement, Jackson Regis was happy.

Jackson Regis regarded almost every aspect of his life as adequate, bordering on acceptable. In fact, only one thing caused him considerable distress.

"My eyes are quite dreadful," Jackson Regis remarked to himself one day, sitting at his dressing table. His horn-rimmed spectacles sat discarded before him. He was pawing at his eyes, stretching the eyelids up and down, examining the eyeballs as best he could.

His pupils were tiny, in almost every lighting condition. And his irises were a most distasteful color. If he had to define it, he always fancied he'd call it 'River Sludge'. Indeed, they were most disappointing eyes. He'd tried wearing colored contact lenses, of course, but soon discovered he was allergic to the cleaning solution when his body broke out in hives. Instead, he was resigned to having eyes which he never could find agreeable.

For most of us, such a thing may not seem like too big an issue. To Jackson Regis, however, it was a very big deal indeed. You see, Jackson Regis loved eyes. They were his favorite thing in the entire world. It was the first thing he noticed in anybody. With women especially, he'd find himself staring deep into their eyes when other men may have chosen a cruder line of sight.

Jackson Regis loved eyes so much that once upon a time he'd considered becoming an optician. He'd only considered it briefly, perhaps for a day or two, then dismissed the idea. He was not entirely sure why, but it had seemed like an unobtainable dream, in the way a child fantasizes of becoming an astronaut or the President, but deep down knows they'll grow up to work in a lamp factory.

Finished with his daily routine of lamenting his own inadequate peepers, Jackson Regis stood in front of his large wardrobe and took a deep breath. It was a ritual he repeated every day, and never once had the thrill faded. Gingerly he reached out one hand and rested it on the brass knob. The cabinet seemed to exude a faintly spiritual aura, and to an extent this was appropriate. This was Jackson Regis's altar, the sacred shrine at which he worshiped.

Allowing the anticipation to build for a moment, Jackson Regis threw open the wardrobe doors and stared at his collection.

Jackson Regis's collection stared back.

Thirteen pairs of eyes, floating in preservation fluid, bobbing sightlessly in their lovingly-polished, immaculately clean jars. Jackson Regis didn't believe in such flights of fancy as the soul, but if he were to allow himself to indulge in such whimsy, he might have thought of them as twenty six windows to the soul, windows through which only he could look.

You see, Jackson Regis collected eyeballs.

Not just any eyeballs, though. Oh no. Jackson Regis was very particular about which eyeballs he would add to his collection. They had to be just right. There was no real pattern to them, no criteria which he'd predefined. But when he saw a pair of eyeballs that fit, he just knew he had to have them.

This was perhaps rather unfortunate for the owners of these eyeballs, all of whom had been alive at the time of acquisition. But, Jackson Regis figured, he didn't indulge in anything else. He had no vices; he did not drink, or smoke, or go out with women of the night. He did not gamble or go into bars and punch other men. So should he not be allowed this one small discretion? Yes, yes he should, he reasoned.

Had it been possible to acquire the eyes by any other means, Jackson Regis would have done so. He was not a malicious man, not in the slightest. He took no pleasure from causing pain, and in fact did his utmost to make sure the victims of ocular extraction were as comfortable as possible. One could acquire certain drugs that could be injected directly into portions of the skull, entirely numbing the facial area. And over the years, Jackson Regis had perfected a very unique removal tool, a flat, bladed pincer-like device that could slide over the eyeball and neatly sever the optical nerves. Of course, he made sure that his donors were fully unconscious during this. And then, knowing that people were never keen on being suddenly blinded, he ensured that they never woke up. It was an arrangement that worked for all parties concerned, Jackson Regis believed.

He knew that what he did was frowned upon by certain areas of society. The water-cooler gossip was often about his actions, for instance. Not that they aimed their talk at him. They had no idea. The papers, too, labeled him as sick and a monster. Jackson Regis found this kind of talk quite hurtful, but they'd taken to referring to him as The Optometrist, so it was swings and roundabouts. The papers always talked about people like him. The Boston Strangler. The Son of Sam. The Handyman. There was always someone, some sensation splashed across the front pages. Unique, quirky individuals with unusual tastes.

The Optometrist. He liked the name, and took comfort in it. It made him sound important, he thought, like a doctor or a veterinarian. He considered getting a leather jacket with the words 'The Optometrist' embroidered on the back in fancy gold stitching, then decided against it, at least in part because wearing a leather jacket would make him appear as if he was suffering from a mid-life crisis.

He pondered these things now, as he drove around the outskirts of the city. It was a warm, balmy evening, a perfect time for collecting. He couldn't see much from his car, of course, Jackson Regis was a very safe driver and always kept his eyes on the road. Eventually, he'd pull into a parking lot somewhere and go for a stroll, have a look around and see if anything took his fancy.

Most often, it did not. He'd been collecting eyeballs for nearly twenty years, and he'd only amassed thirteen sets after all. He was nothing if not discerning. He never grew disappointed, even if months went by without finding a single worthy prize. It was all part of the fun.

Jackson Regis strolled past a take-out restaurant. Two burly Turkish men were arguing loudly, and they fell silent and stared at him as he walked past. He nodded and smiled. One of them squinted at him with dark, striking eyes.

"Not bad," Jackson Regis said to himself after he'd passed out of earshot. "But not good enough either."

It wasn't that he was adverse to taking men's' eyeballs. It was just that he'd never found a man whose eyeballs he coveted. There was something about women's eyes, Jackson Regis thought, that was altogether more striking than those of their male counterparts.

He tended not to analyze his motivations in-depth, and instead took pleasure in the simple art of appreciating beauty.

And it was at the very moment that he was considering this for the umpteenth time, that Jackson Regis laid his eyes on the most beautiful pair of eyeballs he'd ever seen.

"I simply have to have them," he whispered to himself.

He followed the girl for nearly an hour. She was striking. Smooth, luxurious skin. Dark, glossy hair. A figure which, Jackson Regis thought, many men would lose their minds over. It almost seemed a shame to waste it. Almost.

But it was her eyes which he wanted. Stunning gemstones of emerald green, framed by the purest white sclerae he'd ever seen. Wide, innocent eyes but with a knowing twinkle, perfect orbs of mischief and happiness.

She appeared to be in her twenties, but there was a lightness in her step that suggested a life of ease and luxury. She was well-groomed, far more so than anyone else in this part of town. It was a wonder, Jackson Regis thought, that she wasn't the subject of every gaze on the street. But no, nobody appeared to have noticed her. Nobody but himself. And nobody noticed Jackson Regis, either, stalking along behind the girl, his finely-honed predator's instinct kicking in, his little black doctor's bag swinging from his left hand.

The houses had thinned out now. Soon, Jackson Regis thought, it would be time to go to work. It was getting dark, and there was nobody else around. Just him and the girl. He glanced at his watch, and was alarmed to discover he'd been trailing the girl for ninety eight minutes. Unprecedented.

Up ahead, the girl rounded a corner. Jackson Regis paused then followed her around.

He stopped, dead in his tracks. They'd reached a dead end; a dirty worker's yard lit by a tiny lamp.

The girl stood there, facing him. Her eyes shone, flickering jade in the darkness.

"Hullo," she said. There was a curiosity in her voice.

Jackson Regis stammered, all a fluster. Those eyes locked onto his, pinning him in place. Finally, he composed himself.

"Hello there," he said. "I'm afraid I've taken a wrong turn somewhere."

The girl laughed quietly. "You followed me here," she said.

Jackson Regis spluttered, ready to protest.

"No need to protest," the girl went on. "It's okay. It's cute. It's not often a guy finds me interesting."

Jackson Regis felt sweat break out on his brow, and wiped it away with a handkerchief he deftly produced from his pocket.

"You are remarkably nimble-fingered. Are you a magician?" the girl asked. "Or a doctor, perhaps."

"I, yes, I'm a doctor," Jackson Regis said. He laughed. "Are you sick?"

The girl laughed back. It was a musical, tinkling sound. All the while, Jackson Regis could not stop staring into her eyes.

"So they say," she told him. "This yard's a bit chilly, isn't it? Do you live nearby?"

Jackson Regis climbed out of his car. Driving had been difficult, being forced to look at the road instead of at the girl. Her name was Emily, she'd said. Emily. Jackson Regis liked the name. Emily's Eyes.

Even walking up to the house, he found himself staring. She kept looking at him and smiling. He was enraptured, but also rather unsure of himself. Perhaps, this time, he could leave her eyes intact? Maybe she'd stay, share her beautiful gaze with him, full of life and brightness. Maybe...

"Evening Regis," a voice boomed.

It was Steve Merrick, his neighbor. Steve Merrick was a policeman, and he was always very loud. Steve Merrick was in the papers a lot too, Jackson Regis had noticed. He worked on murders and things, and if the papers were to be believed, he wasn't very good at his job.

"Good evening, Steve," Jackson Regis said, smiling thinly. "How's it going?"

"Bit stressed," he said. Steve Merrick was always a bit stressed. "Got my work cut out for me with that pair of freaks on the rampage."

"Terrible business isn't it, detective?" Emily said, smiling brightly. Steve nodded at her, then looked back at Jackson Regis and winked.

"Y'all have a good night now," Steve Merrick said, and got into his car.

Emily strolled around the room, talking incessantly. Jackson Regis was beginning to get a headache. He sat on the bed, fiddling nervously with his braces. He wished Emily would shut up. Perhaps his earlier decision to keep the girl's eyeballs in her skull had been premature. Yes, definitely. She was altogether too talkative. Jackson Regis could not imagine his routine being quite so disturbed by having this girl around all the time. Eyeballs were different. They didn't talk, didn't ask questions. They simply floated there, beautiful and precise, works of art. Emily's eyeballs were bouncing around the room, disappearing and reappearing, making Jackson Regis dizzy.

No, this just would not do at all.

"So," Emily said. "Do you often bring strange girls back to your place?"

"Yes," Jackson Regis snapped. "All the time. You're just one of many."

Emily smiled at him, revealing perfect white teeth.

"So what do you do?" she said to him. "Tell me about yourself."

Jackson Regis started talking, feeding her lines about accountancy. Emily approached the bed. She was fishing around in her bag for something. She began to stroke Jackson Regis's arm, her fingers massaging his shoulder. She sat down beside him on the bed. Jackson Regis kept his eyes fixed firmly on her, on her beautiful gaze. Automatically, with his other hand, he was digging deep into his doctor's bag, searching for just the right bottle. Deftly, his fingers unscrewed the cap.

"You're tense," Emily said. "What's the matter?"

Jackson Regis lifted the chloroform-soaked rag out of his bag. He tensed, paused, ready.

"Just relax, Jackson," Emily said calmly. "This won't hurt a bit."

Steve Merrick pulled his car into the driveway, navigating around Jackson Regis's old station wagon. Fucking Regis. Always parking like a douche. Merrick could feel pain pulsing in his temples. Another migraine. Fucking perfect. The Optometrist and The Handyman were driving him mental. All eyes were on him, and it seemed like everything he did was leading to a rap on the knuckles. He couldn't catch either one of them. These freaks, these fucking nutballs, running riot in his goddamn city.

He didn't like it. Not one bit.

As he got out of the door, his ears pricked up. His detective sense kicked in. Something was wrong. He could feel it.

Of course, the howls of agony coming from Jackson Regis's house gave it away somewhat. And the front door was wide open. And, was that blood on the handle?

Merrick pulled his gun and darted inside. No time to radio for backup. The cries were louder now, raw and animalistic. Pain. Torment. Merrick let out a snarl, fingered the safety on his pistol. Headed upstairs, following the sound.

The first thing he saw as he entered Regis's bedroom was thirteen pairs of eyes looking straight at him. Limp, staring, dead little gray things floating in formaldehyde or some shit. Merrick's iron stomach suppressed his gag reflex. The smell was unbearable. Copper and shit. Not coming from the eyes, though.

He rounded the door, took in the scene. Regis sat on his bed, howling, rocking back and forth, staring at the ragged stump where his left hand had once been. Blood still pumped from the severed veins. Some kind of bag had fallen open at his feet, spilling surgical contents across the floor. One instrument caught Merrick's eye. He'd never seen it before but he'd read the reports enough times to know what it was.

He looked at the eyes in the wardrobe, at the instrument on the floor, at Regis. Regis, flapping his stumps, bleeding out.

Merrick shook his head, turned around, walked out, went downstairs and placed a call.

"Captain?" he said. "Merrick. About The Handyman and The Optometrist. I've got some good news and some bad news..."

VIII - Column Inches

Dear Dennis

We met in a bar in Kuta, Bali. We drank, danced, talked over the music. You took me for a midnight stroll, the sky was beautiful. There was chemistry, electricity. You took my hand and kissed me. You were the perfect gentleman. I gave you my number, but I wrote it down wrong. I never got yours. I want to get back in touch. Dennis, if you're reading this, send me an email.

If anyone else can help locate Dennis, then send an email to desperatefordennis@_____.com. Dennis is tall, muscular, short brown hair, wears glasses, has a small scar under one of his beautiful brown eyes. He would have been in Bali in July 2012. Please get in touch.

"It comes across as too needy, doesn't it?" Laurie said.

"Yup, totally. You sound like a psycho stalker bitch from hell," Tamsin replied. "But what can you do?"

Laurie laughed. "I just wanna get the word out, Tam," she said. "I know he couldn't deny the energy between us."

Tamsin put her hand on Laurie's shoulder and pulled her closer, conspiratorially. The coffee shop was abuzz with noise. "You know this could backfire majorly?"

"I know."

"It could come back to bite you in the ass. You could end up looking very silly indeed."

"I know."

"Worth the risk?"

"Worth it."

Laurie watched, and waited. A couple of cranks to start with. Then Tamsin put it in her column and it went viral, of course, and the inbox exploded. Tamsin was good at things like this. She knew how to work the reporter angle, how to work the PR angle. She knew social media, she knew Twitter and Facebook and YouTube and god knows what else. Laurie wasn't into things like that. Her personal email address was used so irregularly that she usually had to reset the password just to log in. She had a MySpace, but it was old and she'd never used it. Nikki had set it up, she seemed to recall. She wondered if people were viewing it now she had her fifteen minutes of fame. They probably were. She contemplated changing the photo to something more recent, then decided against it.

The inbox had exploded, and Laurie read each one, a wry smile on her face. She pored over them all, marveling at the fervor she'd drummed up. They were all dead ends, of course. None of them led to Dennis, or anywhere. Poorly written, hastily thought up nonsense designed to wind up a desperate, silly girl. Or the few that genuinely thought they were helping, sending her after some hapless Dennis who'd probably never even been to Bali. More than a few emails simply contained pictures of cocks. One of them had the subject line 'Forget Dennis, I can give ya this'. Laurie forwarded this one onto Tam. Tam's reply, 'meh, I've had bigger', made Laurie wince, then giggle.

And then it arrived. The one email that made Laurie sit up and take notice.

"Hello Laurie. I think you're describing my husband. His name is Matthew Dennis Porter. He was in Bali in July on business. He goes there every year. I have not seen my husband since he went away. He never came back. If you have any information on his whereabouts then please, please contact the Cambridge police on [number]. Myself and Matthew's family are very worried about him."

"And you're sure, you're absolutely sure, that this was him?" the sergeant asked. Laurie nodded. He'd asked her before, and once before that. Of course she was sure. She swallowed hard, looked the officer in the eyes.

"That's him. That's Dennis."

"And you met him, when, on the twenty fifth, correct?"

Laurie shook her head. "No, the twenty third. The twenty fifth was when we hooked up."

"Ah yes," the sergeant said. He was in his fifties, a country type. He flicked open the magazine Laurie had brought with her. "This. This article. So, is this the full story?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Laurie said. The sergeant frowned.

"Listen, miss, I need to know," he said. "At this stage, you may be offering the last confirmed sighting of Matt Porter."

Laurie sighed. "It's like it says. We hooked up in the club, then later we went for a walk. We stood there, looking over the beach, looking up at the stars, and he kissed me. It was magical." She sniffed, wiped her eyes. "Is he really married?"

"I'm afraid so, ma'am," the sergeant said. He didn't seem sympathetic. Looking at her like she was a stupid little girl, Laurie thought. "His wife is very worried about him. Did Matt - Mr. Porter, tell you about his plans for the rest of the trip?"

"He said he was coming back to England on the twenty seventh," Laurie said. "I flew home on the twenty sixth. He said he'd call me when he was back."

"Well that certainly fits with the itinerary we've been given," the sergeant said, almost to himself.

Laurie fiddled with her hair. "Officer? Can you call him Dennis? Matt sounds so wrong."

The sergeant snorted. "Maybe you should think about telling me exactly what happened that night."

Laurie sighed. "Okay. We were at the club, then we went back to the hotel. Yes, we fucked, that's what you're asking isn't it?"

The sergeant went a bit red, then nodded. "Then what?"

"Listen," Laurie said. "I wouldn't try and track a guy down just cos of a kiss. It was good... no, it was great sex. It was phenomenal, life-changing sex. You know what I mean? The kind where you're both so emotionally drained afterwards that you can't even speak."

The sergeant's stony face suggested he had no idea. "And then he left?" he asked.

"No!" Laurie retorted. "Look, he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I had no idea. But, look, then we went for a walk, and he kissed me, and I went back to the hotel, and I got my flight the next day, and the love rat never called me."

"Where was Mr. Porter when you left him?"

"Walking back to his hotel. We weren't in the same hotel. They were just nearby."

"And this was on the beach, correct?"

Laurie shook her head. "No, there's some cliffs, they overlook the beach. We walked around them. He was... oh fuck."

The sergeant was nodding. "Quite," he said. "Well it's the best lead we've got right now. I'll get someone to call the Bali police. Anything to stop Mrs. Porter from turning up here all hours of the day and night, anyway."

Laurie didn't think the sergeant should've said this out loud, but she kept quiet and played with her hair.

They found the body of Matthew Dennis Porter, broken and partially eaten, hidden in a crevice in a lagoon you could only reach by swimming to. He'd been washed there by the tide, the papers said. And what's more, he was Desperately Seeking Dennis. Word of this had leaked.

"But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you Tam?" Laurie asked.

"No, of course not," Tam said, sipping her coffee. She smiled brightly. "Sorry Dennis turned out to be a cheat and dead and stuff. I'm sure it must've been a shock."

"Oh, it's quite alright," Laurie told her. An elderly couple were staring at them suspiciously. "There's plenty more fish in the sea."

"Nice wording, Laurie," Tamsin said. Laurie coughed.

She had to go back to the police station, of course, and answer a few more questions. How many times did they have intercourse? Was there anybody suspicious around when she left Matthew? Did he seem suicidal? Just the once. Not that she could remember. No, definitely not.

Outside, there was a bit of a scene. Matthew Porter's widow, Victoria Porter, was heading into the police station just as Laurie exited.

"You!" Victoria screamed out, after a moment's pause. "I recognize you from the paper! You're the slut who killed my husband!"

"Mrs. Porter," one of the officers said, gently restraining the woman. "Please."

"I didn't kill your husband, Mrs. Porter," Laurie said softly. Her eyes shimmered.

"You as good as did!' Victoria Porter yelled. Her voice was shrill, harsh. "If he hadn't have been there, with you..."

"Mrs. Porter, please. Let's go inside," the officer said. Mrs. Porter pointed at Laurie and shrieked something. Nearby, a paparazzi's camera went off. It was on the front page the next day, of course, Laurie desperately covering her face, Mrs. Porter's rage framed central.

"People are going to think you're fucking nuts," Tamsin said. "His funeral? Really?"

"Yes," Laurie replied quietly. She was getting sick of the same coffee shop. It felt like time for a change.

"Why?"

"I want to go."

"You're just asking for trouble," Tamsin told her.

"I'm not. It's the right thing to do."

"What about Victoria? How's that going to look?"

Laurie pushed that day's paper towards her. "Don't you remember this?" The headline read 'United In Grief' above a large picture of Victoria Porter stiffly hugging Laurie.

"Yeah, but even so," Tamsin replied. "You're pushing it. Can't you just walk away?"

"After this one thing," Laurie said. "Trust me."

The funeral was held in a church, even though neither of the Porters were religious. It felt right. Matthew's coffin sat at the front, while colleagues and friends eulogized him. Victoria Porter said her bit. Laurie thought Victoria was beginning to show, now. She wondered if other people knew yet. Victoria's hand occasionally strayed to her belly as she spoke, guarding the life growing inside her. Laurie half-listened to the service from the back. She saw the accusing, curious eyes on her. When it came to be time for the graveside committal, she slipped away.

She was back for the wake, though. In the Porters' house. Surrounded by loved ones. Whispering, gossiping, staring at her. Looking at her daggers, looking at Victoria with sympathy. Such a terrible tragedy. Always knew he hadn't just upped and left. Always feared the worst, did Victoria. Said his credit card hadn't been used. Always a bad sign.

Whispers, blame, grief. The mourners began to thin out, half-eaten cucumber sandwiches discarded on paper plates. Outside, the rain beat rhythm on the window panes. Not warm, now. Not like Bali. Every so often, Victoria glanced over at Laurie with an expression of angry tolerance. What a trooper, people said. What a saint. Laurie sat, in the window seat, drinking tea and observing.

Someone at the living room door spoke. "I'm off now, Victoria. Thank you for the lovely spread. Matt would've been proud. So proud. It was a great service. Call me if you need anything, Victoria."

Victoria thanked the person, and the door closed. They were alone. Wife and mistress. Alone, in silence. They sat there, drinking tea. The clock ticked. Five minutes passed, then ten, twenty, thirty. A full hour.

Victoria let out a sigh. Laurie coughed. Victoria looked up.

"You should've seen his face," Laurie said. She smiled slightly. "When I pushed him off the cliff, I mean."

Victoria sat bolt upright and stared at Laurie. "Good lord," she said.

"Oh, sorry," Laurie replied. "Too soon?"

Victoria snorted with laughter. "No, of course not. I'm just imagining it. That stupid, shocked, 'why me' expression, right? Oh, believe me, I saw it plenty of times during our marriage."

"I still can't believe it took them this long to find the pissing body," Laurie said. "All this press shit, all the paps. Imagine actually being famous. It must be hell."

"No doubt," Victoria said, stirring her tea. "Still, at least they did. I was worried for a while that I wouldn't be able to pay you. Would you have had to kill me too?"

Laurie laughed and shook her head. "No, of course not."

"Sorry. No offense meant. I just don't really know how a profession like yours works."

"I'm sure Tamsin would've covered the cost," Laurie said.

"Has she already paid her half?"

"Not yet. I'll be collecting tomorrow. You two really wanted him dead, didn't you? First time I've ever had a cheating spouse contract."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Normally these things have a bit more, er, gravity to them. No pun intended, no offense meant."

"None taken," Victoria said. She took a sip of tea. "It's nice to finally have a conversation with you. Sorry about all the screaming."

"It's fine," Laurie said. "Sorry I had to say I slept with him."

"Oh, you didn't then?"

Laurie was momentarily offended. "God no. Why would I? That was just bullshit. The sergeant seemed to want me to say it, so I did. He wasn't my type, I'm afraid."

"Good," Victoria said. "I'm glad. Not for my sake, yours. He wasn't a nice man."

"There are plenty of not nice men in the world," Laurie said. "One less now."

"Tamsin seemed to think you two were becoming friends," Victoria said. "Will you stay in touch?"

Laurie frowned, confused. "What? No, of course not. It was just business."

"She didn't know he was married, you know," Victoria said. "That's why she hated him as much as I did. She was just as much a victim of Matt as I was."

Laurie stood up. "With all due respect, Victoria," she said. "I don't actually care who knew what."

She walked over to the woman and the pair shook hands. "You're a funny one, Laurie," Victoria said. "I don't imagine I'll see you again, will I?"

"You should hope not to," Laurie said, not unkindly. "Have a nice life, Victoria."

Victoria went as if to say "you too" but instead replied with "Take care, Laurie."

Laurie left Victoria Porter in the living room, and exited the house. The second half of her fee would be coming through soon, but she knew she'd be long gone by then. It had been her first time in the media spotlight. She didn't like it. She always intended this to be her last job. She stopped, looked at her reflection in a car window. It was time to retire, perhaps. Meet someone, settle down, raise a family, get fat, get old, feel the knot of suspicion ball up in her chest when he got home late, smell the perfume on his collar, listen in on the secret phone calls. The suspicion, the lies, the unhappiness. Laurie laughed. Change her hair, her face a bit, nobody would recognize her. Nobody would remember her fifteen minutes of fame. Nothing would change. Nothing ever did.

IX - Blind Right

The guard rail, buckled from years of weathering, was the first to go. It sprung backwards with the force of metal snapping, shattering the windshield. Glass flew forward, shards piercing the boy's staring eyes, followed by the metal pole itself which shredded his cheek, tearing at the flesh while all the time he smiled. The car plunged forward, tossing the boy to the side, the handbrake twisting and cutting into his stomach. With a hollow crack like a bullet, a branch punctured the passenger side door, sending the car spinning in the other direction, slamming the boy back against the door, pinning him into the vehicle. The bonnet hit a tree, crumpling in concertina fashion, the engine block crashing backwards. The radio began to splutter, flicking through stations unprovoked like a schizophrenic music hall. And as on the road, hidden by the blind right bend, a deer capered off into the woods, the boy in the car let out a sigh of relief as the destroyed vehicle came to a halt, his broken body finally at rest.

A piece of sharp metal was pressing into Kayleigh's hip. She shifted, the cold steel rubbing her flesh, threatening to break the skin. The old man looked at her moodily, sighing through his loose false teeth. Kayleigh focused on a liver spot on his gnarled hands and tried to move her chair to the right. One of the wheels was stuck; it had been since shift started. Unable to comfortably move, she resorted to totaling up the man's shopping. The till rang up, Kayleigh voiced the amount owed, the old man fumbled with his wallet and handed her a tenner. The cash tray opened, catching her right thigh. Kayleigh suppressed a curse. The man stood, waiting for his change. His skin looked pale and waxy. Kayleigh felt her stomach knotting.

The overhead lights were pulsing in time with the old man's breathing -in and out, in and out- and Kayleigh blinked once, twice. The man coughed, his fake molars rattling in his head. He rustled the thin ShopSaver carrier bag and cleared his throat. Kayleigh wasn't sure what he was waiting for. There was a pressure on both sides. She looked down. The till was open, the man's tenner lying atop a handful of grubby pounds. Change. She stuck her hand in, every movement causing the drawer to press against her, tight pinching pressure. The metal on the other side was digging in, leaving a groove. She imagined tiny pools of blood forming where the cash desk, sharp from years of hard graft, cut into her side.

Three pounds, a twenty pence, a five, the drawer closed and the man was gone. It was only as his raincoat disappeared into the crowd that she realized she'd given him too much.

"You alright babe?"

Kayleigh looked up to see Imogen enter the staff room and sit beside her. She'd been staring into her coffee, watching the tiny bubbles spiraling. The cup was burning into her palm, sending a pleasant heat down her forearm.

Kayleigh half-turned her head. Imogen was leaning forwards. Kayleigh shifted so their eyes met, then gave a half-smile.

"Just one of those days I think," she said. There was still a red crease in her side. If Imogen noticed, she didn't say anything. Self-consciously Kayleigh put her cup down and pulled on her top. Maybe it was time for a sweatshirt; the staff lounge was cold enough anyway.

"You were miles away out there," Imogen told her. "Didn't you see us waving?"

Kayleigh shook her head. Had she? She couldn't really recall anything beyond the bubble of her cash desk, her chair, her till... never really paid much attention anyway. Imogen was always getting reprimanded for talking on the job; to customers, to other staff, to herself maybe. Kayleigh loved her for it, but it wasn't the kind of thing she ever did herself.

"Stuff on your mind?"

"Stuff on my mind," Kayleigh confirmed, although she couldn't recall what. She felt Imogen's hand on her shoulder. For a moment Imogen's palm bled cold, ice water creeping from her fingertips and flowing through the thin material of Kayleigh's shirt, drilling into her shoulder. Then the feeling was gone and it was just Imogen, her touch warm and comforting. Kayleigh reached out and brushed Imogen's blonde hair from her eyes. Brian, the manager, was always on at her about her fringe. Imogen smiled and brushed it back.

"He'll have your ass," Kayleigh warned. Everything was starting to solidify again. The chair felt a bit softer, the room a bit warmer. She laughed, more at herself than anything else.

"I can handle Brian," Imogen giggled. Imogen was younger, just out of college, and thought she was invincible. Kayleigh hoped she was.

The clock on the wall ticked, counting down the seconds.

ShopSaver was part of a shopping complex just outside the city. Some, like Imogen, lived in Glasgow and commuted by bus. The city council had set up a park and ride scheme in the vain hope that people would leave their cars at home. Not many did, and as such the car park for the complex was usually full, even as Kayleigh finished her shift at 7. The staff had a small car park around the back, just space for a few vehicles.

Kayleigh stood in that car park now, eyeing the gouge down her Escort's passenger door. She'd almost forgotten. That morning she'd clipped the entrance gate, denting the metalwork. She shrugged and walked around to the driver's side. It wasn't as if the car was a showroom model. Even so, as she navigated the small automobile out the gate she took exceptional care to line herself up just right. There was plenty of space either side. The gate had never posed a problem before.

Kayleigh pulled out of the complex and onto the main road. In one direction lay Glasgow, the bustle and light of the city just beginning its renewed evening vigor In the other, the scrubland, country lanes and forests leading to villages. This was Kayleigh's direction, her route. She drove the first mile automatically, her hands working the wheel in silence, just the purr of the engine breaking the revere. Few cars went this way and soon Kayleigh noticed her speedometer creeping over 60. She slowed; the winding, overgrown roads were coming up as the sun fell in the sky. She looked around, a copse of trees sprouting up from the familiar fields, every trunk a steadfast soldier.. Kayleigh reduced her speed even further, glancing into the rear view mirror to ensure no irate motorists were tailgating. She was alone.

Up ahead, the forest on the left descended into a deep, tree-filled drop. The road curved to the right. Soon the trees would be ending. Until last month, Kayleigh had never even spared a thought for this road. It was just what it was, that blind right turn leading home.

Now, nobody could take that turn without stopping to think.

Subconsciously, Kayleigh reached down and flicked on the radio. Static, of course. There was never any reception under these trees. They'd silenced many a tune sung aloud in the car.

Up ahead, against the freshly-repaired barrier, the wreath. Ryan spelled in flowers, colorful like him. He'd been Kayleigh's longest-running colleague at work other than Brian. He'd been her friend, too. And Imogen's. Ryan had been everyone's friend.

Nobody would know, Kayleigh had accepted, what happened that night. How Ryan lost control on the route he took every damn day. What went through his mind as the car plowed through metal, off the verge, into space, wood, fire. For days after, Desmond had cried on her shoulder, asking over and over again for reassurance that Ryan hadn't taken his own life. Kayleigh had no truths for Desmond, so she'd lied and told him no, she knew he wouldn't have. Lies, perhaps, but only because you never know. There'd been an uncle years ago, seemingly happy, he'd done it, but Desmond didn't need to hear this, Desmond needed to know that he'd been enough to keep Ryan alive, that Ryan loved life.

As she drove past the wreath, the regularity of the journey keeping her eyes dry, Kayleigh tried to convince herself. As the radio's static turned to music, she was believing once again.

Back home, parked up, squeezing past the neighbor's car to the alley. Jade Court was a neo-urban monstrosity, a granite boil sprung from fields and countryside. A four-block tenement, cleverly built in the middle of nowhere. 'Cheap housing, expensive view' had been the selling point. In reality the estate felt isolated, a blight to the nearby country dwellers and a prison to anyone unfortunate enough to end up there once the council acquired the flats as part of their housing plan.

The place had always felt wrong to Kayleigh. The buildings were at the wrong angles. They jutted, they protruded, encroaching on one another like four Neds spoiling for a fight.

Ryan had lived in building 2, which Kayleigh now walked past to get to her own. The fact you could only reach 3 and 4 by edging down an alley of thirty foot walls was something the architect had neglected to consider. With shopping, or for some a pushchair, the alley was a gauntlet to be run only when necessary. Just another means of trapping the court's residents. Kayleigh tried not to look at the plain, bare wall of building 2 as she walked past, even as her shoulder brushed against the gritty brick, as her satchel rapped against the wall with a harsh knock. Foul-smelling water -or something worse- had pooled on the ground, the lack of sunlight ensuring that nothing dried like it should.

The alleyway ended like a sigh of relief and Kayleigh entered her own building. There was a front desk, but as far as Kayleigh knew no employee had ever been hired. The tenants looked after themselves.

Closed the front door. Walked up three flights of stairs to home. Fished around in her pocket for the keys. Nothing. With a sigh, Kayleigh put her bag down and headed back to the car.

Kayleigh wasn't accustomed to being home late. Incidents of sneaking in the door at one, two am as a teenager were in the past; she couldn't be so irresponsible now, and even if she could, she wouldn't. Kayleigh's mother wasn't accustomed to her being home late either, as was evident by the feeble yelling coming from behind her mottled white door.

"Kayleigh? Where are you? Is that you?" Mother called. Her voice was trembling. Kayleigh checked her watch. She was only ten minutes late. Nothing could have happened, surely? The nurse had been here until forty minutes ago... hadn't she? Kayleigh glanced at the mirror, looking for the carer's usual post-it note. There it was, today's date, everything okay.

"Kay!"

"You alright, Mum?" Kayleigh called, dropping her bag and hurrying to the bedroom door. Her elbow caught on a picture frame as she walked, almost sending the photograph toppling to the floor. She caught it just in time, stopped it from unhooking. Her own smiling face looked back, framed by Mum and Don, his arm around her shoulder. Kayleigh looked away.

Mother's room was dark as usual, the curtains pulled shut. After a day at work, the smell of stale sweat and illness always got to Kayleigh. Even now, in late October, the room was a hothouse. Mum wouldn't ever have the windows open, she was always freezing, even in summer. Right now she was sitting up in bed, shivering, her white nightgown vibrating against her pale skin. Kayleigh tried not to look at her red-rimmed eyes.

"Is it dinner time?" Mother asked. Kayleigh smiled at her and shook her head.

"You've had dinner, Mum," she said softly.

"But I'm hungry!" Mother snapped, one frail fist pounding the bedclothes.

"Would you like to read the paper?"

"I'd like some fucking dinner," came the terse reply. Kayleigh fancied that her mum's voice didn't even sound like her these days. She tried not to think about it.

After Don had died -dropped dead of an unexpected heart attack- Mother had changed. Grief, the doctor had said at first, but soon it was clear that something had broken irreparably. Dementia, Alzheimer's, they refused to pin a label on it, but something dwelt in Mother's head. First the mind went, and then the body, and by now Kayleigh's mother was riddled with more cancer than treatment could help. Kayleigh no longer mourned it. She'd made peace with who her mother used to be, and all she could do was help this woman, this dying lady in Mother's body, to be as comfortable as possible.

Kayleigh walked towards the dresser to retrieve the newspaper, catching her foot on the end of the bed as she did so. She swore under her breath, which caused her mother to tut angrily. "Stupid girl, no manners," she muttered, her thin finger gripping the bedclothes angrily. "It'll be the kitchens with you."

Kayleigh ignored her, sat down, and began to read the paper aloud.

Later, in her room, watching the old portable telly. The picture was grainy, the old aerial barely held together. Mother had gone off to sleep with a cocktail of painkillers and a shot of whiskey that if the doctor didn't know about, wouldn't hurt him. Kayleigh sat on her mattress, the bed feeling too small, too lumpy, just staring blankly at the TV, not really seeing anything, not really watching.

Kayleigh thought Mother was going blind. She'd thought so ever since the recognition had slipped from her eyes. Now when Kayleigh entered the room, she was met by a blank stare. The doctor said it was to be expected. Kayleigh was sure it was eyesight-related. Her mother used to be able to read the paper, to read her books, even do the occasional crossword. Now she just sat, staring at nothing much, just the cracked and peeling wallpaper.

Kayleigh finished telling Imogen all this, who responded by taking a long swig of water. She didn't speak for a while. Kayleigh didn't expect her to. Imogen wasn't the best with serious things -talk about music, clubs or gossip and she'd never shut up though- so it took her a while to enunciate an appropriately sympathetic reply. They were sitting in the staff room, Kayleigh's break nearly over and Imogen's shift about to begin.

"Do you think reading glasses would help?" Imogen asked. Kayleigh shook her head. Her hair felt annoyingly rough, chafing against her cheek.

"Can't get her to try them on," she explained.

Imogen, clearly at a loss about how to continue, suddenly hugged Kayleigh.

"You know I'm always here babe," she reassured. Despite being a few years younger, Imogen always made Kayleigh feel temporarily normal.

That day, Desmond came into the shop. He paid at Kayleigh's till. A queue was forming behind him as Kayleigh asked how he was doing. She rang up his purchases with her staff discount card, knowing it's what Ryan would have done. Desmond claimed he was doing alright. His shopping made Kayleigh sad. Buying for one, microwave dinners and cheap booze when before he'd come in to stock up on fresh ingredients. Ryan had been a great cook. Kayleigh said nothing about this. She could tell the other customers were getting edgy. Nobody liked to be kept waiting. A woman in the line was breathing heavily, whether from annoyance or exertion Kayleigh wasn't sure. She tried to look as Desmond was saying something, something about television or the weather or Glasgow, something noncommittal. The woman wasn't even paying attention, her eyes turned towards the magazine rack where the predictable, surreal soap of Peter and Katie was being played out. Kayleigh too found her eyes drifting to those glossy faces, fake tans and highlighted hair, waxwork smiles on unhappy faces. The metal edge was pressing into her side again and Kayleigh put off opening the till, knowing that once again it would trap her as it had with every purchase that day. Someone at the back of the line moved across to Imogen's checkout. Imogen was laughing with a young mum who struggled to keep her toddler under control. Nobody behind them was getting irate. The till had once been Ryan's; Imogen had moved so 'a stranger didn't take his place'. Kayleigh appreciated this. She wasn't sure if she could stand seeing anyone else there. She thought of this as the till opened, pinning her in.

Desmond was saying goodbye. He'd packed up his shopping and was going.

"Sorry for the wait," Kayleigh said to the next-in-line.

