 
### RAVEFACE

### Published by John Siney at Smashwords

### Copyright 2012 John Siney

### Smashword Edition, Licence 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 are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

PROLOGUE: June 1857

He could hear voices nearby but his fatigue was such that he lacked the will to turn his head their way, not even when it seemed that there might be some kindness spoken, some sympathy offered.

Sympathy he would have welcomed, had he but the energy, for sympathy was the best that could be hoped for; he knew he was beyond help.

'I pity the poor beggar lying there, taking the sun all this time.'

'Aye? Well he's a splendid enough shade of mahogany to begin with. His kind can bear it.'

'And the cold at night...'

'They're a sturdy breed.'

'Still...'

The barque 'Hosanna' was four weeks out of Jamaica, three days yet from Liverpool, and for all but the first morning he had been shackled on deck, his hands and feet in irons. In the heat of afternoon he scorched, in the chill of night he shivered, in the fiercest of squalls which marked their course east he was tossed about as helpless as an infant. But only as far as his chains would permit. Then the harsh metal cuffs would snap at bone and bite at flesh, jar at his joints until he feared that he would be torn limb from limb.

'...poor wretch.'

'Poor? Ha!' There was a hawking rattle, a vicious snort, and a gob of phlegm splattered on his shackled leg, the colour and consistency of the pus which was seeping from his open sores and weeping wounds. 'Serve the cocksure negro right for laying claim to be as able a seafarer as the rest of us.'

'He was only after passage. How else was he to get it?'

'You pays in coin,' came the uncaring reply. 'If you can't do that then you pays in kind, trading your skill and craft. If you boast no skill then you warrant no passage. But him? Boast was all he could do!'

And the boast was so quickly seen to be idle, even while yet in sight of land the second mate, Seymour, had taken the lash to him for his lack of competence, flailing out like a man possessed. First mate Rodgers had lent a hand to the punishment while Captain Miles looked on in silent approval.

He had heard from the old folk of what it had been like on the slaving ships, in the evenings in Worthy Park his history had been related to him by those who remembered, by Gullah Will and Shovel Jack, and by his mother's mother, Grandma Raveface.

For more than forty years she had toiled as a field hand on the Worthy Park estate, had survived through to emancipation and then for another score years or more. Even in her dotage her memories had been bitterly clear. Five hundred and more slaves to a vessel, they were stacked on shelves like any other goods, shoulder to shoulder or head to toe, evacuating their bowels where they lay, on who they lay, and eating by hand from common troughs; their mouths were washed with vinegar to ward off scurvy, that same vinegar which was used to swab the decks; their anuses were stopped with wadding and oakum to hide the signs of dysentery; the dead and the living lay chained together.

Yet this suffering of his forebears had not been without its purpose, as cruel as it was he could see the necessity for it; of those taken into slavery in the Guineas as many died as were successfully transported and there were profits to be made, quotas to be maintained. His present suffering had no such suspect motive, could be excused by nothing other than a simple sadistic pleasure; he was there for the ghoulish entertainment of the Captain and his mates, to break up the monotonous routine of their voyage home.

If he had been a woman they might have used him a little more kindly, fed him well enough to keep the flesh on his hips; being male, he was there to be buggered and beaten.

A voice called out that land was sighted and there was a hubbub of excitement, the clatter of feet across decks, the chatter of voices rising above the straining of timber and the cracking of sail.

'I can sniff out the perfumed pussies of those whores on Castle Street already!' said one.

'All the way from Anglesey?' marvelled another with a laugh.

'With a nose like mine? Aye! I can smell them alright!'

The son of the daughter of Grandma Raveface could smell nothing other than the stink of his own excrement, it plugged his nostrils and caked his cheeks, baked dry by the sun.

The day before a bowl of pea broth had been slipped to him, but not slyly enough to avoid being seen by Seymour, who had dashed the bowl away and then thrust his face into the excrement in which he had lain for weeks.

'Sit in your own filth and that's what you'll get to eat!' he was told. 'And you-!' To the Samaritan, the one Christian soul aboard that ship of Satan. '-any more pity on the negro and you join him!'

The stench at least served the purpose of keeping the Captain's dog at bay, deterring it from the daily mauling which its master gleefully encouraged. It would sniff curiously, lick cautiously as if with distaste, but no longer was it inclined to feast on him, chewing chunks from his limbs. It was as if he had fallen into so decrepit a state that even the most miserable cur shied from him.

In his despair he prayed for deliverance.

In his pain he begged for death.In his misery he sang:

'Jerusalem, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end?

_They joys when shall I see?_ '

There was a surge of laughter when his song was heard, mocking taunts from the crew, derision that one of his colour could take up a hymn of theirs. They turned from the sighted land and gathered around him, smiling down, nudging each other and cheering him on.

He thought to amuse them, then, to make them smile, knowing anger to be no use he raised his voice to the heaven they all shared, louder, ringing as clear as his weakened state would permit.

'Jerusalem, my happy home,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!'

The mocking crew were suddenly swept aside as he saw a figure cut a path through them, arms wheeling about its head, fists catching any who were too slow to move out of reach.

'Woes? Sorrows?' Captain Miles raged, glaring down at him, eyes blood-red with anger. 'You know nothing of them! Not yet! Rodgers,' he snapped to the first mate. 'Gag the creature! Stop his heathen tongue!'

Rodgers looked around, for scraps of sailcloth or linen, but the Captain had no patience with the dithering about and snatched up a heavy iron bolt.

'Here! This'll do well enough!'

His head was pushed back, his jaw forced open and the hard metal jammed against his teeth so hard that it chipped them, so cold against them that it made them ache.

He tried to swallow, his mouth stretched as wide as it would go, but could only make a choking sound.

'Eh? What's that?' Captain Miles demanded, pacing the deck before him, coming close and then pausing as if the living creature at his feet was no more than animal dung. 'Tell me, negro, do you hate me? Do you? As much as I hate you?' He gave a smile of sufferance, of distaste, said, 'What I wish, negro, is that you would either drown or hang yourself.'

And what he wished...

His answer was no more than an incoherent gurgle, saliva and blood spilling from his lips, bruised tongue freezing against the raw metal gag which filled his mouth.

'What does he say? Does anyone understand?' the captain asked, turning to his crew and wanting his smile returned, though there were many who were already becoming uncomfortable with the entertainment. 'Unplug him! Let's hear!' he laughed.

The bolt was torn from his mouth and his head sank to his chest as he filled his lungs with the fresh brine air.

'Well speak!' he was invited, a hand beneath his chin forcing his head back and working his aching jaw. 'What you wish...?'

'What I wish,' he answered weakly, wearily, 'is that you would do it for me.'

'Hang you? Drown you? Then willingly!' Captain Miles ranted, and as the chains which fastened him to the mast were loosed he was dragged across the deck, lifted as easily as an empty sack and hung over the side.

There were prayers he remembered but they were no longer the Christian ones of mercy and forgiveness, the God he turned to was not their lord of love and light but a blacker creature, as black as the darkness of his dying.

'Now do you hate me, negro?' the captain hissed in his ear, and gave a tug on the chain which held him suspended, jarring his limbs. 'Give me your hatred, damn you! Let me feel your anger!'

No....not now... but someday.

### CHAPTER 1

At that time of night, in that part of the city, there was a distinctive look in the eyes of people who approached, a look obvious enough to notice yet silly enough to be dismissed. Sometimes it was caution which furrowed the brow and clouded the gaze, other times it was fear. Aitch's brother would say that it was being black and an outcast and a worry to the bastards which made people fret, a notion Aitch scoffed at.

'People frown through trying to see us in the gloom, Winston,' he would respond. 'They stiffen because they're trying to make out the dark brown skin from the deeper shadows of the street. So flash them a grin, man, let them see the shiny white teeth and they'll smile right back at you.'

Winston would have none of this, though, he met the wariness of others with aggression and a clenched fist. At another time, in a different culture, this fist might have been wrapped in supple black leather, Panther-style, but in the eighties, in Liverpool, all he wore on his hands was a sovereign ring or two, heavy enough to hurt and sharp enough to cut.

Aitch wore no rings and felt no cause to clench his fist, Aitch had his brains to help him and had no need of brawn. It was this that galled his brother most of all, to see the grey matter wasted on 'A' levels and such things, to see Aitch planning to slope off to some middle-class redbrick university when what he should do is stay at home and fight.

It made Aitch laugh. To hear Winston talk there might have been some war being waged.

Yet to see the derelict tracts of land which shortened Aitch's journey it could easily have been the case. These had not been caused by the Luftwaffe in the forties, though, but were a result of more recent outbursts of temper, a bare-handed process of demolition to begin with, a result of the frustrations of Winston and his kind. Taking a brick here and a brick there to rain on the police soon causes buildings to totter, giving the professionals an excuse to move in with their bulldozers and their mechanical shovels. The blame had to be shared equally, the authorities had played their part, and clumsy methods of policing on the one hand had been a catalyst to the impatience and unrest on the other; everyone was to blame and everyone had suffered, but the district itself was the plainest victim of all, it showed the scars most visibly with barely a single terrace in a single street spared. Granted there had never been that much beauty about the neighbourhood in the first place, the once grand houses had been over-crowded and under-maintained, but just sometimes, on misty early mornings perhaps, the streets seemed to regain their quiet dignity. Only occasionally, though, and only if the preservation orders which were their one main hope did not come too late to save the powdery plaster and falling stucco; for however many shells were saved there were a greater number that collapsed wearily, leaving broken black cavities where the homeless lit fires yet still shivered, where children played, having found some space at last but not realising that it should have been green. There were places, Aitch had learned, where a child could drown in lush emerald swathes, slip under and never be seen again; in his neighbourhood, though, there was only the faded 'terre-verte' rectangle of the square he now entered, fenced off, a peeling sign warning people to keep off what was jokingly called the grass.

Aitch failed to notice that there was anyone in the parked car, he vaulted the low railing which bordered the small park, cutting directly across the square from corner to facing corner, and passed unsuspectingly by the vehicle. It was only some yards on that he heard the doors opening, and then his name called out.

He turned, body tensing until recognised one of the two figures climbing out of the car. 'Oh. It's you, Mooney.'

'Mister Mooney to you, Aitch. Or Detective Sergeant.'

Out of the car Mooney had straightened up to his full height. He was a tall man but slightly built, thin enough to be broken like a brittle twig. He wore a confident smile, though, he was not vulnerable, he was comfortable in the knowledge that few were ever rash enough to challenge him; his reputation as a mean and vindictive man deterred all but the the most foolhardy from tangling with him. He smiled easily, then, as he approached Aitch, while behind him his colleague climbed out of the passenger door and followed. Aitch wasted no effort on going forward to meet them, just stood there waiting, but despite this show of dumb insolence the sergeant still managed to maintain his smile.

'A new motor?' Aitch remarked, looking at the car, his hands tucked into his pockets hugging two books under his arm.

'You know fucking well it's a new motor and you know what happened to the last one,' Mooney reminded him bitterly, his smile now a little more forced. 'It had a television dropped through its roof from the top of the Heights, didn't it? Recall that, Aitch? Perhaps you also recall who did it?' He waited, his expression grim, but guessed that there would be no admission. He said to his companion, 'This is Harold Truman Smith, by the way, brother of Winston Spencer. The one is as bad as the other, though Aitch isn't quite as thick as Winston. Not quite as dark, either. More Irish-coffee than nigger-black.'

Aitch's mother came from Cork, his father from St Kitts.

'Let's search him, see what he's got on him.'

Aitch shrugged, unconcerned. Mooney took the books from him so that he could raise his arms, and while his partner frisked him, checking the pockets of his jacket and trousers, he flicked through the two volumes, frowning at the text and examining the covers.

'Nee-who?' he said, reading from the title of the first, having difficulty deciphering the name in the dim streetlights.

'Nietzsche,' Aitch told , his arms still raised. 'You might like his work, Mooney. Hitler did.'

'Very funny.' Mooney shuffled the books around to look at the second. 'And who's this? Des Carts?'

'Descartes,' Aitch said, now with a scornful edge to his voice. 'The 's' is silent.'

'As you'd better be, chocolate fucking smartie!' Mooney slammed the book shut. 'Told you he was a clever sod, didn't I?' he said to his partner. 'Doesn't talk like a black boy, does he? Uses words big as his mouth.' He smiled, waiting for the insults to be felt, then asked, 'So what've you found on him?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing? Not even a pack of Rizla? Then search his wallet. If he's not carrying anything then he'll be off to score. He'll be loaded.'

Aitch surrendered his wallet, which contained a single five pound note.

'Is that all?' Mooney took the wallet and checked it for himself, his movements agitated, his boney fingers fumbling with each pocket. 'What's wrong, Aitch? Are times that hard?'

'You know me, just a struggling student,' Aitch smiled, retrieving his wallet.

'Like hell! Go on, piss off!'

'And the books?' Aitch asked, holding out a hand.

Mooney took one last look at them, muttered under his breath and returned them.

Walking on, keeping to the haloes of the streetlamps, Aitch looked over his shoulder when he reached the corner of the street. The car was still parked in the square, but he knew it would follow after him as soon as he turned the corner. Ahead was the local library and he walked slowly towards it, giving the car time to catch up with him, wanting to be seen; he paused on the steps of the library for a moment, saw Mooney's vehicle cruise slowly by, reflected in the glass door before him, then entered.