The dent in the passenger door looked like an ugly scar. It bothered Kayleigh more than she'd expected. The paint had been skimmed off, leaving a metallic gouge in the red. She tried not to look at it as she tossed her bag into the seat, smoothed her shirt and shut the door. The driver's side was pristine, unchipped and undamaged. Kayleigh got in and waited for the car in front to pull out before carefully navigating out the gate. As she left the complex, she flicked on the radio. A show of songs she'd once liked, last summer's number ones, caused Kayleigh to sing along. She lost herself as the complex vanished on the horizon and the trees began to sprout.

Her singing was interrupted with a crackle. White noise, the setting sunlight filtering through the trees. The blind corner up ahead bearing Ryan's name. Kayleigh drove forward and turned carefully, her hands working in tandem, leaving Ryan behind.

The tenements stood tall, fronting, telling Kayleigh something was wrong. Mother had taken a turn. Had a fit the nurse said. She was okay though. Just shaken. The nurse, a girl Kayleigh was sure she'd been to school with but who denied this, had waited with Mother until Kayleigh got home. The doctor was just leaving.

"She'll be fine," he told Kayleigh, his bald head shining in the fluorescent light in the corridor. Overhead, a moth buzzed, trapped in the light fitting.

"Thank you," Kayleigh said.

The nurse, who Kayleigh was beginning to think maybe she didn't recognize after all, sat with her for a while. Mother was asleep. Although she didn't say as much, Kayleigh disagreed with the diagnosis that Mother was okay. Her eyes looked that bit more glazed, her mouth a little more drooping. "It's to be expected," the nurse had said, "it doesn't mean anything" but Kayleigh wasn't sure. She'd given up mentioning her mother's eyesight to the nurse.

"Are you holding up okay?" the nurse, whose name was Trudy, asked. "It can't be easy with your dad gone too."

Don wasn't Kayleigh's dad, but the nurse didn't need to be burdened with that. "I'm alright," Kayleigh reassured her. Trudy kind of reminded her of Imogen, now that she thought about it. Maybe that was it. They were sitting on Mother's worn out armchairs in the living room. A framed portrait, from the same holiday as the one in the hall, hung over the fireplace. Something in one of the cushions was cutting into the small of Kayleigh's back, and no matter how she shifted she couldn't get comfortable. She hoped Trudy wasn't taking this as a sign of restlessness.

"You know you're eligible for more support?"

Kayleigh nodded. They were coping just fine, she thought. What would a night-nurse do other than make Kayleigh redundant? "The flat's quite small," she said.

"I was thinking perhaps residential care," Trudy replied. "A hospice. There are good ones. My gran spent her last year in one. The staff were lovely."

Of course they were, and of course she'd say that. Kayleigh had seen programs, read papers, she knew what went on. She didn't blame the people. Jobs were stressful, people had limits, but her mum didn't need that kind of care.

Trudy must have picked up on the lack of enthusiasm because she changed the subject. "You should get out, when was the last time you had a night out? I'm sure we could get cover for one night."

Nights out had lost their appeal since Ryan. Not that Kayleigh had been out in over a year, but the prospect had appealed through until Ryan was gone. No more did she hear about weekend jaunts, crazy days in the city and nights out on the circuit. Nothing now. No point.

"I should do, yeah," Kayleigh told her. Trudy seemed placated by this and smiled.

"I'll leave you to it, then."

The old man was back in ShopSaver and this time he'd brought coupons. Every time he removed a folded bit of paper from his wallet, he had to hold it up almost against his nose to scrutinize it. Kayleigh offered to help, but the man just snorted. His skin looked translucent, mucky white like a candle, his mottled hair the dirty yellow flame. It should have been white too. He handed over his prizes; free washing powder, one pound off frozen burgers, buy one get one free toilet rolls. Kayleigh grimaced inwardly as she scanned his can of sardines. Don had eaten sardines, straight from the tin. They'd reminded her of wading the river as a kid, the slimy minnows that darted and nibbled at your toes. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Imogen had harangued Brian in the staff room, demanding he sort out Kayleigh's till space. He'd duct-taped the sharp edge, which had already worn away, but the chair seemed fine when all but Kayleigh sat on it. In the end Imogen had offered to swap chairs, but Kayleigh had refrained. No point.

Over on the other till, Imogen was dealing with a spillage. Someone had dropped their McDonald's cup, contraband in the store anyway, onto the conveyor belt. She was frantically trying to clear up whilst addressing the other customers, grabbing at her shirt to stop the dark cola dripping onto her uniform. Kayleigh looked at her own queue. No chance of going to help. The old man was putting the last of his shopping into the bag. Kayleigh took his money, opened the till, breathed in, took out his change and handed it to him wrapped in the receipt. He unfolded it and stood there reading it, no doubt checking his discounts.

"Get it on," a lad muttered somewhere from the back. Kayleigh hoped he knew it wasn't her fault. The old man clucked, his dentures rapping. Obviously everything was kosher because finally he thrust the receipt into his bag with a sigh and shuffled off. The queue moved once more.

Imogen was on her break as Kayleigh left. She'd come out into the car park and was admiring the scratch in the car door. "Looks pretty nasty," she said. "Hey, my cousin does bodywork. I'm sure I could get him to knock a few quid off."

"You're a love," Kayleigh replied, squeezing her shoulder. Just past the wall of the car park, the sun was dropping in the sky, sending sharp darts of orange light into Kayleigh's eyes. "It does look bad, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. How did you do it?"

Kayleigh pointed at the gate. Imogen raised her eyebrow. "Not exactly a tight spot, is it?" she teased. Kayleigh tried to smile but shivered instead. She was freezing.

"I gotta get back inside," Imogen told her.

The radio was playing one of Kayleigh's favorite songs as she drove. Her fingertips were drumming on the steering wheel and she sang. It was getting dark earlier now, outside looking like a grainy picture on the portable. A plume of smoke was rising from a farmhouse in the distance. Kayleigh had seen the house a thousand times. The smoke was a sign that winter was setting in.

She barely noticed as she reached the trees and the radio crackled. Her song cut out mid-line and Kayleigh braced herself, waiting for the moment she'd emerge from the trees and resume her listening.

Faint sound poured from the speakers. A Scottish, music-hall voice crackling with white noise. A cheerful singer, rolling his Rs. Kayleigh frowned. The radio was picking up another station. "A roamin', in the gloamin', wi' my lassie by my side...". Kayleigh reached down for the volume, silence was better than this. The music didn't stop. The radio had frozen, the display stopped, showing the previous frequency. Even the clock had stopped. She glanced at her speedometer by the steering wheel. The car was most definitely moving, but not according to the display. She could still hear the engine though, purring along over the music-hall man who was now talking about tea and kettles. Kayleigh realized her eyes were off the road and quickly straightened. The patch of color, Ryan's wreath, should be just up ahead. She saw nothing. Had someone removed it? Vandals? Ryan's mother? Kayleigh drove forward, her chest suddenly tightening, then hit the brakes.

The road curved to the left, a smooth gradient instead of the sharp incline. The right turn was entirely gone, the road smooth and worn, no sign of the regular path. In fact, where once had been road stood trees, the tallest in the copse. They looked hundreds of years old.

Had the council done this? Changed the entire road overnight? Given in after one too many accidents on the blind bend?

Something about this didn't look right to Kayleigh. The road looked too normal. There was no sign of recently tarred ground, the trees did not look freshly planted. A cold terror crept into her heart. And something in the trees, a deer or something brown, was darting past the car, heading in the direction of the new road and its strange left turn. That road, that route that she'd taken hundreds of times, but no more.

What was there to do but turn left?

The trees thinned out, as they always used to, but instead of the tenements rearing up on the skyline she saw bare fields and scrubland. Nothing seemed right. The car's display was still frozen and now the radio was playing up even more, the old music hall voice skipping and cracking like a scratched record. The sun had set now and in the twilight Kayleigh could barely see. The headlights weren't working. Up ahead, the road opened slightly into a grassy verge. Maybe it was time to stop. Just the place. Kayleigh navigated the car to the left and rolled up onto the grass. It was only as she turned off that she noticed the road's width; barely enough space for one car, let alone two. On the other side was a drainage ditch, or some kind of drop.

Kayleigh alighted from the car, her feet pressing into the soft grass. It felt spongy, more so than it should. Too organic and vaguely alive. Kayleigh shuddered and realized she was freezing. Her coat was at home, only her thin work shirt protected her from the bitter night air. Surely from here, she should be able to see the tenements? Weren't the country folk always complaining about a blot on the skyline?

The moon was out, almost full, and cast enough light for Kayleigh to be sure no such building could be seen. A lump was building in her throat, threatening to turn into a sob or a scream. This wasn't the route, this wasn't reality. Something brushed her ankle. She looked down. An insect ran past, pink and quivering. Kayleigh kicked out, grabbing for the car door handle, a cry bursting from her lips. She dove into the car, slammed the door, snatched up her bag. No cell phone of course.

There was no other choice; she had to turn the car around, to go back the way she'd come, head back to the shop and find out what was going on with the road. But even with the grass verge, and her small car, there was no way to navigate a turn without plummeting into the drainage ditch. Not with the headlights out anyway. Maybe if she carried on...

Something tapped on the window. Kayleigh screamed slightly then turned. A moth, almost the size of a sparrow, was beating at the glass. Kayleigh closed her eyes, started the engine and drove.

It was impossible to know how long she'd been driving. The display was still frozen, the road still too thin to turn. No more grass verges had presented themselves, no possible turning points. Kayleigh tried not to think about her mother. She'd be okay, wouldn't she? She'd been given stronger pills, they knocked her out, she'd be alright, she'd cope...

Houses. There were houses up ahead. Lights. Was it a village? As Kayleigh pulled into the tiny circle, it was clear that this gathering of dwellings was too small for such a title. A hamlet, then. Kayleigh remembered that from school.

Past the houses, the road disappeared to god knows where, but the circle of houses provided the perfect place to turn. The houses were all roughly identical, quaint suburban constructs at odds with the rough countryside. Lights were on in some of them. Maybe one of the inhabitants had a phone. She could call the nurse, Trudy. She'd given Kayleigh her number. Ask her to check on Mum, perhaps. Yes, Kayleigh decided. She'd stop.

It was warmer here, as if the houses themselves pulsed with heat. In the center of the circle stood a large sundial, now cloaked in shadow. An animal stood by, grazing. Was it a deer? Kayleigh strained her eyes. It looked like one, brown with white speckles, not bothered by Kayleigh's presence. Its face was down, chewing on the grass. Kayleigh walked away quietly, unable to suppress a smile.

She headed for the nearest house. Halfway up the path, Kayleigh felt a chill up her spine. Someone was watching her. It was only when she reached the porch steps that she saw the girl, sitting on a swinging seat, looking at her. Dark brown hair hung over one half of her face, the other pale but smiling. Kayleigh brushed past the ivy trailing up the porch and rounded on the girl.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hi," the girl replied. Her voice was warm, quiet.

"Are your mummy or daddy home?" Kayleigh asked. "I'm lost."

The girl giggled. "I got lost once," she offered up. "Out in the moorlands. Mummy was worried about me."

Kayleigh crouched down to face the girl. "You know what it's like then," she said kindly. "Are your parents about? I need to call my mum so she doesn't worry."

The girl laughed again. Something about her made Kayleigh feel uneasy. Her visible eye stared just past Kayleigh, into the darkness. Then Kayleigh realized; the girl was blind. "Mummy's inside," the girl told her. "She won't be happy if we go in though. I've been sent out here because I was bad."

What a cruel punishment, Kayleigh thought. Sent outside in the freezing cold, no coat, and blind to boot.

"What did you do?" Kayleigh asked conspiratorially. Something drove her to befriend the girl; if she could find an ally, this place would feel a bit less lonely.

"I let the cat out," the girl replied. "I was brushing my hair and wasn't thinking." She sounded sad.

"Oh that doesn't sound much of a crime to me," Kayleigh said. "Is the cat still out here?" The girl nodded, the hair over the left side of her face rustling. She brushed it away. Kayleigh reeled backwards, almost falling as she saw the girl's jaw and cheek. Necrosis had set in, the muscle and tissue of the girl's face eaten away by some degenerative condition. Leprosy maybe, or just an infection? The girl's teeth were visible through her cheek, and her other eye was white and huge, the socket rotten and raw with scar tissue.

The girl sniffed, obviously aware at Kayleigh's reaction. Then she smiled. Her cheek flexed, revealing the inside of her mouth. "My face got frozed," she said. "On the moorlands. Mummy says I can't go to big school now."

Kayleigh had to stifle a sob. The poor child. Her mother had no idea how to treat her. Locked outside, taunted? She would help the girl.

"I'm so sorry. I'm sure you can," she told her softly. First things first though. "Is the cat still out here?"

The girl surprised Kayleigh by hawking and spitting on the porch. "That cat," she said. "Don't wanna find it. Forget it. I'll wait here for Mummy."

"What's your name?"

"Donna."

"Well, Donna," Kayleigh said softly. She could tell this was a situation not to get involved in. Maybe once she found the road, got home, checked on her mum, she could ask Imogen for advice. Maybe. "Well, any idea who might have a phone?"

"Try Mrs. Grant." Donna stood up and pointed. Kayleigh tried to follow the direction, but the girl's blindness meant she was pointing down the road.

"What number is it, sweetie?" Kayleigh asked. "It's dark."

"Erm... it's a two, or four... or seven. But one of them is Mr. Block. Don't go to his. Mr. Block is a nasty man. He shouts at kitty." Donna sat back down and began singing to herself. Kayleigh got the impression she'd been dismissed.

"Thanks sweetheart," she said, but Donna was away, staring into space.

Two, four or seven then. Kayleigh surveyed the house numbers. Six houses, from left to right, 115, 93, 209, 33, 889, 351. This wasn't normal. Again, that sickness was building in Kayleigh's throat. If it wasn't for the clarity of vision, the bite in the air, the gravel of the road crunching underfoot, Kayleigh would have thought she was dreaming.

The first house she tried was 209. Something about 93 put her off. A dark sense of foreboding. Was this Block's residence?

209 was empty, despite the lights shining from the living room window. A sign on the door proclaimed as much. "Vacant, waiting for my owner" and a smiling face. Cute, like a child's writing. It made Kayleigh's head hurt. She glanced back at her car, at her bag. Was it safe there? The deer was gone, no longer grazing by the sundial. No wonder. Her conversation with Donna must have scared it off.

At number 33, footsteps sounded when Kayleigh knocked. The door was flung open by an elderly woman wearing a knitted sweatshirt. She was a foot shorter than Kayleigh and gazed up at her in something like awe.

"Mrs. Grant?" Kayleigh asked. The woman shook her head than began to sob, loud wet cries. She reached out and touched Kayleigh's face, collapsing forward. Kayleigh caught her in her arms.

"I thought you'd come for me," the woman gasped between sobs.

"I'm... sorry," Kayleigh muttered, taken aback. Was the woman upset with her? "I'm looking for Mrs. Grant. Donna told me she has a phone I can use."

The old woman suddenly yanked herself out of Kayleigh's embrace. She stamped her foot once and shrieked, her mouth opening wide. As Kayleigh stumbled backwards down the porch steps, she saw the woman had no teeth, her mouth a dark red gash. The woman shrieked again, shorter this time, then threw herself backwards, slamming the door. Kayleigh heard a bone-crunching thud from inside the house, followed by a dozen or so thuds and knocks, then the sound of feet running up stairs.

Kayleigh's heart was pounding in her chest, her breathing heavy. It had all happened so quickly, too quickly for the creeping terror to set in, but now the door was closed Kayleigh's head was spinning. Behind her, the car seemed awfully tempting; she could get back in, drive home... then she remembered the turn. The road. How would she even get there? If indeed it led back to the shop in the first place. What about mother? No, Mrs. Grant must be about.

With new-found resolve, Kayleigh headed to the next house.

The door to number 889 was black and looked to be seeping. The paint had run imperfect, drying in teardrops that shone in the glow of the wall-mounted porch light. Kayleigh hesitated before knocking; there was no knocker and she'd have to rap the door. She almost expected her hand to come away slick, but the surface was surprisingly warm and dry. The knock reverberated loudly through the house, causing a bird to take off from the roof, squawking angrily. Kayleigh looked up, tracing the bird's flight path with her eyes. The creature looked more like a bat, bare sinewy wings beating the air, but it had a beak, clearly. It disappeared out of the light just as the door was opened. A familiar old gentleman stood before Kayleigh. The wax-skinned man from the store.

"Oh, hello," Kayleigh said, taken aback. A familiar face, even his, was welcome here.

"Good evening young lady," the man replied. "How can I help you?" His voice sounded different, totally different. English rather than the gruff Scottish she'd heard before, and his ill-fitting dentures were no longer obvious; there was no slur, no wet sound to his tone. Even his skin looked more alive, his hair white rather than yellow. But it was him, no mistaking it.

"I'm looking for Mr. Block," Kayleigh said suddenly. She hadn't realized it until she said so.

"Well you've come to the right place," the old man told her. He showed no sign of recognizing Kayleigh. His eyes were twinkling with curiosity, a far cry from the dull, rheumy wash of the man in the supermarket. "Mr. Block's the name. And who might you be?" He reached out his hand to shake Kayleigh's as she introduced herself. He had that same liver spot by his thumb. His grip was firm. Comforting. Kayleigh explained why she was there. "I have a phone," Block told her. "Do come in my dear."

Kayleigh followed the man into the hallway, closing the door behind her. From somewhere within the house, music was playing. It sounded like a gramophone. For a moment, Kayleigh expected it to be the song from the radio. It was hard to tell what it was. Something old.

The house smelled musty, like an old man. More like the old man from the supermarket, Kayleigh thought. This version of Mr. Block looked too clean, at odds with the smell. Kayleigh tried not to think about why the man had changed, or how. Nothing made much sense, and she couldn't shake the sense of gnawing dread in her stomach. Somebody was waiting for her, maybe... mother? Yes, Mum. She needed to use the phone, to call the nurse.

"In here, this way," Mr. Block said, opening a door. Kayleigh stepped through. The living room was warm, decked out in browns and oranges. It reminded her of childhood, of her grandma and grampa. There was a fire burning in the grate. All over the walls, black and white photographs were mounted in thin, ornate frames.

"Sit down, sit down, would you like a drink?" Block asked. Kayleigh's thoughts went to the phone. She looked around the room. Nothing, not even an old dial-phone. Maybe a drink would help. The heat from the fire was making her drowsy. She didn't want to sit down. Instead she walked over to one wall and began to examine the photographs.

"A glass of water would be lovely," she said. Block made his exit and Kayleigh was alone.

The photos were of a family, no doubt Block's based on the resemblance. They charted the life of the family, a young couple, the same couple with a baby, a toddler, a young girl blossoming into teenage-hood. Kayleigh noted that Block himself wasn't in any of the photos. Maybe he was an amateur photographer.

Eventually the couple vanished from the photos and the girl was the sole focus. Kayleigh suddenly realized her mistake; it was unlikely Block had taken the pictures. They were clearly from years back, pre-war maybe. The girl's fashion, the setting... Maybe it was his mother?

In one of the photos, the girl stood by a horse, one hand on her hip, the other on the horse's neck. She was staring at the camera, a smile on her face. She looked just like Imogen. Identical, in fact. Overhead, pipes began to grumble and moan as Block turned on a tap somewhere in the house. Then a bang and a yell, Block screaming at something.

"Are you okay?" Kayleigh called out, almost hoping Block wouldn't hear. She heard his voice somewhere in the back, calling out.

"Jus' that damn cat!" he shouted. "Always crawling around on my lawn."

Kayleigh swallowed and turned back to the photos. The girl definitely looked like Imogen. But it was only as Kayleigh leaned in that she took in the horse itself. The creature was emaciated, to the point where it should be unable to stand. One eye was closed, a deep gash across its brow, and in places the horse's hide was peeling off like old wallpaper. Kayleigh stepped backwards, gagging, and another photo caught her eye. A series, the bottom row. The girl again, only this time she was naked, her mouth swollen in a painful-looking welt. Her arms were behind her back, revealed in some of the photos to be bound. Thin gray streaks marked her body, either cuts or scars. Kayleigh stared. What was this? The girl's resemblance to Imogen only served to make the pictures seem all the more obscene. She wasn't underage, too posed for it to have been non-consensual, but something about the photos, the wounds (fake or real? Kayleigh wasn't sure), their prominence in a living room, it was wrong. Kayleigh went to turn away, the light from the fire reflecting on the glass of the pictures, just as the girl moved. She was sure. A step forward, a shift, the girl taking awkward, stunted steps.

Kayleigh turned away in horror, that sick feeling rising again. Block was standing directly behind her. She screamed, biting her tongue as soon as the sound escaped. Block was holding a glass in one hand, but quickly set it down on a coffee table and reached out to Kayleigh.

"My dear, you look terrible," he said. "Have a seat!" He guided Kayleigh to one of the armchairs and gently but firmly made her sit down. Kayleigh sank into the chair with a sigh. From here, she couldn't see the line of photographs, just the pleasant family portraits. Block smiled and sat down opposite her. "Water's there."

Kayleigh stared at Block vacantly. She'd come in here to do something, but could not quite recall what. Speak to someone, call someone? The phone. Block was smiling at her.

"Have a drink dear," he said. The glass was already in her hand. She didn't remember picking it up. She raised it to her lips and took a sip. It tasted strange, metallic. Kayleigh examined the liquid in the glass. The water was muddy, bits of grit and hair floating in it. There was a piece of pond weed caught on the side of the glass. Kayleigh reeled back, bile rising in her throat, smothering another cry with her hand. She slammed the glass back on the table, a tiny bit of water slopping out and dripping onto her fingers, which she snatched away.

"Problem?" Block asked. Kayleigh saw the phone on a table. How had she missed that before? It was a modern phone, a digital one. The display was glowing, the time reading 00:00. Block sighed.

"The water," Kayleigh said, regaining her manners. "It's dirty, look. I'm sorry, I can't drink this."

Block looked down at the glass, then picked it up and examined it closely. "I'm afraid I don't see anything wrong," he said, shaking his head in disagreement. "Drink up girl, you'll feel better."

The idea repulsed Kayleigh. She wanted to leave, wanted to go home, get into bed and have her mum read to her. She didn't want to be here. Block was thrusting the drink at her.

"I really can't, sir. I'm sorry."

In one swift movement, Block hurled the glass sideways. It spiraled through the air and shattered against the wall of photographs, splashing dirty water all up the wall. His eyes widened, his face taking on a feral appearance. Kayleigh shrank back in her chair as he turned on her, then smiled.

"Not to worry dear," he said, his voice threatening to break. Kayleigh's heart thudded in her chest. She had to get out of here. Forget the phone call, just go. She began to rise from the seat.

"Oh, my manners, here's the phone!" Block called out, also standing up and clutching the handset.

"Don't worry," Kayleigh muttered. She wanted to cry. Block rounded on her, thrusting the black phone forward, waving it under her nose.

"Take it!" he said. Kayleigh obeyed, afraid of another outburst. The phone shifted in her hand. Something was crawling out of the ear speaker. Those tiny pink insects again, quivering like pieces of flesh, spilling forth onto Kayleigh's fingers. She screamed, not holding back now, and threw the phone to the ground, beating her hand against her shirt to shake off the last of the bugs. Block stared at her, then shrieked with mirth, jumping up and down on the spot, grabbing and slapping at his own face. Kayleigh tried to back away but Block grabbed out, snapping his hand around her wrist. A thin film of drool had formed on his lower lip, which he licked away. He snapped his teeth at Kayleigh, most definitely his. Kayleigh thought back to the photographs, the bruise on Imogen's face, the welts on her body. She reached up and slapped Block in the face, more to shock him than hurt him. But rather than meeting flesh, her hand sunk into warm wax, Block's cheek folding over her fingers like a church candle. She pulled her hand away in alarm. Block's entire lower jaw, lumpy and dripping, came with it. One of Block's eyes slid from the socket, sliding lazily down his face into the handprint that Kayleigh had left behind. Kayleigh pulled away as Block stood there, laughter still pouring from his lips. She burst out of the living room stumbling down the hall to the front door and pulled it open. Fresh air flooded in like a slap. Kayleigh almost fell down the steps onto the path, then turned to look back at the house. Block was standing there, his face intact, although now older and more mottled, the man from the supermarket after all. He frowned at Kayleigh, reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of coupons which he tossed into the path. Spinning on his heel, he slammed the door.

Kayleigh gulped in breaths, her lungs burning. She had to go, back down that road no matter where it might lead back to. Back home, back to work, anywhere normal where she could think, get her head straight.

Outside of Block's gate, a small boy was walking back and forth. He was dressed in pantaloons and braces, stark white against the silhouette of the sundial. He was pushing something back and forth that looked to be a child's trolley, the kind Kayleigh remembered having bricks in. The boy glanced around at her, his pudgy cheeks creasing into a smile. The boy's teeth were like black pegs, rotting in his mouth. He pointed down to his trolley. It was teeming with the pink insects. They pulsated and flowed over some object in the tray. Kayleigh didn't want to stick around to find out what. She pushed past the little boy, sending him thudding to the floor. He began to bawl softly and Kayleigh almost turned back until she heard sly, grunting chuckles emerging from beneath his squeals.

Her car stood where she'd left it, untouched. It was a relief, even the gouge in the passenger door looked familiar, comforting. Kayleigh threw her bag onto the seat, slammed the door and quickly walked around to the other side.

A low, rumbling growl sounded from over by the sundial. A shape was moving in the darkness, hidden in the shadow the statue cast. Kayleigh couldn't see it and didn't much want to. She ducked into her car, slid the key into the ignition and gunned the engine. The car's display burst into life, the clock flashing, the radio blaring white noise. Pillars of bright white light burst forth, illuminating the circle of houses. That growl again. Unable to stop herself, Kayleigh looked over at the sundial.

A huge black cat languished at the foot of the dais, licking its lips. Under one paw was pinned the body of the deer, its abdomen torn open, guts spilling onto the grass, now slick with blood. But it was the deer's face more than anything which caused Kayleigh to reel in shock. A humanoid face, the eyes dead and white in their sockets. One cheek was torn off, revealing sharp pointed teeth. It was impossible to tell the face's gender. Kayleigh didn't want to know, didn't want to see if she recognized it. She was sobbing, fumbling for the keys, trying to gun the car. Her eyes blurred with tears, she barely heard the rapping on the window. Only as it became more insistent did she turn. Donna stood there, her hair over her face again now. She was looking sad. Kayleigh wound down the window and tried to collect herself.

"Where are you going?" Donna said.

"I have to go home darling," Kayleigh said, a sob escaping. Over her shoulder, she saw the black cat standing up. It was walking towards Donna. "Quick, get in."

Donna looked around with her sightless eyes, then, sniffed the air once, twice, then turned back smiling. "You found kitty!" she exclaimed, then leaned forward and kissed the car door. "Thank you."

"I have to go home," Kayleigh repeated. Donna stood too close to the car.

"There's an empty house here," Donna told her. "You can live there, and play with me and kitty and Billy and Judd."

Kayleigh didn't want to know who Billy and Judd were. But there was something in Donna's face, something at odds with the place, not as terrifying, not as unnatural... Kayleigh leaned forward and kissed Donna on the forehead. Her hair was soft under her lips. Donna stepped back as Kayleigh started the car, carefully navigated around the sundial, and drove away.

Kayleigh opened her eyes as she pulled into the tenements. The car clock read 19:59. She couldn't even remember getting here, what had happened at the blind corner, how long the journey had taken. It should have been hours.

Mum. Mum!

Kayleigh ran from the car, leaving the door open. She knocked against the alley wall, grazing her shoulder on the brick, paying no heed to her own pain. Forward, into her block, up the stairs.

"Kayleigh?" her mother was calling as she burst into the house. "Kayleigh, someone's come in the front door I think!"

"It's me, Mum!" Kayleigh called out. "I'm home. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine dear," she said. "Eating my dinner. Dinner!"

Wasn't it a bit late? Had the nurse arrived late? Kayleigh ran down the hallway and pushed open her mother's door gingerly. The smell was more unbearable than usual. But this was not what caused Kayleigh to stumble backwards out the room, her back banging against the wall, finally knocking the picture of her mother, Don and herself from the wall.

"That nice nurse brought me dinner," Mother said, proudly pointing to the writing mass in her lap.

At first, they looked like pink spiders. Pink spiders around her mother's mouth, on her mother's bed. They glistened and pulsated, squirmed and crawled. But it only took Kayleigh a second to recognize the bugs; worms, wriggling and sliding as her mother took another bite. She reached into the pile, pulled out another five or six and crammed them between her lips. She smiled at Kayleigh, revealing teeth stained with brown blood, chunks of pink flesh caught around her gums. A thin trickle of yellow entrails slipped from her maw, landing on her nightdress. Her mother chewed down as Kayleigh wretched against the wall, trying to banish the squelching sound of death from her ears.

The shop was hardly busy. It suited Kayleigh. Nothing felt real, nothing felt important or relevant. She looked out for Imogen but she wasn't around. Nobody seemed to be. Just the occasional customer. Kayleigh looked out for the waxy old man, or maybe Block, but nobody like him came by. At one point a mother and daughter turned up, the girl clutching a toy cat, but it wasn't Donna. Kayleigh found herself wondering if Donna was okay. Maybe after work she'd go and see her. It'd be easy to find the way again, right? Just turn left instead. Take a short drive out into the country. It's not like there was any reason to hurry home any more.

Kayleigh only realized she was in the car when she no longer felt the metal edge of the desk pressing into her. The radio was playing, a collection of last summer's number ones. Kayleigh sang along, tapping her fingers against the wheel.

Kayleigh drove, singing, knowing where to head. The trees sprang up down that not-so-familiar road. She wondered if she could reach the hamlet before dark this time, maybe see Donna in some natural light. Maybe even Mr. Block, if she could face him. Up ahead was the turn. The radio dropped to static. To the right stood a deer, its face knowing and humanoid. Kayleigh, staring forward, smiled and turned left to the future.

The guard rail, buckled from years of weathering, was the first to go.

X - Kissing Games

"Come on, don't chicken out on me now," my best friend whispers in my ear.

"Hmm, okay, alright I'll play," I tell her, my heart beating slightly faster. I am nervous.

We are standing in the kitchen. Abby Callahan is standing next to me, sipping a glass of vodka and coke. It is her house. It is her party. She can cry if she wants to, like the song goes. But Abby Callahan doesn't cry, she makes other people cry. It's her specialty She is the most notorious bitch in the whole of Lower Sixth. And she's my best friend.

I pick up my drink and casually take a sip from it, trying not to grimace at the taste of the alcohol. Abby barely notices, she barely notices me anyway, even though I'm supposed to be her best friend. She's too busy looking at her reflection in the glass door, checking that her makeup is perfect and her long blonde hair isn't out of place. Even for a seventeen year old, Abby is overly obsessed with her appearance. She reaches and pulls her top downwards, tightening it, accentuating her already generous breasts. She smoothes her shorter than short skirt and turns to me. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I'm sure I see her cast a critical eye over my body, lingering on my considerably smaller chest, my clothes that aren't quite as designer as hers. Sometimes I wonder if she just hangs around with me out of pity. I'm not as pretty as Abby. Don't get me wrong, I don't think I'm unattractive, but I just can't match up to the daughter of the town's richest man, or at least a pretty well-off one. My short brown hair never looks as beautiful as her golden locks, my face always looks false in makeup, I don't look anywhere near as good in a bikini. Sometimes I wonder if I'm jealous.

"Right, come on stupid, lets go," Abby says snidely. "We'd better go back to the party for a while before we go upstairs."

She grabs my wrist and pulls me from the kitchen. I barely have time to slide my glass onto the counter.

We walk onto the patio of Abby's garden, arm in arm, both with beaming smiles on our faces. We have to keep up appearances.

About thirty people are at the party, some standing at the buffet table, eating the finest food and talking. Some are dancing to the pop compilation CD that Abby put on, together or in couples. I see some very close, intimate slow dances going on. The rest of the people are fooling around in the pool, splashing each other and flaunting their new swimwear. These, I think to myself, are the beautiful people. Sometimes I wish I wasn't part of this. The rest of the time I'm grateful that I have Abby to make me popular.

Abby walks away from me to talk to people at the buffet table and I'm left alone. People walk past me and smile, quickly greet me, but no-one is actually talking to me. Suddenly I feel self-conscious about how low the neckline of my top is and I pull it up, covering flesh. I remember back to earlier in the day when Abby had pulled it down, demanding that I follow her example and 'show a bit of tit'.

I glance over at Abby. She's talking to Stuart Priestly across the buffet table. She is leaning across at such an angle that Stuart can see directly down her top and he's not hiding the fact that his eyes are fixed there. Stuart's girlfriend Chloe looks on in anger, but she can't do much about it, really. This is Abby. Abby gets away with everything.

The patio is illuminated with lanterns strung up all around. They cast a warm glow on the partying teenagers. For a late September night, it is pretty warm. Oh God, how sad am I, thinking about the weather at a party? Inside I feel hollow, like an empty vase or some other dramatic teenage girl cliche. I keep thinking 'I don't belong here'. I feel this more and more lately. But I'm in Abby's group, and Abby's grip. If I go against her, even just try to drift away, my life at school will be hell. She will stop at nothing to make me miserable. I remember what she did to her last best friend, who stole her boyfriend. Or gave him 'the eye'. Or maybe just brushed past him in the corridor. Not content with just slashing her bike tires and rubbing chili powder in her knickers, Abby and two friends grabbed Lucy (the girl) whilst she was showering after PE and threw her into the boy's changing rooms. It was, understandably, very unpleasant for Lucy, who was too afraid to tell on Abby. She ended up getting the blame herself. I mean seriously, how fucking stupid is that? Why would she do that out of choice?

I shudder, thinking about what I would feel if that happened to me. I think I'd die. Suddenly the night seems colder, and I look over at Abby. She is laughing out loud with a group of boys, tossing her blonde hair. She looks sinister there, like a beautiful witch. Bitch. Either/or. Quickly I turn away before she calls me over. And in the corner I see him, alone and afraid. Maybe. I shake my head, uncertain if I am right. I look again. It is him.

Andy Rogers sits on a chair in the corner, a glass of lemonade in his little hand. I have no idea what he is doing here.

Andy Rogers is the 'weird' kid in our year. He's short, just over four foot something, and he hardly EVER speaks. He has dirty blonde hair and breathes through his mouth. He has bad teeth. Abby takes the piss out of him all the time, sometimes behind his back but more often right to his face. And this party is invite only. I have no idea why he is here. I'm about to go over and ask him when something else catches my eye. Abby is madly flirting with Travis White, the guy I told her I like. SHE KNOWS I LIKE HIM! Or pretend to anyway. It's a lie, but it's not the point. She's all over him, standing really close to him so her breasts occasionally rub his shoulder, 'casually' placing her hand on his arm, laughing at everything he says. She looks over at me, a scornful, mocking look on her face and at that moment I hate her. I really hate her, and want to kill her. She's such a bitch, my 'best friend'.

What a slut.

I go and join some other friends sitting by the pool, to pass the time until Abby comes and gets me. She wants to play a game.

"Go on up to the attic. I'll be up in a minute with the other players."

Abby puts emphasis on the end of the last word there, creating a double meaning. I want to punch her. I make my way up the large staircase. The sounds of the party fade away, and the sound from upstairs gets louder. I hear some kind of rock song playing, one by the Whiskey Shooters, maybe. The sound drifts through a closed oak door. And it's the only thing in the way between me and the real reason I hang around with Abby. Her brother. His name is Kevin Callahan, he's eighteen, and gorgeous. He's nothing like Abby and her friends. He's dark, he's mysterious, he listens to decent music. And I love him. He has long black hair and a goatee. You know the type, but less generic than that. He is so funny, so intelligent. So nice. He's the reason I come to Abby's house so often, in the hope that he'll notice me. He's pleasant enough to me, but I think I must be too young.

I stand here contemplating this, and thinking about what it would be like to hold him, to love him, and I do not notice his door swing open.

"Uh, hi Holly," Kevin says, looking at me standing there like an idiot. I blush so hard.

"Hello, Kevin," I say shyly, looking around.

"Enjoying the party?" he asks, gesturing downstairs.

"Oh, yeah I guess. It's cool. Abby asked me to go up to the attic."

"Uh huh, right," Kevin says, looking amused. "Well, go have fun then." He tips me a wink, and I melt inside. I wonder if... no.

I leave Kevin and make my way up to the attic. The room is split into two, a closet and a small area which Abby uses to hide from her parents and smoke pot. There are a few beanbags littered around, and I grab one and sit down. I sit there thinking about Kevin for a while... just thinking, okay? Then Abby arrives, with some other people. My heart leaps, she has brought Travis White up (what can I say, I know I can't have Kevin so I might as well keep my options open!) along with Claire Harris, one of her other friends. Also here is Rick Doggett, a good looking older boy, Ben Dawkins, a plump, red faced fellow whom Abby gets to do her homework and Dina Malk, ANOTHER of Abby's friends. And trailing after them is Andy Rogers. I look in puzzlement. Why on earth would Abby bring him?

We're going to play a kissing game. The Americans call it '7 Minutes of Heaven' or something, but we're only playing it for two minutes at a time. English sensibilities and all that.

"These are the rules," Abby says once everyone is seated. "We spin a bottle and one member of each sex is chosen. They then go into the closet for two minutes, and ANYTHING GOES. There are NO rules once you get into the closet. You can do anything. As long as you agree to this, you have to go along with it. Agreed?"

Everyone nods apart from Andy, who is rocking back and forth in a manner that might be funny if it wasn't so damn creepy. Abby ignores him, and prepares to spin. She holds her hand just above the bottle as it spins, and secretly uses her finger to stop the bottle on me. I am the only one that sees this.

"Holly, you're first up. Let's see who you're with," Abby smirks. "Let's just hope you don't go with creepy Andy."

Andy winces and his eyes glaze over. I almost feel sorry for him. And then I realize what Abby plans.

She had said that we'd play this game, and that she'd get Travis to play. I assumed she meant so I could get with Travis. Now I know she is going to fix it so SHE gets Travis, and I get Creepy Andy. That's why she invited him.

SHE MUST KNOW ABOUT KEVIN. I WROTE IT IN MY DIARY. SHE MUST HAVE READ IT.