The library was a squat brown building with iron grilles covering its windows; it was not the one he normally used, he preferred the central library adjacent the museum, and he just drifted around without looking at anything in particular, simply killing time. There were two old men at a table doing the same, there for the warmth and only pretending to study the books before them; a girl yawned behind the desk; a middle aged woman stretched on tiptoe to reach the top row of romances, her dress lifting to show the dirty underskirt beneath. Aitch walked on to the farthest corner of the room. There, hidden behind banks of shelves, he found a young boy, ten or eleven years of age, carefully tearing pages from a glossy art book; a Botticelli and a Titian were on the floor beside him and he was just in the process of removing a pale puffy Rubens.

Aitch caught the boy by the short hairs at the temple and twisted.

'Ouch!' the boy hissed, his voice low, as if conscious that he was in a library, then looked up to see Aitch. 'Shit, man, I thought you was the boss! What do you think you're playing at?'

'What do you think you're playing at?' Aitch asked, taking the books from him.

Grinning lasciviously the boy picked up the two reproductions from the floor and smoothed them out on his knee, fingers squeaking across the shiny paper. 'Look at the tits!' he drooled. 'Bloody gorgeous!'

'Give them here.' Aitch snatched the pages up, inserted them in the book and replaced it on the shelf. 'Come on, out of here before you get in trouble.'

'Aw! I could've sold those at school!'

'Out, I said.'

Together they walked from the library, Aitch with his hand on the boy's shoulder; the girl at the desk paid them little attention

'Mean figures those women had,' said the boy. 'I mean ab-so-lute-ly mean. What I don't get, though, is how come none of them had fannies.' He looked up earnestly at Aitch, one eyebrow cocked, and asked, 'How is that?'

The boy's language was coarse, his attitude too crude for his years, he was deserving of a clout around the ear but Aitch thought it might be more constructive to answer his question; he told the boy that the women in the pictures were ideals, the artists' visions of perfection.

'Perfection?' the boy snorted. 'Raas, man! How can they be perfect when they ain't got no pussies?' As he ran off into the night he shouted back, 'You can't screw a woman who ain't got no pussy!'

Aitch watched the young boy disappear down the street, swallowed by the night, shook his head sadly and then looked around for Mooney's car; there was no sign of it, but still he took a meandering route from the library. Two or three turns back from the main street, in a dimmer street where nothing moved, he cut down a narrow alley between two houses, along a cobbled backstreet; passing through a gate and into a yard, the house before him loomed like a great blinded creature, its windows blank, heavy colourless curtains not allowing any light to escape. Its blank silence was like a challenge, daring anyone to enter. Inside there was no sound of life behind any of the doors he passed as he walked the corridors and climbed the stairs, everything was grey in the weak light which shone from a single bulb in the lower hall, walls and threadbare carpet becoming progressively greyer as he reached the top of the house. He knocked on the door which led to the attic flat, then listened for footsteps; none were to be heard, but eventually the door opened a fraction.

'Sammy? It's me, Aitch.'

The door closed, a chain rattled, then it opened a little wider. Aitch stepped through, closed the door after him and locked it before following the vague amorphous shape which was Sammy down the darkened corridor to a room more brightly lit by the flickering light of a television tube. The window in the sloping ceiling was open and some kitchen steps were poised beneath, Sammy's escape route to the roof and on to others along the terrace; it was no more than a melodramatic touch to please the old man, though, who was far too ancient and bent to use it if ever the occasion should arise.

As Sammy switched on the light silver bristles sparkled against his dark skin like sugar on a piece of confectionary; sitting at a round table in the centre of the room, the television behind him and Aitch facing him, he set down a package as if from nowhere.

'You've got the money?' he supposed.

Aitch placed his two books on the table, slipped fingers beneath each dust jacket and took out a number of twenty pound notes; in exchange for these he took the package, ripped open the polythene outer surface to spill smaller silver foil parcels onto the table. Breaking one open, he sniffed at the cake inside.

'There's no grass to be had at the moment,' Sammy said, as he counted the money. 'That's good stuff, though. You know me, Aitch, it always is.'

'Right,' said Aitch, stuffing the parcel inside his jacket, the elasticated waist keeping it in place by his side. A mournful sound of brass band music came from the television, a soap starting with a view of shiny slate rooftops flashing onto its screen, more picturesque than the city skyline about them.

'The Street,' Sammy noted, turning around to face the screen. 'You're late tonight, Aitch.'

'Just a little. I bumped into Mooney.'

'Mooney?' Sammy twisted around in his seat, his slack face startled. 'You didn't-?'

Around his wrist a bracelet of beads shone in the light from the television and he fingered it anxiously, like a pious man with his rosary, his lips moving in a silent prayer.

'It's okay, Sammy,' Aitch reassured the old man. 'He didn't follow me.'

'A bad fucker, that,' said Sammy, but his fright quickly passed as he returned to the screen. 'It's a funny thing about the 'Street', Aitch, but I don't ever recall seeing any coloured folk in it.'

'No. It would be too safe a life for them, on the 'Street'.'

'And it's a risky life you're leading, especially messing with Mooney. You ought to go careful, Aitch, step cautious. I can sense there's trouble in the air.'

'Don't you worry about me, Sammy, I'll be alright,' said Aitch confidently, standing and zipping his jacket.

### CHAPTER 2

The streets which led to the 'Pun Soulcial Club' were dark and empty once evening fell. There were some small businesses housed there, a little light industry, but once these closed at the end of the working day the only activity was around the clubs, clubs of all types from simple drinking dens to the most expensive nightspots. The 'Pun' was in the basement of a warehouse, approached by five worn steps which led down below street level. There was a bell push on the door, beneath the crackling neon sign; Aitch pressed, waited to be identified through the peep-hole, then nodded to the large Nigerian who admitted him before walking through to the club's single low-ceilinged room.

'Evening, Aitch,' said the man behind the bar, sparkling with gold as he smiled. The precious metal winked from his fingers and the open neck of his shirt, ultra-violet lights above the bar made the tiny man even more brilliant, throwing black and white into stark contrast.

'Evening, Valentine,' said Aitch. 'Where's all your staff tonight? Had enough of your tyranny and walked out, have they?'

'Haw! Haw!' laughed Valentine, his guffaws ringing as falsely as ever. It seemed that it was never genuine amusement which stretched his mouth wide but rather a desire to flash his gold teeth. 'I sense your humour, Aitch. That's it, boy. Ain't no use money if you've no sense your humour. Now what can I get for my future sunning law?'

'Sunning law'? The deep breath Aitch had taken outside, before entering, he now felt escaping between clenched teeth. There was a girl, Sonia, but the fact that she was Valentine's daughter prompted him to wonder if he could ever suffer such a villain as a father-in-law. It was never wise to voice such doubts in public, though -Valentine might be small in stature but his crimes were gross- so he smiled and asked for a whisky.

'Whisky, eh? That's the stuff, Aitch. I admire your style.'

Valentine pressed a glass to the optic, placed the drink on the bar.

'Still the cheapest around,' remarked Aitch, as he paid.

'Ah, if only I could get kegs of lager as easy as cases of spirit I'd have the cheapest dive in the city.' Valentine was silent for a moment, as if applying himself to the problem of where to get cheap beer, then asked, 'So how's the studies going, Aitch?'

'Fine. Just fine.'

'They'll get you somewhere?'

Away, Aitch was tempted to say, out of this city, but again it was wise to be discreet; he shrugged, you know how it is, nothing is certain in this life.

Valentine nodded sagely. 'Hay levels and such things is no great shit today, especially when you're black. Christ, these degrees they get to don't guarantee a thing, not even to the ones whose skins ain't tainted. Now you come work for me, Aitch, and you don't need no paper qualities, just a thing ticking up between the ears.'

Aitch smiled shyly, showing that he was flattered by the offer. 'Thanks, Valentine, but I wouldn't want no favouritism just because I'm courting your Sonia.'

'Haw! Haw! That's my Aitch!' Valentine clapped his hands together, then his imitation of a grin became something more solemn, a thin sincere smile. 'I admire that, Aitch, I admire that 'tegrity deeply. But don't you forget, the offer still stands, Sonia or no.'

Aitch thanked Valentine again and tactfully excused himself, saying he needed to sit down. The place was empty, midweek was always quiet, which was why he had left Peter tending to business in the pub while he came over for a relaxing drink. It was not yet eleven o'clock, custom would not build up until the pubs emptied, so he had his pick of any seat in the club. Out of earshot of Valentine would be the sensible place, and he sat in a far corner of the room, in a cubicle formed by sprouting strips of fake bamboo. Sipping at his drink he dwelt on what conversation he would want to keep secret from Valentine, and why he should need to stay out of earshot. It wasn't that the man was psychic, after all. Could it perhaps be anything that might hint at the fact that he was sleeping with his darling daughter, then? No, Valentine was slow in some ways but he surely was aware of what they got up to after all this time.

Sonia and Aitch had known each other for however far memory stretched back, as children in the same neighbourhood, as teenagers at the same school. For years, though, he had always been the bookish one and she the bright beauty, he too quiet and she too vivacious, full of that unsettling effervescence which many teenage girls possess. There were times when he sometimes smiled at her, when she sometimes laughed at him, but that was as far as any contact went. Then one night Aitch had been walking home from the library and she laughed as she overtook him, her heels clicking along the pavement and ringing down the street. Used to her teasing laughter, he paid no attention. Some way on, reaching a bend in the road, he saw a car cruising behind Sonia; again he paid little notice, it was nothing unusual, cars cruised the district every evening, slowly tracking mothers, children, any female alone on the street. He felt sure Sonia would be alright, it happened all the time, the car window would slide down, words would be exchanged, that would be an end to it. The scene unfolded as he imagined it would, the car slowing and the window winding down, but then two men were on the pavement and menacingly backing Sonia into a doorway. He ran, then, sprinted along the street and bowled into the men, his books falling to the ground as his fists flew. Punches came back, squashing his lips and dizzying his senses, and he cursed his fat black mouth as he slipped against the wall, imagining how fatter it would be in the morning, his mind wandering in such silly circles that he didn't even hear the car accelerate away.

'Harold Truman Smith!' Sonia exclaimed, hands on hips. 'Well I never! The bookworm's got balls after all!'

Aitch groped his way up the wall which seemed to tower for miles above him, spat blood from his mouth and told her to piss off; she seemed totally unperturbed by what had happened and not in the least grateful for his intervention, only sarcastic. When he moved away from the wall his feet weren't rooted quite firmly enough to support him, though, and her smile softened, she stepped forward to help him.

'I'm sorry,' she said, taking his arm. 'Are you okay?'

'I'll be alright.'

When he seemed a little less dazed, a little more conscious of where he was, she laughed again, but this time not at him. 'Didn't you scatter those guys, though? You were a revelation, Harold Tru-'

'Aitch,' he insisted. 'The name is Aitch. I can't stand all that Harold Truman crap.'

Working his mouth made the blood flow faster, down his chin and onto his shirt, and Sonia took a wad of Kleenex from her bag, pressed them to his mouth. She thought he might need a stitch or two.

'A plaster'll do,' he mumbled through the tissues which were already dark with blood.

'Come on then, I live nearest. The sooner we get you off the street the better. If the bizzies see you like this they'll run you in for sure.'

They went to her house, the home of the district's arch villain, and within days the romance began.

There was still a tiny scar on his lower lip, five years on, and he was aware of it as he raised his glass to his mouth. After five years it was inevitable that Valentine should know what went on between Aitch and his daughter, there was no point in keeping it secret. So was it perhaps the chance that he might not become the hoped for 'sunning law' that Aitch wanted to keep quiet? No, not even that. The only secret left, the secret to be kept from Valentine, was the leaving of Liverpool, the going away to college and how this might affect the relationship with Sonia. Valentine would not have been averse to gaining a son, in fact seemed to quite like the idea, but if Sonia should be upset by Aitch's departure, or worse, should want to leave the city with him... Valentine's reaction would not bear thinking about.

Aitch waited until there were enough people at the bar to distract Valentine before he went back for another drink. As he walked across the small tiled square which was the dance floor Peter fell into step beside him, jaunty and swaggering, long and loose limbed, arms flopping about as though poorly articulated. There was the impression that Peter's thoughts might be as uncoordinated as his movements, his mind as weak as the eyes which peered out from behind thick pebbled glasses. It was all a lie, though, a con, Aitch knew that; Peter was sharp but just liked to hide the fact.

'If you're going to the bar, son, you can put the money away. Peter's paying.'

'You're drunk already?' Aitch asked.

'On success, man, I've been playing pool and winning. And winning and winning. The other guy just couldn't live with me.'

'What was he playing with? His white stick?'

'You scoff, but it was poetry to watch, the way I stroked those balls down. Now what'll it be? Valentine's bootleg whisky?'

As Aitch had hoped, Valentine was too busy with customers to engage in conversation; he served Peter quickly, with barely a word said. They sat on stools at the end of the bar, Peter's long legs needing more room than the cramped tables could afford; he spaced his legs astride the stool, straightened the creases in his trousers and then leant back, elbows on the bar, perfectly symmetrical like some proud African sculpture. As he sipped his drink he gave a heavy sigh.

'A busy night?' Aitch asked.

Peter nodded, remembered, took out some notes. 'There's a hundred and something quid there,' he said, handing the money to Aitch. 'I could've sold more if I'd had it.'

'A hundred and something strides closer to college,' said Aitch, tucking the money into his sock.

This obsession and its tireless repetition made Peter yawn; he took out more money, the money he had won at pool, and began counting. 'Fancy a game of brag?' he asked.

Aitch shook his head. 'No-'

'I know, the bread's for college. Shit, man, your education thing's a pain in the arse at times.'

'It costs, Peter. I'm going to need every bit I can lay my hands on.'

'It's a waste if you ask me. What's the use making bread if there's no enjoyment spending the stuff?'

It was impossible for Aitch to explain. To Peter money meant clothes, drink, the chance to party until early morning and sleep in late without worrying over the job which no one wanted to give him in any case; money was the end which justified the means, but to Aitch's way of thinking it was a dead end.

As they both sat silently, each considering the other's credo, a man crossed towards them, and not quite steadily. Not a person either of them recognised, he looked like a labourer with his dusty jeans, the torn donkey jacket, a speck of steel shining through the frayed toecap of one of his boots. Fingers fumbling coins were thick, stiff as if arthritic, made insensitive by the abuse of manual work, and money which was spilled onto the bar could only be picked up with difficulty. He asked for beer and then rapped his knuckles impatiently against the pitted wooden counter while he was being served; his feet were restless too, tapping the floor, and only his eyes were still, staring directly ahead but seeing nothing. Too much money and too little idea of what to do with it led to an addled brain; it was cruel, the way money could warp people as effectively as any drug.

'You sell dope, dude?' the man asked after a while, his head swivelling drunkenly as he turned to Aitch.

Aitch pursed his lips, as if to say that he might, uncertain about the man and feeling that it was wise to be cautious; there was no telling how adept Mooney's cohorts might be getting at taking on a role.

'You do?'

'Maybe.'

'Then maybe you sold me some stuff last week?'

'Perhaps.'

'Perhaps, balls. The stuff you sold me was shit. Camel dung.'

Peter's eyes rolled. Behind the thick glasses the effect was comical enough to make Aitch grin.

'Funny bastard, eh?' said the man. 'You gave me a bad deal.'

Aitch was patient, reasonable. 'If you scored from me you got a good deal. If it was bad, then it wasn't me.'

'Liar,' the man hissed. 'You give me back my cash.'

The man lurched forward a step; Aitch countered with a step back.

'I didn't take your cash. It wasn't me.'

'Lying bastard.'

Another step forward was matched by another step back, Aitch looked to Valentine for help but he was too busy to notice that there was anything amiss. The halting dance took them across the room, to the door which led to the toilets. Aitch backed against the door and felt the handle behind him, closed his hand over it.

'Let's discuss this in private, eh?' he suggested. 'Aggro is bad for business.'

'We'll discuss fuck all. Let's see some cash.'

Aitch opened the door and backed through, the man following too swiftly to be coordinated and having to rest his hand against the door frame. When the door slammed on his fingers he screamed loud enough to rouse the God he cried out to.

'God is dead,' said Aitch, slamming the door again and catching the knuckles a second time, a little lower down, splitting the skin and making the bones crack. 'He died laughing, so Nietzsche says.'

Still screaming in pain the man slumped to the floor, his cries bringing Valentine running from one direction and the doorman from the other.

'What the hell's happening?' Valentine asked the doorman, pushing him aside and kicking the man on the floor. 'You're paid to keep out trash like this! Get rid of him!'

As the man was bundled out of the club, his broken fingers wrapped in his shirt, Aitch and Peter walked back to the bar with Valentine.

'Nature said God's dead?' Peter asked.

'Nietzsche,' Aitch corrected him.

'Sure is useful, whoever he is.'

Aitch laughed but his brow was sweating, his knees trembling. 'Let's have a couple of drinks,' he asked Valentine.

'On me,' said Valentine, serving up whiskies and apologies. 'I'm sorry about that, Aitch. I try to keep the place respectable and what does that ignorant pig on the door do but let in trash like that.' He laughed nervously, always upset by violence even if it was of his own making. 'Shit, though! Could my future sunning law've got messed up there!'

He was not drunk enough to be able to ignore the pain, just too tipsy to realise that it was so fierce it should be causing him to scream. His hand he imagined -too timorous to look- must be swollen twice its size, but all he was aware of was the agony where the door had snapped bone, a band of steel as thin as cheese wire gripping his fingers. From the shoulder to the fingertips his arm was numb; from the neck upwards everything felt fuzzy.

When he picked himself up outside the club he staggered off regardless of direction and within a dozen strides he was lost, the streets unfamiliar. He looked around, searching for any landmark he could fix on, but too quickly; a dizzy wave of nausea swept over him and he let out a gasp of anguish when he stumbled against a wall, catching his broken fingers against the rough stone. A single step away from the wall took him staggering into the middle of the road, then had him weaving and reeling as he tried to steer a straight course.

Ahead, in the dim amber glow of the streetlights -only one in every four working- he saw a figure cross before him, then others, no more than shadows, flitting quickly back and forth. A sharp stab of pain caused him to cry out weakly and suddenly all movement froze, the shadows pausing to look in his direction; then some disappeared, mistaking his cry as a call for help and nervous of the drunkard they took him to be. A few still remained, though, relaxing, arms folded and hips tilted, feet tapping as if waiting for him to approach.

It was then that he guessed where he was, in those streets below the cathedral where the tarts hung out.

'After my body, are you?' he chuckled to himself, cradling his broken hand against his chest.

' _No. Not your body_.'

A hot flush washed his brow, he felt a pounding inside as he looked around for the voice. It was too low and rasping to be one of the girls teasing, but still he felt the same excitement that he had on previous nights when they had tempted him, a churning in his stomach, a thumping in his chest.

Then the figure began to materialise at his side, drawing itself out of the darkness like a swimmer crawling through treacle, one arm stretching, straining slowly, then the other.

'Offering me one of your whores? Fucking pimp,' he cursed, challenging the shadow before him, the dark deep maw of the doorway where he thought the voice was coming from. 'Come on, then. How much?' he bluffed, trying to keep his voice steady.

_'You misunderstand,'_ the answer came _. 'It's your hatred I need. Your body -such as it is and as it will become- you're welcome to keep.'_

CHAPTER 3

'It's eight o'clock.'

'That's early.'

'I'm leaving soon.'

'Fine by me. Have a good day.'

'You've got a tutorial at nine thirty.'

Aitch groaned and opened his eyes. Sonia was standing above him, almost hanging from the roofbeams, sunlight silhouetting her slim body and striking the tangle of curls, making a feathery halo about her head, altogether too cheerful and too bright to face so early in the morning. But it wasn't Sonia who had him dazzled, he realised, it was the bright light of day crashing through the window.

'We slept with the curtains open!' he said, and pulled the bedclothes over him.

'And gazed at the moon after we'd made love,' Sonia cooed, then laughed at his alarm. 'For God's sake, Aitch, you don't think Dad's got a telescope trained on us down the length of the garden, do you?'

Sonia still lived at the same address, her father's, but now her home was her own, a separate place in the old stable at the rear of the Georgian terrace. The structure of the building was an almost perfect square, a high ceiling with broad timbers crossing it only slightly higher than the room was wide; a staircase against one wall led down from the sleeping area, and beneath the canopy which this formed was the kitchen alcove, raised a little above floor level and sectioned off by a breakfast bar and cabinets. French windows opened onto the garden, at the end of which was the main house.

'Could it be that you're ashamed of your body?' Sonia grinned.

Aitch threw the sheets back and tumbled away from the window to the top of the stairs. 'I wouldn't put anything past your Dad, and there's nothing wrong with my body.'

Out of sight of the window he stood upright to display himself.

'Gorgeous!' said Sonia, reaching out for him with groping fingers, but he was already running down the staircase.

'Breakfast, girl. It's time for breakfast.'

'Yassuh, boss,' she said, scampering after him with her back obediently bowed.

'And get some clothes on.'

She straightened and stood before him. 'Why?'

'Because I want eggs and bacon and it could be painful, cooking in the nude with the fat splashing.'

'You want?' she said, her breasts trembling slightly as she placed her hands firmly on her hips. 'Well tough!'

'Okay. I'd like some eggs and bacon.'

'Like? Think again, boy.'

He sighed. 'Can I have some eggs and bacon? Please.'

'For you, sweetheart, anything,' she agreed, kissing him as she stepped past to take jeans and a sweater from the wardrobe beneath the stairs. Though these might protect her body from the cooking fat, however, they could not disguise its form, the tight curve of her thighs and buttocks and the soft swell of her breasts. He was tempted, he wanted to caress her, but she slapped his hand away as she went to the fridge, told him to get dressed; then she carried food to the cooker, took the frying pan down from its hook on the wall and set to work.

By the time Aitch had showered and dressed and found clothes of his freshly ironed, hanging next to hers in the wardrobe, the breakfast was ready and served up on dull ochre plates; these had been bought mail-order from a Sunday supplement and had so impressed Valentine with their style and elegance that white crockery had been out from that moment on, his old plates thrown at whichever clinging woman was hoping to drape his arm at the time.

The breakfast was eaten quickly and silently, Sonia applied some makeup and then caught up her coat and bag from the settee, asked, 'Do you want a lift into college?'

The college was little more than a mile away, a ten minute walk at most, but Aitch said yes, followed her from the flat to the car and climbed into the passenger seat beside her. They bounced across the cobbles, indicator already flashing to announce their left turn, then filtered in with the morning rush which was making its way into the city. Sonia switched the Mini from lane to lane, its size suited to the traffic. Another would do nicely for her twenty first birthday, a new car her father's customary gift to her each year, though Aitch supposed that Valentine might think the occasion demanded something grander this time.

A diamond bracelet in the glove compartment? A cheque tucked beneath the windscreen wiper?

'Thinking?' Sonia asked, not taking her eyes from the road, searching for gaps in the traffic.

'Waking up,' he told her.

A siren sounded and cars moved aside to let an ambulance pass. Sonia changed down a gear and accelerated after it, following in the wake which it ploughed through the rush hour traffic, waving back at the policeman who signalled them through the university grounds. The ambulance turned into the hospital entrance while Sonia continued on, between old redbrick buildings on one side and more recent concrete and glass on the other; arts and sciences, these were, humanities and technologies, and Aitch wondered what a department of philosophy might look like.

'Thinking?' asked Sonia again.

'Awake at last and wondering precisely what to think.'

'My, but aren't we the talkative one this morning?'

No more was said. Sonia stamped her foot down to beat a set of lights, then braked hard to pull up outside the college of further education. A horn blared as a driver swerved to avoid her, the driver mouthing curses as he went past. Sonia swore back, then turned to Aitch who remained where he was, thinking that he should say something.

'Go on, get in there and carry on with your studying,' she told him, leaning across and kissing him. 'I'll see you tonight.'

'You will?' he said, getting out of the car.

'Of course I will. You sound surprised,' she laughed, setting the car in gear and driving off to the nursery where she worked, her fingers fluttering over her shoulder at him.

Yes, he was surprised, always, that she should persevere with him when he could offer so little entertainment, when he was often too caught up with thoughts of his own future to afford her the attention she deserved. Thankfully she made no effort to change him, she never demanded any more than he gave and was supportive in his struggle for a better future. Perhaps she felt that she would share in this future, and Aitch was not averse to the idea; one thing he did know, though, was that whether she was a part of it or not he would not sacrifice it for her.

As he joined the people who were entering the building Steve fell into step beside him, a feverish pink blush of enthusiasm colouring his cheeks. 'So how did the exam go yesterday?' he asked.

It had been English Literature, and Aitch had found it quite straightforward; that was one pass, surely, to ease his entry into university.

'Did you find any of your black heroes to discuss? Michael Baldwin? Leroi Jones? Did you fit any of them in?'

'I don't have any black heroes,' said Aitch.

'So who did you write about.'

'Whoever they asked me to write about.'

'What? Dickens and Austen and all that shit?'

'That's right.'

Steve shook his head sadly, as if disappointed by the show of conformity. 'What happened to 'say it loud, I'm black and I'm proud'?' he asked.

'Get it right, I'm not black or white,' Aitch answered.

'You've slipped up there, Aitch my friend. It's not the questions they ask that matter, it's the personality that shows in the answers. It's got to shine through, demonstrate that you've got a mind of your own and not just a head full of facts that someone else gave you. No personality means no pass, Aitch. You've failed.'

Aitch smiled confidently, knowing that his work was good, at least good enough to get him the results he needed for university. Once he was there then he could let the personality shine through, let the original thoughts come, but until that time he would produce whatever was asked of him.

They went into the canteen -which was also the bar and the students' common room- bought paper cups of coffee from the vending machine and found space to sit among the other students.

Aitch recalled the episode in the club the previous night, the set-to with the dissatisfied customer; after sleeping on the matter he had an idea who might have been responsible.

'Have you seen anything of Dedo recently?' he asked Steve. They both used the same pubs, Steve and Dedo, the tiny places which circled the art school. There Dedo joined in with the boho dance of the art students, living out his dream that he had the talent of a Dedo Modigliani. He didn't have it, needless to say, only the plagiarised style of mournfully elongated figures with sad lost eyes; niggers weren't always coloured people, and coloured people weren't always people with soul.

Steve had not seen him for a few days. 'Why?' he asked.

'It's not important.'

'Been naughty again, has he?'