My heart sinks as Abby goes to spin the bottle again. She is going to stop it on Andy, I know it.

"Hey Abby!" I call as she goes to spin the bottle. "Catch." I throw a cushion over at her as the bottle spins. In a reflex action she catches the cushion and the bottle lands on Ben Dawkins. I sigh inwardly. Still not THAT pleasant, but better than Creepy Andy. Abby gives me an evil look and says "Well, go on then."

She leads us to the cupboard, and whispers to me "this will teach you for fancying my brother." I feel sick. Now Abby hates me, and I'm doomed. Images of brutality, torture, and decreased social standing flash through my mind.

I step into the cupboard with Ben. Abby shuts the door and begins the timer. Two minutes. Everything is dark. I don't want to touch Ben, I don't want to do anything but die. I can smell his sweat next to me, I feel his hand brush my arm. He shuffles closer to me, and places his other hand on my inner thigh, just below the hem of my skirt which suddenly feels far too short. I'm too numb to move, too sick to care, like a Goth in a toyshop. But! What if I just imagine that Ben is Kevin? Yeah, Holly, that'll work! Just ignore the pudgy, clammy hand edging towards your knickers, or the fact that Kevin doesn't stink of B.O.

Gawd.

Ben's right hand moves from my arm to my neck, and slowly slides down. He's outside my clothes, but still, he's feeling up my boob! Ugh.

His other hand comes up from my leg and grabs my other one. Better than the alternative, I suppose. He's not gentle. He greedily massages them, getting a good feel. Kevin would be a lot softer, I know it. Ben moves his hands down and grasps the hem of my top. I have to play by the rules. I let him take it off. I can just about see his red face in the darkness. I bet he's enjoying this. He slides my shirt off and I'm topless before him. His hands reach up again and feel my naked breasts, his thumbs rubbing my nipples until they're sore. He's so not gentle, remember? Think!

I feel like saying 'they're attached' or 'take a picture, it'll last longer', or 'I'm going to rip your eyes out, you fat fucking shit' and then storming out of the cupboard in a blaze of glory, like the heroine of a 90s sitcom. In fact I think I will I can't take his pawing any more I feel sick get your hands off me you disgusting bastard and I'm about to be sick now when LIGHT FLOODS THE CUPBOARD.

Ben jumps back almost guiltily, leaving me exposed. Travis and everyone are looking in at me as I stand in the closet topless, showing everything more or less. I barely notice that I have been crying and if I was here right now I'd tell her to pull herself together, but oh wait, I am here and it's me. I want to cry some more but everyone is watching. My nipples hurt, goddammit, and I can almost feel Ben's grubby fingerprints on my thigh.

Abby stands and the cupboard door and pulls me out. Ben hands me my shirt almost apologetically. He's walking funny. Ugh, again.

I quickly pull my shirt on, blushing harder than ever before. I can't believe what just happened. I feel dirty. I feel like I want to die or at least have a shower. I avoid the eyes of my peers, pretend that Claire and Dina are not whispering to each other and laughing like the stupid silicone bitches they're bound to become. Pretend that Ben hasn't just been feeling me up.

I sit back down, wishing that a hole would just open in the ground and swallow me up and not just because that would drop me into Kevin's room, possibly his lap.

But no, we have to play the game.

Abby spins the bottle. It lands on her. She is going to fix it so she gets Travis. I hate Abby as of now and forever.

As she spins the bottle, I grab her hand and say "I love your ring, Abby" admiring the silver band. Transparent, like Claire's top? Who cares, I have nothing left to lose. The bottle spins. My heart leaps as it lands on Andy. Creepy Andy. Abby gives me the most evil look ever and I smile. My turn to be a bitch. And I love it.

"No way," she says.

"Oh but you have to. You agreed to the rules. And remember, Andy, ANYTHING GOES. You can do ANYTHING in there." I really want to get revenge on Abby. She deserves it. I giggle.

"I'm going to kill you," Abby hisses at me, but she doesn't want to lose face in front of her guests, even at the expense of her dignity. Not that it would be the first time she lost her dignity.

She grabs Andy's hand. He is looking scared and excited, like a puppy on steroids.

"Anything goes, Andy, you can do ANYTHING!" I shout again as I lock them in the cupboard.

I go back and sit down, looking at the stopwatch. There is no noise in the cupboard.

"I can't believe she went in there with that FREAK!" Travis sulks, looking angry. I think he wanted a piece of Abby but what hormonal teenage boy doesn't?

I don't care about Travis any more. Maybe I never did. Maybe it was just Kevin all along. Travis looks at me in disgust, as if it was MY fault the bottle landed on Andy. Well, uh... oops?

We all fall silent, counting the seconds. Ben keeps looking at me as if he regrets what he did or maybe he's just spent. Ew. We used to be friends. I doubt I could hang around with him now, not after he's had his hands all over my tits. There are just some lines that friends shouldn't cross. I wish I hadn't played this game, I wish I had stayed downstairs, maybe listened to some music with Kevin. If he'd have me. Ooh, not like that. Or maybe, eh.

It's almost been two minutes now. There's been no noise at all from the cupboard. Everyone is silent, trying to hear something. I walk closer to the cupboard, and count down, THREE, TWO, ONE.

"You can come out now," I call to them. Everyone leans forward expectantly. The door doesn't open. "You can come out!" I call again, louder. There is no noise.

I'm going to throw the door open, hopefully catch Abby naked or something, let everyone see HER. Maybe she'll be on her back, legs spread, loving every minute. Maybe we'll startle her with her lips around- No. We'll see.

I open the door. Andy is sitting there, hands resting on his bloated stomach. He is licking his lips and looking content, perhaps happy. He never usually looks happy.

At first I am confused and then I look down. Beside Andy is a pile of bones, licked clean. A human skull rests beside them, a lock of blonde hair still attached to a tiny, sticky piece of scalp. The others peer into the cupboard. Someone screams. Someone is sick. Andy smiles. He sucks his fingers like you do after chicken. He licks a drip of blood from his lip. Abby's clothes are piled up beside him.

I shoot Andy a questioning glance, raising my eyebrow.

"You said anything goes," he whispers.

It's true. I did. I honestly don't know what to say. What can you say? What would you say?

And then it's obvious. The only appropriate thing to do in this kind of fucked-up situation.

"Did you enjoy your meal, sir?" I ask.

He looks at me and replies simply; "She was a little bland. I've definitely had better."

I adopt a courteous, formal tone. Who says work experience in a cafe has to go to waste?

"I'm terribly sorry sir. The meat wasn't up to our usual standard."

Behind me, someone is sobbing. I frown, perturbed. I hope they aren't disturbing the other diners.

"You look like you'd taste far sweeter," Andy says, winking at me. I can tell he's just messing. "Dessert?"

He's alright really, is Andy.

"I'm very sorry," I say, playing along, "I'm not on the menu tonight."

I give Andy a curt nod and walk decisively out of the attic.

I wonder if Kevin's still up.

XI - This Message Has No Subject

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 26/08/2011 19:36

Subject: Just to say hi

Dear Ruby,

Just testing out my new Email capabilities. I took a course at the Community Centre on how to use computers. I enjoyed it so much! So I went out and bought myself a little computer, got the nice lad Dennis from the village grocery to set it up for me. This might come as a surprise, given that you've always chided me for not even owning a TV, but there you go.

I remembered that I had your email address from a long time ago; you gave it to me, you were excited that you'd signed up in class. "If you ever get the internet Granny," you said, "you can send me letters." You were 11 then, just started big school and wanted to show me what you were doing. Of course, I didn't even have a computer then so I wrote you a letter. I saw you later that day and you laughed; "nobody uses the post nowadays Granny" you said, but I could tell how much you'd enjoyed receiving it. And sure enough, a couple of days later you wrote back to me. We wrote to each other every few days for almost a year, do you remember Ruby? You didn't always post yours, I wouldn't have expected you to pay for stamps at that age. You'd bring them round and tuck them under the fruit bowl. I'd pretend not to see it until after you'd left.

I used to love reading your letters, Ruby. Hope you're well.

Love,

Granny Nora

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 11/09/2011 20:01

Subject: Memories

Dear Ruby,

I know you haven't replied yet, and I hope I'm not being problematic by emailing you again, but I was just thinking of when you were younger. Thelma Cravey from the village (do you remember her?) had her young grandson to visit and it got me thinking about times past. How you used to come around with Belle, and the first thing you'd do would be to go to my cupboard, fling the doors open and find the sweets. Then you'd come and sit beside me on the sofa, I'd open the packet for you, and we'd sit there eating jelly babies together. We used to make up stories for them. Can you recall any of them? I wish I'd written some of them down at the time. They always used to make you laugh!

"You shouldn't give her so many sweets Mum," Belle would say, and I'd tell her that was nonsense, a bit of sugar wouldn't do a growing girl any harm.

All my friends used to love when you'd come to stay. My little red-haired granddaughter, skipping through the village, bringing life and energy to our quiet home. I used to take you there, back when I could still drive, and you'd help me buy supplies; coal and soup for the winter, barbecue food for the summer. I don't have that horrible old coal fire any more. I got a wood burner, and Dennis comes up occasionally to chop some of the fallen trees into firewood. It's much warmer, and God knows I need that these days. But you don't want to hear about your old granny's dicky hip, or any of her ailments. When you were a little girl, you were always very strong, very healthy, and when we went to the village you'd ask me to run with you, and by God I'd try. Running, laughing, then when we got back to my house, walking through the woods as you marveled at all the birds, the snowdrops, the squirrels that pointed and chittered from the branches. You used to love those times, Ruby. And so did I.

Much love,

Granny Nora

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 23/10/2011 19:47

Subject: Hope all is well

Dear Ruby,

I still haven't heard back from you, but I'm not concerned. I know you're busy living your life. I spoke to Belle today. She hasn't heard from you in a while either. She told me you to had a falling-out. I don't want to pry, and I know Belle isn't always as supportive as she could be, but...

Anyway. I asked her about this Email thing. She said as far as she knew, you had the same address. Hopefully one day you'll see these emails. I'm looking forward to that day, Ruby. I do miss you, you know. I know things changed, but whatever happened between you and Belle, you're still her daughter and you're still my granddaughter. We both love you and care about what happens to you. It would be lovely to hear from you one day.

I often wonder what your Grampa would have thought of these modern things like Email, the Internet, the Web. He was always fond of tinkering with radios, then later television sets, things like that. I think he would have enjoyed modern technology. I used to talk about him with you, Ruby. I don't know if you remember. He died when you were only just born, so you never knew him, but I shared a lot of stories with you when you were a child. He was a good man, your Grampa. A fine man. A man with honor and integrity. Always stood up for what he believed in, always treated me right. I hope you find a man like him one day. I always had that hope for Belle too, but I think she's given up. Maybe it might do her good to meet a fellow, finally get married... oh I know, it's silly, I'm a traditionalist, and I'm sure you don't want to hear about your mother in such a way, but if I ever bring it up with her she tells me to be quiet. Fair enough, I suppose.

Anyway I've rambled enough, hope to hear from you soon,

Lots of love,

Granny Nora

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 11/11/2011 20:11

Subject: Bad company to keep

Dearest Ruby,

I hope my last email wasn't too forward or too pushy. I don't want to put you off from replying. I just grow concerned about you at times, and about your mum. I wish you two would reconcile. I know she's not been the best role model, I really do. Perhaps if you could speak to me instead, I could pass on a message from you.

I'm sorry. I don't want to nag. I just think you and she deserve a little happiness, a little chance to relax. You're always running, Ruby, from something, and so is Belle. I despair at times, thinking back to the little granddaughter I loved, whom I was so close to and promised to protect. I feel as if I've failed you, my little red angel. If James were alive, he'd know the right things to say. If there were men like James -your Grampa, of course- at all, maybe things would be different. You know more than most what the wrong man can do. You, and your mother before you, seem to have been preyed upon by a string of them. But it's never too late, Ruby. Email me, or pick up the phone. There's nothing to run from here. It'll be easy to get your head straightened, to get clean, you wouldn't even need to see Belle if you didn't want to, I could arrange for her to keep away just until you were ready.

You never know when it'll be too late. I don't want to leave this world without having seen my darling granddaughter again. The Marsdens have always been strong women, and I know it'll go against your nature to except help, even from your Granny, but there's no shame in turning to those who love you in times of need.

Oh, maybe I'm being silly. Maybe you don't need my help. The last time I saw you was... fraught. Maybe you're doing okay since then. I'd love to hear from you, just to know.

Once again Ruby, I'm sorry for putting pressure on you. And I'm sorry I haven't tried harder to reach out in the past. I understand if it seems like I haven't been there. I'm sorry.

Love,

Granny Nora

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 29/11/2011 19:02

Subject: Strange coincidence

Dear Ruby,

I was down in the village yesterday and I saw something that made my heart leap into my throat. It was that boy, Ruby, and I'm loathe to speak his name but I think you know the one I mean. That terrible, awful boy who started it all. That college boy, or he was back then anyway. He's a man now. Still that same wide, white smile, same cocky swagger. You never told me the details, Ruby, but just enough to know he was bad, bad news. I know how badly he treated you, the things he did to you, the things he got you into. It took all my strength not to walk up to him and spit in his face. Then I had doubts. Maybe it wasn't even him. Maybe I'd just been thinking of him anyway, after my last email. But it was, I am sure. I felt that same cold chill I'd felt when he turned up that day, looking for you. It was the last day I saw you actually. We only spoke on the phone after that, and beyond then, through Belle. I'm sure you remember. And now he was here, just passing through, Olga at the village store said.

But even so, Ruby, as much as it pains me to say this, maybe it's best if you don't just turn up here any time soon. Call me, I know you have my number. I won't pretend, I know it's you who's been phoning, I can sense you on the other end. Us Marsden women are sensitive like that Ruby, you know this. You know I'm there for you, and for that I am glad. But this boy is bad news. I know you have nothing to do with him any more, according to Belle anyway, but even so... please be careful.

Lots of love,

Granny Nora

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 16/12/2011 21:56

Subject: Stupid old woman I am

Ruby, my dearest granddaughter,

These days, I dream of you and all I see is darkness. The substances, the things you've done, the money you stole that last day. I don't care. It doesn't matter. Whether you took it for him, or to get away from him, it doesn't matter. To think of my darling granddaughter in pain, abused, mistreated, the girl I bounced on my knee, shared stories with, walked hand in hand with through the village. I don't care if you strayed off the path.. I miss you and I miss Belle.

I had a fall, Ruby. On the ice as I was going into the village. Your stupid old granny wasn't careful, and she slipped and fell. Ridiculous. Dennis's father found me, got the boy to bring me back to my place. They wanted to take me to a hospital but you know us, stubbornness runs in our family. I don't need a hospital, I just need rest. The pain is quite something though, I can hardly move. The old injury playing up again. Dennis is going to bring me food and more firewood a few times a week, he said. I should be fine. He's got a key so he can get in. I insisted I'd be fine.

Then he left, and the fear began. What if something happens to him? What if I'm stuck up here for the winter? Oh it's silly isn't it, even if by some horrible chance something were to happen to poor Dennis, his father and the other villagers know what's up. They'll see me good, I know they will. You just look after yourself, Ruby. I don't need you to do anything, I can manage fine, I would just love to hear from you. Just a quick message to let me know you're okay. I think it would do me the world of good.

After that, I promise to stop with the incessant emails. Just... get in touch, darling? Please?

Love you,

Granny Nora

\----- Original Message -----

From: nora.marsden@[removed].com

To: rubesmarsden85@[removed].com

Sent: 19/12/2011 13:18

Subject: <no subject>

Ruby,

I'm afraid to say, things have taken a turn for the worse. I do not think I shall be able to make it through alone. Just traversing the house is an issue! My knee is terrible, worse than it has been in years!

Ruby, I'm asking for your help. I need you, my grand daughter. I can't reach your mum, otherwise I'd not ask for you to do this, but... I just don't think I can last the season out if I'm to fend for myself. Rubes, please. If you ever felt anything for your grandmother at all, please come. I need you. I am sorry to impose on you like this, I really am.

If you would be so kind, please bring some provisions. The television said snow was heading in. It's going to be a cold, treacherous winter. Please do take care when driving here, you know what the roads can be like at this time of year. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you before you arrived.

I thank you in advance, Ruby. I know that you will do the right thing, despite our differences in the past.

The boy from the village greengrocer's has just been, so I won't see anyone for a few days. I'll be here all alone. I hope to see you soon... maybe tonight? I can only hope. The boy brought me some food, some lovely fresh bread and a delightful home-baked cake. I shall save that, Ruby, for when you arrive.

It'll be all the better to eat with you, my dear.

Your loving grandmother,

Nora

XII - The Albatross Corridor

i had a family but they died, or at least i said that once and i was told to stop being so dramatic. i just don't see them any more, which is some small blessing i suppose. There was a mother and a father and a taunting, leering brother who was rough and he prodded and pulled. i heard, once, some wife was saying "they're pretty much the perfect family, two great people with two adorable kids" or something equally saccharine and tailored to ironic foreshadowing. The other 'adorable kid' was a sister, but she was too young to know better, basically a baby but a bit older so not quite as disgusting. Maybe she was like two or three or five, she wasn't old enough to be in school. She's also pretty irrelevant.

One day they decided i wasn't part of the family any more, and i suppose i should've seen it coming and only have myself to blame. i never really made an effort to fit in with them or their regime, so i guess it was kind of inevitable when one day they threw me out. You'd have thought they might have visited at least once or twice though, see if i was settling in okay, at least the brother who sometimes regarded me with a hungry curiosity, which was more than any of the others did. i think they stopped trying because i never really tried with them so like i said, my own fault.

Some of the people here say i shouldn't take so much upon myself, that it's 'part of the problem' and maybe they're right. So that's enough about the matter for now, and onto the now in and of itself. i'm here in a room, which is devoid of any remarkable characteristics, it is sterile and white and a fairly typical hospital room. You kind of imagine rooms like this to be padded cells, thick with misery and hopelessness. Not so. It's just alright, kind of nice, and i'm allowed to keep books, a few at a time. They tried to get me to take books rich in pop culture and contemporary edge, and why is that, i said, and they never really had an answer.

What i'm reading about is the Swedish composer and painter Hugo Alfvén, i have the third volume of his autobiography, and the fourth. He's interesting to read about because obviously nobody else here gives a shit, the books are barely touched even though pretty much everyone's heard that Rhapsody one he did. i really want an instrument. Not a guitar. Anyone can play guitar. Then, what, we'd all sit around in group singing Kumbayah while i stroked out a few out-of-tune chords and prayed for a lobotomy? No, what i want is a violin, because violins are dignified and classy and no fucker plays the violin any more. Yes, i accept they sound like shit if you can't play very well, which i can't, but that's why i need one, to learn and get better.

It's always a no, though, they say there just isn't one but i'm pretty sure it's because violin strings are sharp, like cheese wire. Imagine garroting someone with components from a Stradivarius. That doesn't hold any appeal for me, not even in an ironic way. At least i can read about old Hugo, and listen to some form of music on the rare occasion i get alone time with the radio.

There is another patient here - no, sorry, we call them guests - who gouged his own eye out with a spoon. i was there, and i saw it, and for a while the doctors thought it was me even though both of us denied everything. He said the Devil made him do it and if it wasn't for the fact he told me he was lying, i'd have believed him. It's not a stretch to assume the Devil walks among us, especially here. The thing with my friend is, and let's call him by name since he has one, Theo, he's perfectly sane. He gouged out his eye because he didn't need it. He reckons people will pay top dollar for an eye but the doctors confiscated it so we never got to find out if that was true, and Theo isn't willing to give up his other one.

i like Theo, he's funny and pretty smart and (now) he wears an eyepatch. i don't get to spend much time with him because we're segregated and sometimes i'm locked in for days because of bad behavior like yelling and shit but that only happens when i start thinking about the family a lot and how they acted.

You know what? Fuck them. i waste far too much of my time thinking about those reprehensible human beings. i bet even the sister doesn't miss me. i used to play with her, like once or twice. She had this doll but the brother set it on fire in a hilarious display of teenage rebellion, and sometimes i think boys will be boys but then i remember he's a fucking high school senior and surely he should know better? And seriously what gives, he's never once come to visit even though he can drive and the father bought him a car for doing well on his SATs. Fuck fuck fuck him and his stupid ideals.

I'm in the Day Room looking for Theo, but he's not here. Instead there's some seeping idiot rocking back and forth in the corner, dribbling into his oatmeal. He keeps looking at me like i'm supposed to say something, but what? Mental, vacant expression, then i remember he probably actually took his medication, unlike me. i'm palming the pills and tucking them into the hole in my sleeve, saving up the day's supply to take all at once tonight, because i feel like getting off my fucking face and just doing that thing where i zone out with the Alfvén book then lie in the dark all wrapped up. i can get away with things like this because nobody really checks.

So this guy is staring at me like i'm a religious epiphany and, thankfully, Gloria comes over and takes my arm even though we're not really supposed to make physical contact and she guides me to a table and i sit down and realize i've been carrying my lunch tray. "Hello," Gloria says after we've sat down and i nod and smile and don't say anything, but I do rattle my sleeve so she understands. i chew my lip, a sign of nerves apparently, and Gloria picks up on it.

"You alright?" she asks. I am. I nod again, and start eating my mashed whatever. Don't make a mistake here, we are allowed to eat solid foods. It's just that this thing, whatever it is, happens to be mashed. It's not potato either, or at least i don't think so, which makes me a little anxious because at least if it was, it would be approachable.

"Nice?" Gloria queries.

i realize it is actually kind of nice. Maybe it's swede.

"So here's a thing," i say to Gloria. "Have you noticed anything strange lately?"

Gloria laughs, looks around, back at me, shrugs. i'm not oblivious enough that my comment wasn't deliberately intended to amuse.

"No, you dopey shit," i say. "Like strange beyond strange. Wolves in the walls strange."

Gloria shrugs again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"At night," i say to her. "There's a terrible banging sound coming from everywhere."

"I haven't noticed," Gloria says. She tells me they have her on sleeping meds. It makes sense. The first week i was here, i barely slept cos Gloria screamed the place down. Night terrors, the doctors called it, although i later found out it was simply because she wanted sleeping meds. Guess that plan is backfiring now, then. Although not if she sleeps through the creaking.

"Where's it coming from?" she asks. i tell her i don't know. i point out i can't exactly go investigating.

"It might be from the corridor," i suggest. Gloria shudders.

"Let's just eat."

That's fine by me.

The thing that really made me pissed about the brother was his insistence on doing really well at everything. He was the type who would never let you forget that he did really well at everything, and you didn't. He couldn't play the violin though.

Alfvén could play the violin. By all reports he was rather good at it. What was nice about Alfvén is that he didn't rub your nose in it. He was all, yeah, I'm okay at the violin I guess, how about some tea. That's what i imagine him to have been like, anyway. i don't think Alfvén would have gotten along well with the brother.

i have all the pills here, and some water in a paper cup. It's dark out, and moonlight spills through the high window. i'm already calm, already floating, and it's time to make that extra push. i put the pills in my mouth, one after another, then take a huge swig of water and swallow. i love the way they feel like they're fighting for space in my throat. i can feel them go down, rattling against one another like little teeth in a beaker. Then, i wait and count and it's ten minutes, more or less, before i can feel them starting to work. There is music playing, somewhere, and i know there shouldn't be because it's far too late for the radio, but there is. i expect it to be Alfvén such is the theme, but it's Strauss, Johann the second, and someone's cradling me in their arms, rocking me in the Viennese Blood and i keep my eyes closed because it's more beautiful this way. Cold moonlight touches my skin, and i'm on my back, floating in this sea of blood, ivories striking with the ebb and flow, strings like the wind, trill trill trill. Someone is on top of me and it's pleasant and reassuring and we drift together, me and my shadow, and i bet, you know

I bet my mother, and my father and my brother couldn't even appreciate, couldn't even begin to appreciate moments like this. Completely out of character. Do you think Hugo and Johann would have been friends? Hugo and Richard, definitely. Imagine drifting off in a funeral boat while an accordion plays. These kinds of things, I don't think my brother would ever think about something like this. Don't think he's ever listened to Pyotr and dreamed of strapping on those pink satin shoes, or pictured himself waving a baton in front of a symphony orchestra.

i do that now, my eyes still closed, blind as The Bat, eighty-odd people under my command, obeying my every wish. i'm a magician, a trailblazer, shooting stars across the sky. Tracer fire inside my eyelids, crescendo leads to staccato, then a brass band march, i lead, they follow. Then moving on, i'm caught on a swell, directing the Danube, my beautiful finale and the cracks begin to appear. Cracks, creaks, groaning and rattling pipes, this old building's falling apart. The water drains away, replaced with ice, my back tenses and i push my spine hard against the mattress to crack it. A moment's relief, i open my eyes, there's a fucking man standing over my bed. Or, more accurately, he's facing away. He's hunched over, and i can see he's shaking slightly. There's a bald spot on the back of his head and it catches the moon. i'm paralyzed with fear, and the drugs are preventing me from shouting. Not sure i even want to. What's he doing? The man is making a low, throaty noise. At first i am under the mistaken assumption that this is something sexual, but it's soon clear it isn't. Pain? i jump with fright as he takes a lurching step sideways, and even though i say 'jump' i'm still frozen in place, i can't even move my arms from their folded position. The man still has his back to me, he's shaking violently, lurching and swaying from side to side. And then he turns, and i want to yell at him to stop, i don't want to see, and i try to close my eyes again but even my eyelid muscles have turned against me now.

He turns to face me, and I see he's in his fifties maybe, although it's hard to tell. His face has a sick, waxy sheen and there's a thin film of drool over his chin. His tongue, fat and wet, lolls from the corner of his mouth. And down his face, mostly on the right side, there are livid gashes, like he's been all messed up somehow; they're uniform, straight down his face, i can't tell if he's even got an eye left there. i'm trembling involuntarily as he stumbles over to me, and i wonder just how in the fuck he got inside my room, because they lock the doors at night.

The man is over me now, and i still can't move, and he's chewing his tongue and mumbling and i want to be sick. i try and force a scream, something, anything, and a tiny, high-pitched squeak is all i can manage, nasal and pathetic. He turns to look at me proper, his eyes flicking back and forth from my head to my feet, and for a moment it looks like he's about to reach out, he's flexing his hands impotently, fingertips against palms. i let out that pathetic screech again, and try my best to edge myself along the mattress, to press against the wall, something. The man grunts at me, and i see his lips are shredded too. Then he turns and lumbers off, past my head, to the door. i feel my muscles loosen and i can move again, sitting up on the bed, turning around. i'm more curious than scared now. He's at the door, and it's ajar, and he pulls it open and walks out. Light spills in from the corridor. i think about lying back down, pulling the sheets over my head, but i know i'll be for it if they come round to find my door open, and besides, i haven't had a night-time adventure in what seems like forever.

So i get up, bare feet against the freezing linoleum, and realize it is very, very cold indeed. i'm shivering, and i follow the man out into the hallway. There should be a nurse or someone i can talk to, tell them what's happened, ask them to please be a little more careful in future. But the man's by the nurse's station, and it's odd because nobody's trying to stop him. He's turning the corner, down to the day room and i'm pretty sure i can hear the noise of the TV from there, and that definitely shouldn't be on. It's just white noise, the sound of static, but as i turn the corner i can see the haunting glow it casts across the room, and i don't like it. i look around for the man. At first, i don't see him, then a shadow shifts on the far wall, by some of the threadbare, ratty chairs. He's sitting down, his back to me, shaking his head from side to side. i can still see into the nurse's station from here. Definitely no-one. Shouldn't Scott and Mattie be on duty tonight?

i call out. Hello? Maybe it's not Mattie's shift. Maybe there was an emergency i didn't hear. i wish Theo's room wasn't back the other way. Could at least ask for his help.

i jump, letting out a gasp, when i turn back and see the man standing a meter away from me. He's staring, chewing, rubbing his hands together and scratching, hard. Is he chewing or is he trying to speak? i look down at his feet. He's wearing old, filthy slippers. They're caked in mud, or something.

Behind him, there's a creaking, the sound of metal straining, and a dull ringing sound. He turns. i want to tell him no, not to look, but i figure i'll let him make his own mistakes right now. Of course, it's coming from that corridor, and the man begins to head towards the sound. i look down at the ground, at the thin line of tape that separates the day room and that place, as much a threshold as it could be. i see the man's filthy slippers step over it, stepping outside the light cast by the TV, and just ahead of him i can see a door ajar. He moves towards it, that shambling, lumbering gait, and fuck no, i'm not touching this one, he's on his own.

i hurry back to my room, ice-cold soles slapping against the floor and i'm pretty much running. my door is still open. i step inside the room, and Mattie is there, sitting on my bed. She looks at me imploringly, shakes her head, and i try to explain but it just sounds like disjointed rambling, so she tucks me up and promises she won't tell as long as i give her my word i'll stay settled for the rest of the night. She doesn't need to ask me twice, i say. i'm going nowhere.

As soon as i lie down, it's like i never left. The violins strike up again and this time it's not Strauss but Alfvén himself, and he guides me towards sleep.

Theo is looking for me, i'm told, but i have a visitor. It's that one guy who drops by every now and then, and it makes me angry when he does. Well, i say that, i prefer seeing him to having no visitors at all, but he acts as if we're old friends and that riles me. i don't say anything though, i wouldn't want the doctors to stop his visits and leave me with nobody. It's not like the family is going to come any time soon.

"Hello," the man says. He's already seated when i get into the room, as it is every time. "How are you feeling today?"

i shrug and sit down. "Didn't sleep well."

"Oh." He looks concerned. He's old, like forty maybe, but appears to be a lot older at first glance. Not that this is my first glance of course.

"Yeah," i say.

"Was something wrong?"

i think about the man in my room, wonder where he is now, about the sleep paralysis.

"No, i just had amnesia."

"You mean insomnia."

"i mean what i mean," i say. It's a game i liked playing, winding him up some.

"Anyway. How are things in here? Is that a stupid question?"

It was, but i didn't say so. "Good, i guess," i say.

"We just want you to get better," he says. i was pretty sure he was a doctor. i asked him, once, but he denied it. What, then, i said, what are you? He wouldn't answer and just looked a bit sad. i suppose it was a bit blunt.

"Hey, I brought you some things," he says. i wait. No things appeared. i look at him questioningly.

"Yes?"

"Oh, I gave them to the nurse," he tells me. "Wasn't allowed to bring them in here, you know that."

"What is it?" i ask, stringing out the words.

The man smiles. "You'll see."

i don't like surprises, but it seems impertinent to say so. Instead i act grateful and thank him.

"Carol sends her love," the man tells me. i frown, trying to remember if he's mentioned Carol before. Oh, his wife. "And Lacey and Ricky." His kids, i think.

"Tell them i said hello," i say.

"You'll have to come and visit them when you're better," the man says. i don't know why, but i get the feeling i'd like that. Even if he's a doctor, why not? i'd be happy to socialize with Mattie and she's a nurse.

We chat for a while about some things, then it's time for him to go and Mattie comes to get me and leads me back to the day room, and i look around for that drooling old man from the night before, but instead find Theo playing a card game by himself.

"Sup, Theodore," i say, high-fiving him as i sit down. He seems to be concentrating on his card game, and doesn't say much at first.

"Theo, i need you to listen to me real good," i say, and this gets his attention because i'm almost never serious about things.

"What's going on?" he asks, his one good eye opened wide.

So i tell him about the night before, the man and the corridor. When i mention the former, he cringes. When i mention the latter, he visibly shudders. i understand why. Both of us glance over to look in that direction. From here, we can't see the door, but we know it's there.

"Who was he?" i ask. "You've been here a while. Recognize him?"

"You could be talking about anyone," he said. "Sorry."

i sit with Theo a while and we play cards, then he has to go off for some session and i don't envy him at all the fact he has to walk down that corridor to get where he needs to go. i decide to go back to my room, and then i remember what the man said, the nurses have something for me. So i go to the nurse's station and they're talking, two of them, not Mattie cos she's on nights, but Scott (who i thought was on nights but obviously isn't) and someone new, a young and pretty girl who i've never spoken to.

"Is it going to be okay for her?" she says, and Scott's all saying it will, whoever she is, but that they'd better talk to the doctor first. i knock on the window and Scott comes over and he smiles at me real wide. i like Scott because of that smile. He's usually the one i like to do injections if i ever need them, him or Mattie. Plus once i talked to him at length about Chopin and he was interested, and possessed a knowledge on the subject far exceeding bullshit stereotypes (the public generally regard nurses as not being fans of classical music).

"Scottland, do you have something for me in this fine office?" i ask. A shadow passes across Scott's face. He pauses for a moment before answering.

"No, I don't think so!" he says. The other nurse comes up and starts to say something but Scott looks at her, and instead she tells me it's time for my medication. Today, i take it instead of squirreling it away, because that's not something i feel i should do often.

"Thank you for your consideration," i tell Scott with a smile. "i shall retire to my quarters now. As you were!"

The thing about the mother and the father was that they always spent a lot of time talking about the brother, and by that i really do mean a lot. He was always the topic of conversation at dinner parties, at church fetes, at high school graduation. The sister was just a baby and didn't know any better, and what is there of interest to say about a baby anyway, she's just the younger of the two, and an idiot underachiever at that point. The day they decided to put me in here and told me i was no longer part of the family, i remember the sister crying a lot and begging them to change their minds, so hmm, she can't have still been a baby then? The brother laughed, i think, or said it was for the best, and the mother and father were just happy to be rid of me. i would still love to know how things like this are legal.

i'm still thinking about the family, the father in particular, when i wake up and realize my door is open again. i look around the room, and thankfully the man's not here tonight. i get up, go outside and look around, and there's no sound at all. Like, literally no sound. i can't even hear the slapping of my feet on the cold ward floor. i test this by knocking on Gloria's door. Nothing, not a sound. i try to speak, and can't. My mouth is gone. i reach up and touch the flesh where my lips used to be. Just smooth skin. Can't even feel my teeth. i wonder if i should panic or something, then up ahead i hear a noise, which surprises me in the otherwise-silence. It's a scratching, screeching sound like a chair being moved, and i feel numb to it all so i head towards the day room. Before i get there, i'm stopped in my tracks by the sight of the nurse's office. Theo is inside, and there's something in there with him. It's a dog, behind him, a huge feral-looking creature. i can't hear it, but i can see from the look on its face that it's snarling. It looks crazed. Theo has his back to the dog. i hammer on the glass, but there's no sound. i try to shout, but of course i have no mouth. The dog is creeping closer to Theo, its hackles are up, the hair on its back spiny and dangerous. i see it tense, and try banging again. i look around for something to break the glass. A chair, perhaps. The day room.

Inside the day room, i see the man again. He looks more all together this time; he's in a suit, and he's walking back and forth with determination and purpose.

i try to ask him for help, because of the dog. And miraculously the words come out now, my mouth is okay, and i speak.

"Help," i say.

The man turns, and i see his face, and it's still just as damaged as before. The gashes across his lip give him the look of one who's perpetually snarling, and he reminds me of the dog i just saw.

"There's a dog," i say. "Theo's in danger."

The man sneers at me, or at least i think so since he's sneering by default. He says nothing, but glances over his shoulder towards the corridor. i look too, and Theo's standing there. He looks at me, looks away, turns and walks down it.

"No!" i shout. i move to step forward, but i don't want to get too close to the man, who snorts at me, amused. Then he, too, turns and heads towards the corridor. Theo's completely out of sight now, and against my better judgment i follow the man. He's walking briskly, and i can see the full corridor now, and of course, that door is open. That has to be where Theo's gone. And the man walks towards it, and goes inside. i stop at the corridor's entrance. i don't want to do this. i know i don't. But i can hear noises from down there; snarling, and barking, and something is very, very wrong. i have no choice, do i? i take a step, then another, and suddenly the floor is freezing beneath my feet and i very much want to be back in my room, the door tightly locked, the covers wrapped around me. i hear a growl, then a hungry whine, then suddenly silence.

i'm shaking as i approach the door. It opens outwards and towards me, so i can't see inside the room. There's a smell, like hot breath, and i place my hand on the door knob and, terrified, prepare to open it. Then, behind me, the sound of padding footsteps and i turn and see it, and i stumble backwards, falling to the ground, retching, vomit forcing its way up my throat and i'm so fucking scared because the thing snarls, and looks like it's smiling and i am choking, coughing, crying, and the only escape route i have is into that room, so even though i'm terrified of turning my back on the thing, i crawl away and through the door and inside the Albatross.

For some reason i've slept in. It's like midday when they finally wake me. i've missed breakfast, and morning medication, and this annoys me. i don't like it when my routine is broken. i wander out into the corridor, into the bustle of the ward. Nothing seems off-kilter. Theo's sitting playing cards with Gloria and i go over but they don't notice me and carry on talking. Gloria is talking about how she's getting almost no sleep. You and me both, i think. i am starving, but i think i've missed dinner as well. The clock on the wall got broken in a scuffle a month ago.

i go over to the nurse's station and see that other young nurse from yesterday. She smiles at me like a sister and gestures for me to come closer.

"How are you feeling today?" she asks.

"I'm fine, thank you," i say, "although i'm very hungry."

She nods. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, have we?" she asks.

"Nope."

"I'm Penny," she says, and holds out her hand. i shake it. Her skin is very soft. i like her. i go to tell her my name, then realize she obviously knows it already.

"You're new here, right?" i ask instead.

"Just started last week," she tells me.

"How're we treating you?"

She smiles. "You're all lovely," she says. "Hey, Scott left this for you."

Penny heads into the back of the nurse's station, disappearing for a moment. She returns with a sandwich on a plate, wrapped in Clingfilm. This pleases me. i am starving, and take the plate from her with a heartfelt thanks.

"Don't go too far," she says. "The doctor wants to see you this afternoon."

i look up from unwrapping the sandwich. "Dom? Is it a Tuesday?"

Penny shakes her head. "No, it's Friday. And not Dom, Doctor Beatrice."

i freeze, the sandwich half-way to my mouth.

"Doctor Beatrice?" i ask. "Really?"

Penny looks confused. "Yeah. She just wants a quick chat. Is that okay?"

i know i don't really have a choice, so i just say yes and eat my sandwich.

We're at the corridor, Penny and i. i try not to think about the night before. Penny has her hand on my arm, but i don't think she understands why i'm scared. i try to delay the inevitable.