'You might say that,' was all the information Aitch offered.

The crowd shifted about them, coming and going, buying coffee, reading newspapers and studying notices pinned to the walls. One girl, short, with long blonde hair, stood on tiptoe and traced a finger along the lines of one of the uppermost memos; her tee shirt rode up as she did so, baring a waist so slim and creamy that it cried out to be embraced.

Aitch gave a sigh, said, 'Sweet.'

'Shame on you, Aitch. What do you want to go lusting after her for when you've got Sonia?'

'It's not lust, just appreciation. That's aesthetic, it's no sin.'

'And what about when you go away? Will it still be appreciation then, when you're at university, or will you be tempted to stray? Celibate weekdays might be too much to take after having it away every night.'

'It's not every night.'

'No? You spend Christmas and Easter at home with your family, do you?'

'And Mother's Day, too,' Aitch grinned. He drank down his coffee, crumpled his cup and threw it away. 'I'll have to move. See you later.'

He went from the canteen and up the stairs, seeing the city to the west and the city to the east as the flights of stairs switched back and forth, first the river and then the hinterland, the one view as uninspiring as the other. At the fourth floor he passed through swing doors and along a corridor, his shoes squeaking like fingers down a blackboard on the freshly polished floor. At the end of the corridor he stopped and knocked on a door.

'Come in!'

He entered.

Griffin's office was less antiseptic than most others in the college. A rug covered the customary carpet tiles, though its weave was becoming a little threadbare; posters and magazine clippings filled almost every inch of available wallspace, exhortations to 'Smash the National Front' and 'Save the Whale' breaking up the monotony of the institutional eggshell finish, urgent messages which stirred some of his students but left a disappointing number unmoved.

As Aitch entered the room Griffin was seated in an armchair in a corner of the room, purposely not behind the desk; he wore jeans which were always a little dirty, but never managed to become any dirtier, scuffed boots which were never polished and a two day growth of whiskers which never quite thickened into a beard.

'Morning, Aitch,' he smiled, closed the book which was in his lap and scratched his fingers across his stubble. He gestured to a second armchair, said, 'Take a seat.'

There was an obvious wariness in the way Aitch accepted the invitation, in the way he eased himself slowly into the sagging chair; it was not the invitation itself which had him on edge, though, but trepidation about the course the tutorial might take.

'So how did the literature exam go?' Griffin asked, beginning as predictably as Aitch would have liked.

'Fine. I managed to keep out all mention of Michael Baldwin, Leroi Jones and Angela Davies.'

Griffin raised an eyebrow. 'Sorry, Aitch, I don't follow.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Aitch, dismissing the remark with a wave of his hand. 'Everything went just fine.'

It would now have been customary for Griffin to discuss some of the examination questions with Aitch, consider the answers given, but he knew that Aitch was quite capable and would have done a good paper; besides, Griffin did not approve of examinations.

Instead of discussing the literature exam, then, he said, 'So what's it going to be, Aitch? Have you decided yet?'

'What I'm going to study?' said Aitch, and took a deep breath before he gave a positive nod. 'Yes. I've decided. It's going to be philosophy.'

It was the answer Griffin had feared, and in a sudden burst of annoyance he picked the book up from his lap and hurled it across the room, at the bookshelf on the opposite wall, as though he had some ridiculous idea that it might find a way back to its place; it fell to the floor with its pages open and its spine broken.

'Shit, Aitch! I told you no!'

'And I told you,' Aitch replied more evenly. 'I'm not going to change the world, set my brothers straight or smash the police state. I don't give a toss about injustice, whatever form it takes or whatever result it has. I'm going to study philosophy.'

'But why? Where's it going to get you, for Christ's sake?'

'Out of this city, for my sake.'

Griffin jumped up and paced the room. It was such a small room that it took no more than a second or two to go back and forth. He made a steeple of his fingers and touched them to his lips, then dismantled it, perhaps perturbed that he might be resorting to prayer. Prayer, he knew, was no use.

Composing himself, sitting down again, he said, 'Okay, Aitch. You're getting out of this city. Why?'

'Because I hate it.'

'You hate what about it? Sefton Park on a sunny summer day? The river on a misty morning when you can't see the other side and the ferry creeps out of the fog at you? Things like that?'

'No,' Aitch conceded. 'Those things I can take.'

'What is it, then?'

'The streets, the district I live in, the people I know and the hassles I get.'

'And what is it about the streets? What don't you like about the people? Why are there hassles?' Griffin leant eagerly forward, his elbows resting on his knees. 'I'll tell you what it is, Aitch, it's the system of these things, the circumstances, the pressures and the prejudices that're laid on people.'

'Yes?'

'Yes. But people don't want to take it anymore, they're sick of it so they're fighting. Fighting,' he stressed, 'and it's right that they should. Christ, Aitch, they're being persecuted and pissed on and they shouldn't take it. You're being persecuted and pissed on and you shouldn't take it.'

'I'm not taking it,' Aitch smiled. 'I'm getting out.'

Exasperated, Griffin scratched at his stubble again. 'Will that solve anything?'

'Not for the poor sods who are stuck here, no, but it'll help me.' Then, before Griffin could say it, he admitted, 'Yes, I'm selfish, I know I am.'

After a brief moment for consideration of his next argument Griffin said, 'Okay, so you're getting out.'

'I'm getting out,' Aitch agreed.

'You're going to study and improve yourself.'

'I'm going to study and do my best.'

'But why philosophy? What the hell use is that? It's not going to help anybody.'

'I told you, I don't want to help anybody.'

'Just yourself.'

'Just myself.'

'But I don't see that it's even going to do that. Philosophy won't help anybody else, certainly, but it's not going to help you, either.'

'There are things I want to know, Griff, they're important to me, perhaps so important that most people can't see their significance.'

'The meaning of life? How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?' Griffin sneered. 'Those are things you'll never know, Aitch, no matter how long you take.'

'Maybe, maybe not, but it's my right to dwell on them if I want to.'

'But why dwell on things that can't be answered when you can see problems all around you that have simpler solutions, problems that can be solved by direct action? It beats me, Aitch, you of all people, you live in the middle of all this-'

'And you don't,' Aitch interrupted. 'I live there and I want to get out, you live in a cosy suburb and you want to fight for us, to fight for me. Okay, fight if you want to, but don't expect me to join in.'

As Griffin was about to reply the watch on his wrist began to buzz, its alarm sounding. 'Shit! I've got to cut it short today, I'm afraid. I've got a class to take.'

Aitch nodded and stood, quite happy to leave. He took two steps to the door, then Griffin stopped him

'By the way, Aitch, we're having a little party next week, the wife and me. Come along. Bring a friend. You know the address.'

'Yes. Secure, semi-detached suburbia, isn't it?'

Griffin laughed.

'And bring some of that nice dope you peddle!' he called out, as Aitch closed the door after him.

His laughter died and his smile faded when the student had left, thinking of what a waste it would be if he should stick to his guns and study philosophy. He would persevere with the boy, though, he was sure he could persuade him, and his lapse of humour was only momentary. He had a class to look forward to, and one young student -nice breasts, gorgeous face- who hung on his every word.

He gathered together his books and notes, packed them into his briefcase. Crossing the floor to the door he saw the book he had flung away in temper and picked it up to replace it on the shelf.

But-

His hand paused as he held the book before his face, inches from the shelf, seeing that its spine was not just broken but positively battered, the binding peeling, the pages dry and parched and smelling of must. The gold embossed lettering of the title was dull and flaking and only just decipherable when he peered closely.

'Nietzsche?' he read. 'What the fuck is that doing here?'

CHAPTER 4

Clive put in an appearance at school and there were enough surprised faces to make him think it was maybe worthwhile after all.

Only maybe, though.

'What's wrong, Clive? Your Ma frighten the shit out of you so you're too scared to bunk?' supposed Billy Sinclair. 'That why you're here?'

'He realises the benefit of a good education,' Miss Mullin believed, earwigging on the kids' conversations like she always did.

Clive gave a snort of derision, dismissing both notions, but there was an air of forced bravado in the response, for someone had frightened the shit out of the youngster, and badly, worse than his mother ever could, or any of the men she brought home with her.

He had taken the same route as usual that morning, from bed to bathroom to kitchen, stepping quiet as always though there was really no chance of waking his mother, not with the flat such a mess that its litter killed all sound and her dead to the world from drink. A quick swill in the washbasin, cake and biscuits in his pocket, ciggies from his mother's bag and then he was out, sniffing the clean morning air -for all people said it was polluted, the city air always smelt fresher than indoors- and relishing his freedom. It was too early for any of the other kids to be on their way to school. More important, it was even too early to bump into any of the teachers, cruising up sneaky like punters after tarts and offering him a lift because they knew he had it in mind to bunk off school. Clive was clever enough to work to a timetable, one as rigid as any the school might devise.

Pausing only to buy a can of Coke at the Paki shop on the corner, Clive ducked off the main street and along a narrow cobbled alley, the backs of the terraces high on either side muffling the sounds of the city traffic. Along here was his clubhouse, a see-lect place he would say, so private it boasted no more than a membership of one. Through a rotting wooden gate, across an overgrown back garden, the house was rather more decrepit than derelict, its structure still sound enough because the vandals had been kept at bay -so someone thought- by the corrugated zinc curtains which covered each window. A heavy padlock at the door was a further deterrent to any unwanted visitors. The only point of entry overlooked, and which Clive had discovered some months before, was the coal-hole, a heavy cast-iron disc the size of a dustbin lid. It had been almost hidden by moss and weed when he found it, glued in its seat with all manner of gunge and shit, but he had chipped away determinedly at it, poking and probing with that patience that only a bored young truant could muster, and eventually found his way inside, down the crumbling coal chute and into the cellar.

It had been spooky the first time, bruising his bum as he bumped his way down, falling into a pitch dark silence and wondering if he would ever be able to get out again, but so spooky that he knew straightaway no one else would go to the trouble he had of breaking into the place, not even the most desperate squatter. It was his if he wanted it, home to his club of one, the perfect place to hide out when he needed to, like now, for that hour or two around schooltime when it was best he kept off the street.

Glancing around, checking that there was no one at the windows of the other houses which looked down onto the garden, he prised the cover away with the scrap of rusted metal he kept nearby, balanced it carefully upright while he swung his legs into the coal-hole, then lowered it gently down behind him. It was some six feet to the floor of the cellar but what had once been a smooth concrete chute was now so pitted and broken that its bared brick formed a staircase down which, with a little care, he could make it quite safely. Then, after a minute or two for his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom, he found the candle and matches on the floor where he had left them, lit the wick and made his way into the body of the house.

To some absentee landlord it was a dump of a place, he could neither afford to refurbish it or demolish it, but to Clive it was a palace; the floors were sound, the staircases safe and the walls intact, the roof only leaked a little; there were even a few pieces of furniture left behind by whoever had been the last to live here, armchairs with their stuffing bursting out, a rickety table or two, dining chairs with broken legs and an ancient mattress that wasn't too stained to prevent him stretching out on it when the mood took him.

Stepping from the cellar and into the ground floor hall there was a little more light, grey like twilight but sufficient to see by, thin cracks from the windows where the corrugated metal didn't fit quite flush, a broader beam from the broken skylight above the door. He snuffed his candle and set it down on the floor, by the cellar door, then started to climb the stairs. Three floors above, directly over him, another skylight in the roof cast a bright dusty beam like a spotlight onto him, while in the sloping attic at the very top of the house there was a third. Beneath this, some weeks before, he had set the mattress, and he went there now and sprawled out on it, his hands behind his head. Through the grimy glass he could just make out the top of the cathedral, like the rim of a crown pricking against the blue expanse of sky.

He let out a sigh.

'Summertime, and the living is easy.'

_Easy... easy... easy..._ , his voice echoed in the empty room, like the crowd at Anfield cheering on their team.

There was the hiss that a serpent might make as he popped his can of Coke, he glugged a mouthful down his throat, then reached in his pocket for one of the cigarettes he had filched off his mother.

'Shit!' he cursed, when he had it between his lips. 'No light.'

There were matches downstairs, by the candle at the cellar door, ready for when he left, but he couldn't be arsed to tramp all the way back down there again. He felt content enough as he was, comfortable, so he slipped the cigarette back into his pocket. After all, it wasn't like he was addicted to the nicotine. At ten years old? Nah! He'd give up smoking long before he got old enough to be hooked.

He closed his eyes for a while, but was soon compelled to open them again because the silence around him was so deep. The sky he gazed up at was a clear unbroken blue, through the glass a little paler than he knew it to be, sort of powdery, like the colour of a faded pair of jeans. There wasn't a wisp of cloud to be seen, not the slightest breeze to stir any up or sweep them in from the sea.

So what was causing that sound, then, like something was shifting the house and making it groan? Maybe the old place wasn't quite as sturdy as he thought. He recalled seeing the tall ships down at the Pier Head the previous summer, all wood and canvas and rope, each one creaking and moaning as if they were living things, tired old men who were fed up with life. The house sounded just the same.

And was it moving, just slightly, as if it was bobbing on the tide?

He sat bolt upright and felt a sudden lurch, but it was only the springs of the mattress moving beneath him, one pinging against another.

The sound was still there, though, there was no mistaking it, a soft creak, another, and then a longer moan which made the place sound almost human.

Human. And unhappy.

And then...?

Footsteps!

That was it!

Someone on the stairs, but heavier than him and making each step groan.

The squatters he thought would never bother with this place?

A wino or a junkie?

He got cautiously to his feet.

'There's someone down there, man!' he said loudly, his voice rattling the back of his throat.

'Yeah!'

Even gruffer this time.

And then-

'Who the fuck is it?'

-the voice of someone bigger, broader, no kind of guy for some squatter or wino to tangle with.

Clive braced himself in the doorway of the attic, just out of sight of the top of the stairs, and waited for some response to his threatening babble of voices.

All that came was a low cackle of laughter, but from behind him, from within the empty room.

He screamed, then, yelled, as much to cause a fright as to give vent to the fright he felt, and launched himself down the stairs, not giving a toss whether they were solid or not.

_'Hey, Clive! Come back my man! I wanna talk pussy with you! You know...'_ The voice became the cruel parody of a child's, a squeal of rusted chords taunting him with his own words. _'You can't screw a woman who ain't got no fanny!'_

Clive didn't pause to look back but took the stairs two and three at a time, his pounding feet echoing throughout the house but still not drowning out the mocking laughter.

'Come on Clive! Talk with me! A horny young dude like you! You're a man after my own heart!'

The only person Clive could recall talking pussy with was the guy who collared him in the library, ripping the nudes from the art books, the young guy who he knew dealt in weed. Could the clubhouse be where the man kept his stash, then? Pretty shitty place if it was, and none too secure for all that it had tin windows and a padlock the size of Mike Tyson's fist.

Nah. The more Clive thought about it, dozing through his day at school, the less likely it seemed. Someone who deals in whacky baccy and the like, they're careful and streetwise, which is how come they make the bread they do, wear the sharp clothes and drive the flash cars. And the guy Clive had heard in the clubhouse had been older, some way older, like that Methoozler man -nine hundred and sixty nine years? Bullshit!- that dippy Ma Mullin tried to con them about in her religious class.

One thing was for sure, though, if it wasn't the drug pusher who didn't like library books messed with, and it wasn't Mister Methoozler, then there was no way he was going back to the clubhouse. He'd find some place away from there if he needed to hide low, streets away, go in the gardens behind Saint Luke's with the plonkies if he had to, or down the Pier Head even if there might be a gale blowing down the river.

Shit! School again, if he was pushed!

Anywhere but back there.

Groggy as he was after a full day in class, his mind as numb as his mouth felt after the dentist had pumped him full of stuff, the memory of that morning's fright was still with him when he was released back into daylight with the rest of the goody-goody schoolkids. Where the rest of his tribe whooped and galloped through the gates, though, looking to pick fights or break windows, kick cans or kick arse, he shuffled almost sulkily across the playground, anxious glances to either side.

The man was there, he was sure, waiting like a parent at the gate, or skulking like a bully in a doorway. He couldn't see him, couldn't hear him, but Clive was certain the bastard was lurking somewhere nearby, and no matter how much he cursed himself - 'Stupid arse! You're too old to believe in bogeymen!'- the fear stayed with him.

There was no one home when he got back to the flat, and, where he would usually be grateful for this, tonight he missed his mother, for the place was altogether too quiet without her. He switched on the radio, loud enough to upset the neighbours, then the TV for the light it cast into the dismal room. On the kitchen table he found fish and chips, still in their paper, but cold. She must have bought them for him at lunchtime, which meant she'd be out on an all-day bender, back by midnight, if he was lucky, and with some pissed-up punter in tow.

Cow!

The one time he needs her.

He took the cold food into the living room, opened it in his lap. He still had on his coat, though the room was quite warm enough.

Wasn't it?

He switched on a bar of the electric fire, for the extra light as much as anything else, for that cosy red glow which would lift the gloom and make the room seem a little less inhospitable. No sooner had he done so, though, than there was a heavy 'clunk' and the electric cut out.

He cursed - 'Shit!' - to break the sudden silence as the radio and TV switched off, and went through to the tiny hall where he groped about for the cabinet by the door. His fingers found the jar on top, shook it, but it was empty knew even as he raised. Not even a single fifty pee to feed the meter, which was how come his mother could be out on the booze from early afternoon. There had been at least a tenner's worth of coins there that morning.

He stood there a moment considering. It couldn't be much after six, too early to go to bed, too early to expect his mother back, and as he was lost in thought, wondering what to do, slowly the silence around him lifted. Voices crept up on him, vague murmurings, soft footsteps, and he felt a shiver as he remembered the voice from that morning. Now it was only the television in the flat next door, though, someone moving in the one above and a couple arguing in the one below. There was never any real quiet in the block where they lived, you got used to the constant grumble of noise and could hear it even in your dreams.

Clive always had such peaceful dreams.

But that was sleeping, dead to the world. Awake, it was all imagination, and though Clive might not have education he sure had imagination, a bastard of a gift that could make him believe he heard his name mentioned among the mumble of sound.

'So what do you do?' he asked himself out loud. 'You stand here in the dark and you imagine some more?'

Like fuck you do!

Back out on the street, kicking his way past the younger kids who played on the steps, Clive soon felt his old cocksure self again. The street was where he belonged, where he felt comfortable. There was too much happening to let his imagination run riot.

On a corner opposite a couple of tarts hung out, stepping to the edge of the pavement each time a car cruised by, dipping their heads slightly to look straight into the eyes of each driver. He watched a while, within minutes saw a car stop and one of the girls get in.

'Shit,' he thought to himself, 'you'd have to be desperate to pay for pussy.'

Pussy... pussy...

Oh oh! That word again.

Further on, sauntering down the hill by the cathedral like an older man who had the world at his leisure, he recognised the tall slim figure ahead of him. It was Mr Weed, Mr 'Don't Mess The Books', Mr 'Artists Visions of Perfection'.

Perfection?

You can't screw a woman who ain't got no...

Where was he headed? The clubhouse was nearby, so let's just see.

Clive followed, keeping some yards behind, scuffing along the street just like any other bored kid. The guy passed one alley which would have taken him to the clubhouse, then another, so he wasn't going there. At the bombed-out church, just on the edge of the city centre where Clive would have left him, he made a sharp left and went into the 'Masons' pub, letting out a few deep beats of music as the door opened and closed behind him.

A live band tonight, so Clive thought he'd hang around and listen a while. Maybe somebody going in there would stand him a Coke, a packet of crisps, maybe even a cigarette if they weren't too uptight about young kids smoking.

And maybe, if the guy didn't leave too late, he'd quiz him about the clubhouse, ask if he'd ever been in there, like perhaps that very morning. And if he had, shit, he'd give the guy a rollicking, scaring the pants off him the way he did.

He hitched himself up onto the broad windowsill, swung his legs around so he could perch there, resting his shoulder against the etched plate glass so that he could feel the music as well as hear it. They were doing an Eddie Grant number, old, but still cool, and he drummed his fingers against his thighs as he sang along.

'Oh momma momma you got me,

Living on the front line...'

He was just getting along with the swing of the music, head bobbing in time, when fingers twisting around his hair slammed him back against the hard brick.

'What the-!'

His heart thumped like it had in the library, like it had in the clubhouse, he thought that for anybody older these frights to the system would be too much to take. When his eyes stopped rattling in his head he turned slightly, the fingers still clutching his hair tugging at the roots, to see who it was who'd grabbed him.

'What're you doing here kid?'

It was DS Sherlock 'Whatsisname', the tall scrawny bizzie who looked like he couldn't do piss but still had everyone scared of him.

Clive gave a pleasant smile, one he thought was respectful. 'Listening to the music.'

'At this time of night?'

'It's not late,' he said.

'Late enough for you,' the policeman told him. 'Go on, bugger off home.'

'Aw!'

'Go on! Shift!' he was told, and was yanked off the windowsill by his hair.

He rubbed his hand across his scalp, sure that a clumpfull had been pulled out, muttered under his breath, 'Nasty bastard.'

The nasty bastard just stared down at him, piggy eyes piercing him, so he skulked away. Christ, those eyes could give him dreams just as bad as the voice from the clubhouse.

And Clive usually had such sweet dreams.

About pussy, Clive?

CHAPTER 5

It was fortunate that Mooney caught up with Aitch in the pub, and not in college, for if Griffin had seen the detective quizzing the young coloured man he would have been up in arms about the injustice of it.

The public house, the 'Masons', was close enough to the city centre for Aitch to conduct his business from yet near enough to home for safety, just around the corner from the blitzed shell of St Luke's church. Light streamed from its windows and across the road to the dark streets which led to clubland, from the door there came the deep thump of music and the low grumble of voices. Aitch entered the front bar, which was a narrow room made even smaller by the pool table in its centre. It was almost deserted, the greater part of the pub's space being given over to the lounge, where live music played most nights and where a group had set up now, gathering all the custom.

Peter was by the pool table. He called to the barmaid to serve Aitch a glass of lager.

While the drink was poured Aitch crossed to the pool table, beneath which he slipped the evening's supply of dope, wedging it in the angle where one of the legs supported the table. It was a safe enough place for it, anyone who knew it was there would also know not to touch it and if the police should chance a raid he would not be caught in possession. He then stood at the bar with Peter and waited for business to begin. This would be when the musicians in the lounge took their break, when people wandered from their seats, to go to the bar to refill their glasses or visit the toilets at the rear of the room. Then those who had need of Aitch would come through to the smaller bar. They all had their own names for what they wanted -shit, dope, hash, weed- but each got the same tiny twists of brown paper which held the makings of a joint or two. Most of his customers were relaxed, only a few excited or nervous about the illegality of what they were doing; there was little cause to be worried, the bar was rarely raided, Mooney and his colleagues knew what went on there and were content to let things be, to have the crime contained and under control so to speak. Mooney himself knew there would never be enough illegal substance on the premises to warrant action; occasionally he might have a stranger pulled up outside as a token gesture, but if he was ever going to storm through the door and pin Aitch to the pool table it would have to be for something more than a single night's store.

After Mooney had chased the young kid off he waited outside until he heard the music stop, timing his entrance for that moment when people would rise from the lounge and go through to the smaller bar to conduct their business. He opened the door and stood there a moment, smiling to see so many people out of their seats, others stopping short on their way through from one room to the next, making sudden diversions to fake a trip to the toilets or a visit to the bar. Then he took two slow steps into the room and turned on the nearest customer.

'You! Empty your pockets!' he ordered.

'Me? Why?' asked the youth, a sallow faced student who looked barely old enough to be in the bar.

'Just empty them,' Mooney repeated. 'Let's see what you've got.'

'If it's drugs you're looking for-'

'Is it?' Mooney smiled.

'I haven't got none. I don't use them.'

'Let's see.'

As the youth emptied his pockets Aitch began to sidle away from the bar.

'Stay where you are, Aitch, I might want you next,' Mooney cautioned him..

'See? Nothing,' said the one being searched, pulling out the linings of his pockets. Mooney checked them, ran his hands up and down legs and body. 'Didn't I tell you?'

'Tell me nothing, sonny! Go on, piss off!' Mooney looked around the room and his eyes settled on Peter. 'You, the gawky one with the glasses, let's try you.'

'My pleasure,' said Peter, smiling as he submitted himself to be searched.

'Queer, are you?' Mooney asked with a sneer, his fingers probing a little more intimately. 'Enjoy this sort of thing, do you?'

'I can take it or leave it.'

There was nothing on Peter, but then Mooney had not expected to find anything; he pushed him roughly away and beckoned to Aitch.

'You don't want to search me, surely?'

'Would I find anything worthwhile if I did?' Mooney shook his head, took Aitch by the arm and led him back to the bar. 'No, Aitch, I'm not going to search you. When I pull you it'll be for more than just an evening's deals' He grinned impishly, enjoying himself, said, 'No, for the moment I'll settle for an alibi from you.'

'An alibi?' Aitch was plainly confused, for this was not the usual line of questioning he was subjected to. Standard police procedure was taking an unexpected twist.

'You know the sort of thing, like telling me where you were last night?'

Aitch shrugged. 'You saw me yourself, Mooney, up by Faulkner Square.'

Mooney nodded. 'That was sevenish. What about after that?'

'I was with Sonia. She'll tell you.'

'She already has. I called at the flat. She says you both got home about midnight. What about the time between?'

'I was in the club, there are witnesses to that.' He turned to Peter, who nodded in confirmation. 'Then Sonia picked me up and we drove straight home. Look, Mooney, what's this all about?'

'Murder, Aitch. Some poor bastard got beaten to death not a quarter of a mile from here last night. A stranger, from out of town, up here with a construction company working at the docks. Goes out on the town, spending his loot, and ends up with his fingers broken and his face caved in. He looked like he'd been hit with a fistful of sharpened pennies.'

'I've told you,' Aitch said. 'I was in company all night until Sonia took me home. Why quiz me?'

'A workmate, out boozing with the bloke, says he last saw him on his way to the 'Pun Club'. Now why should a stranger want to go to that place, except perhaps to score some dope?'

'If he did, then he didn't score off me.'

'How do you know that?' said Mooney. 'I haven't described the bloke, except to say that he was bloody and bruised.'

'I know,' Aitch said. 'I didn't speak to any strangers last night.'

'A good boy, eh? Like your mother taught you to be?'

'I try to be.'

Mooney looked around, smiling. All those people who might have thought of coming through to Aitch had now reconsidered and were back in their seats in the music lounge.

'Queering your pitch, am I, Aitch?' he asked, knowing full well that he was.