"Do you ever listen to classical music?" i ask her.

"Not really, I'm afraid," Penny says.

"What are you into?"

She's gently guiding me down the corridor, and i'm sure she can feel that i'm resisting.

"Tell you what, let's get this done then we'll have a proper chat about it," she says. Crap.

We're at the door now. i regret ever turning it into a thing. Doctor Alison Beatrice. The Albatross. Why did i ever listen to Theo telling me those stories?

Penny knocks, we listen. A calm, warm voice from inside. "Yes?"

Inside, i am sitting down in front of her desk. It's disorganized, still, much like the last time i was in there. There's a photo of her family on it; i know because i asked who they were once. i don't have any photos of the family. The father, the mother, the brother are just memories. Sometimes Doctor Beatrice asks me to talk about those memories, and i don't like it.

This isn't one of those times.

"Mattie tells me you've been having some bad dreams," she says.

"No, not really," i say.

"Hmm," Doctor Beatrice replies. "Okay then. Listen, your brother-"

I cut her off. "Do we have to?"

Doctor Beatrice smiles at me kindly. She's in her fifties, i think. She has a nice face. i think that in any other situation, i'd like her a lot. In here, though, she makes us see things. Today i'm not ready for it.

"It's not like that," she says. "Your brother brought you a present. I want to talk to you about it."

"What?" i demand. "Really?" This is unprecedented. He's never even visited before.

"Yeah, did he not tell you?"

I shrug. "I haven't seen the brother in years."

Doctor Beatrice smiles. "He came to visit you yesterday, didn't he? Don't you remember?"

i laugh. This must be some kind of therapy bullshit. She's pulling a fast one on me. i can feel that familiar confusion knotting itself up in my chest, and the dull pain in the back of my head.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," Doctor Beatrice says. "He brought you a violin. Do you think you'll be okay with that?"

Suddenly, my spirits lighten. i no longer care about why the brother didn't see me himself.

"Shit the bed, a violin? Serious?"

Doctor Beatrice nods. "I have it here. Would you like to see it?"

Of course i would, and i say so, and the doctor produces a case from under her desk. She opens it, and it's the most beautiful fucking thing i've ever seen in my life. Lovingly carved maple, catching the sun from the window behind Doctor Beatrice. i reach out and run my fingers along the wood. Smooth, cold to the touch. And the fingerboards, that's proper ebony i think. This wasn't a cheap piece, not at all. i touch the strings. Tight, sharp, perfect.

"What do you think?" Doctor Beatrice asks.

"It's perfect," i say. "It is the best thing."

"Would you like to try it?"

"i would like that very much," i say.

Doctor Beatrice stands up and closes the case. She hands it over to me. i take it, my entire body shaking.

In my room, i can barely contain myself, hungrily opening the case, tuning the instrument, rosining up the bow. Penny stands in the doorway, watching, and i think she's excited too. i'm done, i place the violin against the curve of my neck, and it fits like it was made for me. The strings beneath my fingers become an extension of myself, the bow in my other hand a new limb. i place the horsehair against the strings and make a long, drawn out movement. A rich, beautiful sound. i close my eyes. What to play? At first i think Alfvén, but i don't think i can. So i just play, and suddenly the notes appear, and i'm playing Strauss, The Blue Danube, the bow cutting rhythms through the music; perfect, blissful notes and behind me, through the wall of sound, i hear Penny gasp with appreciation.

I am Strauss. I am Tchaikovsky. I am Mozart, Bach and Vivaldi. I am The Bumper Book of Classical Violin, atop a music stand. I stand. I practice in front of the window in the study, watching my reflection as I deftly flick the bow. I am flawless, my notes pitch-perfect, my bowing unparalleled. The scholarship will be mine. I know it.

I'm playing something I've played a million times before, the summer sun beating down on my face, while outside my father is gardening. I can hear him through the window, clip, clip, clip. Hugo, my beautiful brown Labrador, sunbathes lazily nearby. Occasionally, as if in a dream, he twitches.

I flip the page and begin a new piece. It's problematic, this one. Only a few seconds in and I'm hitting bum notes all over the place. Swedish Rhapsody. I know this would sound better with a full orchestra. This isn't my fault, is it?

Outside, Hugo's standing up. Something's riled him. The hair on his back is standing on end. I keep playing, and I'm getting frustrated now. The music sounds awful. Screeching, it's not flowing, sometimes I just want to smash this fucking thing. My fingers hurt. I play. Over and over I play. Every note hurts my ears, crescendos fall flat, trills sound like shrieks.

Hugo is growling, and I see my father's turned around. He looks worried. Hugo's circling towards him. He looks angry. I play. I'm getting there. I can't stop.

My father approaches Hugo. The dog growls, barks. I hear it, in time with the music. It's still not quite there. My father is holding his hands out defensively.

The music's building up and I think I'm getting it now, I think I'm getting somewhere, and I hit the right notes and Hugo leaps, and he's on my father, knocking him to the ground, and I hit a bad note again and curse out loud. There's screaming, and feral grunts, but I'm nailing it, I'm getting somewhere, and I can hear more screams coming from somewhere. My father's wrestling with Hugo, who's tearing at his arm. I look back at the sheet music again, trying to work out where I'm going wrong, and I almost miss a note when there's a bang on the glass. I look up, still playing, can't stop, Father is there, one side of his face torn away, and he looks at me imploringly through one good eye. I keep playing, and I'm getting it right now, just like you wanted Father, are you proud of me? I smile at him and he smiles back, his teeth stained pink, and over his shoulder I can see Hugo's snarling maw, and then my brother is there, he has something, the shears, and I'm hitting the final crescendo, it's going well, almost, a couple flat notes, but we're getting somewhere now, and Hugo's turning on my brother too, and I hit the last few notes as he plunges the shears forward.

Can i face it? i can. It's time. The Blue Danube ends and i hear Penny applauding behind me, but i ignore her and carry on, i can remember everything and here we go Alfvén you motherfucker, let's do this.

And here I go. I hit the first notes perfectly and I'm off to the best start. My bow flies like the Devil himself is inside me, and the entire orchestra joins in. I turn, still playing, and lead Penny out into the hallway. She follows, doors open, others come out to see what's going on. I don't stop. The rhapsody is in full swing. I head down the hall to the day room, my entourage behind me, the orchestra somewhere off-stage, complimenting my beautiful melody. Into the day room and there's Theo and Gloria and they notice me this time, they stand up and join me, and Scott comes out of the nurse's office and he's joining in too, and I don't stop, it's all perfect. I'm leading them all like the Pied Piper of Hamlin or something, leading them all to The Albatross Corridor and this time I don't even pause to cross the threshold, we all just go, and I'm still playing and I haven't hit a single bad note, everything has been pitch perfect, nothing will stop me now, I live for the flow and the rhythm and the waltz and the rhapsody, and together we walk down the corridor, towards the door, and Beatrice throws it open to greet us and the song finishes, I take a bow, and I say Doctor, I'm ready to see you now.

XIII - Home Video

The following story is true, insomuch as that I haven't made all of it up.

It was 1994. You know, the year when Kurt Cobain took a shotgun to his face, John Wayne Gacey was executed, OJ Simpson fled from the cops, and it was still safe to walk home from school on a June evening in the outskirts of Birmingham. Well, safer than it is these days anyway.

Most of my memories of that month involve school. The A level years. They were mostly the usual things... field parties, summer balls, teenage awkwardness, rejection, heartbreak. All fairly inconsequential now, but when you're a 17 year old kid... well, a girl saying 'no' is like the end of the world, isn't it?

Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself a bit. I've never been a fan of writing a journal, or memoirs... 'blogging' they call it these days online.

"Today I stayed in my room all day, listened to some angry music, and posted an update on Facebook."

Repeat ad nauseum. Kids today don't know they're born blah blah blah etc. I wasn't much better at that age though. I fancied myself as a bit of a rebel, listening to the grunge-era bands on my tape deck, and wanting to be in a 100-strong crowd in a basement concert instead of writing out an essay on the Suffragette Movement. I was quite angry at the world, in some respects. You know, typical teenage angst bullshit. I went through a phase where I thought misanthropy was really cool. Then I went through a phase of reading anything and everything by Nietzsche... but we don't talk about that.

The thing was, I kept a lot of this to myself. I didn't hang around with the kind of people who'd be interested in the same things as me. I was quite popular though, but by default. You see, there was this boy... I'll call him James. No... Jim. Jim, yeah that'll work. Jim was my best friend at the time. I say 'was', but he still is really. We don't stay in contact quite as much these days, but the friendship is still pretty strong, I'd say.

Jim was one of those guys. You probably know the type I mean. The kind of guy it was just impossible to dislike, even though there was plenty about him that (jealous) people could be bitter over. He had everything going for him. Really. Not just the usual cliche that means 'he was a bit good at sports' or something. He was GREAT. Sports, academia, socializing Hell, he was even in the Church choir. He was a pretty strong Christian in fact. I used to go to church with him sometimes, during my Nietzsche period. I felt like a hypocrite. It was just nice though y'know, to be part of something, to be accepted by the same people that accepted him outside of our schoolyard social circle.

BUT ANYWAY.

Yeah, he had a lot going for him. Really good looking, blonde hair, blue eyes, that kinda thing. Ubermensch. Very fit. Straight A student, passed his GCSEs with flying colors Top marks. I got Cs I think. He'd helped me study as well. I knew my stuff, I just didn't apply myself very well. His family were very well off too. They always had the latest car, the latest television, the newest gadget that the rest of us just wished we could have.

That makes it sound like my family was dirt poor though. That wasn't the case... I mean, I was at Public school for a start. We were definitely comfortable, but my parents weren't big on spending money on what they called 'frivolities'. It was all structured, sensible. You know, holiday to Spain in the summer, a couple of modest gifts for me and my sister at Christmas, the same for respective birthdays. Nothing like the things Jim would get. I'd worked in a greengrocer in the summer of 1993 to save up enough to buy my stereo... Jim was given his for winning a football match. A friendly, too. Madness.

I didn't begrudge him any of these things. What's the point? Truth is, I valued him too much as a friend to think about any of that stuff. Well, maybe it crossed my mind occasionally, but I never dwelt on it. It's not like he was mean with his pocket money (well, it wasn't 'in' to call it that in 94, it was 'allowance'), he'd always buy the drinks, in McDonald's, the Offy... ah, the amount he must've spent on cans of Tennent's to take up the park for after a kickabout.

Everyone loved Jim, and rightly so. He'd do anything for anybody. I used to think, when I was young and stupid, that he didn't even have the capacity for nastiness. He'd even befriend the kids at school who nobody else would touch with a ten-foot pole. He always had a nice word to say to the retards, the freaks, the weirdos that every school has. There was this one kid in our year called Andy, everyone used to bully him. Shamefully I have to admit that I joined in a couple times. Jim was never judgmental about that either, he'd just calmly tell me that I hadn't been very nice and that was the end of it.

Andy was tiny. Really tiny, almost a midget or something. He had an oversized head too. Very skinny kid, looked like he never ate. People used to call him all sorts of things.

But yeah, this one time when we were in the last year at school (that would've been 95 then) some of the Year Elevens got a bit adventurous and decided to go after him. Normally even the weirdest kid would be left alone in the final year, but not Andy. It must've been hell for him, now I think about it. I don't think a day went by when someone didn't do something mean to him. I wonder what he's doing now.

So these Year Elevens decided to ambush him on the way out of the library. They'd been watching him for a while and seen he'd been writing a Geography essay. Anyone who did the subject will know how long some of those pieces of work had to be.

So when he came out the library, they snatched that essay straight from his hands and chucked it into the pond out the front of the building. I remember Andy just stood there, eyes wide, looking at the pile of paper sinking into the water.

Me and Jim were walking by, you see. Jim saw all of it too. He was there in an instant, wading into the pond, getting algae and all sorts all over his uniform. He fished the paper out before too much damage was done, took Andy to the tech rooms, dried it off with a hairdryer, then painstakingly copied out the whole ten-page essay for the kid. For no reason other than to be nice. That's the kind of guy Jim was. Still is, from all accounts.

Jim had loads of mates, loads of admirers. I felt privileged that he called me his best friend. He was always trying to set me up with a girl too. He knew I got lonely at times; he thought a girlfriend would help. I always messed it up though. Didn't know the right things to say or do, always seeming like I was preoccupied. I'd get really hung up about it actually. It wasn't until I went away to Uni that I had as much as a one-night stand. But being friends with Jim meant that being a virgin wasn't some terrible thing. He'd been dating a girl called Jennifer ever since year 9. She went to our school and Jim's church. Her father was the vicar if I recall correctly. They hadn't slept together. It was common knowledge that they were both waiting until 'the right time', and everyone respected that. I was best man at their wedding, what... eight years ago now. I think they'd still waited until that night. Commendable really.

I think you get the picture about Jim. I could go on, but I'd rather you kept reading (and kept your lunch).

I remember the date exactly. June thirteenth. A Monday. It was the day after O.J. didn't kill his ex-wife, actually.

Me, Jim, Jen, a girl called Alex and her boyfriend Craig were sitting on the school field at lunch.

"I could kill for a fag," Craig told us, chewing the end of a pencil.

Alex pouted indignantly. "You can't. You've given up."

"Yeah, I have. I'd still love one, though."

Jim was saying something to Jen. I couldn't hear what it was.

I remember thinking they made a cute couple, sitting on the field arm in arm. The great thing about them, though, was that they always seemed genuinely happy to have me around even when they were together. They never made me feel like a third wheel, not at all.

Jim turned to me.

"Do you remember Kirsty?"

"Yeah, sure." I told him.

Kirsty had been one of Jim's attempts at setting me up with a blind date. All told, it hadn't gone THAT badly. Well, not at first anyway. She'd been the type of girl who had a tie-dyed schoolbag and colored her hair in the holidays. She'd been a student at our school, before her family got into financial problems and she left a year or so before this story takes place.

I remember she'd been into music like The Velvet Underground, Bowie, The Who... music I pretended to like to impress her. I think she knew I was pretending though. At first it seemed like she found it cute, but I could tell by the end of the date that I was beginning to irritate her.

I'd really liked her, actually. More so than any of the others. I was pretty disappointed when, at the end of the evening, she brushed me off and said she'd call me, then didn't. Typical really. The one time...

So yes, I did indeed remember her. More than I'd care to mention to Jim, actually. I don't think I stopped liking her for quite a while, but of course I just told Jim that she wasn't my type. I think he eventually got wise to the fact that really meant 'she wasn't interested'.

"She was that seventies throwback yeah?" Craig asked.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," I told him. I felt a bit defensive.

"Well, she's missing," Jim told us. "Since last Friday apparently. Told her parents that she was going to a friend's for the evening, and didn't come home. They called her friend, she hadn't planned anything with Kirsty."

"Run away from home," Alex stated.

"Maybe. I don't think so though. Her mother was speaking to mine this morning. Poor woman's distraught. She said that Kirsty had been really happy lately, she was doing better at school and everything."

"Yeah, sure..."

"Craig, don't be mean," Jen snapped at him. "This could be serious."

"I suppose they've told the police?" I asked, then immediately realized that of course they would have, it was obvious.

Jim nodded. "They've been checking with all her friends, anyone who she hung out with in the last year or so. As of yet, nothing."

"You don't think she's..." Alex shuddered.

Jim looked grave. "I don't know." He brushed his hair from his eyes and squinted against the sun. "It's terrible though. I just hope she HAS run away or something."

"Yeah, that's probably it," I said, not believing it.

"Well, uh... let us know if you hear anything, mate." Craig took the pencil out of his mouth. The end was little more than chewed splinters now. "I REALLY need a fag. I'll quit next week."

Alex shot him a withering look then stood up.

"Oh, what the hell, I'll have one too."

"See ya." Jim told them. Jen waved. I nodded.

The couple walked hand in hand to the back of the field, the usual smoking spot.

The three of us sat there in silence, thinking of Kirsty perhaps.

Nigh on two weeks came and went, and Kirsty still hadn't resurfaced. Jim passed on second hand info, gleaned from his mother. The police weren't really making any headway. No leads, no clues, not even sure what they were investigating... a missing person? A runaway?

Nobody wanted to say 'a murder'. We were all thinking it though.

It was a Friday. I remember watching the clock during English, counting down the minutes till the end of the school day and the beginning of the weekend. Me and Jim were going back to his that night, to hang out, listen to some music, whatever really. It wasn't often we went to each others' houses. We were at the age where being 'out' was more fun. But Jim was going away to some Christian camp for the weekend, so we wouldn't have had time to do anything much. I was going there to have dinner, then he and his parents would be heading off. His older brother was a guitarist in a Christian folk band and they'd be playing there. I'd heard them, they weren't bad actually... for a Christian folk band. Jim could play guitar too, his brother had taught him. I could just about manage the triangle.

So yeah, the bell went, we left school.

Walking back to Jim's house, I brought up the subject of Kirsty again. I remember Jim seemed disinterested, which struck me as odd. He'd been so verbal in keeping us up to date.

I was talking about the usual stuff, wondering where she was, if she was okay, still skirting around the issue that she was probably dead by now.

I realized Jim was looking at me intently.

"You really liked her, didn't you?" he asked, taking me aback.

I thought about this for a moment. There was no point lying.

I looked down at my shoes, watching them scuff the pavement for a while. "Yeah. I guess I did."

After a moment's silence, I felt Jim's hand pat my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, man," he said quietly.

I stopped and looked at him, and I distinctly remember smiling sadly. "We don't know FOR SURE, do we? She might still be alive..." It was the first time any of us had directly referenced the fact she could, well... not be.

"Yeah..." Jim said quietly. I could see something in his eyes. At the time I thought it was sympathy. I know differently now.

Back at his house, me and Jim just sat around reading comics in his room. He was so engrossed in those pulped pages that he didn't notice the fact that my own eyes kept straying from the old copy of Amazing Spiderman onto his face.

I often found myself studying him intently. It wasn't like that, you understand. He just fascinated me. Even his face was perfect. He'd caught me doing it sometimes, and I could tell it made him uncomfortable, but we never spoke about it. He's never brought it up, even now. Jim's nice like that.

It made me feel a bit guilty really. I didn't like making him uncomfortable, nor did I want him to think I was, you know... But I couldn't help myself sometimes.

Eventually he did look up from the comic. I'm not sure if he caught me staring or not; I quickly looked away, pretending that the adventures of Peter Parker were the most exciting thing in the world.

"You wanna see something cool?" he asked me.

I nodded. Jim always had cool things to show me. Some of them were pretty outlandish too. I mean, he'd had a floor safe installed in his room, 'just because'. He had a pinball table downstairs, a Robocop one. His house even had a pool. Actually I guess that doesn't seem so weird any more. It did back then though, when we were kids.

"Lets go then!" he exclaimed, jumping up from the bed with a burst of energy. He replaced the comics in their dust sleeves and put them in the box (Jim's room was always very meticulous – mine was a tip in comparison) then led me out the room and down the hall. We went into the living room.

It always seemed really convenient to me, to have a bedroom on the ground floor. You could sneak out whenever you wanted. Not that Jim ever did things like that though.

He walked over to the television cabinet, opened it, and switched the TV and VCR on.

Jim had a huge television. Whenever there was a football match (or rugby, or cricket for that matter) on television we'd all pile round to his to watch it on the cutting edge set. They were good times. Before High Def and things like that though. The telly would probably seem rubbish these days.

"Ah good, it's still in here. I was showing Jen yesterday." Jim had pressed play on the VCR. The sound of a chattering crowd came from the television speakers. I looked up and saw myself, waving into the screen.

"Ah, nice one!" I smiled. Jim had bought a camcorder the month before, specifically to make what he referred to as 'the documentary', but really it was just footage of his 17th birthday party. The party had been that month, and it was excellent. It'd been incredibly warm for May, so mostly we hung out around the pool all evening, drinking cocktails. Jim's parents left us to it; they didn't mind us drinking in their house, as long as we were sensible. Nobody ever took advantage of their kindness, it never even occurred to people to mess things up for Jim. It was just Something You Didn't Do.

We sat and watched the party video for about ten minutes. The quality of the recording was pretty good. I hadn't liked to ask, but I assumed the camcorder had been expensive. From the looks of it, I was right.

The on-screen party was just getting going. Jen and Alex were dancing to the Stone Roses. I could see myself sitting on a chair in the corner of the pool courtyard, drinking something red. It was a bit surreal.

Jim's mum came in, and cleared her throat. She greeted me then turned to Jim.

"Honey, you need to get ready. We have to go soon."

Jim nodded and told her he'd be ready soon. We both stood up.

"Hey, Jim..." I said

"Yeah?"

"Can I borrow that video? I'd like to watch the end of it. Would that be okay?"

He smiled. "Sure. There's more than one tape though. The other two are in the top drawer in my room. Just go ahead and get them, I'll shut off the telly and everything."

With the three unmarked videotapes in my bag, I waved goodbye to Jim and wished him a good time at camp and told him I'd see him in school on Monday.

For the first time in a long while, I went to the park alone instead of going straight home. I must've sat on a bench there for a good long while, just thinking about things and people. I often wonder now how differently my life might have played out if I'd gone straight home. I don't like thinking of 'what ifs', but you can't help it sometimes can you?

When I got home my mother told me that Jim had called twice, and had asked if she'd get me to call him back, quite urgently. By this time though, him and his family had already left for camp and I'd missed him.

I went upstairs and threw my schoolbag onto a pile of clothes.

The year before, I'd found an old Commodore 64 in a junk shop and snapped it up, along with a bunch of those text adventures. Zork, Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, things like that. I used to love them. Most evenings, if I wasn't with Jim or doing homework, I'd sit at my desk playing those games. Jim had a Super Nintendo. It was a lot of fun, but there was something about the mystery in the text adventures that I loved. I read a lot of books back then too. Still do. I've always had a soft spot for Agatha Christie's novels, if I'm honest.

I was engrossed in one of the games, I can't remember which, and completely forgot about the videotapes in my bag. It wasn't until I looked at the clock with stinging eyes and saw that it was gone midnight, that I remembered they were sitting there. I had an old TV and VCR in my room, so I figured I'd watch one of them with headphones on before bed. I pulled a tape out my bag at random and slid it into the machine, set everything up and began to watch.

The next moment changed my life. I'll try to describe it here, but you have to understand how hard it is. I've never told anybody this before. There are some details that I just can't reproduce. Some things I'd really rather forget.

The video began in a forest. There was a time stamp in the bottom right corner of the screen. 10/06/94.

The camera was moving, with a girl walking with her back to the lens, her feet crunching through a carpet of leaves. Her face wasn't visible. She had long brown hair that reached beyond her shoulders, nearly to the small of her back. She was carrying a familiar-looking bag.

Eventually she stopped and began inspecting a tree. She pulled what appeared to be a knife from her pocket and, I can only assume, proceeded to carve something onto the trunk. I later found out what this was. I saw it for myself.

The camera was placed down and attached to a tripod, I guess. A male figure walked into shot. At a suitable distance away, he turned to the camera. It was Jim.

Jim walked up to the girl and placed his hands on her arms, gesturing to the camera. Their voices were muffled. She turned, and looked.

Kirsty.

I remember, then, my heart pounding in my chest so hard that I thought I'd pass out. My head was ringing. I couldn't understand the images on screen.

I kept watching.

Jim kissed Kirsty on the lips, and she kissed him back. They embraced passionately, leaning back against the tree. Jim pulled off Kirsty's brown jumper. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. I thought she looked cold.

They carried on kissing, Jim's hand groping Kirsty's breasts hungrily, pinching her nipples until she moaned. He pulled his own t-shirt off, and the two of them rubbed up against each other, Kirsty's back to the tree, her eyes occasionally flicking over Jim's shoulder to the camera. It felt like she was looking at me.

I could see, now, Jim fumbling at Kirsty's belt. She pushed his hand away, the ghost of a smile on her face. She shook her head. It looked like she was saying "not here". She pointed at the camera.

Jim's hands went back to her belt. She pushed them away again, harder this time. She pointed at the camera again, and Jim looked back at it angrily. He grabbed Kirsty's shoulders and shook her. She pulled away from him and slapped him. The crack of her palm hitting his cheek was audible on the tape.

Jim raised his hand and hit Kirsty. She stumbled backwards. The detail wasn't clear, but I was sure I could see tears welling up in her eyes.

Jim pushed her, square in the chest. Already stumbling, Kirsty fell back, her head hitting the tree.

I felt the blow myself. My stomach felt weak. I was suddenly very, very cold.

Kirsty crumpled to the ground. Jim glanced back at the camera again, then knelt down and shook her. I saw him put his hand on the back of the head, then inspect something on his fingers. Blood, I figured.

By now, I thought I'd already guessed how this would end. But I was wrong. It was far worse than I could have imagined.

I watched. I watched the whole disgusting, sordid ordeal. He lasted about two minutes, the on-screen timer said. It felt like a lot longer. I wasn't sure if she was dead already.

She wasn't. Her hands rose up and began beating a weak rhythm on Jim's back. I could see her trying to push him off her, could hear muffled moans of pain.

Jim raised his shoulders back and punched her in the head. Her hands pushed at him once more, then she was still.

Jim rolled off her, exposing his nakedness to the camera. I remember noticing he was smaller than I'd expected. It's strange what you think about when you're scared, I guess.

He stood up and pulled his trousers up, buttoning them. Crouching down again, he reached into Kirsty's pocket, her jeans now bunched around her ankles. I could see she was breathing, albeit very shallowly. Her breasts rose and fell gently.

She looked peaceful.

Jim pulled the small knife out of her pocket. He didn't even stop to think. He did, however, look at the camera and smile. His winning white smile.

It chilled me to the bone. It was the scariest thing I'd ever seen in my life, that smile. I still don't think I've seen anything worse.

But yeah, he didn't even stop to think. He just walked over to Kirsty's head, bent down, and jammed the knife deep into her throat, jumping away quickly before the blood came.

I was watching. There was surprisingly little blood. He must have pierced her windpipe rather than an artery, I figured. Just a tiny pool of blood on a few dead leaves.

Kirsty didn't breathe again.

Jim got up and walked to the camera, out of shot. For a few seconds, the image of Kirsty lingered on screen. It was her. No doubt. Then everything turned to snow.

I hit the Stop button on the VCR. I remember thinking "Jim... my Jim, what have you done?" and it sounded so melodramatic, but I'd never felt so sick in my life. I went to bed, as if hoping that it would all turn out to be a dream.

It wasn't, obviously.

I told my parents I was sick. I stayed in my room for most of the weekend. And I watched the tape maybe ten times. I'm not ashamed to say this. I didn't get some kind of morbid enjoyment from it. Each time I watched it, I felt worse. But I had to, I had to understand. It was as if I was hoping that on one repeat viewing, some hitherto unseen answer would be revealed. That there would, one time, be a final scene where it was all some big joke. That good, Christian, kind Jim hadn't just killed the girl I used to love.

Nothing changed, did it? Of course not. The only revelation I had was that Jim must know I had the tape. That must have been why he'd wanted to speak to me so urgently.

I probably should have felt afraid then, for my own safety. But I didn't. I think, even after what I'd seen, that I expected Jim to have an explanation.

I could have gone to the police with it. I could have ended it that weekend. I don't know why I didn't. I was a seventeen year old kid; making sensible decisions wasn't my strong point.

On Monday I went to school. Jim was standing by the lockers when I got there. I could feel his eyes on my face from half-way down the corridor. I walked up to him and stood there in silence. He looked me up and down. He must have sensed that something had changed.

"Come to mine after school," was all he said. We didn't speak another word to each other all day.

We didn't walk to his together. I arrived a bit later. Jim let me in. Nobody else was home, but it didn't occur to me, even under those circumstances, to be afraid. It was Jim. My mate. The one who always stuck by me. He wouldn't do anything to hurt ME...

"It's not what it looks like... right?" I asked him when we were sitting in his room. He was cross-legged on the bed. He looked then more like a little boy than a man. I'd never seen him so vulnerable.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid it is." His eyes shone.

"What happened after? After the tape ends, I mean?"

"I walked home. I brought the camera with me. I just left her there, to start with. Deep in the woods. Then I went back later with a spade. I dug, and dug, until I'd dug the deepest hole I could. Deep enough so she'd stay hidden. I rolled her in there. I didn't even dress her, man. The knife was still in her throat, for the love of God. It still is. I feel so, so terrible about that more than anything. I put the bloodstained leaves in next. And then I buried it all. Over six feet deep." He breathed out heavily, like telling me this had taken a lot of effort. It probably had, to be honest.

"Surely they could have found her?"

"I don't know. Maybe. She's pretty deep."

"Where?"

"Right there. By that tree. Please don't go there, man..."

I looked at him.

"Why, Jim? Why did you do it?"

He looked sad. Mortified. Genuinely guilty. "It's hard being me, you know?"

I looked at him skeptically. I didn't know.

"I mean, it's hard being so perfect all the time. It's not an act, far from it, I LIKE being a nice person. I like going to church, doing good things, being good at things, treating people well. I think I love Jen. I want to marry her one day. But sometimes, y'know... being me becomes a bit oppressive. I snap. I do crazy things."

Things. Plural. I didn't ask. I don't think I'll ever want to know.

"Jim, Jim, Jim..." I said. It sounded stupid, but what else was there to say?

"What are you going to do?" He looked terrified. "You obviously haven't told the police. They'd have been here already. Have you kept the tape?"

"I have it with me," I told him. In retrospect, it was a very stupid thing to say. He could easily have overpowered me. But instead, he just sat there on the bed, rocking slightly. Tears were threatening to overflow from his eyes.

"What are you going to do?" he asked again.

Well... what could I do? He was my best friend. Still is. I took the tape out of my bag and handed it to him.

"Don't worry," I said, a dopey grin on my face. "I haven't copied it or anything. It's yours. We'll... pretend it never happened or something."

I knew, in my heart, that I could never do such a thing. But it was Jim, you know? I couldn't lose him. For all the things he'd done for me over the years, I actually felt good about being able to do something in return.

Jim looked at me through his tears. For the first time that day, he smiled.

"I love you, man."

My heart lurched.

"I love you too, Jim."

He put the tape in the floor safe. I asked him why he'd kept it in the first place, and why he wasn't just going to destroy it now. He told me, with what I believe to be genuine remorse, that destroying it would feel like killing her completely. At least she was still here, in some small part.

He asked me to change the combination of the safe and never tell him the code. He also asked me not to look inside as I did so. I was more than happy to comply.

I still remember the number I changed it to. Ten Thirty Ten Eighty. It was one of those old dial safes. Jim showed me how to change it, while I did my best to avert my eyes from the other things in the safe. I thought I could see Polaroids. I really didn't want to know.

The floor safe was under a floorboard, which in turn was under a rug. He nailed the floorboard back in place. He told me, as he did so, that nobody would find the safe unless they were looking for it. He also said something about Kirsty being at peace in there. I have to confess, I thought he was a little crazy. I didn't say anything though. Let him appease his guilty conscience like that if he must. God knows, he's done enough GOOD things too.

I think I would have made a good actor. The performance I pulled that summer was fantastic. Not once did anybody think that anything had gone on between Jim and I. We never even mentioned the incident to each other. Never. Not once, not to this very day. After a time, the performance became reality and we were best friends again. Nothing had ever come between us, and hopefully nothing ever would.

We finished school. My grades weren't bad. Jim's were excellent. He gave the leaving speech at our school ball. We even drunkenly shared a dance together. Everybody laughed. It was funny.

We went to different universities, but we stayed in touch. We met up in the holidays, back home in Brum, in our cozy little suburbs. We hung out at Jim's house, sometimes in his room, both of us knowing what lay beneath the floor, but neither of us giving voice to the knowledge. Ever.

One day, in my third year, I went against Jim's wishes. I went to the forest. It took me the best part of three hours to find Kirsty's final resting place. There was the tree, carved with initials over the years. Hundreds of knife marks etching out young love. And in amongst the meaningless letters, I saw, carved there, KJ 4 JH.

Kirsty Jacobs for James Harrington.

I hadn't considered until then that she had loved him. I'd never asked him why they were even there in the first place. I guess it's not my place to know...

Jim lives in London now, an ocean apart from me. I live in the Land of the Free. But I was back in England a couple weeks ago actually, on business. I paid Jim a surprise visit. He was pleased to see me. Jen's pregnant now. It'll be their second kid. Their daughter's lovely. She's five. Really smart. Takes after her dad, I guess.

I paid a visit to my folks while I was home too, and drove past Jim's old house. New family living there. I can't help but marvel at the fact that after all these years, the floor safe hasn't been found. Not to mention Kirsty's body. After a while, the police stopped looking. She's still reported as a missing person, I think. I guess it would take a decent tip-off for them to reopen the case.

I don't ask, but I wonder... does Jim exercise his crazy side these days? He's not such a saint any more. Maybe he doesn't need to. Working in the legal profession, you can't afford to be Mr. Nice Guy all the time, can you? He's a partner in a law firm. An old outfit, Renfield & Sons or something. Jen's an interior designer. They're doing very well for themselves. I'd like to say I'm happy for them...

I've just given away too much, haven't I?

I can't really deny it any more, I guess. I want people to know. I can't live with the guilt of keeping his secret any more.

I'm sorry, Jim. Not all of us can handle things like this.

I've sent an abridged version of my confession to Scotland Yard. Abridged in that it would be extremely hard to identify me. I don't know if I'd be guilty of conspiracy to cover up murder or something. I have no idea how the law works there. Jim would know I suppose, he's a solicitor. Can't really ask him though can I?

I've told them everything I'm willing to share. The combination to the safe, the location of the body. If they follow my lead, they'll soon have the tape in their possession. I should imagine an arrest will follow. They should, eventually, find her bones. I doubt any of Jim's DNA will be found though. That might work in his favor But I doubt it, the rest of the evidence is pretty damning.

Jim. I'm sorry.

Goodbye.

Oh... you're still reading? I know what you're thinking. You know everything about Jim but nothing about me, right? If you've paid enough attention, you'll probably have notice that I never even told you my name.

Okay, fine, I'll tell you a little bit about myself. I was born and raised in Birmingham, an only child. Went to school there. Left school, went to Uni. Finished Uni. Moved to America. To California.

I work in Hollywood. Nothing glamorous, I should add. I'm a freelance digital video and image technician . I've worked with some of the top production companies though. It's quite amazing really, what you can do with computers these days. Some of the effects I've created, even if I do say so myself, are infallible in their perfection. Things have come a long way these days. You could put anybody anywhere, with the right image modification tools. You've probably seen my work in some movies, but you won't know it. You're supposed to believe it, not wonder who created it. One of my most common tasks, though, is digitally recreating a deceased actor, so the continuity of the film isn't affected if they snuff it half-way through. It can take one hell of a long time though, but then I'm quite a patient person. I've done things with my life that have taken over ten years to implement, after all. So yeah, it's fun work all told.

Other things... hmm... what else do you want to know? Oh... I've got one. When I was growing up I had a best friend called Jim. We've stayed in touch. I think you've probably heard of him (I'd be laughing now if this were a spoken conversation). I was best man at his wedding... I mentioned that, right?

I know he only asked me out of duty. I've always been his charity case. I wish I knew if he'd ever actually liked me for me, rather than because I was that slightly weird one whom he could befriend. Was. I'm different now.

I guess that's why I can tell people these things about him after all this time. I'm my own person; I can't be held back by that one terrible thing he did. The one that I know about anyway. Who knows what else they'll find in his floor safe. Make no mistake, I've always been incredibly grateful that he let me bask in his glorious light for so long, that he pitied me enough to care what I thought.

And I feel guilty, sure, that I'll be ruining his boring marriage to his boring wife, taking a boring father away from a boring daughter and an unborn child, who is also probably going to grow up to be somewhat boring.

I lied when I said I was his best friend. It felt like that, when I was with him. It felt like that to whoever was with him. He made everyone feel like they were the only person who mattered to him. Until he was with someone else.

Who knows what else was true about our friendship? I find it hard to follow these days. He confuses me, always did. I think we can all agree that the evidence proves he's done some terrible things though, and that justice will be righteous. But still...

I wonder if he has a mistress who'll miss him when he's locked up. At the very least, there'll be some girl working at the law firm who thinks he loves her. He was always good at leading people on. He claimed it was 'accidental'. I don't know what to believe about him any more. It's tearing me apart. It would never surprise me if one day, someone got their own back. Someone bitter, perhaps. It's amazing what you could convince people of with time and technology.

It's okay. Don't tell me. I know what you're thinking this time. You've just started talking about Jim again. You've barely said anything about yourself... Damn, I'm good at this. Preempting things. Planning ahead.

Yeah, okay. You'd say "You've told us WHAT you are... your job, your life, but not WHO you are."

Well, if this exchange was Verbal, in person, I'd probably run my hands through my silky, dark hair. I'd smile at you, a flash of teeth that seems to win all the girls over. I'd adopt a confident pose, a far cry from the awkward teenager I claim I used to be.

I'd smile at you, and I'd explain it in terms we'd both understand.

Luke, I am your father. I'm Bruce Willis, a ghost the whole time. I'm an alien planet, really Earth. I am Jack's smirking revenge.

Or perhaps I'd look at you, my blank face hidden by a mask of charm, and would simply say...

I'm Keyser Söze.

Wink.

XIV - Fusion

It's a hot, dry night. The kind of night which makes your clothes stick to your body, dampness creeping up your spine as you feel uncomfortable in your own skin. There's not a breeze around. No respite from the burning darkness.

The stars are shining. The only unnatural light is the bulb flickering on the porch of the small gas-station nearly a mile away. The land is perfectly flat and I can see for miles in any direction. Even in this darkness, the moon glows and gives me a view of the desert. Sand, dust, a long lonely road which rarely plays host to travelers.

Only two kinds of people come this way.

The chair is hard against my back, the old wood still as firm as the day it was shaped. It creaks slightly as I shift my weight and then silence.

My hands rest in my lap as I close my eyes and listen to the words of a man who knows he is going to die.

Fifty two minutes and four seconds later, it's over. He's told me everything he needed to say.

As usual the words make little sense to me. They move me, but they're not aimed at me. They never were. They were for him, and him alone.

I stand up and the chair legs scrape along the decking slightly, disturbing the peace. My hands are cold but the heat remains. In the distance a cloud of flies is hovering over something. Maybe a dead coyote. Maybe more.

I turn and enter the house.

She lies sleeping in the twin bed. Her breasts rise and fall under the thin sheet, her mouth open slightly in a smile. Her hand is resting beside her head on the pillow, curled into a half-fist. Softly I walk over to her and place my hand in hers. She murmurs something in her sleep, something that makes her smile more. Her hand grips mine and I tense, wondering if she will wake. She does not.

So young. So pure. Just married, living out in the middle of nowhere with the hopes of starting a family someday, content with a simple existence.

I almost feel regret.

I tell her I love her and leave the room.

Into the kitchen, standing by the window.

There is a small, fenced-off yard. Near the end of the yard is a shed in which sits a dormant generator. No sense in firing it up in the night-time.

Beside the shed it sits. The motorcycle, skeletal and ruined.

Best not to think about it.

I have to walk past it to get to the shed. I try not to look.

I don't look.

I can't hear any more. It's too hot.

The inside of the shed is almost entirely black. Tiny pinpricks of moonlight shine through gaps in the wooden walls, but they do not light the way. I reach into my pocket and take out my gas lighter. Its meager flame is enough to help me find what I want.

Outside, and unexpectedly the wind rises in electrical crescendo. Clouds of sand are kicked up from the desert floor, the grains dancing a crazy pirouette then settling back down. The breeze is not refreshing. It's suffocating. I cover my mouth and go back into the house. There is nothing else out here for me.

I tread carefully through the kitchen, careful to avoid the creaking floorboard near the sink.

Back into the bedroom. She's moved now. One hand is resting by her side, the other lightly touching her cheek. There's no trace of a smile on her lips now. Only pure, blissful peace.

It makes what I'm about to do easier.

I'm clutching my prize from the shed tightly in my hand. My palm is slick with sweat. Heat or nervousness? The former. It weighs me down.

The guitar is heavy. It feels unfamiliar to me. It's been too long.

Gently I place it on the end of the bed, holding my breath in case the shift in weight stirs my wife. It does not.

I kneel beside the bed and reach under blindly. Somehow my hands connect with what I'm looking for. A case. I pull it out from under the bed as silently as I can.

Then, with case and guitar in hand I go back outside onto the porch.

He's waiting for me. The man in black.

We do not say a word to each other. I set the case on the chair and unfasten the clasps, rusted with age.

The contents look new, as they always do. I remove them one by one. The shoes. The shirt. The glasses. I catch a faint smell of days past, the smell of sweat and young enthusiasm. On the wind I hear the whisper of crowds cheering, idealistic youths calling my name. Of the first chord being drawn from a guitar, the first beat being struck on the drum. The crackle of the microphone.

Every ending is a beginning.

I stand before the man in black. The uniform is on. The mask is pulled down over my eyes once again.

He nods to me again and leads me to the dark limousine sitting a few feet away from the house. I did not hear it arrive. He holds the door open for me and I sink into the air-conditioned interior of the car, handing him my guitar as I do.

He places it in the trunk, carefully.

The man in black gets into the front of the limo, into the driver's seat.

He turns to look at me, a wry smile on his face?

"Where to, sir?"

"I think you know," I tell him.

He knows. He always knows.

The car starts with a low hum. Clouds of dust are kicked up as we begin to drive off, heading away from the house onto that lonely road. I do not look back. I never do.

"Driver faster." I tell the man in black. "Drive faster than the Devil."

He looks into the rear-view mirror with amusement.

"But sir," the man in black says, "the Devil's riding with us."

I nod and smile. It's the usual exchange.

We're going to see the bright lights tonight. We're going to make you feel like you belong tonight. Tonight, we will change lives. Like a rush of blood to the head, like a shock to the heart, rock and roll will never die.

Will the mask ever slip for you? Can you look beyond the smile, the happiness? Can you taste the subtlety?

One of these days, I tell myself, I'll stop. One of these days, I tell myself, I'll retire to that house in the desert, with my beautiful woman, grow old and die in the dust, forgotten and complacent and happy. But not today.

And deep down I know I'll die out here, on the road, on stage, in a hotel room. We all do, one way or another. We never get out. We can't get out, it's not how we are. We wouldn't want it any other way, any of us. Not me, not them, and especially not him.

I miss you, old man. You goddamn son-of-a-bitch. I miss you. I miss you all.

XV - Acronyms

'Dear T. Bohan,' the email began, 'we are writting to offer up a fantastic, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to you.'

Terrence rolled his eyes almost immediately. Another spam message, no doubt. Nigerians. Had to be. Always was. Still, he thought, it could be good for a laugh. It's been days since Comedy Tie Day. The office could do with cheering up.

With much enlightenment, we present glorious times henchforth! Why take a picnic when you can eat with a lunch of courses four. The sun is shining and the days ahead are surely bright! We create a GSOH, that is what we do. Sign up today! Secure your finances with more security than a ISA can provided! Sign up now! Do not miss this opporunity! You're feeling lucky!

Terrence could not help but smile at the paragraph; misspellings, broken English and all. If there was one thing you could say about the Nigerian scammers it was that they always seemed like a happy, earnest bunch.

For just some time only, BOGOF now, get a friends on board! It changes your life. Sign up, thank you.

R.S.V.P.

SPR

A slight chill ran down Terrence's spine. This was odd. No mention of any actual product or service, no contact address or telephone number, and the signature was unfamiliar. SPR, an acronym. In fact the whole email was riddled with them inappropriately. All the others made sense, though. But SPR? It hardly instilled confidence, even in a scam ring.

"Perhaps they're just getting creative," Terrence muttered to himself. Iva, the Russian temp, looked up from her desk opposite with a quizzical look. Terrence allowed himself a minute to admire the cute way Iva's nose scrunched up when she was concentrating, then diverted his attentions back to the email. The sender, like the signature, was listed as 'SPR'. He checked out the address properties. A load of nonsense.

"That wouldn't even work as an email address!" Terrence exclaimed, a bit too loudly. Iva looked up again, this time cocking her head to one side, puzzled. Terrence just smiled and looked away. When he looked back, Iva was engrossed in work once more.

Something about the email was bugging Terrence. Perhaps it was the fact that, for a scam, it was the most useless he'd ever seen. Or perhaps it was the fact that the company's filter should have eliminated the message before it reached him.. Most of the amusing scams came from personal emails rather than company ones.

But no, it wasn't any of that. It was SPR. What in the blue hell could it mean?

"What in the blue hell could it mean?" Terrence asked himself. Iva sighed.

"What is it?" she asked, this time without even looking up. Her voice had an expected foreign lilt that nonetheless Terrence found intimidating every time he heard it.

"Nah, nothing," he muttered. "Just some work. You wouldn't be interested."

Iva shrugged and turned back to her computer, already typing away. She was really quite pretty, Terrence decided, in a mysterious sort of way.

"Hey, you know the old joke that starts 'In Soviet Russia...'?" Terrence said suddenly. Iva jumped and almost dropped the pen she was holding. Terrence thought about apologizing, but an idea had formed in his head and he needed to be sure.

"Yes," Iva said quietly. "What about it?"

"Is there any way that Soviet Russia could have a P in the middle."

"Ummm..." Iva pondered this for a moment, crinkling her nose up again. "Soviet Prussia? But that does not really mean anything."

"I mean more like, Soviet Paper Russia," Terrence explained. "To form the acronym, SPR."

"I do not think so," Iva said quietly after a while.

"If you think of anything, can you let me know?"

The girl nodded.

Terrence flicked between his spreadsheet and the email. Progress had been made on neither. Almost an hour had passed. Terrence glanced around the silent office. Outside, rain was pounding against the windowpanes like misery was going out of fashion. Everyone else in the room seemed to have their heads down, eyes to the screens.

"Here, Shift, take a look at this," Terrence whispered, turning in his swiveling office chair.

Shift was named as such due to his refusal to ever use the Caps Lock button on his keyboard. Nobody knew the explanation for this, but it had prompted the nickname so nobody much cared. Terrence occasionally felt resentful that he had never been given a catchy nickname. On the other hand, it could mean he had no discernible quirks or weird behavioral patterns. Something that Laura, his ex-girlfriend, would most definitely disagree with, Terrence often mused.

Shift was a fully-fledged western Otaku. As he turned in his chair to look in Terrence's direction, he knocked over a small action figure of a scantily clad animé girl. Terrence darted down and caught it before it hit the floor, placing it carefully next to Shift's mouse mat. Shift didn't seem to notice.

The two men studied the email for a while, Shift rocking back and forth on his seat (upon which he sat backwards). Overhead, just above the door to the boss's office, the clock was ticking loudly. Still over an hour until lunch, Terrence realized

"So, what do you make of it?"

Shift pulled a confused face and adjusted his hair while he contemplated the question. "Maybe it's from the bank," he said finally.

"I don't think so," Terrence countered. "Look at the address." He showed Shift the properties. glory@dawn.

"No dot anything?"

"Nothing. A mask, or something."

Shift chuckled enigmatically. "All men wear masks."

"Enough of this pseudo-cryptic nonsense," Terrence grumbled, somewhat irate. "I want answers. Any ideas what SPR could mean?"

'Yes!' Shift seemed suddenly animated, as if proud of his discovery. 'It's that movie, isn't it? With Forrest Gump and Matt Damon.'

Terrence had to fight the urge to put his face in his hands. "I hardly think so."

Shift gave him a nonplussed wave of the hand. "Could be. Never know."

Terrence was entirely unconvinced. He exchanged a few token pleasantries with Shift, then made it clear he was dismissing his friend. Shift turned back, again knocking over the action figure. This time Terrence ignored it.

Lunch was over, the spreadsheet was still unfinished and the email sat open on Terrence's computer screen, taunting him in the migraine-inducing way an item on a computer screen can. The rest of his co-workers were sluggishly making their way back to their desks, full from coffee and vacuum-sealed sandwiches. Only Iva was yet to return.

"SPR, SPR, SPR," Terrence said, taking advantage of Iva's absence to speak his mind. "I suppose I should resort to that last oasis in a desperate man's desert."

Quickly he navigated his browser to Google. Google wouldn't let him down. It never let him down. With shaking hands, he typed SPR into the search field and hovered his cursor over the Google Search button. Something about the layout of the search engine was niggling at him; something familiar yet suddenly eerie. He disliked the feeling, couldn't place it.

Terrence realized he was holding his breath. The whole office was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the clicking of the keyboards. His index finger was poised over the left mouse button.

"Ahoy-ho!" Shift's loud voice, coupled with a palmslap to the shoulder, jolted Terrence off-focus. He jumped an inch in his seat, then whirled around to face his friend.

"What!" he exclaimed in a shrill voice that didn't sound like his own. He coughed, trying to mask his nervousness. "What is it? I'm really busy here!"

Shift recoiled in his chair, looking disgruntled. "Uh, sorry pal. It's just I thought of something else SPR could mean."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's something from an animé. I can't believe I didn't think of this before. It has to be this!"

Terrence nodded and smiled, pretending to listen to the spiel that Shift was coming out with. Who cared about any of that? Terrence had never been into cartoons, even as a child.

When it seemed like Shift had finished, he thanked him for the idea and spun away, determined to ignore the man for the rest of the day.

SPR still waited in the search field, begging for Terrence to click. This time, he closed his eyes and put his hand on the mouse, deathly still, summoning up the courage to press down hard on that button. His finger hovered, and began to fall.

Suddenly the door to the office slammed shut and Iva's voice could be heard quietly, greeting the receptionist. Terrence jolted just as his finger made contact. His eyes flew open to see the mouse cursor shift slightly right, coming to rest on the I'm Feeling Lucky option. An unexplained sense of dread began to trickle through him. Lucky. Well maybe he would be. The page began to load.

"Society for Psychical Research," Terrence read aloud, as the website came into focus. "Hmm."

The organization seemed to be a group dedicated to the examination of psychic phenomena using scientific means. Terrence's heart began to beat faster. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps he, a lowly office worker, had been subconsciously giving out some kind of psychic energy, a signal to those 'in the know' that he was a man of immense, untapped power. His mother had always said he was destined for great things after all, back in the family home in Bristol. And he'd always felt special, too. Yes, maybe this was it! The SPR had picked up his signal and had decided to contact him, to train and teach him in the ways of telepathy. Maybe he'd become a spy, a remote spy, using his projected vision to see inside bunkers and war rooms. Or maybe a field general, hurling tanks and rival soldiers around with telekinesis. The latter seemed appealing to Terrence.

When Iva approached Terrence a while later, he was deep in concentration staring at his coffee mug.

"I would like to borrow a stapler, if you... what are you doing?" Iva asked. There was a faint, amused quality to her voice.

"Shhh," Terrence whispered, irritated. "I'm trying to move this with my mind."

Iva let out a tiny shriek and scuttled over to the water cooler and out of sight. Terrence tried to ignore the distraction.

The coffee mug remained stationary.

An hour later, all Terrence had to show for his efforts were a migraine and a spreadsheet that was still going nowhere. He thought he'd made a breakthrough when the mug shuddered slightly, but it had turned out to be vibrations caused by Shift careering about on his swivel chair, like some kind of white-collar rollercoaster ride.

Okay, so maybe telekinesis wasn't Terrence's forte. Time to crank it up a gear. Iva was still at her desk, clearly trying to avoid Terrence's eyes. He began to focus on her, on her brain, delving deep within her subconscious to read her thoughts.

Five minutes. Nothing. Ten minutes. Nothing. Iva had noticed Terrence staring at her now, and was looking around uneasily, every now and then giving him a nervous smile. Terrence just stared blankly at her.

Finally he gave up. Absolutely no results. That settled it. He wasn't psychic, nor was the email from the Society of Psychical Research. Back to the drawing board then. One step further than Google.

Wikipedia served only to confuse Terrence further. Amongst other results he found a rifle, an airport, a petrol company and an organization called Stop Prisoner Rape, Inc. Terrence didn't think any of these applied to him. With a disgusted sigh he closed his browser. It was nearing five, and the spreadsheet wouldn't spread itself. The email would have to wait until the next day, Terrence realized sadly. Maybe he could forward it to his personal email, then he could muse over it at home.

"Nyet!" Iva exclaimed, as if answering his thoughts. She was looking at Terrence with a panicked expression.

"What's up?"

"I can't use the computer, it's broken."

Terrence stood up from his desk and walked around to Iva's side. She had her browser open, with 'page cannot be displayed' clearly visible. Terrence noticed another tab open. She'd been browsing Facebook; a big no-no during work hours. He wondered if he should report it, then decided he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Smiling politely at Iva, he leaned over her shoulder and clicked the Refresh button. The page, a stocks and finances site, refused to load. He tried another. Nothing. Tried Google. Nothing.

Back at his own desk, he tried his. The office internet was most definitely down. He explained as much to Iva, then went back to work, waiting for the service to resume.

The spreadsheet was nearly finished. Shift had been out somewhere, and came walking back in looking gloomy.

"It's not gonna be fixed until tomorrow now," he grumbled. "I was in the middle of torrenting as well."

Terrence had no idea what that was. It took him a moment to realize he could no longer forward the email either. In his desperation, he considered breaking company policy and printing it out, before deciding that even in a crisis such as this one must adhere to the rules and refrain from using office company equipment for personal use.

Tomorrow would be fine.

Outside the office building, he bid Shift, Iva and the other workers a farewell and walked left. They were all off down the pub, but Terrence didn't much fancy it for once. SPR was stuck in his head, and leaving any time soon.

The rain had eased up a bit now, just a light drizzle. It was already beginning to get dark, and Terrence stopped to wrap his overcoat around himself tightly; the chill of Winter was setting in. Few cars drove past as the streetlight's glow popped into existence, bathing the area of pavement on which Terrence stood in an eerie golden light. Terrence quickly walked on, looking straight ahead and down.

He sensed the car before he saw it, slowing to a crawl beside him. He glanced right to see a tinted window rolling down.

"Mr. Bohan?" The voice was male. Terrence peered at the window, never slowing his pace. He could just about discern the silhouette of a man sitting inside, wearing sunglasses.

"Mr. Bohan," the man said again. Something in his tone commanded Terrence to stop.

"Hello?"

Quickly, the car doors opened and two men jumped out. They grabbed Terrence by either arm and ushered him into the vehicle. They then closed the doors, remaining outside, and the car began to drive. Terrence tried to protest, but his voice was feeble over the crinkling of the black leather seats.

A figure, Terrence realized, was sitting opposite. A man.

"Good evening, Mr. Bohan," he said. His face was shrouded in darkness. Something about his voice didn't sound right to Terrence. A hissing, grating sound just below the words.

"Good... evening?" Terrence said timidly, not wanting to offend. "Hello."

"I'm hurt," the man said bluntly. "We sent you the most illustrious of offers, and you weren't interested!"

Terrence stifled a girlish, nervous giggle. "The spam email?" This had to be some kind of joke Shift had orchestrated.

In the darkness, the man nodded. "We don't extend our generosity to just anyone, you know."

"But it was just a load of rubbish, wasn't it?" Terrence asked. "Nobody believes those things."

The man let out a low, guttural chuckle. "If you say so. People believe all sorts."

"So what is SPR then?" Terrence asked, suddenly feeling as if the joke had gone too far. Even Shift wouldn't resort to kidnapping.

"I'm afraid that information is only available from jade echelon rank upwards," the man explained sadly.

"Are you a Nigerian scammer?" Terrence blurted out, although he thought he already knew the answer to that.

Shift arrived late to the office the next day. Everyone was busy doing whatever it was the other office workers do. Shift had never really given it any thought. He noticed, however, that Terrence's desk was empty. That wasn't like him. He never missed a day; even that time he'd had the flu, he'd dragged himself to his desk. Maybe he'd taken an impromptu holiday.

In Shift's email inbox sat a message with the subject header 'FYI; TWIMC'. He opened it.

On a dark stormie night many years ago, a man woz walking home frum work. He stoped 2 talk 2 sum

men in a car, and woz never seen again. Wot happened to him was 2 terifying 2 even

mention but he woz killed 4 ignorin da chain mail he got earlier in da day.

But his ghost, skinless an decomposing, still roams da streets lukin 4 people that he cn get his revenge on.

If u do not forward dis chain mail to 10 peopl

den the ghost ov da man will kill u in ur sleep!

If u do forward it to 10 people wivin 3 days

den the person u love will want 2 kiss u on friday.

Trust me this really works!!! xxx SPR

Shift rolled his eyes. What a heap of crap. His cursor hovered over the 'Delete' button. Then his gaze drifted over to Iva. Maybe she would kiss him on Friday if he sent the mail on. Couldn't hurt, right? Besides, something about it made his skin crawl.

Outside, it was raining again. A creature; a lizard maybe, something reptilian, scuttled across the glass. Shift clicked 'forward', opened up his contacts list, clicked 'add all', then 'send'. He sat back, relieved.

Over at her desk, Iva looked up at him and smiled. Her tongue, long and thin, danced over her lips.

Shift smiled back.

XVI - So Long, Good Luck, And Thanks For All The Memories

You'll hate this one. I don't know if I should start with the part where I was at home, getting changed and ready for the party, putting my mask on (which is partly a metaphor for obvious reasons) and generally preparing. I could start there, but it's actually entirely inconsequential and I don't really know what I'd say beyond what you've just read. So just pretend I've said all that and we'll skip forward like a game of hopscotch, fast-forwarding through the journey in the taxi where the driver wouldn't shut up about the Lakers game that afternoon. Ignore the part where I got out the taxi, walked into the club after giving my name and being confirmed as being 'on the list' (and aren't we all 'on the list' at some time or another?) and then just pretend we got here with no fuss.

It began in a club. It was one of those clubs where lonely, desperate people go because they're lonely and desperate and also sympathetic. They know that out there, in these lonely, desperate clubs are other lonely and desperate people who, with the right sweet-talking, drink or date-rape drugs will come home with them and fuck them empty and emptily until they're swallowed by the night and/or AIDS.

I often go to clubs like that one, but I've never been lonely, desperate, or even sympathetic, so I've said. I go there because they often play good music, they serve cocktails and they're not at all pretentious. Sometimes they always give away complimentary matchbooks, and who doesn't want a complimentary matchbook or ten? Not me, oh Western Desperado, I'd love some, thanks.

The point was, this club was familiar to me and tonight was a night like any other, only it was totally different this time. This is because for one night only, like Bruce Springsteen or Bill Hicks, the club was booked out for a special party. I was invited to that party. As you know, I was on the list like everyone else there apart from, I should imagine, the staff. It didn't seem prudent to ask the barman, for instance, if he was on the list. His name was Floyd, like something out of a horror movie if you're hard of hearing.

The party was an office party, and you know what they're like unless you've never worked in an office, in which case you don't. It was a "Goodbye, Sorry You Are Leaving, Great Excuse To Get Blind Drunk" party to be precise. The person who was leaving was a man called Bob From Accounts. I assume his name wasn't actually that, but when I asked people that's what they said. Parties are always for someone 'From Accounts'. Nobody who works outside of Accounts ever officially leaves, they either disappear or die like daytime soap stars or Corey Feldman.

So I was at my third-favorite club to celebrate the passing of Bob From Accounts, who by all accounts was a man with absolutely no remarkable traits. I don't think Bob From Accounts ever showed up to a party, definitely not that party anyway, and a voice in the back of my head still insists to this day that he was an admin error, which may seem less likely than the fact he could be living in Florida.

It was quiet when I got inside, the kind of quiet that you'd only find in a club playing loud music when it's half-full of people. People seemed to be standing everywhere on their own, sipping from plastic champagne chutes and glaring at the 'Goodbye Bob' banner which hung limply across the ceiling. Somewhere there was a buffet but nobody seemed interested in finding it.

The point was, I wanted a drink and champagne just wouldn't cut it, so I gave my coat to a cute but ugly girl behind a cute but ugly desk and took a ticket, which read '13'. I wondered if the tickets were in no particular order, or if only twelve other people had brought coats, but again it wasn't prudent to ask so instead I winked at the girl, who chewed her fingernails in defiance.

At the bar there were stools, as you might expect. I sat on one which happened to be next to another one, on which someone else sat. It was a woman. The someone, not the stool. First things first though, it was time to order a drink.

"Hello Floyd," I said in the general direction of Floyd the barman.

Floyd walked over to me, polishing a glass in front of his crotch. It made him look like Jesse James but at least five minutes older. He had an earring in one ear depicting a flamboyant crucifix. I waved in a kind of psychic way and he seemed to get it.

"I'll have a Live Broadcast please," I told him politely, imagining the cocktail into existence

"Certainly, one Live Broadcast coming right up," Floyd told me, more or less, then began to shake the silver until the drink was really mine.

I took a sip. It tasted like crap.

"Floyd, this isn't a Live Broadcast," I said indignantly.

"It is," he replied, his young face beset with the kind of worry that only people in Arkansas can muster, even though this didn't happen in that state.

That settled it then, and the drink tasted like good things, in the way I'd imagine a pop star to taste after they'd embarked on a movie career and done a nude shoot for the cover of a magazine.

It was time to turn my attentions away from the barman and onto the woman to my immediate right. As I suspected she hadn't gone anywhere and was instead drinking red wine through a curly straw, which I found both delightful and repulsive.

"Hello," I said to her and she turned and made eye contact and I knew that soon we would be fucking like Christmas.

"Hi," she replied giddily, overcome with something.

"Nice to see you here," I told her, meaning it. I had no idea who she was or why it was nice, but it felt true which was the point.

"Thank you, you too," she said and giggled, blowing bubbles in her wine by accident. I suspected that it wasn't her first glass, which was also the truth.

I surveyed her up and down without moving my eyes. It's a talent I have which comes in useful when you're pretending not to check someone out, or pretending to be dead. She was dressed in formal attire, which made sense since the party wasn't casual even though the setting was. By formal I mean she wasn't wearing jeans. Clearly she had dressed to impress because her cleavage was prominent and it reminded me of anyone but Joan Crawford.

"Do you work here? I've never seen you before," she said.

"Here? In this club? No, I'm on the list," I said in denial. It was fair to say this since I really didn't work in the club.

"No I mean, in the office. You work with me?"

"I suppose I do, unless you work in the club and/or aren't on the list," I said, taking a sip of my Live Broadcast.

"Oh I do and I am on the list. My name's Rachel, you can check if you like," she said, raising her eyebrows up and down and placing her hand on my shoulder in a way that felt lonely, desperate and sympathetic. I wanted to remind her that this was an office party to celebrate the passing of Bob From Accounts, but then I realized that the two events didn't have to be mutually inexclusive so instead I told her my name.

Her lipstick was bright red and I could see a ring of it around the straw, which reminded me of the fact that a friend of mine had a friend staying over, who also wore lipstick because all girls do, almost. That wasn't going to help my current situation though, which was precisely no situation at all. I wondered if Rachel and Bob had ever done it in the copy room or indeed, done it at all. I suspected that Bob, if he was more than just an admin error, had never done it in the copy room because nobody from Accounts has the passcode.

"Which department do you work in, Rachel?"

"I work in Accounts," she said, "with Bob."

That settled it then. Neither of them had ever done it in the copy room, at least not together.

"So you know Bob then?" I inquired.

"Well..." Rachel paused and looked sheepish, which is actually nothing like a sheep and is a stupid fucking word indeed. "I actually don't know him. I guess he works on the opposite side of the room from me."

"It's odd," I said, "that you work in the same room but you've never met."

"Come here..." she said, gesturing for me to move my head closer. I did. She cupped her hand to her mouth and pressed it against my ear, which felt nothing like a haircut. "I don't think Bob is real," she whispered then giggled loudly, her mouth still by my ear. I could feel her breath on my cheek like Katrina, which was an underrated experience by all accounts.

I laughed in a polite way, but also took a sip of my drink which suggested I was genuinely amused. Rachel seemed to agree because she started dancing along to a Blue Oyster Cult song which was inappropriately playing at the time. When I say danced, I mean that she nodded her head and clicked her fingers three times.

"How old are you?" she asked me.

"Eighteen," I replied absentmindedly, which was an utter lie. Rachel looked at me and raised her right eyebrow like a bridge, then laughed. "Sorry, I meant twenty seven."

She laughed again. "I'm only twenty four. A baby, really."

I wanted to point out that there were people in the office who were younger than twenty four, but also some who were far older, like Bob From Accounts who was retiring so must have been at least thirty two. Instead I smiled and took another sip of Live Broadcast which had somehow turned into a rather pleasant Kissing Game, probably because I'd asked Floyd for a new drink a minute before. This cocktail tasted of strawberries and girls and I felt distinctly feminine for drinking it. Rachel didn't seem to mind because she ordered one too and we sat there in silence for a moment, drinking Kissing Games. I felt I should make some small talk.

"Did you donate anything to Bob's retirement fund?"

Rachel nodded her head. "I put ten dollars in. I don't know if that was too much or not enough. What about you?"

I swallowed a mouthful of drink and shook my head. "No, I don't like to donate money to people I've never heard of. I put in an IOU written on a Post-It note."

This was only partly true, because I remembered after I said it that I'd actually written it on some headed stationary but I don't think that really matters.

Rachel laughed again, as if she was happy, and a droplet of liquid spilled over her lips. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and sighed loudly.

"I hate clubs like this," she told me in a low voice, in case Floyd was offended I suppose. I didn't think he would be, had he heard, since he'd told me before that he hated clubs like this too, and only worked here so he could buy textbooks. I never did find out which textbooks he wanted to buy but I'm sure he eventually got them. After he told me that, I'd tipped him a dollar every time I went to the club, which was four times up to and including the office party. I didn't tip that night because the drinks were free.

"I quite like them," I admitted. "There are worse places to be, like Vietnam or at home."

Rachel nodded thoughtfully. "There is that, I suppose," she said, and there was.

There would have been more of that, perhaps, if we hadn't been interrupted by an interruption. The interruption came in the form of a co-worker of mine who was neither a favorite nor a least-favorite. A mid-favorite, I guess you could say.

"Hello George," he said to me by way of a greeting. "And hello... you," he said to Rachel.

"Rachel, nice to meet you," Rachel said, extending her hand to Roger. He shook it.

"That's Roger," I told Rachel before Roger had a chance to tell her himself.

"Charmed," Roger muttered in a voice, then turned his attention back to me. He eyed me with a wolf-like stare and asked me about the Rivers account. I pretended I couldn't hear him over the din because, let's face it, nobody wants to talk about the Rivers account at a club, even if that club was booked for Bob From Accounts' party.

Roger stood there impatiently for what seemed like seconds, practically hopping from foot to foot. I realized then that he was almost certainly one of those repressed homosexuals who lived with their mothers and hid porn under the mattress, even at thirty. It puzzled me that I'd never realized this before and I began to feel more sympathetic towards him, even if he did have a double chin.

At that moment he was wearing a shiny red shirt which I suppose he'd been wearing all night. It didn't suit him but I felt it wasn't my place to say, what with Rachel there as well.

"I said," Roger said, "I said that I'll miss old Bob."

"Will you?" I asked. "Will you really? Why have I never met old Bob then? If you know him then I should too. So should Rachel, that's her," (I pointed in case Roger had forgotten) "because she works in Accounts with Bob, but she's never met him."

"Oh," said Roger dejectedly. "I was hoping that either of you would know him and could remind me of who he is. I admit, I have no idea really either."

"We've decided," Rachel said, "that Bob is an elaborate conspiracy and a reason for us to have a party."

'We' hadn't decided this at all, in fact Rachel had expanded that theory herself, but I figured it was as good an explanation as any so allowed her to live the fantasy.

"Ooh!" Roger exclaimed in a camp way that told me one day he'd probably die alone. "How exciting! Bob the mystery man!"

And with that, Roger walked away with a flourish of hips and elbows and stomach. I saw him mooch across the club and stand next to Mai from Customer Relations. Mai was a nice girl but water-cooler gossip suggested she was into things. I saw Roger say something to Mai, who laughed like only those with a maximum of three past lovers can. I knew, then, that the rumors may or may not be true, like most rumors

I turned back to Rachel who had ordered us both more drinks. This time she'd skipped the fancy shit and gone straight for shots of whiskey, which we drank like Tequila Slammers without the salt, lime or tequila.

The alcohol had gone to my head slightly but Rachel seemed positively drunk, possibly because she'd been drinking since before I arrived at the bar, and through a straw no less. You may not know this, but drinking alcohol through a straw can cause stomach cancer, but only in the same way that drinking wine without a straw can.

"You're nice," Rachel said to me, putting her hand on my thigh in order to instigate a life-long friendship. "I can't believe we've never met at the office."

"I know right," I said. "It's not like the place is so big that two people who would get on really well might never meet and never become life-long friends in the way they're destined to."

The words sounded slurred once they left my mouth, but Rachel seemed to understand because she ordered two more shots of whiskey Floyd brought them over with a smile and a napkin, which Rachel took and folded into the shape of a tiny boat.

"Save me this seat," Rachel said, but made no move to get up.

"Save me this seat," Rachel said again, two minutes later, after we'd drank our whiskey shots. "I will be back, you know, in a minute. I have to go powder my nose, or at the very least pee."

I nodded and mentally prepared myself for the task of saving her that seat, which I didn't expect to be too difficult since there were at least five other seats free and nobody else seemed to want to sit at the bar anyway. They must have been enjoying the champagne and the buffet too much, or perhaps someone had found Bob. I found the latter unlikely so looked over to where Roger had been, and saw he was still there. He and Mai had been joined by Victoria, the temp, who had once accidentally emailed the entire department. This was only bad because the email was intended for her then-boyfriend (whom she broke up with shortly after for being 'a prick') and contained explicit language and nude photographs of herself which, for some reason, she had taken on a cell phone in the bathrooms at work. Everyone had expected her to get fired but our department head, who was English, had said she looked 'fit' and they made an arrangement which basically equated to her doing more typing than usual. This was a surprise for everyone because our boss was into blowjobs. The boss wasn't at the party yet and he never did end up showing up, which was just as well because if he had he might have ended up sleeping with Floyd the barman or something. Who knows.

Because the boss wasn't there, it was someone else's turn to do something noteworthy. This came in the form of a noteworthy person sitting on a noteworthy stool, which was Rachel's. I looked at this intruder with compassion because I knew that soon enough he would have to move seats.

He looked back at me with a pleasant expression, the kind which said 'I'm-going-to-kill-you-later'.

Working in an office I know about these kinds of people because my favorite book ever is about this type of person, but also another one about secret histories, and the two novels are connected in some way even though they're by different authors. The point was, I knew about people like this and they spelled trouble with a capital TROUBLE.

This man looked like he could both spell and make trouble but I knew at least half of that already because I knew him, and he wrote a lot of correctly-spelled memos and notices.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he told me, which was strange since there was absolutely no reason for this.

"Yes, well, it doesn't pay to think like that," I replied enigmatically, subtly gesturing for Floyd to come to my rescue in the form of a whiskey shot.

"You enjoying the party then?" he asked, examining a crease in his black trousers.

"Yes, exceptionally so," I lied, which was fine because sometimes lying doesn't make one damn bit of difference, especially not when talking to maybe-Serial Killers. "How about you?"

"Exceptionally so too, George," he said, winking. "I sure will miss old Bob, though."

"You know him then?" I asked.

"No," he admitted. "I figured you might, what with working in Accounts too."

"I don't work in Accounts, Alex," I stated. "You know this."

Alex smiled and nodded. "Of course. I was just testing you."

I wondered if this was some kind of deadly game of cat and mouse, wherein he was giving me clues to the fact he was probably a serial killer, but I eventually decided that he was just trying to be funny. His hair was gelled in an edgy kind of way which made me suspect him of at least being the center of attention, which I also knew was true. Water-cooler gossip said that Alex was 'well-hung and up for it', but it also said that he had spread that rumor himself. It was hard to know what to believe around the water cooler, especially when you preferred whiskey

Floyd came over and gave me another shot, to which Alex responded by asking for 'a cool one' and making the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger, which added further weight to my theory that he was a serial killer. When he smiled, his teeth were white like a piece of paper which was quite unnerving, even though mine were just as white.

I wondered where Rachel was and considered the fact she might be doing lines in the bathroom or at the very least was lying dead in there, and the idea of doing a line or two wasn't a bad one at all.

The problem was, Alex was one of those people who are clean, and would probably frown if I excused myself to do some coke. Thus I stayed sitting next to him, uncomfortable and warmly drunk, while Floyd brought 'a cool one' over and placed it in front of Alex.

"You know what?" Alex said, and I shook my head because I quite obviously didn't know, and also because Highway To Hell was playing, which seemed like a bad omen when you're drinking with a potential murderer.

"Well," Alex went on, taking another sip of 'a cool one', "the truth is, I'm only here because I'm looking for a woman."

"There are plenty over there," I told him, pointing to over there where I could see plenty of women but also a lot of men. "Mai is over there, for instance, who is rumored to be into things."

Alex chuckled as if 'things' didn't interest him, which to be fair they probably didn't. "I mean, I'm looking for a specific woman," he said.

"Oh," I replied, because I honestly didn't care.

"This woman is called Rachel, and she was sitting here earlier," he said proudly, as if he'd discovered a brilliant clue which I hadn't noticed.

Seeking to shatter his smugness, I replied and said "Yes, I know, I was talking to her," but this did nothing to wipe the harlequin grin from his chiseled face. I say that now in a way that makes it sound as if he was made of stone, when in reality I mean that he had prominent cheekbones, which means something to someone I'm sure.

"She's good," he said. "Good. You know?"

"Good as in, she's probably not in the bathroom snorting lines?" I asked.

"She probably is," said Alex matter-of-factly, which I found bizarre due to the fact that he had killed the last person who had snorted lines in his presence, or had at least tutted at them. "But that's not what I mean. I mean she's good. You know, in a bedroom situation."

I knew, and had also hoped to find out for myself. I almost chastised Alex for spoiling it but then I remembered that he too used the water cooler and not only that, had probably used Rachel.

"I see," I said, ordering another whiskey shot. Rachel had been gone a long time and Alex was beginning to act as if he was sexually frustrated, which is never a nice experience. By this I mean he was tapping his fingers down the side of 'a cool one' and licking his teeth.

"Yeah, so the thing is, she won't return my calls," he said and I detected a hint of sadness in his voice, which was reinforced by the fact he looked sad too. I wondered if she'd discovered his vast collection of severed heads or something, then remembered that there was no proof either way that he really was a murderer. I realized that he reminded me slightly of a friend of mine who works in Hollywood, who possibly really is a murderer, but I don't judge him because I don't know for sure. The point was, this was both good and bad because I liked my friend, as people do, but there was still a chance that somewhere, someone lay dead.

I hoped it wasn't Rachel and as if to prove it wasn't, I saw her walking back from the direction of the bathroom, waving behind her to a fat, middle-aged man who definitely wasn't her type and thus wasn't a threat to me or Alex. I couldn't help but notice that Rachel's skirt was barely more than a belt, which was doing nothing to relieve Alex's frustrated sadness. I knew this because he told me in a hushed whisper as Rachel approached. I was angry at him, slightly, because I already decided that he had tricked Rachel into bed and was now pretending she wouldn't call him as some kind of double bluff in which he could make her feel guilty, then probably eat her liver. I then remembered that he was a vegetarian and dismissed this idea as childish folly.

"I am back!" Rachel announced dizzily, stumbling in her high heels and clutching the front of her skirt as if she'd just realized it was far too short when people like Alex were around. I wondered if we'd be sharing a cab that night, and if we'd go to my place or hers.

"I'm afraid someone took your seat," I said. "I tried to stop them, with force, but they insisted and bought 'a cool one'."

I pointed accusingly at Alex who was staring into space, or at least at the floor, and had not noticed, heard, or smelt Rachel. Rachel was wearing the kind of perfume that just smells of perfume, the rare kind that only pretty girls and aged movie stars can pull off.

"Oh dear," Rachel muttered to me, "it's Alex."

I of course knew this, since I knew Alex already, since we worked together and since the time we'd exchanged a joke via email, but it was fairly clear that Alex was a predator so I shrugged and made some kind of face to convey something.

Alex's neck snapped around, in the way that perhaps he might snap a victim's neck, but without the intense pain or death. He looked at Rachel and I could see him thinking things which were probably impure.

"Rachel..." he said, his hands absentmindedly clenching and unclenching in his lap. I wanted to tell him to stop fucking moving and also drink more whiskey, so I drank the shot which was still there but didn't tell Alex a damn thing.