'Is that why you took it into your head to frisk a couple of people when you came in? You really are a devious sod.'

'Just doing my job,' Mooney smiled, and crossed to the pool table, slipped his hand beneath and came out with the small plastic bag which had been hidden there. 'You'll have no need of this stash tonight, will you?' he grinned, pocketing it. 'And now, how about if I buy you a drink? What will your customers say when they see you drinking with the law?'

'They'll probably think that community policing's working at last,' Aitch answered.

'Barmaid! Over here!' Mooney called, loud enough for everyone in the pub to hear. 'Give my friend Aitch a drink!'

The barmaid came over to them. 'What'll it be, Aitch? A lager?'

'No, make it a double brandy.'

'Piss off,' said Mooney. 'Lager's his tipple and that's what he gets.'

'Short on graft this week?' Aitch asked. 'I can lend you a few quid if you're strapped for cash, Mooney.'

Mooney slapped some coins on the counter. 'It's Mister to you, or detective sergeant. Don't you forget that.'

'And I thought we were drinking partners,' Aitch laughed, as the policeman left.

Despite his laughter Aitch was annoyed, though, for Mooney certainly had screwed up business for the night. A guitar string twanged and the noise fed back through an amplifier, the crowd drifted back to their seats as the group began to play again, no one having the courage to bring their custom to Aitch.

'So, the poor guy got topped,' said Peter.

Aitch nodded. 'Seems that way. Have you got any ideas about it?'

'It's the first I've heard of it, otherwise I'd've mentioned it before. Mugged for his bread, do you suppose? A guy like that, up here working, he must have had a bit on him.'

'I suppose,' said Aitch.

With no business and the bar so empty he agreed to a game of pool. Peter set up the triangle of balls and broke, his action extravagant, his cue pointing to the ceiling when his arm finally came to rest; behind the thick glasses his eyes darted about, trying to catch at least one ball disappearing down a pocket, but none did. Aitch cued and striped balls slipped more smoothly across the baize, falling in turn as they were intended to do; he called his shots before he played them, as a professional would, and this riled Peter.

'Shit, man, there's no need for that! There's no need to tell me where the bastards are going!'

'Just making sure you know there's no luck about it, Peter,' Aitch said, low down over his cue and sighting on the last remaining ball. 'Black into the bottom corner for game quench.'

Peter ruffled the baize at the edge of the pocket, mumbling hexes his grandfather might have used, but even this failed to prevent the ball from slipping smoothly into the hole.

'We're smarter than our fathers,' Aitch smiled, laying down his cue on the table. 'We've moved beyond black magic and voodoo.'

There was a sharp yet distant crackle in the air, like the static of an approaching storm, but when the short spark of light came it was difficult to tell if it was in the room or outdoors, so brief was its duration.

'Smart arse,' Peter grumbled, blinking behind cobbled glasses. 'Chocolate smartie arse.'

Aitch laughed. 'That's just what Mooney called me yesterday.'

'See? You're getting a reputation.'

'For what?'

'The books. All those bloody books. Where are books going to get you, man, unless they're porn you can peddle?'

'Out, Peter, out and away. I'm getting out, you know that, away from 'stinking fires and soiled dreams'.'

'Stinking fires and what?'

'Soiled dreams.'

'What the shit does that mean?'

'It's Nietzsche again.'

Another flash lit the room, longer and fiercer than the first and bringing with it an aftertaste of burning.

'Stuff him, whoever he is,' said Peter, looking out of the window and vainly searching the night sky for storm clouds. 'And there's no way you're getting out,' he went on. 'Walton nick's the farthest you'll get from this city.'

Aitch shook his head confidently. 'When I leave this place it'll be by train from Lime Street, not a black maria from Cheapside. You watch.'

'Oh, I will,' Peter promised, tapping a finger against the heavy frame of his spectacles. 'The eyes might not be too sharp but they'll be glued on you, boy, glued on you good.'

The crackling blaze of light illuminated the entire room, though the night outside stayed as dark as ever, flared from the light fittings and the power points, the juke box and the 'bandit'... but brightest of all from the stage in the music lounge.

'Jesus!' Peter gasped, as lights flared and dimmed all around. 'That fucking guitarist just went up in flames!'

Sonia was unsettled. Mooney had given her no excuse for his visit and no reason for his questions, had simply quizzed her and then gone, leaving her unable to relax, waiting impatiently for Aitch's return. That had been at seven, Aitch wouldn't be back until close on midnight, and she had paced the flat restlessly, a time or two picked up her coat with the intention of going down to the 'Masons' to see him, only to throw it aside again in annoyance, determined not to act like the fretting wife.

She walked over to the french windows, arms crossed as if willing herself to stay. Down the length of the garden, through the trees and shrubbery, she could see a light in the main house. Not her father, she knew, who would be down at the club. His latest floosie, then, whichever woman was in vogue at the moment. Who would that be? She tried to remember. Was there actually one at the present time? She shook her head. Whoever it was, it would not be someone she could talk to, not a mother.

She turned from the window, drawing the curtains on the twilight. For some reason the mottled grey shadows of the garden disturbed her, or perhaps it was the thought that there was someone, a stranger, at the opposite end of the garden staring back at her.

She poured herself a drink from the wine carton in the fridge, flopped onto the settee and clicked on the television, jabbing out with the remote control to switch from channel to channel. There was the usual round of soaps and consumer programmes, a 'hospital watch' which was too gory to entertain, movies beamed by satellite which she had seen before and remembered mainly for their violence. She settled finally for the music channel, leather clad youths strutting and posturing and barking along -it wasn't singing- in a numbing staccato monotone, muted the sound a little to make it less of a cacophony and sipped pensively at her wine.

It was an effort to force from her mind the memory of Mooney's visit and the worry it was causing her, a greater effort still to sit and wait and not go searching out Aitch.

It was an effort which made her break into a sweat.

Intermittently the lead singer -let's be gracious, he'd call himself that- would lurch and grimace, his face filling the whole screen, and on each occasion the rattle of his voice would break up the picture, sending shivering bolts of light zagging back and forth. The only thing she could make out then, amid the crackling fluorescence, would be the coal black orbs of his eyes.

It was the reception, of course, the weather, she had maintained when Aitch had the satellite dish fitted that the stable wasn't high enough, that the signal would be blocked by the trees, especially when full of summer foliage.

And, of course, he had bought the whole package -dish, set, video- from Dedo!

She set her wine glass aside, went down on hands and knees to crouch before the television. Even as she was a foot away the picture shattered into a mosaic of interference so vicious that she froze.

'Raveface..,' she heard, above the squealing discharge of white noise. 'Raveface... Raveface... Raveface...'

She reached out to turn down the volume and a spark leapt out to meet her finger while it was still an inch away, causing her to clench her hand into a fist; she stretched behind her for the remote control and there was a whoop of laughter even as she snapped off the volume. Stabbing at the buttons -the sound, the picture, the power- had no effect, the flurry of noise and the wash of light still assaulted her, spilling out from the screen like an electric tide. It was as if all of the machine's innards were live, and if they were, she knew, the whole bloody thing might blow, and take with it half of the stable.

Still on all fours she circled the set, tracked its flex to the power point in the wall.

'Raveface,' was whispered again.

'Stupid bloody name for a band,' she cursed, taking hold of the plug and tugging.

It resisted; the switch beside it, too, when she tried to thumb it down into the 'off' position. She gripped the flex, wrapping it around one hand while with the other she took firm hold of the plug, and a sudden wave of nausea swept over her, making her stomach heave; the floor beneath her seemed to dip giddily and keel over to one side, like the Mersey ferry on those stormy winter days when the crossing could be as rough as any across the Channel. As if in a feverish dream she could hear the wash of the water and the clank of steel, the strain of the timbers and that unearthly groan which the landing stage made as it rose and fell with the swell of the tide. The air in the room was thickly claustrophobic, she found it hard to breathe, and the smell, above the usual cocktail of salt and sewage, was as foul as the stink of excrement, as choking as the fetor of unwashed bodies.

It was then that she passed out.

Aitch was at her side, she was on the settee and he had her hand in his, patting it gently like a person at the bedside of an invalid.

'What's happened? What's wrong?' he asked anxiously.

For a moment she was unable to remember, a part of her evening was blank. Then she was aware of a numbness in her arm, a tingling in her fingertips.

'That bloody television went crazy,' she recalled, 'and when I tried to switch it off it gave me a shock.'

As Aitch looked at the set her gaze followed his. It was still tuned to the music channel, the sound as muted as she had wanted it, quieter still since it now broadcast an 'unplugged' acoustic concert. The picture was quite clear, with not the faintest spark of interference.

'It seems okay now,' Aitch said. He flicked from station to station with the remote control, went over and did the same by hand.

'It looked like it was set to blow before. And...'

It made her nauseous, dizzy, faint? It made her feel like she had morning sickness or mal de mer? Could an electric shock do that?

'Yes?'

'Switch it off, Aitch. Unplug it, too.'

He did so, promised her he would get it checked, and by someone more proficient than Dedo.

'You can't be too careful. The electrics blew down at the 'Masons' tonight and some poor bastard got burned to a crisp.'

'No!'

Aitch nodded. 'One of the band. His amp blew, his guitar, the whole lot went up and him with it. That blew everything else in the place, they're lucky the whole pub didn't go up in flames, which is how come I'm back so early. Not that there was anything else to stay for, since Mooney put in an appearance and fucked business up for the night.'

'He was here, too,' Sonia told him, now remembering her earlier concern, the worries which had kept her so on edge until the television had nearly laid them to rest for good.

'Yeh. He said he'd seen you.'

'So why did he want to know where you were last night?'

'He didn't tell you?' said Aitch, crossing to the fridge and taking out a can of Coke. 'No, he wouldn't, the bastard. He'd want to leave you worrying.'

'Which he did,' Sonia confirmed. 'What's happened, Aitch? What was it all about?'

'It's nothing to worry about,' Aitch assured her, taking his drink to the settee. She drew up her knees to make room for him, he sat beside her and gave her a sip of his Coke. 'There was a bit of bother at the club,' he explained, 'some guy complaining he'd been given a bad deal.'

'And did you-?'

'It wasn't me,' he told her. 'You know I don't rip people off. I suspect it might have been Dedo.'

'And just how forcibly did this bloke complain?' Sonia asked.

'There was a bit of a scuffle, nothing much. Your Dad had him thrown out.'

Sonia guessed that this might not be the full story, that there might have been more than just a scuffle involved. 'And then what happened?' she pressed him.

'That's it, as far as I'm concerned. I know nothing else.' He took the cold drink back from her, took a long draught before telling her, 'From what Mooney says, though, the guy got battered sometime later, beaten up and left for dead.'

'Oh, Aitch-!'

Just like his mother, that same tone of voice she used whenever she was disappointed with him.

'It's nothing to do with me, I told you,' he said, his voice rising a pitch. 'I wasn't involved.'

Sonia got agitatedly to her feet, went to the kitchen but wanted nothing there, came back and paced the room restlessly.

'You were involved with him earlier,' she said, standing before Aitch. 'There are degrees of involvement and sometimes that's enough to cause trouble, especially with someone like Mooney.'

'I had nothing to do with the guy's death,' Aitch stressed again, as if the simple statement of his innocence was all that was needed.

'I know that, and Mooney probably does too, but it won't stop him hounding you.' She sat down again, took Aitch's hand. 'Stop peddling the dope, Aitch, just for a little while at least. You don't need the money that bad.'

'I do if I'm going to go to university,' he said. 'I'm not going to get spit for a grant, I'll need cash behind me.'

'I work.'

'Yes.'

'I could get another job, better paid, if-'

When she paused he understood the meaning behind her hesitation, finished the sentence for her. 'If you came away with me?'

'It would upset Dad, he wouldn't like it.'

'No, not one bit,' Aitch knew. He had his arms around her, drawing him to her. 'I'll tell you what, why don't we just piss off, elope, not tell anybody?'

She squirmed as he kissed her ear. 'Don't be stupid.'

'It would save me a beating or a couple of broken kneecaps.'

'Be serious, Aitch.'

'I am being serious,' he said.

She pushed him away from her. 'Just for the moment let's concentrate on trying to keep you out of trouble, eh? Will you do that for me?'

'For you, anything,' he promised, pulling her back into his embrace. 'Anything.'

He rocked her in his arms but again she had to push him away. There was that giddiness once more, that swimming in the head, the feeling that the room was moving beneath her and the sharp pungent smell of body odour.

She knew it wasn't Aitch.

CHAPTER 6

The flat was on the tenth floor of the Heights, a jerry-built place whose thin walls rattled with the music, a deep insistent beat which had the plaster statue of the Sacred Heart shaking and the frills of the lampshade dancing. Winston, seated right next to the stereo, did not hear the front door open and close, was not aware that anyone had entered until his mother came through from the kitchen.

'Turn that racket down!' she told him. 'Your brother's here!'

Winston glanced over his shoulder, sniffed as he noticed Aitch standing in the doorway and lowered the volume a fraction; then he returned to his newspaper. He and Aitch suffered each other rather than felt fraternal love and that desultory inhalation was the best greeting that could be hoped for.

'So you're back, then?' his mother said to Aitch, her greeting for the moment barely warmer than Winston's.

She stood in the centre of the room regarding her youngest son, wringing a teatowel in her hands.