"Hello Alex," Rachel said in an exasperated tone. "You here to see old Bob off too then?"

Alex nodded. "Yes."

"Well neither of us know Bob, so maybe you should go find him and introduce him to us," Rachel replied curtly.

"I'm afraid I don't know Bob either," Alex confessed.

I placed my hand on Rachel's hip tenderly, like a surgeon. She stumbled and sat on my lap giggling, in a way which would have suggested penetration in a different situation with different people. Here it was just something like an accident but less so, because Alex didn't seem to react. Perhaps he didn't see me as a threat, perhaps he'd given up, or perhaps he was mentally digging my shallow grave.

"Rachel, can we talk?" he asked after a minute, when she'd settled on my lap, giving me a view down her top which was probably deliberate but in a tentative way. I could see a tiny bit of white powder on the top of her right breast and the temptation was there to retrieve it but I realized it would look unseemly and desperate to anyone watching, like Mai who was into things. She was watching, you see, and tugging on Roger's sleeve so that he could watch too. He was holding a pint of water which was probably really vodka and I wondered how his head would suffer tomorrow or at the very least, next week.

Rachel picked up Alex's 'a cool one' and took a huge sip. She put it back down on the bar, leaving a lipstick mark all over the glass which Floyd was probably eyeing with disdain. Alex also eyed it with disdain and desire, like he wanted the lipstick on him instead. Rachel must have known this because she rolled back against me and whispered in my ear like we were best friends. She whispered something like 'He's gone a small sun' but it was like fucking Chinese whispers in the club now, because a song I didn't like had started playing. I felt like I was almost part of some kind of intimacy until Alex grabbed Rachel's wrist in a kind of soft, 'I'm-not-a-serial-killer-honest' way which made me think that perhaps I'd misjudged him and he'd only killed one or two people. He didn't smile though, which was a sure sign of innocence, at least to the degree where he'd be let off due to circumstantial evidence and a flawed testimony.

"Let go of me you creep!" Rachel yelled, laughing spitefully as she pulled her wrist from Alex's grasp. "Georgie, don't let him manhandle me!"

She pressed herself tighter against me as some kind of escape. I didn't really like being called Georgie but she was allowed to after all because her ass felt soft in my lap and because she'd been doing coke.

"Alex," I said, as nicely as possible. "Perhaps you'd better go away."

Alex nodded and in that moment, behind his maybe-serial killer eyes, I realized that the truth was this; Rachel hadn't called him and had probably mistreated him like a country and western singer or a parakeet. Alex looked even sadder than when he'd been sad before, which would have been heartbreaking if I'd been the sympathetic type. He just got up off the stool, all the fight and murderous intent leaving him in the form of the word 'okay', which he said.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou," Rachel gasped in a cocaine kind of way, then kissed me on the cheek which didn't feel like anything at all intimate, because it wasn't. Her legs were either side of my left leg, which actually felt quite uncomfortable and suddenly I wasn't sure if I was in the mood or not. Then I decided I was, and rested my hand in her lap which she didn't care about, even though we were balanced on a stool in a club, at a party for Bob From Accounts.

I watched Alex walk across the club and past all the people who, in this account, don't even have real names and didn't work in Accounts or anywhere but my department or at least some other department, and it reminded me that I wanted another drink. Rachel knew somehow and got up off of me for a second as I ordered, then sat back down uncomfortably. We just drank things until we were even drunker than before and I'm sure, at some point, we kissed in a way that made Roger giggle queerly and people gossip over the water-cooler the next day, because everyone was liberal but it was still uncommon for such things.

Something strange, though. After that we were even more drunk and Floyd was flirting with Rachel which I found a turn-on, even though he was at least only twenty two, which was young. Then we drank some more and danced a bit, all over the place with the people who weren't, and will never be, important. At some point a genius/idiot decided that karaoke was a good idea and I opted out of it because I couldn't and can't sing.

Rachel decided she would and peeled herself away from a group consisting of some people, as groups usually do, and sang some kind of song which I liked, possibly one by someone dead.

Then Alex murdered Frank Sinatra. My Way, to be exact, which was, as it happens, the only thing he murdered that night. It was quite endearing, in a way, because he looked at Rachel sadly the whole time, making stupid gestures with his hand as if to say "I did it my way" which really meant "My way doesn't get the girl". I felt like I was in one of those feelgood movies that people watch, like It's A Wonderful Life or The Crying Game, but I wasn't which was a disappointment until finally Rachel took me out back and we did a couple lines.

The following part is speculation, or at least almost certainly what happened but not definitely for certain, and I can say this with certainty because I was trippy by this point, but not in an 'I love the 60s' way. I think someone said that there had been an admin error and Bob From Accounts had actually retired fifty years ago, which seemed right. Thus I deduced that Bob From Accounts was never real in the first place and the party was a sham, and to this day I'm still not sure whether he exists or not, and if he even had a short career in porn during the 70s as Mai once suggested.

Whether it was a drug-induced haze or something less real, like the truth, it didn't change the fact that without Bob we were just people in a club. Lonely, desperate, sympathetic people in a club who, no matter what drugs we took or drinks we sipped or people we fucked or songs we sang, could not deny the fact we were just looking for security.

The music made itself silent, like everywhere was a library, and Roger climbed up onto the hastily erected stage which was more of a table because that's exactly what it was.

"To Bob From Accounts!" he shouted, raising a half-full bottle of champagne into the air. "May you have a long and prosperous retirement, free from serial killers, terrorists, loneliness or talk-shows."

When he finished there was not a single dry eye in the house, for a variety of obvious reasons. A song came on, which was Boston's More Than A Feeling, even though everybody almost certainly felt numb and drunk now, apart from Floyd, the cute but ugly girl from the coat booth, and some other staff, all of whom were sober and feeling. Having recently developed sympathy following Bob's retirement, I felt sorry for them because unlike us they weren't dizzy and desolate. Mai was flirting with a man from Quality Assurance who was also almost certainly married and I wondered if perhaps she was into things like that. They went home alone later though which proved she was the kind of person who owned at least one cat. Victoria the temp went home and left the office shortly after and really did have a career in porn until she left the business to write a best-selling book which nobody bought because it was shit and about sex, which nobody is into these days.

The thing was, they hadn't gone home yet which was fine because everybody still wanted to dance, but then Floyd and the staff decided enough was enough and told us all that the show was over.

I still had that ticket saying '13' in my pocket which was lucky because otherwise my coat could still be in the club to this day, and I like that coat, which I have had for years and even wore the day before I lost my virginity, which wasn't until I was eighteen for obvious reasons, or maybe not if you're English.

I handed the ticket to the cute but ugly girl who I realized was actually just cute, and the disfiguring mark on her face was just a trick of the light, and she gave me my favorite coat which I put on when I got outside, since the air was cold and hung over, like morning coffee and a cigarette from before I quit smoking, which I never have.

I was smoking outside the club in fact, because I'd left my cigarettes in my coat pocket and the club had a No Smoking policy anyway. I was smoking and looking for Rachel who I had planned to take home with me in a cab or maybe go back to her place, and do some things, some of which involved contact.

I saw her and waved, and she waved back, and Roger waved too but only with one hand because the other was up Rachel's skirt at the back, which struck me as incorrect behavior for a repressed homosexual, so maybe I'd been wrong about him, I thought. The other thing was, Rachel seemed to have a glazed, happy and aroused expression on her face which suggested to me that she felt glazed, happy and aroused as opposed to lonely, desperate and sympathetic like people like me, Mai, Victoria, Alex, possibly Bob, maybe the boss and Floyd. I do not include Cute but Ugly but Actually Just Cute girl here because it was pretty obvious she'd have a boyfriend, which was nice for her if she was into that kind of thing, which I think she was. I've later seen her walking hand in hand with someone who I suspect is her boyfriend because they usually kiss passionately and one day, she was pregnant. Good for her, I say.

Rachel however was looking like the opposite of someone who was with child, which probably meant she wasn't being sick every morning, just almost certainly the next morning because we'd drank one hell of a lot, and done some drugs, which will make people sick. But she also looked happy, with Roger's hand up her skirt, and who was I to spoil that by reminding her that we could have a different kind of sex than she could have with Roger, who actually was most likely straight after all.

They both waved to me in a kind of apologetic-but-not-really way, which is to say dismissively, then got into a taxi together.

I would have suspected that was the last time I'd see Rachel, and figured that she'd been killed by Roger overnight who, if he wasn't a repressed homosexual, was a serial killer. However, I saw Rachel at work quite a few times since then and we became friends, which was nice, and still are. Amusingly though (and it's okay to laugh about it because everyone's pretty liberal), Roger really was a serial killer to some degree, at least in that they found some things he was into on his computer one day, which implied he had killed. Rachel probably had a lucky escape, but we don't look at it like that because otherwise, who knows what other lucky escapes we'd devise for ourselves if we thought about it too much?

FOR EXAMPLE: Just yesterday I was walking across the road and five minutes after I'd crossed, a car drove past. If I'd been crossing the road five minutes later then the car could have hit me, which would qualify as a lucky escape.

FOR EXAMPLE: A terrorist, or at least a junkie, went into a diner and threatened a certain menagerie of people with a gun. If a friend of mine hadn't ever met a friend of hers who had stayed with her for a while, near the club where Bob From Accounts had a party, the friend of a friend would never have gone to the club and met a man who, from the sounds of it, stopped anything bad happening due to the fact he and the friend of a friend were in the diner at the time, and were of a disposition to perform some thrilling heroics. This would also qualify as a lucky escape, not for me but for other people.

FOR EXAMPLE: If Alex had left the club earlier he would have gone home alone, woken up alone, desperate, lonely, hung over and sad, missing Rachel and great sex and lipstick marks. However, it was true (and it's not right to lie about these things) that he had tried to leave the club early, but had lost his coat ticket, number 18 in fact, and had spent far too long searching the club for it. It had turned out that he'd dropped it on the bar and myself and Rachel had later used it in place of a bank note, leaving the ticket and the powder residue in the bathroom. Floyd found it and gave it to Alex after what was probably a long time, thus causing him to leave later than everyone else (apart from the staff of course) and walk straight into the back of me as I stood smoking alone. This definitely qualifies as a lucky escape. Here's why.

Alex walked into the back of me in a way that suggested sex between two men even though it was nothing like that, for obvious reasons. While Roger and Rachel were doing who knew what, Alex and I stood outside a club for lonely hearts, while I smoked three cigarettes to sober up, which was looking unlikely. Alex didn't smoke but did when I offered him a cigarette, which the boss would call 'fags' much to our amusement. Alex and I laughed together when three matches from a complimentary matchbook went out in succession before the fourth did not, and lit his cigarette so he could get lung cancer too, which is always nice to share even though neither of us have it.

He had previously said; "Hello George," again, to which I said; "Hello Alex," again, or maybe for the first time that night, and things kind of went from there really, as they normally do. He called me Georgie once, which I chastised him for because his skin wasn't soft like Rachel's, and he didn't have coke on his breast or even breasts at all, because he quite obviously was a man, which I could tell for obvious reasons like later, when I saw him naked.

The most significant thing was that we were standing on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes, or fags (but not the Roger-but-not-really kind) and that by now I had decided that Alex wasn't a serial killer. After all, the only thing he killed that night was Frank Sinatra, and that extends up till now, at least I think. You never know but I'm fairly sure.

So we were standing there and talking about Rachel and I admitted to him that I'd wanted her for more than just a coke buddy and a friend, and the closeness had been because earlier I'd thought we'd end up in bed together. I didn't add the part where I thought he was a serial killer because I didn't want to hurt his feelings any more, especially not when he was shocked to find out I'd wanted Rachel. He said he'd thought I was, you know, the other way inclined, to which I told him honestly that I was both, which he seemed pleased by for obvious reasons.

I remember it as clearly as if it were no more than three years ago, because that's how long ago it really was.

"Do you, kinda, you know...?" Alex asked clumsily. It was fairly clear what he was getting at and it was far from 'a cool one'. It was pretty funny (and it's okay to laugh, everyone's pretty liberal as I've said) that earlier he'd been telling me things about Rachel and now he wanted to put me in a position where he could tell people things about me, although I didn't think he would. I suggested this to him.

"It was, I don't know, a kind of rubbish flirting technique," he admitted, which made me feel better about myself on the whole, even though I felt like shit due to alcohol.

I'd had, quite honestly, no idea that he'd been flirting with me and why would I have an idea anyway?

"So do you want to?" he asked, gesturing to a nearby cab, stepping from foot to foot to combat the cold and the atrophy. His breath was steaming as it left his mouth and he reminded me of an adolescent on his first voyage of sexual discovery, even though he obviously wasn't.

I spent some time thinking about whether I wanted to or not, even though I already knew the answer for absolute certain, to the point where I was almost sure. It was 'yes, of course'.

There are some words I hate, for obvious reasons. These include, but are not limited to; demographic, targets, cunt, whore, potential, and love at first sight, which is at best four words and I apologize I don't know if it was love at first sight or even love at second sight, or third when the lights were on in the bedroom and we still made love even though we were both shy, it was our first time together and neither of us had the energy to turn the light off to make things more civilized It wasn't love then, or later, or maybe even now, although it almost certainly is after three years. Mostly we were both loving the fact that we'd stood on the sidewalk, dragging in smoke and talking about a girl, like two teenage boys even though we weren't that for obvious reasons. Reasons being age and gender and the fact that Alex is thirty now and I don't think anyone would call him a teenage boy now or even then, when we were both twenty seven. Maybe when he was eighteen, nineteen at a push if you're being pedantic, and for me it was never, for obvious reasons involving male genitalia and things.

The thing is, we could share a cigarette or fag, we could talk and laugh and isn't that always enough for everyone? Finding someone with whom you can do those things even if it's cold and you're hung over and disapproving and you can still go back to his place or my place and fuck shyly. Yes, it is enough and eventually I, Georgina Rose Young took him, Alex Brandon Ford to be my lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, which it no doubt will one day, but not yet.

I invited everyone in the whole world to the wedding, or everyone who'd been at the club that night, apart from a few members of staff who'd since retired, disappeared or died. Mai was there and as it turned out, she was into things like acupuncture and homeopathic medicine which just goes to show that you shouldn't walk away from the water cooler before the gossip has finished. Victoria was there like a pornstar, which she was, until she became an author which she never did quite so well. Roger wasn't there for obvious reasons. Rachel was there with her girlfriend which I found to be an ironic twist after all. Floyd was there, behind the bar at the reception afterwards which was for all intents and purposes in the same club, invite-only and no karaoke.

And even after everything he'd done, or hadn't done, I invited Bob Formerly From Accounts in case he decided to exist one day. He didn't turn up which surprised no-one. Last I heard he's in Florida or at the very least is an admin error which is more likely than Alex being a serial killer, which he's not (I think) or smoking kills.

Really the point is that we all lived sort-of happily ever after, at least until now. Apart from Roger who is in prison but it's okay because everyone's pretty liberal, and we still send him a Christmas card each year. After all, isn't that the most important thing? I like to think so, for obvious reasons which are probably meaningless to someone like you.

XVII - The Signal Master

The city lies dormant.

I gaze out of my window, across the streets lit with the pale, sickly glow of streetlights.

It is late at night, and I lie in my bed, with the window open. The curtains are pulled back on their hooks.

Something lurks out in the darkness, out across the city.

I see the old retirement home near my street, with no lights on. I fancy that I see the vague outline of someone sitting in a window.

But I might be wrong.

The city slumbers beneath a thousand stars. The moon is beginning its first day of a three day cycle. It is wide, glowing. Like an eye.

We stare at each other for a moment, the moon and I. We hold each other in our respective gazes, and then we both look away.

Tonight, I cannot sleep.

I wait in my bed, wrapped up in my quilt of comfort, combined with my long nightgown to keep out the chill night air.

A cold breeze drifts in from the window, yet I cannot close it. It is a portal into the night, an open mouth screaming silently out across the darkness.

If I close it I will suffocate. And the humming begins again.

It started last night, as I began to drift off to sleep.

A dull, throbbing sound. A mindless drone, pulsing somewhere out across the city. It is almost a siren, almost an alarm, but not quite. It sounds like some giant, and hungry machine, stomach rumbling in hunger. The sound is alien to me, and I contemplate for a second that it may be a huge, chrome flying saucer, stopping off on Earth after a long intergalactic trip.

I shiver as I listen to the noise. One time, I will follow it to the source. One night I shall track it down, and face the thing which disturbs my silent city.

At this hour, everything should be silent. There are no cars driving around, polluting. There are no late night club goers laughing and screaming drunkenly in the streets. Everything should be silent.

And still the noise continues, creeping inside my brain, like a virus. Even though the noise is muffled, to me it sounds like a violent jackhammer, pummeling away at my frontal lobes, smashing my cerebral cortex.

I want to sew my ears up, I want to cut my eyes out to prevent the noise from entering my head. I huddle up under the quilt, and try to sleep.

It has been four days now. Every night the noise returns. I have no idea what it is, yet. No idea what it is, yet. The fatigue is getting to me

It stops me from sleeping. I feel dizzy and sick. My eyes burn when I look at the light. My mother says "Lydia, you should try to get some sleep" and I tell her about the noise. She does not hear it.

It is making me go insane, I think. It's almost like a warning, a fanfare of the most loathsome kind. An air raid siren to announce the end of MY world. Or maybe it is beautiful, the most beautiful music I have ever heard du du du du du du it repeats itself, monotone, invasive. I feel like I am being beaten each night, as the noise invades my every waking thought, like a permanent ringing in my ears. Is this some form of punishment for sins yet committed? I am just eighteen, what could I possibly have done to suffer so?

Tomorrow I shall find the source of this noise and see go to see what it is, and maybe put an end to it altogether.

It is now tomorrow. Yesterday was but a waking dream, with no rapid movements. Tiredness is too much.

I step outside of my house, gently closing the door behind me in fear of waking my parents from their deep sleep.

My bare feet pad softly along the path, onto the street. My flimsy, knee length nightgown does little to keep out the cold night air. I walk out of my street, the noise forever in my head. I follow it as it gets slightly louder.

I walk past the moonlit station, devoid of passengers waiting for their trains. Never shall I wait for one of the metal behemoths, on a course for some unknown destination.

On now, to the road, streetlights vomiting their cancerous fluorescence onto the tarmac. No vehicles traverse these expanses of road, no pedestrians stroll along the pavement.

I pass shop windows, and do not even glance into the dark interiors. I have a sickness in my stomach as the noise grows louder, tearing into my skull, pushing against the backs of my eyeballs.

Flashes of light appear in the darkness, and I know they are merely in my mind, caused by the eternal noise.

The world flashes by me as I begin to run down the moonlit street, each beat of my heart, each heavy footfall echoing in time with the noise pulsing in my head. A faint, sickly green glow taints my vision and I almost pass out. Each breath scrapes my lungs yet I continue. I feel I am near my destination.

Soon, I slow to a walk. I find that I have run all the way into the countryside. To my right is a river, to my left a small copse of trees. I can feel the grass under my feet. Without the glow of light bulbs, the stars are so much brighter, the sky almost looks purple. I hear the running water, mingling with the noise. It is almost musical. The noise is louder here, uninhibited by the cloying scent of electricity. I can feel it run through me, stroking my flesh.

My flimsy nightgown suddenly feels incredibly heavy, and with great effort I pull it up over my head. The garment floats to the ground, carried upon the golden air, light as a feather. A miracle.

I stand naked and alone, covered with sound. The chill air does nothing to hinder my progress as I advance towards the source, getting ever closer, nearer. I'm starting to scare myself. I need the noise.

It is in my head now, a rushing crescendo of sound, almost reaching climax. The noise thrusts itself inside me, a miracle of sound and violence, like a glorious dagger piercing my virgin ears. And it leads me, takes me by the hand, into the darkest forest, between the avenue of trees, into the unknown. It takes me, leads me past civilization, into the dense thicket of trees.

In the meadow I see it.

Surrounded by a circle of mourning trees lies my dying savior He is huge, lying on his side. I can hear his ragged breath catching in his throat. Each lungful of air is painful to him, as if the very oxygen he requires is tainted with razors. His body is mechanical, made up of arcane machinery and physically impossible joints, welded together in alloys of the flesh. His arms are huge steel pipes, flexing as he dies. His legs are coils of thick, sharp wire, now lying impotent and useless under his giant metal torso. And is from within this torso that the noise emanates. Encased in a ribcage of iron, my savior's heart drums out its pained, terrified beats. The noise in my head is his heartbeat. It is the beating of his beautiful heart.

Tears well up in my eyes as my sweet prince takes his final breath. I hear the death rattle in his throat, and his heart beats no more. My God is dead.

I just want something more, but it is not for me. Not now, not ever.

Droning, pumping. Pushing. Thump. Pulsating. Head.

Dull, throb.

Machines.

This was the first time.

XVIII - Bright Lights & Glass Houses

The rustling of the bible set Charlotte's teeth on edge. Father Nash had such a way of reading the good book that every turn of the page sounded like a tearing, throaty condemnation. He'd run his finger along the bottom of a leaf, the callous on his finger drawing out an elongated 'shhhhh' noise. Then, with a deft flick of the wrist, he'd cast the paper to the left, ringing out in the silent room like a gunshot. Or at least that's how it seemed to Charlotte, anyway. It was just a book, of course. It couldn't hold that kind of power.

Father Nash knew the Bible by heart. Of course he did. He was a priest, after all. Bible reading time, Charlotte often thought, was more of a pointedly enforced silence. The Father treated that hour each day as if it were the Sabbath itself. Charlotte's chores had to be finished by four PM without question, and then the Father expected her to sit there, watching, contemplating the words he was reading. Charlotte would have welcomed a Bible of her own. Even staring at the words, unable to read them, would've been enough.

Once, she'd asked Father Nash to read it to her. "That's what church is for, girl," he'd snapped, and nothing had changed.

Charlotte sat, watching the liver spots stretch and bob on Father Nash's skin as he manipulated the bible. She was cold. Autumn was leaving and Winter was setting in, so the Father had called for her to light a fire. It crackled in the hearth, but Charlotte's chair was positioned on the outskirts of the room, just that bit too far away to feel the heat. She shifted uncomfortably. Her left arm felt numb. She held back a sneeze.

The clock struck five. Father Nash slammed the bible shut, rifle-loud, which caused Charlotte to jump.

"Don't think I didn't see you drifting off, girl," the Father scolded.

Charlotte frowned. She wasn't aware that she had. "Sorry, Father," she murmured.

"Anyway," he said, clapping his gnarled hands together. "There's perfectly good stew just waiting to be cooked."

"Yes, Father," Charlotte said. She stood up. Her right thigh hurt. A wave of nausea passed over her. She swayed slightly.

"Pull yourself together, child," Father Nash snapped. "And hurry up with that stew. I have to go into the village this eve."

This was unusual. Father Nash rarely left the house of a weekday evening.

"Everything okay, Father?" Charlotte asked, then immediately wished she hadn't. The priest regarded her with a dark look. Then his face softened slightly.

"Yes, yes, fine," he said. "It's Mrs. Grenwald. She's not at all well."

"Oh, that's terrible," Charlotte said. "Please pass on my regards."

Father Nash tutted, and said no more on the subject. Charlotte realized she was dismissed, and headed into the freezing kitchen.

Rabbit, leek, carrots, potatoes, chop chop chop. The smell of the meat made Charlotte feel even more sick. The catch was fresh, bloody, and recently skinned. She held it up to the window, unsure why, picking at stringy bits of fat with the knife. The stew pot was bubbling away and she tossed chunk after chunk into the broth. She could hear Father Nash stomping around upstairs, and began to sway on her feet. She wasn't feeling right, not at all.

Outside the window, she could see the village. The lights of the village, more accurately. Gas lamps burning in distant windows, down in the valley below. Sometimes, Charlotte dreamed of cities. Sometimes she dreamed of the war. She was far too young to have been born then, of course, but Father Nash was not. He spoke of it, sometimes, and when he did Charlotte found it hard to believe those times were only a few decades behind them.

Others in the village remembered the war too. The distance from Five Forks was negligible, and some of the villagers had even been present, so Father Nash said. Whenever Charlotte dreamed of the war, the world was a sea of flame.

Flames burned on the stove. The stew boiled. Charlotte dreamed. She cooked. She

scares me. I don't like it."

"Is it the religious theme, do you think? I can understand why that might make you uncomfortable.

Anna shook her head. "I don't think so. I haven't thought about God in a long time. Not in that way, anyway."

"Your extended family were very religious, weren't they?"

"I'm not sure I'd say very. No more than most Bible Belt Americans.

The doctor interlaced his fingers. "I see. So what do you think it is, then?"

"I don't know. I can't say too much about the movie, obviously. It's hard."

"I've read the book," the doctor told her, smiling.

"It's... it's different. It's not Chet's story any more. Maybe that's it. Do you think that could be it?"

"It's possible," the doctor told her. "Have you ever felt like this on set before?"

"Never," Anna replied.

"I mean you've done some... done some pretty dark movies. What was it, The War Drum?"

"Did you see it?"

"You asked me not to."

"Oh yeah. Well it wasn't as bad as they said. I was fine with that. This isn't even, it's not even violent. Not really, anyway. Not my bits."

Anna awoke with a start. Some Republican candidate message was playing on the TV. The picture was grainy, uneven. She frowned. The phone was ringing. Anna checked the clock. One AM. Chet, must be.

"Hey babe."

Chet's familiar voice. He sounded distant, like he was too far away from his cell.

"Hey honey. How're you? How's Japan?"

"All good, all good. Tours. Hectic. You know how it is."

Anna did know. She listened as Chet went on to explain anyway.

"How's filming? Still can't believe how they butchered my baby." He laughed. "Aw, I don't mean it. Eli's script is awesome as balls."

Anna scratched her hip. She knew Chet didn't like it, not really. He'd pushed for her to be on the project though.

"How's Brendan?"

"Honestly? He's fucking terrifying."

Anna heard Chet snort laughter on the other end of the phone. "Kidding, yeah. Same old Brendan I bet. Don't see him as Nash at all, really."

Anna started to disagree, but knew Chet wasn't listening. She could hear voices in the background.

"Callie says hey," Chet said.

"Oh, hey Callie," Anna called, unsure if the other woman could even hear her. Callie was an old girlfriend of Anna's, and Chet's current publicist. It had been Anna who'd pointed Chet in her direction, in fact. Nothing weird there, even if Chet did insist on making the odd innuendo in front of them both.

She could hear Callie saying something to a third party.

"I am dying to get home," Chet told her. Anna smiled. "Really goddamn horny. Gonna fuck you so hard when I'm back."

Anna heard Callie coughing in the background.

"What're you wearing?" Chet asked.

"Can you take it off speaker at least?" Anna asked.

"Oh, sure, sure," Chet said. "There you go."

Anna looked down at her ragged dressing gown and comfort pajamas. She only wore them when Chet was away.

"The black slip you got me before you went off," Anna said, putting on a voice. "Y'know, the one where you can see my ass."

"Niiiiiice," Chet replied. "You missing me babe?"

"Yeah. Want you home," Anna said. She noticed she'd been absentmindedly doodling a pair of eyes on the pad. She tore the paper off and threw it in the trash.

"Not long now," Chet said. "Hope you're ready!"

When Chet had eventually been called away, Anna slung the phone onto its charger and headed into the living room. There was a movie playing on TV now. She collapsed onto the couch and watched. Was it one of hers? No. Something older. Argento? No? Maybe. She brought up the TV menu. Right first time. She'd seen this one before, as a kid. Had it inspired her? Possibly. She settled in and began to watch

Father Nash eating his stew. Stringy, pink hunks of meat swam about the spoon as the old man greedily sucked them in. Charlotte closed her eyes.

"Eat up, girl," Father Nash snapped. "Don't waste perfectly adequate stew."

Charlotte looked at him. "I think I'm coming down with a sickness," she said. "I hope it's not whatever Mrs. Grenwald has."

The priest slurped his broth. "Don't be foolish, child," he said. "Do not speak of things you don't understand. It's a head cold, no doubt."

"Perhaps," Charlotte said. "Say, maybe I should accompany you to the village. The night air might do me some good."

As predicted, Father Nash was having none of it. "Absolutely not," he said. "It's not a place for girls like you, not at night."

There had been a time when Charlotte would have relished an evening alone. When she would have put a candle in her window and then awaited him. But no longer. He did not come by any more.

"Has Robert returned yet?" Charlotte asked, feeling bold.

Nash dropped his spoon into the stew with a splash. "No. And I don't see why it's any concern of yours. Boys like Robert Mullican are no good for girls like you."

Charlotte knew what he meant by that, and she also knew he was wrong. Robert, like all the other young men in the village, was a sinner in Father Nash's eyes. He saw no good in the youths. They were all miscreants, or rapists, or harlots.

Robert was different, and Charlotte knew that if only he'd return, he could eventually convince Father Nash of that. That they could have a future together. That he could win Nash over. The clandestine trysts were not enough. They both wanted more. But now, for almost five months, Robert had been gone. Headed to the city, Father Nash had said. Had she not also heard it from Robert's mother... no, it didn't bear thinking about. Robert was coming back. He had to be.

Father Nash busied himself at the door, making a fuss as usual. He struggled with his coat, tutting and clucking when Charlotte wasn't there quite quickly enough to help him.

"You really are lazy, child," he snapped, as she fastened up his buttons. Carefully she removed his scarf from the hook and wrapped it around his neck, her fingers brushing against his dog collar, then the rough, wrinkled skin of his jaw. Father Nash flinched.

"Your hands are freezing."

"Sorry Father," Charlotte said quietly. He pushed her away.

"Stay in the house while I'm gone. There have been a few wild dog sightings, you know. Keep the doors locked."

"I will," she said.

Father Nash looked at her, as if waiting for her to say more. To wish him well, perhaps, or bid him to be careful. She thought about saying nothing.

"Take care out there, Father," she said.

"Yes, yes. Goodbye."

The priest hurled the door open and disappeared in a blast of cold air.

Shivering, Charlotte finished up sweeping the kitchen then retired to her room. She longed for a hot bath, to sink below the water and dream, but boiling the pot seemed like so much hassle. Besides, Father Nash didn't like her bathing when he wasn't present in the house. He often recounted the tale of poor Madeleine Wyatt, who'd fallen asleep and drowned.

Instead, fully clothed, Charlotte climbed into her bed and wrapped the meager sheets around her. Far too early to sleep yet, but what else was there to do? Charlotte began picking at a thread on the sheet. There was a hole there, a small tear. She'd have to fix that up before the Father noticed.

Outside, an animal howled, a lonely and pitiful cry. Almost instantly a chill crept into the room. Charlotte's teeth began to chatter. Perhaps a window was open somewhere. She clambered out of bed and hastened around the house, checking all the windows and locks. Secure. Bored, she checked again to be sure.

Charlotte found herself in the living room again. Father Nash's bible sat in its usual spot, resting on the table by his chair. Charlotte was tempted to flick through it, to try and decipher the words she'd heard many times but could not read herself. He'd know if she did, though. He always knew, somehow

the drone on set was getting to Anna. Normally she found it comforting. Today, though, the scurrying assistants, the shouts from the crew, the call of the director, it was making her head pound. Everyone seemed to be milling around aimlessly.

Brendan strolled in from off-set, still in his priest garb. He was perspiring under the studio light.

"Tiresome, isn't it?" he said. Anna looked. He was gesturing around him.

"Sometimes," she admitted.

The director was screaming at a poor girl who looked terrified. Brendan's eyes followed the sound. "Oh, to be working with Coppola again," he said. "Hell, I'd even take Anderson over this dickhead."

Anna laughed. "Who's the woman?" she asked. Her outfit was itching around the neckline. She scratched, her nails clogging up with makeup.

"Just some kid with a dream. Hollywood, eh?" Brendan said. "Look at her, poor thing."

"No, I don't mean Sally," Anna told him. "I mean that woman who's always on set."

"Hmm?"

"Young, thin, pale woman. Looks like a movie star."

"You've just described half the industry, dear," Brendan chuckled. "Let's go grab a coffee."

"Are you enjoying it any better?"

"No, not really."

"Why did you take the job? Because of Chet?"

"Because it's work. And because of Chet, yeah."

"I don't imagine you're short of work, though. Bigger budgets, bigger names than this."

"Brendan's a big name."

"Ah yes. Brendan Denton. You told Chet he was terrifying?"

"I did," Anna said. "I don't know why. He's an old friend."

"We're all old friends here," the doctor said. "This is Hollywood."

"Doesn't mean anything really, does it?"

"No, not really," the doctor admitted. "But it's good to be amongst friends, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"I think so. Anna, you know you can call me day or night, yes?"

Anna dabbed her forehead with the sheets. It felt like the middle of a heatwave. The building manager had already checked the thermostat three times on Anna's behest.

"You look sick, miss," she'd told Anna. Anna had smiled and said she was fine.

No phone call from Chet that night. He'd warned her in advance, at least. That hadn't stopped Anna staying up watching TV just in case he'd called. It was still on, in fact. She could hear it in the other room. Didn't remember leaving it on, though. Nuisance.

She got out of bed and padded across to the door. The heat had caused her to strip off, and times like these she was glad to live on the eighth floor.

The open plan living room was bathed in a pale white glow. The TV was playing nothing but static. Unusual, Anna thought. She leaned down and shut the set off. The room fell dark, but not before she'd caught a glimpse of something, behind her in the room.

Anna whirled around, peering into the darkness, her eyes adjusting. Carefully, silently, she took a step back.

In the chair by the window, there sat a figure. Unmoving, silent, staring at her. She could make out no features, just a shadowy form.

Get to the phone, she thought.

"Hello?" she called out, quietly, instead. Stupid.

The figure didn't move.

"Please. Who are you?"

Anna listened for the sound of breathing, of movement. Nothing. The figure sat there, still as stone. Anna took a step forward, suddenly aware of her nakedness. If she could just grab the phone, a knife, her coat...

Oh God. Her coat. Anna let out a sharp exhale, then a shrill, alien laugh. She coughed, embarrassed, but unsure as to why.

"Fuck you," she said to the coat, stepping forward.

"Fuck you too," the coat said back, rising up from the chair, taking the form of a figure once more.

Anna let out a yelp, stumbled backwards, caught her leg on the coffee table. She fell towards the sofa, desperately trying to keep one eye on the figure. Still she could make out no details. It loomed above her now.

"Fuck you too," it said again. Its voice was raspy, scratchy, but childlike. It giggled.

Anna screamed and the figure joined her, a mocking, painful shriek. It toppled forwards, nothing but an inky smear in the darkness, and Anna closed her eyes, bit down on her lip and raised her

to be a proper lady. That's what Father Nash always said. That he'd tried to raise her right, but he'd failed. He knew he'd failed. Charlotte had the devil in her, he said. If it wasn't for him, she'd be on her back in some whorehouse, begging for more, he said.

Charlotte knew this wasn't true. Every time the priest said such things, every time he called her a harlot, a whore, she winced as if slapped. Until Robert, Charlotte had remained happily chaste. She enjoyed chatting to the village boys on the rare occasion she got to, but surely that was only natural? Having the frigid, dusty old priest for company was enough to make anyone crave human warmth and interaction.

Of course, she said none of this to Father Nash. She simply nodded in agreement, thanked him for his patience, and burned deep inside at her own self-betrayal.

Father Nash could be a crude, spiteful man when the mood took him. Those closest to him would say he portrayed a very different character in the pulpit than he did in his personal life. Charlotte thought differently. Up there, preaching hellfire and brimstone, he was no different. The words were different, the method of delivery, but Charlotte found it just as judgmental, just as condemning. Much of it seemed aimed at her, she thought. The Father would unleash a barrage of doctrine then look pointedly at her. It never used to make her feel guilty. Not before Robert, anyway.

Charlotte fished the stubby candle out from under her bed. She carried it to the lamp in the hallway, lit it, then carefully returned and placed it on the windowsill. On nights like these, it served two purposes. Father Nash liked seeing the light when he went out, to guide him back to the small house on the hill. And Robert knew it meant the priest was away. Each night Father Nash left, Charlotte lit the candle in the hopes that Robert might have returned, that he'd see the light and come to her.

There was much to talk about.

Charlotte lay on the bed, still dressed, warmer now and on top of the covers. Her hands gently rested on her belly, above her womb.

She couldn't feel him, not yet. But he was there. She'd disguised it well enough, hiding the sickness with general illness, and her bump wasn't showing yet. But within her, Robert's child grew, and she knew he'd be a strong and healthy boy.

Charlotte often thought about what would happen when she started to show. Robert had to come back. He had to. He could take her away from this. If he asked Father Nash for Charlotte's hand in marriage, if he promised to take her away in time, unpleasantries could be avoided. She hoped.

The priest would not take the news well. Charlotte knew this. Yet she felt no fear for her child. For herself, definitely, but...

A noise came from the roof. A scratching, clattering sound. Charlotte frowned. Had she fallen asleep? It was far too early, wasn't it?

The noise grew in volume, and Charlotte sat up. It had moved now, or maybe it had never been above her. It was the door. Something was scratching at the door. She closed her eyes, tight, the darkness comforting her.

The scratching became more frantic. Then, a loud banging sound followed by a voice.

"Girl! Get here now!"

Father Nash.

"What was the problem, Father?" Charlotte asked the priest as she removed his coat. Father Nash simply tutted and ignored her. She looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Cold? There was a blackness in the priest's eyes. She took the iron key from him and hung it on the hook.

'How is Mrs. Grenwald?" she asked.

"What? Oh, fine. She is well," Father Nash snapped.

"Recovered, then?"

The Father seemed flustered. "Yes, it appears so. I shall take the rest of my stew in the study."

Charlotte's heart sank. She'd forgotten to keep it on the boil.

"There is no more stew left, Father. I'll boil up something quickly."

Father Nash's face darkened. "Yes there is."

"There isn't, I'm sorry."

The priest pushed past Charlotte, knocking her shoulder painfully against the wall. He strode into the kitchen, and Charlotte followed closely behind.

"What's this then?" he said, pointing to the half-full pot.

Charlotte looked down at her feet. "I'm sorry. I forgot..."

The priest stared at her, unmoving, silent. She knew what was coming. Slowly, Father Nash moved his hands down to his belt, and with gnarled, shaking hands began to unbuckle

her seat belt, but her hands were shaking.