'Hello Mum,' he smiled.

Winston chuckled softly; he knew Aitch would have to do better than that.

'Hello? You come back here after heaven knows how many weeks-'

'It's been no more than two.'

'-and all you can say is hello? I might be just a voice without a body, a telephone operator, the way you talk. You treat your home like a hotel and I'm the receptionist.'

Over the top of his newspaper Winston watched Aitch stride across the room and stoop to kiss their mother; she was a small slight woman with ruddy cheeks and a fiery determination, she had struggled for a quarter of a century with a husband who was worthless and a neighbourhood which was hostile, and though the years might have scoured away at the flesh they had left the spirit intact. She softened slightly when Aitch kissed her -he had always been her favourite- her red cheeks puffing out as her lips strained but refused to smile.

'Have you eaten?' she asked Aitch.

'Yes, I had a-'

'Sit down and I'll make you something,' she told him, not wanting to listen to any excuse for a meal that he might want to mention; she went into the kitchen and the gas cooker was heard to hiss and flare.

There was a silence in the living room, then, as the record on the stereo finished and the arm moved away to come to a rest with a click. Winston put down his newspaper, but made no move to change the record; he smiled at his brother, the grudging and unpleasant sort of smile that might be seen from a heathen who was about to rape and plunder.

'You got yourself out of trouble nicely the other night, brother,' he said.

'What trouble was that?' Aitch asked.

'In the club. Over that bad deal.'

'How did you know about that? You weren't there, were you?'

Winston's grin broadened, the gap which appeared between his two front teeth seeming to make the white enamel on either side shine all the more. 'Sure I was there. I was watching from Valentine's office.'

'And you didn't help?'

'Didn't seem like you needed it.'

'But if I had?'

'You never do. What is it that philosopher of yours says? That your fate's in your own hands? That's what you're always telling me, that it's sod everyone else and you're alright, thanks. You can't expect us to fight with you if you won't fight with us.'

'You bastard!'

'You coward!'

The brothers were near enough in age and size to fight, two years and a couple of pounds the only advantage Winston had, but before anything could happen their mother was back and placing a plate of bacon and eggs in Aitch's lap.

'You two aren't arguing again, are you?' she asked.

'No,' said Aitch.

'Forever arguing,' she went on, 'everytime you meet you argue. It's just as well you don't come home more often, Harold. I don't think I could cope with all the aggravation.'

'We have different views, Mam, that's all,' Winston told her.

'Different views always lead to trouble. Just look at the Irish back home.'

'They should be on the same side, fighting the English instead of rowing among themselves, just like me and Aitch should be on the same side.'

'And who should you two be fighting, may I ask?' she said, and cautioned him to mind how he answered. 'Remember what colour I am before you decide who the enemy is.'

She waited, her eyes on her eldest son. Seeing that he was not about to answer she gave a self-satisfied smile and sat down on a hardback chair which she pulled into the centre of the room. There was a shortage of space in the flat, and thus a shortage of furniture; a drop-leaf dining table stood by one wall, an armchair and a two seater settee filled most of the rest of the room. She wiped her hands on the tea towel, which never seemed to leave her when she was indoors, and watched Aitch eat.

'Isn't she feeding you, then?'

'Who's 'she'?'

'Sonia.'

'Sonia's feeding me fine.'

'Takeaways and restaurant meals paid for with her father's dirty money, I suppose?'

'No.'

'Oh, she cooks for you at home, does she?'

'Yes.'

'Then why don't you marry the girl?' she asked, as if the simple act of cooking someone a meal signified something deeper, constituted some sort of commitment. To her, perhaps, 'cooks meals for' was a more polite way of saying 'sleeps with'. 'God knows,' she went on, 'I wouldn't wish that Valentine as a father-in-law on anybody, but if you're living with the girl then you ought to marry her.'

'Why?' asked Aitch.

'God bless us! Because that's the way I brought you up, that's why!'

Winston chuckled. 'You brought him up to marry Sonia? That's what you've had in mind for him these past twenty years?'

'Don't get smart with me, Winston. I brought him up to do the proper thing is what I mean. Marriage is the proper thing. And so is working for a living.'

Winston knew this last jibe was directed at him, he was obliged to defend himself, said there were no jobs to be had, not for anyone and especially not for coloured folk like him.

'If you had Harold's brains you'd find a job, if you hadn't wasted your time sagging school and getting into trouble.'

He should have expected this, should have known it would be better to keep quiet; if there was one thing he hated his brother for it was his intelligence, the way he wasted it, the fact that he was always being offered as a role model for all to follow.

'Yeh? And if I had his brains I'd probably squander them like he's doing. It's a sickness that goes with being smart.'

'Just because he's not out with you and your kind, stirring up a fuss on the streets, he's squandering his brains, is he?'

'Right!'

Aitch had bolted his food down and now he took his empty plate through to the kitchen. Winston guessed that the row which was brewing reminded him of why he had left home.

Aitch said that he had to be going.

'Now that you've stirred us up you're going?' said his mother. Then, to be fair in her apportionment of blame, she turned to Winston. 'See? He comes home after all these weeks-'

'No more than two,' Aitch reminded her.

'-and what do you do but start an argument and chase him away.'

'Oh Christ,' Winston swore. 'Come on, brother, I'll treat you to a drink.'

'That's it,' their mother said, pausing a moment to accept a kiss from Aitch, 'That's it, bugger off the pair of you, and if you see your father tell him to come back with some money or he's not getting fed.'

'Bye Mum,' said Aitch, following Winston to the door.

'Bye son,' she replied, now a faint smile on her lips as though she had enjoyed the argument, as though she had expected it and felt that it served some purpose. 'And don't forget, you make sure to tell your Dad if you see him.'

'Shee-it!' said Winston, when they were outside the flat, then hurried across the landing to stick his foot in the doors of the lift as they were closing. 'I see why you left, Aitch.'

'I left so I could live with Sonia,' Aitch said, not quite truthfully. 'It wasn't to get away from Mum.'

As the lift sighed to a stop on the ground floor Winston remembered that he had left his wallet behind. 'Lend me some bread until tomorrow, brother.'

'Sod off,' said Aitch.

'Come on, you make enough peddling that weed to spare a couple of quid.'

'And don't you make enough, with whatever it is you're up to these days?'

'I told you, it's all upstairs under the mattress.'

'A clever place to hide it. I suppose you left it there on purpose.'

'Straight up, I forgot it. Come on,' Winston pleaded. 'A twenty'll see me through, just to save me going back upstairs and getting more hassle from Mam.'

Aitch took a ten pound note from his pocket and handed it to his brother. 'Here, and I want it back tomorrow.'

'A tenner? That's all?'

'Right.'

Winston snorted with disgust, nostrils flaring, but accepted the note nonetheless.

They stepped from the flats and strode across the concrete forecourt. There were some children playing, pretending it was grass under their feet and tossing a ball about. Winston stole it from them and ran off down the street as they shouted after him.

'Fucker!'

'Cummere!'

'Giveusourballback!'

Winston waited for Aitch to catch up with him, then held out the ball to show its markings. 'Look,' he said, 'a basketball. When you and me was kids it was football and we all wanted to be Pele; now they all want to be Shaquille O'Neal.'

Winston tossed the ball into the air and met it with his foot as it came down; it flew out of sight, above the range of the streetlamps, then bounced to the ground with the children chasing after it. He laughed when they started to fight over the ball, a laugh which was more of mischief than delight.

'Come on, you're buying me a drink while you're still in a brotherly mood,' Aitch reminded him.

They crossed the road and were back among the terraces, moving from concrete towers to the memories of over a century ago, three and four storey buildings with first-floor wrought iron balconies.

'Slavers, those bastards were,' Winston said, spitting on the step of one as if to damn them all. 'Made their money shipping folk like ours about the world. Crazy, isn't it, that now the black folk are trapped, stuck in the houses their grandparents must have envied so much?'

'You see?' Aitch observed. 'When you finally get what you want you find out it's not what you needed. It'll be the same for you when you get what it is you're fighting for.'

'The law off our backs? You think we won't enjoy that?'

'If you succeed -which I doubt you will- you'll end up with these streets like a 'no-go' area. Then things'll be so chaotic you'll pray for the bizzies to come back and sort things out. If, on the other hand, you don't succeed -which is more likely- then you'll have them leaning on you so heavy it'll be like living under martial law.'

'And that's your excuse for not doing anything?'

'I'm getting out, I own up to that, so I don't need any excuses.'

As they reached the first public house on their route into town a youngster, leaning in the doorway, asked if they had a penny for the guy.

Aitch recognised him. 'You're the kid from the library, aren't you?'

'Less of the kid stuff. The name's Clive. Now what about that penny for the guy?'

'Piss off,' said Winston. 'That's weeks away.'

'So's Easter, but they're still selling Cadbury creme eggs in the shops.'

'Where's the guy?' asked Aitch, looking into the shadows to either side of the brightly lit doorway.

'My brother's got it.'

'A big brother?' Aitch guessed.

'Right.'

'Big enough to give the two of us trouble?'

'You'd better believe it,' the boy said menacingly, then broke into a cheery smile. 'But what is this? It ain't extortion, just a penny for the guy, that's all.'

Aitch took out a coin and tossed it over. 'There you go.'

'Five pee? That's it? You-!'

'Scram!' said Winston, swinging his foot, and the boy retreated a few cautious paces.

They were about to enter the pub when the boy said, 'Hey. Got a minute?'

'Ignore the runt,' said Winston, but Aitch paused in the doorway.

'You're buying, get them in,' he said to his brother, who shrugged and went on in, then turned to the youngster. 'So what is it?' he asked, smiling. 'Another lecture on art history?'

'Fuck that!'

'Language,' Aitch cautioned.

'Yeah, I know, kids ain't supposed to.' Clive leant against the wall, arms folded, trying to look old enough for anything. 'No, what it is... you deal in the whacky baccy, right?'

Aitch laughed, and was about to turn away. 'If that's what you're after, looking to score, then you can forget it.'

'No.' The boy tugged at his sleeve. 'I was wondering where you keep your stash, that's all.'

'So you can muscle in and take over my business?'

'Be serious.'

'Or shop me to the police. Would you do that, Clive?'

'Please!'

'Okay. So tell me why you're interested to know where I keep it?'

The youngster frowned. 'Well I don't, not really. I just need to know if you keep it one particular place, some special place I have in mind.'

'Which is where?'

'You know the old house back of the Women's Hospital, middle of the terrace, its windows boarded up?'

'I know the place,' Aitch agreed.

'Would that maybe be the place you hide your stuff?'

'It would be a pretty stupid place, if it was. Don't you reckon? Anyone could get in.'

'Yeah, just what I thought.' The frown deepened, now as much out of worry as anything else. 'You ever go in there?'

'Why? What reason would I have?'

'None. You're right.' There was a troubled shake of the head, a dismissive wave of the hand. 'Forget it. This is stupid.'

'It's certainly confusing.'

'Well,' said Clive, now forcing a smile, 'you know us kids, you can't expect us to talk sense.'

Aitch grinned and rummaged in his pocket, produced a few more coins. 'Here, for the guy, wherever it is.'

Clive accepted the money and winked his thanks.

For the guy.

Wherever it is.

Aitch followed his brother into the pub, found him still waiting to be served. Looking around, taking in the other customers who crowded the place and made service so slow, he noticed Dedo in the adjacent room, his curls not quite Rasta mayhem but crazy enough to stand out in the crowd. Aitch told his brother he would be back in a second, then went through to the next room.

'Okay, Dedo, what've you got to say for yourself?'

Nothing. Dedo just kept his back turned, immobile but for the slight twitching of his head. Clamped over each ear was a pad of fluorescent foam; Aitch hooked a finger beneath the springy steel band which connected these and yanked.

'What's this?' he asked, dangling the headphones from his finger as Dedo spun around, ready to fight for their return until he saw who held them.

'Oh, hi Aitch,' he grinned. 'That's the personal stereo, man. Takes the music where I is rather than have the poor old feet trotting to where it's at.'

Aitch tossed them back and stabbed him in the chest with a finger. 'You've been getting me into bother, Dedo, peddling bad deals when I wasn't around.'

'I, man?'

'Yes man, you man, so cut all the shit and talk properly. All this 'I and I' crap only makes you sound more stupid than you are.'

With dumb expression and slack mouth Dedo spread his arms wide, like a saint offering himself to be martyred. 'Aitch, man, I was stuck, needing the money to pay back Valentine and the minutes ticking away with only pennies in the pocket. So in the club comes this pissed up labourer type, a real peasant, flashing the wages and looking to score. What could I do?'

'Drop me in it?'

'Shit, man, I couldn't roll the guy, he was impressing me with them shiny steel toecaps and knuckles like walnuts. If I could've taken him on my own I would've, but he was just too much for brawn to handle.'

Aitch was forced to smile. 'So you used brains instead?'

'Right, man.' Dedo nodded his head furiously, his curls doing a delighted dance about his shoulders. ''Scuse me', I says to him, nips out for a mo' and then comes back with his stuff.'

'What stuff exactly?' Aitch asked, curious to know.

Dedo wrinkled his nose. 'It was one hundred percent shit, I mean real stuff, from the bogs.'

'You mean-?'

'Dry, flakey, week old stuff. It didn't stink too much but the guy was too pissed to notice in any case. I sure earned the money I conned from him, scraping that crap up.'