"You really do seem sick," Jesse said, reaching over and helping her with the belt.

"I'm fine. Bad dreams. Didn't sleep much," Anna said.

Jesse put the back of her hand against Anna's forehead. "You've got a fever. Come on, let's get in."

The interior of Jesse's apartment was a far cry from Anna's luxurious penthouse. Clothes, takeout boxes and instruments strewn everywhere. It was a wonder Jesse ever got anything done, Anna thought.

Jesse seemed unapologetic about the mess. "Have a seat," she said, beaming. "I'll get you some water."

The women sat together on the couch. Jesse talked about her album. She seemed excited. Anna felt guilty. Her mind kept straying off topic, thinking about nothing in particular.

"So, hey, wanna see the cover art?" Jesse asked. Anna nodded. From somewhere, Jesse produced a tablet and fired up the screen. "Check it."

The art depicted a doorway leading into a pitch-black room. Pure white light spilled in from an unseen exterior. Framed in the white light was a figure, female, long dark hair flowing down her back. Anna could barely make out her features. She tried to discern whether the woman was stepping into the room, or out of it. She looked at Jessie, at her spiky, blonde punk do. Wasn't her, anyway.

"Who's the model?" Anna asked. Something about the woman seemed familiar.

Jesse laughed. "Only the most beautiful woman in Hollywood."

She offered no more, and Anna decided not to pursue it.

"When's it out?"

"Internet release is next week. Physical... I ain't sure. Maybe never. Might do limited edition. Not sure."

"You not working with that one producer any more?"

"Phil? No. God no. You serious? You didn't hear?"

Anna listened as Jesse shared the latest gossip. Her industry, while similar to Anna's in so many ways, seemed incredibly far removed from the life Anna was used to.

She was still on edge from the night before, too. Still jumping at shadows. She'd awoken on the couch, the TV still on, her coat neatly hung up. Fully dressed.

Anna was sick of the heavy, doomed feeling she had all the time lately. It was this movie, this fucking thing of Chet's. The expectation, maybe, to be the woman he'd created. A desire to live up to his image. It was hard, more trying than any other project, she was pretty sure.

"I finished Chet's new book last night."

"Oh, did you? Jesse just got done reading it too."

"Oh yeah, she mentioned," the doctor said.

"What did you think of it?" Anna asked. "Jesse didn't like it."

"Did you like it?"

"Honestly? No, not really. He's already sold the movie rights. I don't think it'll work as a movie."

"No. It'll certainly need toning down, anyway."

"It scares me, sometimes. The book itself, I mean. Just seeing it, sitting there. They're not his ideas, they must come from somewhere. It's brutal, isn't it? Dark, violent, gratuitous. More than usual."

"It's certainly surprising," the doctor said. "The imagination can run wild, I suppose."

"You're avoiding my question, anyway," Anna said, smiling. "You disliked it too, didn't you?"

The doctor laughed. "Sorry. I'm not used to being the one having to answer."

"So, what did you think?"

"I thought it was the next Great American Novel," the doctor said. Anna could see he was lying.

"You're awful."

They both smiled.

"Jesse played me her album," the doctor said. "Have you heard it?"

"Yeah, I heard it earlier," Anna said. "That's good, isn't it?"

"She's very talented, is Jesse," agreed the doctor.

"Do you remember Mae Grenwald, from when we were kids?"

"I do, of course. What made you think of her now?"

"Oh, just something from the movie," Anna said. She looked around uncomfortably. It was dark out now, and she wondered what Chet was up to. She checked her cell phone display. No missed calls.

"Do you think about her a lot?"

"I haven't thought about her much in years. When I do think about her though, I don't even recall her face any more. I just remember that tricycle. Remember that? The silly red thing."

The doctor smiled. "Yeah, I remember."

"After they found her body, and I'm talking, like, nearly a year after they found her, I remember walking past her house. And I thought 'hey, I wonder if Mae is coming out to play'. Then I looked in her garden, in her front garden, and there was that tree, yeah?"

"Yeah, that's right. She had a swing on it."

"Right there by the tree was her tricycle. And it was rusted, totally rusted up. The silly ribbons she'd tied to the handlebar had rotted away. And it was like, how could her parents just leave it there to rust? I didn't understand it then, at all. I kept going back to her house after that, just looking at it. Just wondering why they didn't come out and fix it up, or at least hide it away. I understand now though, I think. Made more and more sense as I got older."

The doctor cracked his neck. "It's hard to fully comprehend death as a child."

"It's still there," Anna said. "The trike's still there. I went past the house the other day. Mae's father lives there alone now. He's gotta be in his eighties. And the trike's still there."

Everything seemed to be dictated by the same formula. Timing, editing, cut and shoot. Anna poured herself a bath, got in, got out, dried, ate, called Chet, no answer. All her apartment lights stayed on all of the time, now. Bulbs like eyes in every window. Filming resumed tomorrow. Chet had been gone a long time, she thought. The studio had been leaving messages.

On the television, the news sang a symphony of destruction, a bullet that could shoot down God. Flick over. A cowboy film. Was that Brendan, there in the background? Flick over. An advert, and a familiar woman staring back at her. She'd seen her around, on the set. She'd asked Brendan about her. And wasn't she the cover model for Jesse's album? She was advertising a sanitary towel. Or was it a car? Or a fast food restaurant. She took center stage in everything she touched. Ghostly, translucent, floating in and out of the transmission. Anna smiled at her, and extolling the virtues of life insurance, the woman smiled back

was sore and bleeding. Charlotte gingerly dabbed at the welts on her flesh with a wet cotton cloth. She'd endured worse beatings. After a couple of strikes, Father Nash had been taken with a sudden coughing fit, and became too concerned about himself to bother with Charlotte any more. Hatred towards the bitter old man boiled up inside her. She needed Robert.

Robert's not coming back.

It was the first time she'd admitted it to herself, but as soon as she did she knew it was true. He'd left, and would never know about the child growing inside of her.

A calmness settled upon her, and suddenly Charlotte transcended worry, fear, pain. She could hear a gentle, pulsing noise resonating throughout the house, that familiar, rhythmic thump that accompanied them. It was time.

In her bedroom, Charlotte pulled back the curtains and immediately stepped away from the window. She stared out into the darkness, her face blank, her mind clear. Slowly, hesitantly, like a shy and nervous little boy, the darkness stared back.

The first pair of eyes was the smallest. The one Charlotte had begun to regard as a child. He was always first. His bald, rounded head appeared at the window, tiny pointed ears twitching. Huge yellow eyes peered out of albino skin. Charlotte smiled at him, and the creature smiled back, baring his sharp little teeth.

Within seconds, the other four had appeared. They crowded at the window, all eyes and pale skin, staring in at her. Clawed fingers tapped silently at the glass, although which hand belonged to which creature Charlotte wasn't sure. They were a mess of writhing limbs and smiling mouths, their giant lamp-like eyes the centerpieces.

The Peepers, she called them.

When they'd first appeared, that first night, before Charlotte knew of her own condition, she'd been afraid at first. But only for moments. Whenever the Peepers were around, she felt safe. The immediate shock had given way to tranquility, and even when they'd begun to chatter and rap on the glass, she only feared that Father Nash would awaken and discover them, perhaps cause them harm.

The creatures stared at her belly, as they always had done. Because of them, she'd learned of her pregnancy. They were not looking at her but into her, inside her, at her child. She knew this as sure as she knew her own name, although the reasons for it eluded her. They began to chatter.

Charlotte slid off her nightgown, exposing her nakedness to the creatures. They fell silent, and regarded her form with a revered awe. Charlotte's hands slid over her bare flesh, to her belly, and she caressed her unborn child. Outside, the creatures sighed, their eyes half-closing in blissful awe.

This ritual had gone on every night for the last two months. Charlotte hadn't grown tired of it, and seemingly neither had the Peepers. There was a protectiveness in their gaze, a warmth that she didn't feel from anyone else, even Robert.

Charlotte closed her eyes, stood there, let them look. She rubbed her belly and imagined she could feel her son's heartbeat, could hear him breathing.

Click.

Eyes flying open, Charlotte spun around. Father Nash? No. Just the house, groaning in the cold. Then, behind her, a chattering sound. The Peepers. They sounded distraught. She turned, smiled at them. Continued to rub her belly. No, it did not placate them. They were distressed. Something had upset them. They were shaking their heads, dancing on the spot, banging on the glass. Charlotte winced. They were making such a racket that surely Father Nash would hear them and wake up. What had troubled them so?

Her back. The welts. She remembered. It must be the first time they'd seen her injuries. She turned around again, so the creatures could get a better look. They began to howl, in unison, their voices merging to form one long, pitiful cry.

Tears began to fall from Charlotte's eyes. Hot, burning sadness, and shame. She turned to face the Peepers. It was raining now, softly, and the water ran rivulets down the glass, streaking their yellow irises. They fell silent and looked at her, not at her belly but her face now.

Slowly, Charlotte approached the window and raised one hand to the glass. She'd never done this before, had no idea what to expect.

The Peepers scattered instantly, disappearing off into the night. A cold, icy terror crept over Charlotte, as it did every night when they left. Never before had the left like this, though. Paranoid thoughts ran through her mind. Then, as soon as they'd appeared, they began to fade.

One of them had returned. Just one. The littlest one, the child. In the darkness, Charlotte saw his pale, naked form creeping up to the window. Humanoid, but scrabbling about on all fours, distended arms dragging him forward, crablike and scuttling. His face appeared, inches from the glass. One smooth, clawed finger reached out and tapped the glass, then the little Peeper let out a shrill giggle, bared its teeth, and vanished once more. Charlotte braced herself, and the shivering

more than she should be. The set was warm, but Anna was painfully aware of all the eyes on her, taking in her naked form. Someone rushed in and draped a dressing gown over her. She pulled it tight, covering herself. She'd opted against having a body double. It wasn't the first time she'd bared all on-screen, anyway. But never for such extended periods of time, never quite so uncomfortably.

The director approached her. Anna could barely even remember his name these days.

"That was phenomenal," he said. "Utterly fucking marvelous."

He was Australian, she thought. Or British, maybe. Anna thanked him, but she was looking around for Brendan. Of course, he wasn't in was he?

Instead, she saw the woman again. She stood at the back of the set, alone, staring at Anna. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a tight polo neck sweater. Anna started to raise her hand, to wave to her, and the woman shook her head; a slow, precise 'no'.

"Who's that?" she asked the director, interrupting him mid-gush.

The director turned, stared in the direction Anna was pointing. He turned back to Anna.

"Oh, never mind about her," he said cryptically. "Don't worry yourself about it."

Anna frowned. Over the director's shoulder, the woman was smiling, revealing perfectly straight white teeth.

"I have no idea who she is," Anna confided. Jesse took a drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. The bustling coffee shop was beginning to make Anna feel almost normal again. She hoped nobody would recognize her there. Currently, she'd been lucky.

"I don't really know who you're talking about either, An," Jesse said.

Anna sighed. "Yeah, you do. Uh, she's on your album cover."

"What?" Jesse said. "That's you, Anna. That's what I got you to do that shoot for. I thought you were joking when you asked who it was. I know it's all silhouetted and shit, but c'mon."

Anna felt a tightness in her chest. "Right, okay. So she looks like me, yeah I can see that. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You feeling okay?" Jesse asked. "Just that you've been ill lately, and Dom said..."

"Dom said what?"

The two women looked up. Dom had approached their table, coffees in hand.

"Well look what the doctor's brought," Jesse said as he sat down. "I was just telling Anna you'd said she'd been feeling odd lately."

"Yeah, I have," Anna said. "Been laying it all on you, haven't I Dom? Sure you get enough of that from your actual patients."

"Nonsense," Dom replied. "Always got time for my favorite actress."

"What about your favorite singer?" Jesse asked, pouting.

"Well, sure, always got time for Bowie too."

Jesse flicked a sugar cube at him. Dom caught it and dropped it into his coffee.

"That's been on the floor," Jesse told him.

Anna watched the pair with a detached amusement. "Listen, anyway," she said. "This isn't some haunted by myself bullshit. I'm afraid my life isn't as clichéd as one of Chet's novels."

Dom and Jesse laughed, perhaps a little nervously. "No, sorry, I'm sure it's not," Jesse said.

"Other people have seen her, interacted with her. It's just, it's odd. She's always there, every time I'm filming. She's obviously an actress, she studies me all the time. She just doesn't do anything on the movie."

"Weird," Dom said. "I wouldn't worry about it too much though. Maybe she's writing your unofficial biography."

"Oh yeah, great," Anna said.

"You heard from Chet already?" Jesse asked.

"No," Anna said. "Still nothing. And you know what? This happens every time. At the end of every trip, he takes a few days away to 'find himself'. And yes, that means to fuck some groupie."

"And you are still with him because..." Jessie trailed off.

Anna thought about this. Because she loved him? She didn't love him. Because it was easier? It wasn't easier. Because she was afraid of him? She wasn't afraid of him.

"Because I'm carrying his child," she said suddenly. Then stuttered. "Uh, what?"

"Yeah, what?" Jesse demanded. "You are?"

Dom just looked at her and said nothing.

"Oh God," Anna said. "I dunno. Am I? I think, yeah, I think I'm pregnant. Oh God."

"Have you done a test?"

"No, I... I just realized, like, now. Uh..."

Anna felt a wave of dizziness come over her. It was true, wasn't it?

Anna sat curled up on the sofa, the test clutched firmly in her hands. She'd tried to call Chet, tried over and over. Dom and Jesse were asleep in the other room. They'd both stayed with her. They were worried about her, Anna could tell.

All the apartment lights were off. With her friends in the apartment, Anna no longer worried about midnight figures.

Enough was enough. She picked up her cell and called Callie.

"Callie," she said as soon as her friend picked up. "Where's Chet? Don't gloss it over, Cal. Just tell me. I know what he fucking gets up to. Just tell me, please. I need to get hold of him."

"Anna, calm down," Callie said. "Chet's not with you?"

"No. Don't be an ass. He's still in Japan."

"He isn't, Anna," Callie said. "We got a flight back days ago."

"When did you last speak to him, then?"

"When we left the airport. He got a cab. He said he'd be out of action for a few days. Made some crude reference to penetrating you till you couldn't walk straight. Left."

The way Callie said this seemed tinged with bitterness, designed to hurt. Right then, Anna didn't care.

"He never came home, Cal," she said. Even for Chet, this was unusual. He only fucked other people when Anna wasn't around. Couldn't keep it in his pants, but he didn't usually go chasing other girls when Anna was available.

"I've called him once, his phone just went to voice mail," Callie said.

"Same every time I call," Anna told her. "Listen, sorry. And thanks. I'm sure he'll turn up. Let me know if you hear anything, won't you?"

Callie promised she would. Anna shut the phone off then woozily stood up

first thing in the morning to vomit before Father Nash was awake. He didn't ever seem to notice. But as the days passed, then weeks, Charlotte became painfully aware of the bump that was beginning to show. Soon, even her clothes wouldn't hide it. She worried every time she took a bath that Father Nash would enter, as he'd been occasionally wont to do, and see her guilty secret in all its glory.

Each night the Peepers came, though, and she felt at ease. Charlotte had long since given up hope of Robert returning. Father Nash, too, was absent more often than not these days. Almost every night he disappeared down the hill and into the village. He'd dropped the pretense of tending to the sick, and now simply did not tell Charlotte why he was going. She knew better than to push for answers, and in truth didn't much care. Having him out the way so much was a godsend.

This night, he was gone as usual. The candle burned away in Charlotte's bedroom window, but she stood in the kitchen, looking out over the moors. There was a dog out there, and Charlotte's eyes followed it as it sniffed out some unknown quarry.

The dog stopped, and began to scrabble at the ground. Charlotte stirred the broth and absentmindedly tasted it. Too salty, too bitter.

Outside, the dog threw its head up and howled. From somewhere in the surrounding wasteland, a chorus of howls sounded back. Too high-pitched for dogs, too chattery. The Peepers. It was the first time Charlotte had heard them this early in the evening.

A crescent moon shone down, illuminating the beast outside. Then, five darting shadows, circling the dog, nudging against it, brushing it with dark tendrils. Charlotte stared, and that familiar warmth came over her. It was them.

The shadows stopped moving, and suddenly five pairs of yellow eyes appeared, perfectly synchronized, staring at her. The dog, too, stopped its scrabbling and turned to face her.

The creatures were calling to her. She could feel them, feel a tug inside her belly. Calling to her, to her unborn son.

By the time Charlotte had retrieved a lamp, pulled on an old overcoat and hastened out onto the moors, the creatures were gone. She'd expected no less. She found their digging spot easily enough though.

The moonlight reflected on dark, tanned skin. Distended, bloated, but still decidedly human, the corpse moldered in the freshly-tilled earth, disturbed by the canine scrabblings. Charlotte knelt down, an overpowering smell of rotting flesh hitting her nostrils. In the distance, forked lightning pierced the sky, followed by a loud crack of thunder. Trembling, Charlotte held the lamp towards the corpse.

Her former lover stared back at her from sightless eyes. Worms writhed in one of the sockets. Even amongst the dirt and filth, Charlotte could see his throat had been slit.

"Robert," she whispered. Dead, and so close to her own home. But...

Another lightning strike. Behind her, close to the house. And in that split second, in that flash of light, she saw the shadow of a figure looming behind her.

The lantern bounced from Charlotte's grasp and shattered, the remaining gas going up in a ball of flame. Hands closed over Charlotte's mouth and she felt a rough grip on her forearms, then something cracked against the back of her skull and the world turned black.

Charlotte awoke and tried to move her limbs. She was sore and her head pounded. She could feel wetness between her legs and struggled to look down. From the awkward vantage point she was enabled, she could see pooling blood on her nightgown.

My son...

Her limbs were tied roughly to the bedposts. She was in Father Nash's room, she realized Near her head, a lamp flickered wickedly, dancing shadows across the walls.

Charlotte looked up from the crimson stain, into the face of Father Nash. He was in full priest garb, his dog collar a bone-white slash at his throat. He was not alone. Another priest stood beside him, a younger man named Richard from the village who assisted with the church. Then, there was one of the woodcutter's sons, William.

Charlotte screamed, and struggled against her bonds.

"Do you know what they call you in the village?" Father Nash asked. He coughed, loudly, a pained look spreading across his face. "They call you a witch. They say you have the Devil in you, girl. That you used Robert's seed to grow your evil spawn."

Charlotte screamed again, sobbing. Father Nash had a deranged, zealous look in his eyes. The others followed blindly, they always had. Everyone always had.

"We shall strip the devil from you," the younger priest, Richard, said. "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

William said nothing. He merely gave Charlotte a lecherous smile.

"Speak, child," Father Nash said. "Repent."

Charlotte looked at him. Her crying ceased. A calm descended upon her.

Within her stomach, for the first time ever, she felt her son kick.

"Speak!" Nash screamed. "What say you, demon?"

Behind Nash, the door was opening. Silently, gently. In the meager lamplight, five shadows snaked across the ceiling. They loomed large behind the three men. Charlotte thought she saw a flash of yellow.

"Speak!" Nash cried. From by his side, Nash raised a wicked-looking instrument, a sharp, poker-like device. The iron rod shook as he gripped it tightly.

Charlotte faced Nash defiantly. "And I looked, and behold a pale horse," she whispered. "And his name that sat on him was Death."

The shadows moved closer. They were right behind Nash now. An abyss, ready to engulf the three men.

"May God have mercy on your soul," Richard said.

The lamp went out. Behind the men, five pairs of huge yellow eyes floated in the blackness.

Charlotte closed hers tight.

"And Hell followed with him."

Callie called the next day. They'd found Chet, of course, and of course they'd called his assistant first, rather than his girlfriend. He was dead. Of course he was. Buried in a shallow grave just outside the city limits. At least, his body was. They'd found his head five miles south. Seemed a waste of time to Anna, burying him separately like that. There were a lot of questions, of course. Alibis, enemies, whathaveyou. Anna had spent so much time alone that it was a relief to discover she'd been with Jesse and Dom at the time of Chet's death.

Did Chet have any enemies? He had plenty. Rival authors, musicians, special effects guys, spurned lovers, Al Qaeda, smallpox, third world debt. Anna was glad Callie had an alibi too. It would've made for tragic-romantic headlines; long-suffering assistant snaps and decapitates prize-winning author.

Life moved on. They had the funeral, all TV cameras and sobbing. The press got wind that Anna was carrying Chet's child. That was a fun few days. She hid out at Dom's until they lost interest when a starlet got caught driving drunk again.

Filming carried on, after a short recess. It's what Chet would've wanted, apparently. Anna knew otherwise. He never really cared about the movie, it wasn't his any more. All he did was fight against it, make things difficult. He'd have preferred it to halt. She said none of this though, and agreed when they, quite naturally, decided to dedicate the movie to its author.

One day, Anna found herself alone in her trailer. The door opened silently, and the woman stepped in.

She'd been there, always, at the funeral, during filming, in all the paparazzi shots. Anna was ready for her.

"It was you, wasn't it?" she said. "You killed Chet."

The woman laughed. "No, of course not," she said.

"Oh," Anna replied.

"You know who I am?" the woman asked.

"No."

"I'm the next big thing," she said. "The brightest new star."

Anna looked down at the bulge in her belly, thought about the stretch marks forming on her skin, the milk filling her breasts. "Oh."

"I'm you, before you were you," the woman went on. "I'm the way it works."

"Oh," Anna said.

The woman smiled. "Don't take it too hard. You did this to someone else. Don't you remember?"

Anna thought back, back to her first starring role. To the other woman, forgotten these days. To the magazines she used to read, the glossies she used to pore over, the life she used to covet. Her life.

"Don't you remember how this story goes?" the woman asked. "You're just the prologue. I'm the main event."

Charlotte moaned. The pain in her abdomen was unbearable. The dank, stinking cave she'd called her home for the last few months felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable for the first time ever. Wetness had pooled around her legs. Her son was coming.

"Push, Anna," Dom said. He held her hand. "Deep, gentle breaths."

Anna gripped his fingers tightly. Jesse stood on the other side. The hospital staff, unimpressed with the uncharacteristic crowding of the maternity unit, knew better than to argue with celebrities over minor things like health and safety.

One of the Peepers, the youngest one, crept up to Charlotte's side. Of all of them, he was the only one who was still a tiny bit hesitant of her. But now, finally, he seemed to accept her. He reached out and took her limp hand, running it across his face.

The first time Charlotte had touched one of the Peepers, as they'd carried her away from Nash's hateful house, away from the slaughter, she'd been surprised at how smooth and warm they felt. These days, she loved it when they cuddled into her, slept against her. They smelled clean, fresh. They were hygienic. Nothing at all like their ghoulish appearance might have suggested.

Her son was coming. She felt waves of pain, like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

"Fuck!" Anna screamed. A midwife was between her legs and a doctor fed her oxygen. Dom and Jesse had been relegated to the corridor.

"Oh, he's coming along now," the midwife said. "Just a few more pushes. Nice easy one this is."

"Fucking easy fuck fuck," Anna hissed, every nerve ending burning like a solar flare. She felt like her hips were about to crack.

Charlotte could feel her child trying to come into the world, trying to get free, but something was wrong. The Peepers crowded around her legs, chattering away to one another, tearing at her filthy clothes, pulling them off. She tried to push, tried to force her child out. She could feel the Peepers' claws on her thighs, deadly but gentle, trying to aid her.

It was no good. Something was wrong. Charlotte screamed, gasping between sobs. The youngest Peeper held her hand up to his mouth and kissed it gently.

At her feet, four pairs of yellow eyes looked at her. She looked back, tears streaming down her face. The Peepers howled, quietly, sadly.

Charlotte nodded.

Anna looked up, an intense wave of relief washing over her. Every bit of her ached, every muscle felt like it had been wrung out. She heard a shrill, pitiful cry. Felt a warmth.

"Congratulations, Ms. Grant," the doctor said. "You have a wonderful, healthy baby boy."

Charlotte felt the claws slice into her abdomen, above her groin. Surprisingly, it barely hurt. There was nothing else the Peepers could do. Slowly, sadly, they cut away and for a while Charlotte passed out.

She opened her eyes one last time. The five creatures stood together, chattering softly, then turned to look at her when they realized she was awake. In their hands they held Charlotte's baby. No, not hers any more. She gazed upon her child; not a son, but a daughter. A beautiful, healthy baby girl.

For a split second, the girl's eyes flashed yellow. Charlotte smiled, tried to speak, then slipped away into blackness.

Text appears on the screen. Title. Opening credits. Anna watches for her own name. There's Brendan. Then her. Sixth billing. Fuck. She stands up, excuses herself. A couple theatergoers grumble at her. She squeezes past legs. Nobody recognizes her. Of course not. Why would they?

On-screen, animated sequences play out. Anna turns her back to them and walks to the exit. She turns, just as the movie proper starts. Twenty five years later. The familiar woman looks back at her, smiles, waves. Anna nods and leaves the theater. Jesse's looking after Garcia, and Anna promised she wouldn't be long. She has responsibilities now. She's happy to take a step back.

As Anna strolls through the park, then along the bustling street, she seems them. The Peepers, with their hungry yellow eyes, watching her, waiting, taking it all in, loving her, letting her go, moving on.

XIX - A Bitter End

"We should get going."

"I agree."

The boy nods and smiles at the girl.

They part ways at the intersection, and head off in opposite directions.

The wind whips leaves left and right and sends a chill through the air.

London, in May.

Trees bend, and boughs break. A faint spatter of rain falls and the boy hugs his coat tighter around himself. Some things aren't meant to be uncovered.

What thoughts dwell we cannot know. Perhaps this is for ever. An existence infiltrated by the bitterness of Springtime.

An anesthetic, drowning out the cold and allowing the warmth inside, everything changes everything.

He walks along, one foot following the next, a rhythm set in dustings of snow.

There is nothing here, London in May.

A black cab swerves by, almost sliding on the wet road. The boy does not look up. There's nothing to see that he hasn't seen a thousand times before. A nearly-accident.

His head is starting to feel fuzzy, and he needs another fix.

There are clouds, and the world feels apocalyptic. Leading up to the endgame. They did this. Loose leaves on the pavement as the boy walks along.

It? Where is? His house?

Up to the front door, key in the lock. Click and bang like a gun only this time it fires and maybe if you were there too you'd have heard it. It's warm, despite the biting wind which isn't in the house of course and why would it be?

Inside the house. No-one is home. Mother is out at a party, Father is long gone.

Up to his room and into the drawer. Not him but his hand. Another moment lost, another day wasted. This is just killing time, siphoning away the moments until the next big event where something significant might possibly happen if we're lucky.

Nothing is true.

Fate is a cruel bitch and a lazy bedfellow. Lie back, think of nothing, fuck me harder, God is on the ceiling.

Swallow, gulp, swallow. He's a son of a bitch. She wouldn't be happy if she heard this, but can you blame her?

Something is wrong, and it's not up to him to find out. He just did this.

The boy looks at the wall, trying to see out, but there's just yellow wallpaper and rising damp these days.

He removes his shirt. He is a puzzle of flesh, invisible edges tracing the path of life, or perhaps he's imagining it. Across the heart, the chest, the arms, the arteries. Tracing with a finger, glowing fault lines where once and always there was nothing.

The warmth is in his chest now is clarifying things. The world switches from color to black and white. White. Black. Invert. Reload. He is his own ghost.

Border divides, end of days. How many hours left? It's all a bit white now.

He pulls his shirt back on, warm and shivering. The house is silent, empty. The way it always is. Is and was

Past and present merge into one another like he's drunk but nothing like that at all. Never know where we're going, or where we'll end up. Him, her? One. Perfection. Freedom.

It reminds her of Winter, and a time when she belonged to herself.

The girl. We focus on the girl like so many hungry eyes.

The girl walks along the road, her mind on one thing. Him. He is her addiction, her soul and he will not quit.

Why do you feel this way when you know I love you? Is love the correct word? I am addicted to you. You are me, or so it feels. One who loved, yes. Loved not wisely, but too well.

She thinks nothing but him, is nothing but him. She wishes that he would follow her again, pursue her again, love and touch her again, consensual and sensual. When did the end come, was it here all along?

It wasn't any time soon. The end of these days, the end of those days. Nothing quite like a subway bigot to awaken the inner demons, or at least unpleasant memories.

The things they say. Such ugly words for such a beautiful boy. The girl frets. Happiness is more than a pill. It's a touch, a kiss, a warm gun.

She reaches her front door. No-one is home. Father is out on business, Mother is long gone. Old wounds that never show, bear witness to something long forgotten.

Sometimes it's a wonder that the world, their world now, hasn't already ended. End, beginning. Show a little difference of opinion and everything's new.

It's easy to interrupt this train of thought. There's nothing really to consider.

She goes upstairs, and reaches into her drawer. Her whole self withdraws a photo album.

He is in there, all of him. Everything everything and oh so desperate. Illogical.

Love is.

An addiction.

They want, she wants, he wants. A counterproductive cycle of mayhem and chaos all rolled into a neat little ball that we call the heart. Something like happiness only painful and sad, a bleeding organ wrapped in a white silk handkerchief and kept on ice until everyone is ready for it.

Light bends. Time shifts. Darkness falls.

They sit hand in hand on the hill. Behind them, the satellite dish that looks over the world seems to glow a phosphorous green. Pulsating, transmitting, receiving alien signals and live broadcasts through dead air and empty space.

Neither of them speak. Both gaze up into the sky, dazzled by the beauty of a thousand stars. They have been here before, together. It began here. Fitting that it should end here as well.

It is a perfect moment, frozen time as the seconds tick away until the sky might fall. It is too short.

"I want you," he whispers into her ear.

"You have me," she whispers back.

They kiss, for eternity and a day. Their lips. Touch. Their lips touch, bodies entwined in beautiful paradise.

Garden of Eden, destroyed by time and hopeless romantics. Body and temple crumbling like earth in the hands of a child.

"Will we find peace?" he asks and hands her a single red rose.

"I hate the word," she replies with a sad smile, knowing they've got it all wrong and perhaps they always had. They know what they have done, now, at the end of all things. Childhood folly and make-believe shattered by that one magic bullet.

The drugs are quick. Poison spreads through his body, taking hold. The boy clutches his stomach, looking at her. A single tear rolls down her cheek and she lies down beside him. The best kiss will be their last.

No. It is not time.

"This is thy sheath," she whispers, leaning against him. Their lips touch again.

An ill wind begins to blow. The end is fast, and bitter.

London, in May.

The city moves on, the city moves up and begins to grow, across the world from the moon-drenched spotlight trained upon our final act, our final stage. Everything is as it should be for now. Addiction, perfection, comedy, tragedy, who knows?

A glooming peace this morning with it brings, the sun, for sorrow, will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things, or doth love linger though all hope seems dead?

Bodies twitch. Breath catches in his throat. Eyes open. Somewhere in the distance, a Lamb cries.

The curtain rises for one final scene.

XX - Lonely And Sympathetic

"I love you," she said, pouting her lips in that infuriating, petulant way of hers. "I want to be with you."

I smiled politely.

"I'm not really your type," I told her. "I'm not really anybody's type."

"That's utter bullshit. You know that," she replied indignantly, crossing her arms tightly below her breasts.

We were standing on the sidewalk, in one of those streets that isn't quite the heart of the city, but is close enough to still contain a fair bit of traffic. It was hard to be heard over the cars that roared past every now and then, probably breaking numerous traffic laws. I frowned, concerned.

"Why would I say something that was 'utter bullshit'?" I asked her.

"I don't know do I? You said it." She made an unattractive sighing noise. "It's just one of those things that people say isn't it? A brush-off or whatever."

"No, I don't think so," I told her patiently. "It is what it is."

"But everyone loves you. You've always got people approaching you. Hell, I approached you."

"That doesn't make me their type though, does it?"

I began walking off, hoping she wouldn't follow. I knew that was very unlikely, but at least I was moving.

It had started to rain lightly, the drizzle making my face uncomfortable. I began to wish I'd worn a hat. I could hear Penny's footsteps following close behind.

"Where are you going? Stop and talk," she whined.

I stopped and turned around.

"Look, it's raining," I said, looking up at the overcast sky. Dark clouds were moving in. I was sure it was going to storm at any minute. "Lets go get a coffee or something."

"Fuck you, Loose," she muttered. Then; "Okay, okay whatever."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "Good girl."

"You're so fucking patronizing," she said, her face a mixture of annoyance and longing.

I shrugged.

As we walked, she kept imploring me to listen to her. She was moaning about something or other. I pretended I couldn't hear her over the noise of the traffic, but I wasn't exactly listening either.

Pretty soon we came to a small, dirty-looking cafe The hand-painted sign above the window read 'Joe's Dinner'. I wasn't sure if this was an horrific misspelling or what, and a glance at the interior suggested the place was suitably unpleasant. I opened the door and a bell rang quietly somewhere out back. I stepped aside to let Penny in, then closed the door behind me. I looked back out into the street; it had started raining much harder now. A man hurried past, covering his head with a newspaper. I smiled at him and turned back into the diner.

Penny was already sat in a booth by the window, probably so she could gaze miserably at the rain outside. Sighing inwardly, I slid into the seat opposite her and pretended to study the menu intently, even though I knew full well what I'd be ordering.

"We need to talk," she said.

I pretended that I hadn't heard her and carried on reading the grease-stained menu. I held the edges of the laminate with the tips of my fingers, unwilling to touch the congealed sauce and God knows what else.

"We need to talk," she repeated.

"Hmm?" I didn't look up.

I felt her wrench the menu from me, and watched as she tossed it onto the seat beside her.

"Fucking look at me," Penny said. So I did.

"What? What exactly do you want to talk about?"

"Why are you breaking up with me?"

I could see she'd been crying a bit. A thin line of mascara ran down her pale cheek and her brown eyes shone. Her bottom lip was trembling. It actually made her look pretty attractive. Not that she wasn't pretty anyway, she definitely was. That wasn't it, really. The rain had slicked down her glossy dark hair, and she brushed a strand of it away from her forehead. She looked vulnerable and innocent, sitting there in her usual morose black clothes, chewing gently on her lip.

She wasn't the type of girl I'd normally go for. Far too scene, I think they'd say. Part of that whole not-quite-Goth culture, all of whom had been born too late to be part of the 80s movement. I rarely found that kind of look classy. In fact I rarely frequented the kinds of places where I'd meet people like Penny. That night, a couple weeks before, had been an exception. I guess I was just bored.

Penny was tapping her long nails on the table impatiently.

"Why are you breaking up with me?" she asked demandingly.

"I'm not breaking up with you. That would imply we were together in the first place."

She looked at me with a wide-eyed stare.

"You're sickening and you make me sick," she said, obviously fighting back more tears. I guess she had some kind of concept of not giving me 'the satisfaction' or something, whatever it is that people say about things like that. I've never really understood it.

I smiled politely. "Thanks."

"You know what I mean, anyway. We were doing fine, having fun, then suddenly it's 'Oh we can't see each other any more'. Couldn't you at least explain it?"

"Penny," I said seriously, resting my chin on my hands. "Do you remember what I said to you, that night after we'd left the club, in the taxi back home?"

Penny thought for a moment, brushing away another strand of hair and tucking it behind her ear.

"Good afternoon! Can I take your orders?"

A fat, plain-looking waitress had sidled up to the table quietly. Who knew how long she'd been standing there? She was clutching her notepad so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. I could see she was shaking slightly. She turned her gaze on me, tossing her platinum-blonde curly hair my way. I wondered if it was an attempt to be seductive. If it was, it didn't work in the slightest.

"Y'all ready to order, sir?"

Her accent was horrendous.

"Black coffee, no sugar, please," I said. I shot her a winning smile. Cruel, perhaps, but maybe it'd brighten her day.

Her face flushed red. "Anythin' to eat with that, sir?"

I cracked the knuckle of my right index finger. "No, I'm good thanks."

"And you, ma'am?" the waitress asked, addressing Penny. Penny was staring out the window.

"Penny, pay attention to the woman," I said in what I intended to be a patronizing way. Penny shot me a dirty look.

"Ummm... you got any cherry pie?"

"Do we! We got the best damn cherry pie in the whole of New York," the waitress said, beaming. I noticed one of her canine teeth was missing. To top it all off, her name-badge read 'Barbie'. You couldn't make this shit up.

"Yeah, I'll have some of that, with ice-cream. And a vanilla milkshake," Penny said.

I rolled my eyes. "You're such a child at times."

"Fuck off, Loose," she hissed, then smiled falsely at the waitress. "I'm twenty seven you know. Not a child."

The waitress patted Penny's shoulder reassuringly. Penny flinched.

"Men, eh?" Barbie chuckled, but she shot me a wink to show she wasn't serious. Penny shrugged Barbie's hand off her shoulder and went back to looking out the window. Barbie just stood there staring at me.

"Was there... anything else?" I asked her tentatively.

"Oh, no, no..." She blushed again and scurried off, her flat sneakers making one hell of a racket on the sticky floor.

Penny was still looking out the window mournfully, twiddling a piece of her hair between her thumb and index finger. I coughed to get her attention.

"So do you remember what I said?"

Penny's top lip twitched into some kind of snarl. She was annoyed, now. Good.

"You said..."

"Here you go! Coffee, cherry pie and a milkshake!"

It was Barbie again, with her irritating enthusiasm, this time clutching a tray which she seemed to be struggling with. She placed a large, steaming mug of coffee in front of me. Two packets of sugar and a carton of cream sat on the saucer, wet with a bit of coffee that had spilled over the side of the mug. I nodded my head in thanks, then slipped the milk and sugar into her apron pocket when she wasn't looking.

"And this is for you, darlin'," she said to Penny, placing the plate of pie and ice-cream in front of her, followed by a fork and spoon, and finally the milkshake. It was in a large float glass with a pink curly straw sticking out of it. I laughed, sneering.

"Shut up," Penny whispered, then turned to Barbie and thanked her.

"That's alright, you guys enjoy your order now, y'hear," Barbie said, far too loudly.

"Yes," I said, and made a point of letting her know I was no longer regarding her.

She made a 'hmmph' sound and spun on her heel, walking back behind the counter over the other side of the diner.

The momentary peace gave me an opportunity to survey the shithole we were in. All the seats were a hideous shade of orange, the plastic-coated cushions in various states of disrepair. The walls were stained yellow, and I noticed that a number of tables had ashtrays on them. Ours just had a limp bouquet of fake flowers in a chipped white vase, and a set of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of the old World Trade Center. I wondered if this was a tribute, or whether they were just really old. It was hard to tell, everything in that place looked old or worn-out.

The only other customer was a weather-beaten old man, sitting at a stool near the till, wearing a filthy coat. I wondered if he was a hobo. Barbie seemed pretty familiar with him, flirtatious almost. I shuddered. His eyes seemed to be fixed on her oversized chest.

Penny was eating her pie in small mouthfuls. She saw me looking at her.

"Mmm, it's good," she announced happily, her words slightly muffled by food. She took a forkful of pie and ice-cream and pointed it at me. "Try some."

I leaned forward and ate her offering. She was right, it wasn't bad. Penny smiled at me as I chewed.

"Nice, isn't it?"

I swallowed, nodded.

She had a spot of ice-cream at the corner of her mouth. I picked up a napkin and reached over, dabbing the dessert away. Penny had that look on her face, the one where she didn't know whether to smile or cry. She finished up her pie and looked at me. I took a sip of the coffee. It was vile.

"This is fucking disgusting coffee," I said. Penny beamed at me. I wasn't sure if she'd misheard.

"I suppose we'd better continue where we left off, before that nice lady came over," she said slowly. I could see her smile fading.

I was eager to get this done with. Why was this always so hard? I cursed my idiocy.

"Yeah, can you remember what I told you?"

Penny bit her lip, thinking. Then she took a deep breath and began, the words spilling out hastily as if she were glad to be rid of them.

"You said... 'I'll tell you now, so you're under no illusions. This is meaningless. You'll come back to mine, jump into my bed, then tomorrow it'll be goodbye without so much as breakfast. You'll probably want to leave. Maybe you won't and maybe you'll stay for longer. We might hang out for a while. Fuck around, have some fun. But then in the blink of an eye it'll be over. If you convince yourself you love me then I'll break your heart. I'll offer no apologies if that time comes, because I've been nothing but honest. Do you still want to come back with me?'." She looked at me pleadingly. "Did I do good?"

I was somewhat taken aback. "Uh, it was something like that, yeah. More or less."

Penny scowled and broke eye contact. "It was word for fucking word. And I thought it was cute. It was the most honest thing that anyone's ever said to me, so I thought it was a lie."

"Figures," I said. The bane of being truthful. Nobody believes you. "That wasn't exactly my fault. I invited you back whilst making it perfectly clear what would happen. You chose to come, knowing this, and I even asked you if you were sure."

"And I said yes, and I did, and we've spent two fucking weeks together, Loose. Two weeks. And it was great. You know it. I've never been happier. I mean that."

"Honestly, I don't understand. I'm not supposed to make you happy. You're not the first girl to say this to me, either."

"Hah," Penny spat bitterly. "You make it sound like I'm just one of many."

"You are," I said. "I never said you were special."

Somehow, I felt a very uncharacteristic pang of remorse as she reeled back.

"I..."

"Look, I'm sorry. I just abhor lying."

Penny choked back a sob. She wiped her eyes with the back of her slender hand.

"I have to go and I'm going. Goodbye."

She slid out of the booth and stood up.

It was a situation I'd been in hundreds, possibly even thousands of times before. I always let them walk away. Let them get over it however they wanted, without me. It was always for the best. They never saw it like that of course, but I was just looking out for them. I am not cruel.

I reached out and touched her arm, on instinct.

"Please don't go yet," I said. "I... I don't want you to go yet."

It was only after I'd said it that I realized it was true. Had it always been true? Perhaps not. But I would not have said it if it wasn't.

Penny didn't need any more reassurance. She sat straight back down. I could sense a glimmer of hope in her face. Even I didn't know where this was going. My head was spinning. I blamed the piss-poor beverage. Imagine that. An entire world unraveled because of shit coffee.

"You want to talk, is that it?" she asked. "So then talk."

"Well I..." I began, but she cut me off, placing a finger to my lips.

"I'll talk. You say I'm just one of many. Do you just go out looking to fuck, then? Just trawl the clubs, the bars, wherever, just looking for the next piece of ass?"

She said this matter-of-factly, pleasantly. She didn't even seem angry, just curious. I felt like I was in the dock again, being judged so dispassionately. Those people, not even programmed to comprehend why I was the way I was.

"That's not it at all," I told her. "I go out because I like going out."

"But you were alone that night. You can't tell me that you weren't out looking to pick someone up."

"I can, and I will. I wasn't out looking to pick someone up. I wanted a quiet drink. You approached me, remember."

"Only because you were eyeing me up. You can't deny that."

"I was, yes. Because you're very attractive. You didn't have to make a move."

Penny sighed. "What was I supposed to do? I was alone in a club, being eyed up by the most good-looking man I've probably ever seen." She paused. "Don't get an ego trip over that, please. Anyway I was alone and we were both alone. You would have approached me eventually."

"Almost certainly not," I said. "I've learned by now that these things never go well."

"So why didn't you just say no? You could've said no, you know."

I shook my head. "I couldn't have. I really couldn't have."

"Is this one of those 'I can resist everything but temptation' things?"

She smiled slightly. I smiled back.

"That's... kind of exactly it, yeah. But not my temptation. Yours. I couldn't resist your temptation. It's a genuine problem I've had to put up with for a long, long time."

"So, what, basically you're powerless to say no if someone wants to fuck you?"

I put my head in my hands. Explaining things is difficult when you're dancing around an elephant in the room.

"So," she went on. "Ms Barbie over there, if she asked you to go back to her place, to have a bit of 'fun'... you couldn't say no?"

I exhaled, frustrated. "I could say no. She wouldn't really want it. She'd just want someone, not specifically me. It's... it's complicated."

"You mean it's complicated unless they're your age with nice tits and a short skirt, right?"

I felt like I was being psychoanalyzed. Part of me enjoyed it.

"Sadly, I can very much assure you that's not the case." I shuddered, thinking back over my life. "Also, for the record, you're not my age."

"I don't even know your age, in fact I don't know anything! It's ridiculous. You've never told me a goddamn thing. I've been sleeping with a stranger for the last goddamn fortnight. I should feel disgusting."

I shook my head. It would be easier to let her realize why this was wrong by herself.

"I don't, though," she added. "I don't at all. I feel comfortable, familiar, at ease. And I hate myself for it."

"Listen, you shouldn't beat yourself up." I let an ounce of concern seep into my voice. I was beginning to worry about her. She'd never struck me as the most stable of girls.

"You know what this feels like? You know, like, when you've got a thing for a celebrity, and you know it's not just a crush, you actually love them, you watch all their films or listen to all their music, and you actually love them, y'know? And then you read stories about which starlet they're fucking, or who they've married for five minutes. And it hurts. It really fucking hurts, because you love them and they're out there screwing some Hollywood A-Lister and they'll never, in a million years, even know you exist. And you know that if you could just reach them, once, they'd see that you were the one, the right one, the perfect one for them. But you never will. And it just eats you up inside like fucking cancer or something. Y'know?"

"That's not love, that's obsession," I told her. "You're supposed to feel that way about those people. Their publicists, the media, they manipulate you into feeling like shit. You're not supposed to feel that way about me. So when you do, yeah, it's fucked up and I can't say no."

"You're fucking cold, you know that?" she said, her bottom lip trembling again. I could see where this was going. "Cold and weird. But anyway, I feel like this with you, but it's so much worse. It feels like you don't even know I exist but you're sitting right opposite me, we've shared two weeks together, shared a bed, you've seen every fucking thing of me there is to see. But it's like I'm nothing, and I feel like nothing, and you've been inside me, you've fucking been inside me, and you won't let me inside, in other ways, and oh God, I love you and it hurts more than love ever should."

Tears began streaming down Penny's face. She made no attempt to wipe them away. Her mascara dripped black down her cheeks.

I felt like I wanted to hold her, to tell her it'd be alright. But how could I? I couldn't lie, after all.

"You're just confused," I said, resisting the urge to take her hand. "You don't love me. You can't. You'll see this in time, when I'm out your life."

She sniffled. "Loose... I don't... WANT YOU OUT MY LIFE."

She slammed her palm on the table. The old tramp and Barbie looked over at us. I waved at them in a nonchalant way and thinking 'fuck it', I took Penny's hand. What was the worst that could happen? Her skin felt cold and smooth. I shivered inwardly. I was feeling pretty strange, all told.

She continued. "And how dare you, how DARE you tell me I don't love you. How can you know that? How the fuck can you presume to tell me what I feel? You act like you know everything, like you're so fucking experienced, but I think you've just got intimacy issues or one of those other bullshit things that people say." She sobbed harder. "But seriously, you have no fucking right. How can you know?"

"I know. I just know. You don't love me. I'm sorry if you think you do," I said. "It's not how this works. It's not even in your biology."

She looked up at me with tears still running down her face.

"I want you to hold me, Loose. That's all I want. Just now, right now, I don't care if you won't speak to me again, I just want it right now."

Her voice was trembling. I stood up, out the booth. For a minute she looked at me in fear, as if worried I was about to leave. But I walked beside her seat and she slid over. I sat next to her and put my arm round her, pulling her close. She rested her head on my shoulder, her face turned towards me slightly. I could feel her breath on my cheek. It smelled of cherries. I kissed her forehead, then using a napkin I wiped the mascara from her cheeks, dabbing gently at her eyes. The act felt oddly sensual. Tenderness. It was a new, strange sensation. I felt a brief moment of fear. Something wasn't right. Penny smiled and giggled quietly. I kissed her forehead again.

"You know this, too, doesn't mean anything?" I said. A searing pain shot through my brain. I winced. Lying always hurt.

"Ssssh," she said, putting her finger to my lips again.

"Look, you haven't touched your milkshake," I pointed out.

"You said it made me childish. So I don't want it any more."

Something strange was going on in my head. Something that, in all my years on this earth, I had honestly never felt before. I felt awful, for a start.

"I didn't say that. I implied it. But hey..." I picked up the milkshake and put the end of the straw in my mouth, then drank some. "I guess I'm childish too now."

She looked up at me. I put the straw to her lips and she sucked on it.

"Is good," Penny said, then swallowed.

I laughed. I felt her body relax next to mine.

She started to say something then stopped. "Last night I dreamed of Death," she announced instead. "She was beautiful, and we kissed through a mirror."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I replied. Something about the image amused me far too much.

"Oh, just a dream, y'know? Tell me now, you don't dream either."

"Correct."

"Oh bullshit!" She punched me softly in the chest. "Everybody dreams. Anyway, it had something to do with those comics I was reading."

"And you wonder why I call you childish," I said, stroking her wet hair affectionately. Who cared if it was wrong? It shouldn't be allowed. And yet, it was happening.

She pouted her lips in that infuriating, petulant way again, and I realized I actually found it endearing.

"There's nothing childish about comic books! There are all sorts of awesome ones, like Death, who is a girl. And ones about a priest, ones about famous people from books, or Jack The Ripper, and haha, a man who dresses like a bat."

"I'm not so culturally inept as to be unaware of Batman," I said. "But Death is a thirty-something black guy who currently lives in Pennsylvania."

We sat in silence for a while, then, my arm around her shoulder.. I was overcome with a longing which was anything but lustful. It scared me. I felt like I should say something and leave. But I didn't want to. It was the last thing I wanted to do. And for the first time ever, I didn't feel like I had to.

I drowned out the sounds of Barbie and the hobo whispering to each other, of the chef muttering in broken English. I listened to Penny's heartbeat. It was fast, strong. Alive.

She began to trace a line with her fingernail on my shirt, still slightly damp with the rain.

"Does it really have to end?" she asked softly, as if she were afraid of the answer.

I opened my mouth to say yes, felt the dull nagging pain in my head, went to say no instead.

The sounds of a radio interrupted me. I turned to look. Barbie had obviously turned it on from behind the counter. '...statement from The White House later today...'

"Sounds like there's trouble brewing," I said.

"There's always trouble brewing," Penny said. "Isn't there?"

She looked me directly in the eyes. Somewhere, across the infinite nothingness of space, I felt my heart breaking. Then, no, it wasn't my heart. Something had changed. What was it?

"Do you love me?" she asked.

Of the hundreds, thousands, of women, and men, who had in the past desired me or what I could give them, Penny was the first to ask me this question. I'd been told to say 'I love you' in the heat of passion, in that moment of lust where you say anything and it has no meaning, but never like this.

With her heart bared open to me, she asked me if I loved her. The question I'd always wanted to be asked in the moment I'd always wanted to be asked it.

"Yes," I said simply.

"Then why did you want it to be over, before?"

"I love you, Penny," I said. I felt her tense. "I love you. I've always loved you. From the moment I saw you and even before that, before we even met. I love you. I can't help but love you. This is why I'm so torn up, because I always knew I'd love you. I just never expected that I'd be in love with you. But I am in love with you as well. And that's why, however much you think you're hurting, however difficult you think this is, it's going to get worse."

I realized the radio was silent. Barbie and her disheveled friend were speaking in hushed whispers. The chef was silent.

"Loose, you're wrong," Penny said. A knowing look flashed across her face. "It won't get worse. This is the beginning. The beginning of the end, maybe, but it's still the beginning."

I kissed her forehead and felt her tremble.

"Now it's my turn not to understand," I said. "And, honestly, I trust you. I want to believe you. But you can't be in love with me. It just isn't possible, and I pray to God, if he'd even consider listening to me, that it were. I pray to God that after so many years of emptiness, of loneliness and sympathy, of watching people like you, of wanting more than temptation and desire and pain, I pray this could be true. I want you to love me, but I don't see that you can."

Echoing, resounding silence. A single tear rolled down my cheek. I hadn't been open like that since the trial, that one day that changed everything. I was beyond the point of being surprised.

Things do change, I suppose. They did before. They could again. Penny was crying silently.

"You seem so sure. I thought it was just a way of getting out of a situation, putting the blame on me. I thought it was some self-pitying shit. But you seem so fucking sure, like you know something I don't."

She stopped speaking and stared into my bright blue eyes.

"Who are you, Loose?" she asked. "What do you know?"

"I'm just someone," I whispered, "and I know some things. That's all."

"You say you know I don't love you. I don't understand it. But I've realized..."

I felt the breath leave my body. Here it was, the revelation, the breaking of the spell. The time when she could move on like everyone else. In my head I said a silent thank you for her salvation, and a curse for my damnation.

I wasn't sure I'd ever get over it this time.

Love, eh?

"I..." Penny said, drawing it out. "I am in love with you. I honestly don't care what you think you know, or what is supposed to be true, or whatever. I love you and I'm in love with you and I want to make love to you and with you and I never want this to ever fucking end. I don't know the first thing about you or who you are or what you've done to think I can't love you, and I really don't care. I know how I feel, I've never been more fucking sure of anything in my life. I know that I want you to hold me like this forever, I want to be in your arms when I eventually die. I want you beside me when it's dark, and stormy, and everything else is fucked. I don't care who you've been with before and I know in my heart that if you stayed with me there would be no-one else after. And I don't care why you're punishing yourself, whether you've loved and lost or even if it's some shit like you have abandonment issues because of your father or something."

I couldn't help but smile bitterly at the last statement. Penny didn't notice, or if she did then she didn't let me know.

"I don't know what else I can say. I'll beg you to believe me, if you want that. Just tell me what I can do to prove it to you and I'll do it. I love you, I love you and I love you and I'm not going to let you walk away for some bullshit reason that doesn't mean anything to anyone and will ruin something perfect and I'll never get over it and oh fuck, please believe me."

She began crying heavily, taking wet gulps of air to catch her breath. I held her close and took her hand, every part of us touching in that booth in that cheap cafe while the rain beat electric rhythms on the window panes.

I believed her. And I knew, then, with her, the world had changed forever.

I leaned down and kissed her passionately on the lips. I felt her tongue on mine, gentle, probing, exploring each other for the first time. I could hear her heartbeat getting faster, louder, and I knew in that instant, as we kissed and stars turned to supernovas somewhere above us, that I was free. Somehow, I was free.

We kissed for what felt like forever. Then she removed her lips from mine and rubbed her cheek against my neck. I kissed the top of her head.

"I have something really important to tell you," she said finally. I blinked. "It might shock and surprise you. Prepare yourself."

I swallowed dryly.

"Hmm?" I asked casually, feigning nonchalance. I was on edge.

"I need to use the bathroom," she said. Inwardly I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and patted her stomach.

"Hurry back," I cautioned. "we have a lot of planning to do. And I should probably explain some stuff."

Fuck it, I thought. Why not?

"That might help!" Penny said eagerly. "We can work out where we go from here, take it slowly if you want. I'll help you work through these issues!"

"Why wait?" I asked. "Why plan? Lets be spontaneous. You're just staying with a friend here anyway, right? Move in with me, if you want."

It felt right. I wanted it more than anything. I didn't even consider that for once I might be coming across too intensely for someone else.

"That's not... too much, is it?" I asked, worried now.

Penny's beautiful face was lit up with the brightest smile I've ever seen.

"No! Not at all! I'd love that. But I really need to use the bathroom."

I stood up and let her get out the booth. She kissed me on the cheek as she walked away. I sat down and watched her go, watched her pause for a second as she looked about, trying to locate her destination. My eyes surveyed the curves of her body, the lightness of her steps, the way she subconsciously rubbed her cheek against the fur collar of her jacket every now and then. The fact that I knew, even though I couldn't see her face, that she was happy.

It was the first time I'd ever felt that I'd actually, genuinely, made someone happy. Satisfied, plenty of times. But happy? No. Empty maybe. Addicted. Tempted. Desiring. But happy?

That is how I knew.

I sat there contemplating this as Penny passed through the door towards the bathrooms and out of my sight. I eyed her milkshake, half-finished on the table, then took a sip. It was the second sweetest thing I've ever tasted. A ring of her lipstick remained on the end of the straw, or maybe it was cherry sauce. Either way it was a part of her and I wasn't going to wipe it away. I felt like I could be hers completely, and she would be mine.

I noticed that sometime while we'd been talking, Penny had folded her napkin into a small paper flower. It sat beside her empty plate, beautiful in its whiteness. I felt unspeakably proud.

I looked up as the door to Joe's Dinner was pushed open. The sounds of the wind, rain and traffic mingled to dampen the footsteps of the new arrival. It was a young man sporting an unkempt beard. He walked slightly hunched over, his arms wrapped around himself, pulling his duffel coat tightly. I saw a thin film of sweat on his skin despite the bitter cold. The door slammed shut behind him and somewhere in the back a bell stopped ringing.

The man half walked, half tripped his way over to the counter. I craned my neck to watch him. Something wasn't right.

"You, the fucking waitress," he slurred, nodding towards Barbie and reaching inside his jacket. His voice was clipped, British. I sensed breeding. He hadn't always been like this. "Gimme the cash, bitch."

From beneath his coat, the man pulled out a handgun. For some reason it reminded me of a mole, alien under the fluorescent lights of the diner.

Barbie opened her mouth to scream. The old fellow froze on his stool, half-turning towards the man with the gun.

"Don't fucking scream, you tubby cunt," the gunman grunted, as if speech itself was a huge effort. I could see boils on his skin. The man was sick.

Barbie clapped her hands to her mouth tightly. I could see her trembling even from where I was.

"Don't you move!" spat the gunman, pointing at me, but never taking his eyes off Barbie.

I watched, faintly amused despite myself.

I composed myself and spoke. "Listen, pal, stay calm. Nobody's going to make any sudden moves. Just stay calm. What's your name."

He was obviously a junkie or something, on a motherfucker of a comedown. Maybe I could use this to my advantage.

"Eddie," the man whispered. I could see him frowning with confusion. "Ah, oh God, get out of my head you fucker. Gimme the FUCKING CASH!"

Barbie stayed where she was.

"You think I'm fucking playing?" asked the gunman, waving his gun around erratically. "I'll fucking show you! The world's ending, man. It's everyone for themselves."

He turned to the old hobo. Raising the gun he brought the butt down on the hobo's head with a sickening thud. The hobo opened his mouth in a silent yell of surprise then toppled backwards off his perch, his head cracking against the diner's counter before he collapsed in a heap on the floor. I could see a pool of blood beginning to form around him. I could smell it, like copper and whiskey, the smell of someone who isn't ready to die.

If I'd been closer, maybe I could've used that opportunity to tackle the gunman. But I was over the other side of the diner, if I'd made a move then I'd never have reached him in time. And I preferred not to do anything compromising. I didn't think there'd be any danger, as long as he got the money. I could see that the hobo was still breathing shallowly and I could hear his heartbeat. He had a pacemaker, quite an old one at that.

I could hear the gunman's heartbeat too. There was no rhythm to it, no pattern. It was faster than could ever be healthy. I wondered if he'd possibly just drop dead.

He turned back to Barbie and opened his mouth, trying to force the words out. Whatever he'd taken was really kicking in.

Then I saw the door to the bathrooms opening. Penny stood framed in the doorway, directly on the gunman's right. She froze, but not until she'd stepped through, into the room

She didn't scream or make a sound. Even now, after all this time, I admire her so much for that. She didn't shout, didn't panic, she just froze.

Our eyes met over the almost-empty diner. I could see a weary, accepting look in her face, as if she knew what was about to happen. As if she'd been expecting it.

Time stood still. The gunman kept his gaze on Barbie. He hadn't noticed Penny.

The door behind her clicked shut.

The gunman spun around, the gun trembling in his clammy hand. His heartbeat was even more erratic now.

I saw his finger twitch. I saw Penny tense. Her beautiful brown eyes closed, waiting for that first explosion of gunpowder, the discharge of brass.

"Hey, motherfucker," I said, standing up. The gunman wheeled about, his attention off of Penny. I flicked my wrist and sent the salt pot in the shape of the North Tower flying towards the gunman. I'd palmed it without even thinking. The tower curved in flight and struck the gunman directly between the eyes, bouncing off his head. Blood started to trickle from where the sharp edge had hit him with some force.

"You..." was all he managed to say before his finger twitched and he fired the gun, still pointed at me.

Everything slowed. I saw the bullet traveling, heading straight for me. I didn't even try to move. My eyes met Penny's again. I could see a tear forming in the corner of her eye, slowly being born as the bullet traced a path through the air. Single bullet. One shot, everything changes.

It hit me in the throat with unexpected force, missing my windpipe by millimeters, piercing my carotid artery and passing through, every movement tearing apart muscle, ligament, chipping the bone of my skull as it curved upwards slightly, severing part of my spinal cord and finally exiting the back of my skull, burying itself in the wood of the window frame behind me. I heard a crash from somewhere nearby. Then, for a split second everything went black, and I saw it. I saw it all. I finally understood. It was something of a revelation, to be sure, but it all made sense. I opened my eyes, and smiled.

I didn't feel any pain. None at all. I stumbled back slightly under the force of the impact, and felt loose skin flapping at my throat. It felt very undignified, being shot in the neck in front of the woman I loved. I laughed. Blood gurgled up in my throat, spilling over my lips.

As you can probably understand, I was also fairly pissed at this point.

Penny's mouth was open wide in a noiseless scream. Again, I was proud of her. She was handling this rather well. I took a step forward.

The gunman just stared at me. His hand shook, the gun now pointed at the floor. He was frozen on the spot. I could already feel the wound at my throat beginning to close. I could taste gunpowder mixed with the vanilla milkshake. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant combination.

I braced myself as the bone at the back of my head began to knit itself together.

I took an third step. Penny was watching me, head cocked to one side, looking faintly amused. The gunman dropped the pistol and it skittered across the floor, coming to rest under a stool.

"You shot me," I stated pleasantly. "That wasn't exactly the nicest thing to do."

At the back of my mind (the part that hadn't been shot, I suppose) I felt regret at the fact that Penny had seen something like this so early on in our relationship. It would've been nice if I could've eased her in gently. Explained things before showing her things. But no such luck. Still, she didn't seem too fussed, all things considered.

I wasn't worried. I was angry, inconvenienced, recently shot, but not worried.

Over the gunman's shoulder I could see her smiling. I smiled back, my throat fully healed now.

"You shot me," I said again, more menacingly this time. "And shooting people is a sin."

"You threw the fucking World Trade Center at me..." he countered, as if that made us even. "I didn't mean to shoot you, man. I'm sorry."

"It was just one of the towers, actually," I corrected. "Be grateful for small mercies."

The man stood completely still. He shivered and raised his hands, palms out at the shoulders.

"Hey man..." he said as I took another step towards him.

"What's your name? Eddie, right?" I asked.

"Eddie, yeah..." he told me shamefully. "But I shot you, you're not fuckin' dead, you're okay, right?"

I nodded. "Lucky for you, I guess?"

"How?" he asked.

"Secrets," I told him. "A miserable little pile of secrets. But honestly, you've done me a favor You see, I understand now.

"I'm free. I haven't been forgiven, I'm just free. Because it's over. Everything's changed. You see, you haven't got it entirely right. I did die. For a split second back there, I died. And when I died, I went home. And I saw everything. The wreckage, the glorious ruination, the aftermath of a great battle. I surveyed Heaven's destruction, and in that split-second I realized the truth."

"What?" Eddie asked. His voice was a whisper. I looked around, pausing for dramatic effect. Barbie was nowhere to be seen. I could hear her heartbeat from behind the counter, shallow and calm. Fainted.

I stared at Eddie.

"God is dead."

"Oh," Eddie replied. "Sucks for him, I guess."

"Now, the question is, what do I do with you?" I pondered aloud. "I could rip you limb from limb, y'know. Slowly. I COULD, if I wanted to."

I took another step forward.

"That's not really my style though. I suppose I could make it quick. A bullet to the back of the head, you wouldn't feel a thing."

Eddie said nothing. He didn't move an inch. His eyes betrayed absolute terror. He believed every word. I was telling the truth, after all.

I took another step.

"But do you know what I usually do? Do you know what I've always done?"

Another step. Eddie shook his head quickly. I could smell the fear coming off him in waves.

"I could send you to Hell," I stated matter-of-factly. "I could send you there, where you would be judged. I could make you live out your worst nightmares, day in and day out for as long as I desired. Eternity, if I felt like it. With no respite, no redemption. I could have creatures you couldn't imagine stick hooks into your very soul. I could wrench every aspect of your existence into a hideous, deformed thing. I could bend you to my will. I could break you down to nothing then rebuild you to begin the suffering all over again. I could kill you in a thousand ways every night, only for you to be reborn the next day and die a thousand times over again. And again, and again. Forever and ever, Amen."

My eyes glowed with flame, embers dancing and burning, reflected in Eddie's own terrified stare. The faint smell of roasting flesh came from somewhere beneath the earth.

I took a final step forward. Our bodies were almost touching.

"I could do all of that, if I wished," I told him, and just as I had believed Penny earlier I knew that Eddie did not doubt a single word I said.

"I could do all of that and more, but today..." I leaned my head forward. Eddie winced. I kissed him on both cheeks, first his right and then his left, then took a step back.

"But today I forgive you. Because God is dead. Someone killed God." I laughed. "Do you know how fucking crazy that is? Someone killed the old bastard. I have no idea who, and I'm not sure I want to know. But we're free. I'm free, you're free. We're all free."

I smiled at him. And Eddie smiled back, a big stupid grin across his pale, sweaty face. He looked first at me and then towards the door.

"Thank you, man," he said. His voice was thick. He took a step towards the exit.

I rolled my eyes.

"Oh I'm not letting you go, you absolute idiot. You still tried to rob a diner and pistol-whipped a tramp."

I raised my hand and punched him hard on the jaw. He dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut and lay there, motionless. I knew he'd be out for ages, plenty of time for Barbie to regain consciousness and call the police.

I looked up from Eddie's prone form and straight at Penny. Her eyes were open wide, staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. For the first time ever, my heart skipped a beat.

She walked up to me, stepping over Eddie carefully. Then she just stood there, mere centimeters away, looking at me.

I wanted to say something, I wanted to reach out and touch her, but I was afraid. This girl, this beautiful, wonderful girl who I wanted to love me still, had made me afraid of something.

Fear. Doubt. Weakness. I truly was free.

It felt brilliant.

"Nietzsche?" Penny asked, after what seemed like ages. "Did you seriously quote Nietzsche? And you said I was scene..."

I didn't even bother to reply. I just pulled her towards me and kissed her, under the fluorescent spotlights of the diner, as a choir of angels, both favored and fallen, sang our names. Somewhere in the heavens fireworks went off, or maybe they were mortars.

Penny pressed herself closer to me as our lips worked in unison and somewhere deep under the earth I heard a rapturous applause. The perfect Hollywood ending in a diner on the outskirts of New York City.

Eventually I broke the embrace.

"I think we should go before Barbie wakes up," I said. "I think she'll be pleased that the two mystery patrons stopped the robbery and caught the bad guy, don't you?"

Penny nodded. "And I've always been told you were the bad guy."

I shrugged. "Smear campaign." It was true.

"I think we should put this somewhere safe," Penny said. She'd bent down and picked up Eddie's gun. She fiddled about with it for a second, pocketed something, then proudly held out the gun in pieces, expertly dismantled.

"How the Hell..." I asked.

She winked. "You're not the only one who can have secrets, mister."

"I love you," I said. "I want to be with you."

"Lets go then!" she exclaimed excitedly. "We've got a lot to look forward to."

"Yeah... you can cook me dinner when we get home," I told her, brushing her arm with my fingertips as she walked past and placed the broken gun on the counter for Barbie to find.

"We'll get take-out. Do you think we should leave a note or something?"

"Nah," I said. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I don't have a pen either."

Penny took her purse from her pants pocket, counted out $4.95 for the food and left it on the counter beside the firearm. She joined me and we linked arms, heading for the door.

"Hold on," I said, stopping. "There's just one thing..." I untangled my arm from hers and walked back to the counter. Reaching into my own pocket I took out a single coin. "We forgot to tip."

I went back over to her and we held hands as we walked to the door of the diner. I glanced back. I could hear Barbie's heartbeat going in a way that suggested she would soon wake up. The hobo was stirring on the floor. He'd wake up soon too.

"Do you think you should, y'know, go home at some point?" Penny asked. "You know. Up there. Find out what happened."

"Oh, I don't think so. It's not really my problem, is it? I was cast out. Not my business what they get up to any more."

"Aren't you even curious?"

I thought about this for a moment. I looked at Penny. I kissed her gently on the lips.

"No, not really," I said.

"Good," Penny replied. "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

Outside, it was still raining. The sky was dark. The storm was about to break.

XXI - Final Broadcast

Every sound hung in the dead air. Every rustle, cough, beep. The whirring and humming of the machinery, self-sustaining rhythmic pulses. Sometimes, it felt like an intensive care unit. Caleb strolled down the corridor, each footfall ringing out heavy echoes in the silence.

Overhead, a speaker crackled to life. "Core temperature: optimal. Oxygen levels: sufficient. Life signs: normal."

"Thanks," Caleb said, although he wasn't sure who to. The automated voice was hardly much of a conversationalist.

The alternative, though, was talking to himself. Caleb wasn't keen on that idea, at least outside of the recording booth.

Around him, the station purred along. It wasn't silence - not quite, anyway - but it was as close as it could ever come, out here.

Caleb stared out the window, at the distant stars, across the vast black gulf. He stared at the Earth. It seemed like a dream, now. He'd pictured what might be going on down there a thousand times over in the past. No longer.

The door to the recording booth was shut, as it should be. Caleb swiped his access card and the red light turned green. He stepped inside, taking a few moments to marvel at the equipment, far beyond anything he'd played around with before this gig. He'd never gotten used to it.

Caleb walked into the room and sat in the big swivel chair, sinking into it, the leather crackling under his weight. He sighed, reached out, his fingers hovering over the switch.

"Ship status report," he said.

"Core temperature: opti-"

Caleb flicked the switch, silencing the voice. It was something he always did, called it up only to shut it off. He had no idea why. Just felt right, he supposed.

With a deep breath, Caleb flicked the other switch. Outside, he knew, above the door, the light had gone from green to red.

"Goooood evening listeners," he began. "It's your host Caleb Bell here, beaming live across this little installation we call home. Boy, do we have some show lined up for you tonight. We got music, the best of the best, all the way from the home planet. And maybe, just maybe, I'll take a few calls."

Caleb stopped. He was delaying again. This was the fourth night now.

"No," he said. "We won't. Enough's enough. This can't go on. This ends tonight. I'm going to tell you a story."

"You all know why we're here. Why we traveled into the vast reaches of space. Mankind's desire to expand, both knowledge and territory. The project was well documented everywhere, and it's not hard to find out about it. 'The Men Who Would Kill God', some called us. Superstitious nonsense. It was always obvious that mankind would try something like this, one day. But as I say, it's not hard to find out what we stood for. This isn't the story of what we were doing. This is the story of what happened to us.

"For a while, this thousand-strong space station operated well. We'd have newcomers aboard, sometimes, and every so often a group of us would head out in the shuttle. Occasionally some of us left. Those who stayed, though, we got on with things well. Being out here isn't as hard as you might think, at least not when there's a job to do.

"We got on fine, and the world moved on without us. Soon, at least from what we picked up on the news networks, people largely forgot about our little project. All the controversy, all the outrage, then eventually we were just a little speck in the night sky, doing our thing.

"One day, the news networks went silent. The airwaves followed shortly after. We waited it out, at first. A shuttle was expected a few weeks later. It never came. Of course it didn't.

"What could we do, really? We had a few shuttles of our own. We launched one of them, a recon team inside, with the goal of re-establishing contact with Earth. They landed. We never heard from them again. Second shuttle, nothing. We debated, for weeks, over whether to send a third. In the end, we decided against it. The station is well stocked, more than enough to last for double our lifetimes. All we could do was wait it out.

"You can imagine, then, that Earth was a frequent topic of conversation. We discussed it until there was nothing left to say. And then, eventually, we forgot. Or at least, everyone else did."

"It played on my mind a lot, dear listeners. I was always alone up here, you see. A lot of the other guys, they had wives. Some of the women had husbands. Some families here too. A few children even born up here. Imagine that. Born in space.

"I had nobody, though. And so I had a lot of time to think. And that's when I came up with this, the radio station. Just an hour each night, just something to lighten the mood somewhat. It helped, I think. People seemed to enjoy it. They'd high five me in the corridors, or call me up during the shows. People sure liked hearing their message read out on air.

"But all the while, I couldn't stop thinking about down there. Then one night, I had a dream. I was staring into the blackness of space, and the earth crawled up to meet me. And I heard, as it were, the sound of torment, of suffering. I heard the people of Earth as they were now, not as they once were, and I awoke screaming in the darkness.

"The next night, I had the same dream. And then again, and again. Eventually, it no longer scared me. I kept it to myself, of course. Didn't want locked up. I realized, though, just what had happened. Was it the Rapture? Was it judgment? The details were unclear. But in the dream, what was clear was that nobody had been spared. Nobody but us. We were up here, floating in the void, safe.

"The next night, I prayed. I prayed so hard. I'm not a religious man, listeners, not at all. But when you have an experience like this, it's hard not to turn to the Almighty. So I prayed, and I asked, were we supposed to have been saved? Are we the chosen? I waited for an answer. I waited and waited, listeners.

"No answer came, and I knew then what must be done."

"It wasn't hard, once I made the decision. It came pretty naturally, in fact. Everyone trusted everyone here. Of course, working in maintenance, I had a lot of access. And, well, if you know the project you'll know there were a lot of volatile chemicals on board. Only took a bit to poison the very air we all breathed. I did this without a thought for my own safety, of course. I was prepared to judge myself just as I was judging others. And judge myself I did.

"It was disconcerting, watching everyone get sick while I stayed perfectly healthy. People noticed, I'm sure. But how could I have orchestrated it? The truth was, I didn't. I didn't expect to be okay. But to see them all suffering, the med bays filling up, and eventually the dead lining the corridors, this was my reward, and it was beautiful. I was fine. Fit, healthy, better than ever. I did not understand why, not until now.

"I gave them all a proper burial, of course. Released their bodies out the airlock and watched them float past. While doing this, I realized, I was the one. I was the last man left alive. I was the chronicler, the final voice of humanity. I was the broadcaster, the one who was left at the end of all things, to leave this message for whoever might be out there, whoever might come looking sometime in the distant future. I am the last voice you'll ever hear.

"It's been six years since the last of them died. Six years I've been here, waiting. Six years waiting for judgment to claim me, and it never has.

"A week ago, I had a dream. I dreamed of space, of time, and the endless black void. It's time now, listeners. I've put this off too long. I am Humanity's final words. I am Caleb Bell, and this is what happened here. To all out there, goodnight, and goodbye."

Caleb flicked the switch, then the next one.

"Ship status," he said.

"Core temperature: optimal. Oxygen levels: sufficient. Life signs: normal."

Caleb was already closing the studio door behind him.

"Thank you," he said, then felt a pang of sadness. He'd miss that voice, he thought.

Caleb took a deep gulp of air. As fresh as ever. His head felt fuzzy and warm. So this was it, then.

The airlock opened and Caleb stepped inside. A rush of cold air hit him as the door closed, hissing as the locks engaged. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth to say one final thing.

The outer door opened.

The space station hangs dormant, suspended in the void. The occasional beep echoes through dead air and whispering corridors.

Overhead, a speaker crackles to life.

"Core temperature: optimal," the voice says. "Oxygen levels: sufficient."

There is a pause, almost as if the soft, mechanical voice is hesitating.

"Goodbye, Caleb Bell," it says. There is silence. Then slowly, almost inaudibly, a faint pulsing sound, a rhythmic, steady noise.

The speaker crackles again. "Life signs: normal."

Deep within the station, something stirs.

XXII - XX (13th Variation)

Garcia smiled.

The End

About the Author

Ashton Raze is the pen-name of an author and video game developer from the South West of England. With Owl Cave, Ashton has written/co-directed Richard & Alice, Sepulchre and The Charnel House Trilogy. Alongside this, Ashton has written a number of pieces of interactive fiction using the Twine engine, including the recent Prom King (and other stories).

You can find Ashton on Twitter @ashtonraze or on the web at AshtonRaze.com or the Bright Lights & Glass Houses microsite.

Cover artist Richard Warner is a game and graphic designer based in Scotland, specializing in both print and web. You can find him at Digital Folio.