What could Aitch do? Dedo was innocent, bright eyed and enthusiastic as a child. Aitch could only suppress a smile and caution him.

'Oh sure, Aitch, I won't try that trick again,' Dedo promised. 'At least not on your ground.'

'At least not anywhere near.'

'Right, Aitch! Right! I was just joking man, that's all. Here, let me get you a drink.'

'No, that's okay,' Aitch told him. 'Winston's just getting them in.'

'Winston?' said Dedo, his face almost blanching. 'Oo-wee! There's one other man don't like me too much at the moment!' He shuddered. 'That bastard catches me and he's going to slap me one in the face. Fists like hams, he's got, and them wicked sovereign rings he wears likely to cut me to ribbons. I'm splitting!'

Without further explanation he hurried from the room.

'What's with Dedo?' Aitch asked, returning to his brother.

'He's here?' Winston's head quickly swivelled around, searching the bar. 'Where?'

'He ran, like he had a red hot poker up his arse, when he found out you were here. What've you done to him?'

'Nothing yet, but he's in bother. He's been naughty, buying goods off Valentine and not coming up with the bread.'

'So you're working for Valentine now?'

'From time to time, just little jobs he puts my way. If you want to get together some quick college money I could put you onto something.'

'No way,' said Aitch.

'Why not? Your way of earning bread isn't exactly legal.'

'Maybe not. There's less chance of me being locked up, though, working for myself. I want a smooth life, Winston, I can do without the unexpected knock on the door.'

Not wanting to be accused of showing favouritism to any one member of the Smith family, when Mooney saw Winston he trailed him along to the 'Pun Club'. The ape at the door had to blink before he recognised him, and even then had the temerity to challenge him.

'Don't be a moron,' he said, not even bothering to show his warrant card, and pushed past him. 'I'm a friend of the management.'

It was late enough for the club to be busy, most of the tables were occupied and there were couples dancing. One or two of the regulars, looking up and recognising him, frowned or cursed under their breath, but none of them had the guts to do anything more, not even when they were massed against him in such numbers. Anyway, what he had said to the doorman was true, he was a friend of the management.

He strode smiling to the bar, slapped his hand on the counter to interrupt those being served, said, 'A whisky, if you please, with just a splash of water.'

Valentine was with him before the barmaid could even think of remarking on his bad manners.

'Mister Mooney,' he said with a weak smile, torn between a loyalty to his customers and a necessary obeisance to this particular officer of the law. 'It's a social visit, then?' he said, pouring a generous measure of scotch.

'You know how it is, Valentine, a policeman is never really off duty.' He looked around as he tasted his drink. 'Didn't I see Winston come in here just a moment ago?'

'Winston? Yes. He's in the back just now, locking away some money.'

'You trust Winston with money?'

'A good man, that. Clever, a subtle mind, I think it must run in the family.'

'Winston's about as subtle as a boot in the gonads,' Mooney said, and Valentine burst into a fit of laughter.

'Gonads, yeh,' he chuckled. 'Don't rightly know what it means, but I sure admire your sense your humour, Mr Mooney. Admire it greatly.'

The grovelling toad. Mooney pulled him to one side, to a quieter end of the bar. 'About this trouble you had the other night,' he said.

'Trouble? What trouble's that?' Valentine asked, but he was not quite clever enough to fake innocence with Mooney and he knew it. 'Ah,' he pretended to recall, 'the guy that got done for. Wasn't no trouble with him, Mister Mooney, no trouble at all.'

'He was here,' Mooney said. 'His mate said this is where he was coming. Hoping to score.'

'Don't know why he came, Mister Mooney, and don't know what he wanted,' Valentine said. 'We wouldn't serve him, we threw him out. That was the only trouble we had.'

'He was breathing when you threw him out? He had all his parts intact and functioning properly?'

'Sure he was!' Valentine flashed a smile, Mooney would understand how it was dealing with troublemakers, said, 'Maybe he bounced on the pavement a time or two on his way out, but that's all.'

Winston came from the office with bags of loose change for the till.

'Is that right?' Mooney asked him, guessing that he had been eavesdropping on the conversation from behind the office door.

'Is what right?' Winston grinned.

'Come on, don't pretend you didn't hear.'

'The boss tells it just like it happens. Unwanted customer, out the door, bounce across the pavement and that's an end to it.'

'Then you came back in here, carried on about your duties?'

'I didn't even go out to watch in the first place. It was that ruffian on the door who did the physical.'

'Ruffian? That's a dignified word to use for a baboon like your doorman. You must have been picking up on a few of your brother's cultured ways.'

This was as good as an insult to Winston, who scowled as he said, 'Him? I wouldn't want to pick anything up off him.'

'He was here that night, then? Aitch?'

Winston laughed. 'You can't think he had anything to do with it. Why, when the guy kicked off in here Aitch-'

'He was here,' Valentine interrupted.

'You were saying?' Mooney prompted, his gaze still fixed on Winston.

Winston shook his head. 'As soft as shit is Aitch. Clever, perhaps, but soft.'

'If he's that clever I wonder if he could tell me how the poor bereaved bastard ended up with his fingers broke. These,' he said, raising his right hand and clenching his fist. 'Not just one, but all four. It's not the sort of thing you expect to happen in a run of the mill bouncing, is it?'

'Perhaps the guy fell awkwardly,' Valentine suggested.

'Piss off, Valentine. You must think I'm as stupid as Winston here.'

No. Just a nasty bastard.

Mooney spun around, spilling his drink, and in that moment Winston caught just the briefest flash of fear in the man's eyes.

Clive had a pocketful of silver, enough to make his coat hang heavy on either side, so he kicked himself away from the wall outside the pub and shuffled off down the street. There was money for a sausage supper from the chippie, money for some ciggies of his own, money enough even to slip a few fifty pees in the electric meter if his mother wasn't home. It had been a good night's business. Who needed to peddle drugs to make a dollar? There was enough to be had from 'penny for the guy' and no risk of getting busted, just the occasional kick up the arse for being a cheeky little runt.

Clive cut across to the Chinese on Hardman Street, bought himself a couple of sausages smothered in their shitty green curry sauce, and ate them from the tray as he climbed the hill, sucking the pungent slime from his fingers. Just before the brow he turned off the main drag, down a back street to avoid the police station on Hope Street. It didn't happen often, but just occasionally there was some righteous copper either going in or coming out, usually a woman, who wanted to know what a kid his age was doing out alone at that time of night. As if just gone eleven was all that late, as if all ten year olds were tucked up in bed by nine.

Zig-zagging the back alleys, which would take him behind the police station and bring him out a hundred yards beyond, just round the corner from home, his money jingled happily in his pockets. He should have changed it at the chippie, he thought, got a note and a couple of coins instead of all this loose stuff. It was heavier than it seemed, a few quids worth of coppers and five pence pieces.

And noisy, too. Off the main road, away from any traffic, it sounded more like the rattling of chains than the tinkle of cash.

He paused in mid stride, stood as motionless as he could, the only movement his heaving chest.

It fucking was the rattling of chains!

He darted off and around the first corner, towards the safety of the bright streetlights.

Only there were none, only darkness, and in the shadows he didn't see the....thing... until he had tripped over it and gone sprawling across the cobbles, sending his money scattering all around him. He got to his hands and knees, crouched a moment like a sprinter in the blocks, looking down at the creature splayed out beneath him.

It was...

Penny for the guy, that's all it is.

...hideous, a life-size puppet with its strings cut, arms and legs flopped out to either side, head snapped grotesquely back so that the face gazed up into his. The clothes the thing wore were in tatters, the shirt in ribbons as if it had been slashed by a razor, baring a chest which was like a sweating yellow cheese, and the trousers torn savagely to leave naked to the night a groin which should have had some sort of genitals but now showed only a gaping hole.

You can't screw pussy if you ain't got no prick!

Clive heaved up a mouthful of sausage and curry as he backed slowly away, seeing only pools of blood as black as tar where the eyes should have been.

In the darkness the green stuff he spewed up seemed just as thick and black.

Oh come on, Clive! Don't run out on me again!

Clive did just that.

Ran.

As fast as his legs could carry him.

Jesus but you're a fussy one!

The cry screamed after him, piercing the night so sharply he was sure the police would hear, be waiting at the top of the street for him.

Fussy! Fussy! Fussy!

You're short of pussy but you won't take it! You've got no guy but you don't want me!

And he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye as he turned the street, broken puppet arms flapping like mad, beckoning him back.
CHAPTER 7

Neither Sonia nor Aitch seemed to notice the other's silence that morning, over breakfast both were somewhat withdrawn and distracted.

At some point during the night, sleeping only fitfully, Aitch had pictured his brother standing beside him in the pub, his fist wrapped around a pint of lager. It was not wholly the Winston he knew, he was a little less substantial in build, not quite the bulky presence he usually was and rather loose and disjointed about his movements, a little like Peter at his most laid back. It was still his brother, though, and his image had come to Aitch a number of times, too insistent in its repetition to be discounted as a mere dream. It was only when he awoke, though, that he realised what had been wrong about the image. Winston had been wearing no jewellery. Those heavy rings which so intimidated Dedo had been missing, his fingers were bare, unadorned.

Coincidence, Aitch wondered, remembering Mooney's description of the wounds to the face of the dead man -like he'd been hit with a fistful of sharpened pennies- or was there some connection? Winston had witnessed the argument in the club, there was that to consider, and there was no denying that he was given to violence at times. But this was generally for a reason, and the one reason that would not fire Winston would be to seek revenge on his brother's behalf.

No, Winston would surely not be involved, Aitch felt certain of that.

He dismissed the matter, returned to his breakfast, and it was then that he became aware of how silent Sonia was.

'Are you okay?' he asked her.

'Yes, I'm fine.'

'You're not still worried because Mooney was around here asking questions, perhaps?'

'No, of course not,' she promised, but pushed her unfinished breakfast away and sank into a brooding silence once again.

'Because if you are there's no need to be, I swear I'm not involved in what happened to that guy.'

'I know you're not, and I'm not worried about it,' she stressed, and went upstairs to dress. She returned smiling, but the smile was a distant one, fixed, as if applied along with her makeup; it was the kind of smile which masks some hidden trouble. 'A lift?' she offered, before he could press her further.

He accepted and they went out to the car. The traffic was heavy, they were those few crucial minutes later than usual, so she had an excuse to concentrate on the road rather than engage in conversation. Her eyes darting this way and that might have been seen as a sign of nervousness under other circumstances.

'I'll see you later?' he supposed, when she brought the car to a halt outside the college.

'How about a lunchtime drink?' she suggested.

'You'll be able to get away?' he asked, for she usually had to spend her lunchtimes supervising the children at the nursery.

'I think so,' she said, and named a pub which was convenient for them both. 'Half twelve? Will that be okay?'

'It should be. I'll ring you if I can't make it.'

There was a kiss goodbye, more dutiful than affectionate, and then she drove off, leaving him to climb the steps into college.

He met Steve as he entered and they walked along the corridor together, directly to their first class. Griffin passed them and could only answer Aitch's greeting with a gruff and incoherent grunt, barging on past other students, not quite the universal friend that he usually pretended to be.

'What's eating soul brother?' Steve wondered. 'He can usually build a whole group discussion around a simple hello.'

'Perhaps he's finally given up with me, decided he's never going to be able to change me,' said Aitch hopefully.

'Or woman trouble, maybe? Hassles with the wife? It's that sort of look he's wearing.'

'Not Griffin, the modern man and perfect husband, he'd never be so unhip as to have trouble with women. No, he's biding his time with me, thinking that I'm not going to be offered a place at university. Then he can gloat, say 'I told you so, philosophy was never for you'.'

'After which you'll apologise for doubting him and ask his advice about what to do next?'

'Like hell I will. I'd take Valentine's advice before I'd take Griffin's, make a living from crime. Christ, rather than stay in this poxy place and suffer Griffin's crackpot causes I think I'd even go to work for Valentine, never mind take his advice.'

'But this is all beside the point, isn't it? You're going to be offered a place, aren't you?'

'Spot on.'

'The same old chocolate smartie,' Steve laughed. 'And Sonia? Has she decided if she's going with you?'

'Nothing's certain yet. Sometimes I think she is, other times I'm not sure whether she wants to or not.'

'Why the doubt? I'd have thought it was an easy enough decision to make.'

'I don't know. She's got a comfortable life at the moment, her own place, a job she doesn't really need because there's plenty of money paid into the bank account by Valentine. I'm not sure how she'd be able to cope, leaving that behind. Perhaps she's not sure herself.'

'That doesn't sound like Sonia,' said Steve. 'She's never struck me as being the materialistic kind, despite everything her father's given her.'

'That's precisely what I'd say, ninety percent of the time. But then there are occasions when I wonder. Never having had the things she's had, I don't know what sort of hold they might have over her.'

'She'll put you before anything else, I'm sure.'

'We'll see,' said Aitch. 'But then, if she does, I've got Valentine to contend with. He won't like the idea of me taking his only daughter away, not one little bit.'

'He's only her father, though, not her jailor. What can he do about it?'

'I hate to think.'

The children were monsters, there were niggling little arguments erupting all over the place, tears and tantrums and sulks, and for once Sonia had no patience with them.

'What the hell is it with the horrors today?' she asked, taking a break in the staffroom with Frank while Anne, the other assistant, supervised the children letting off steam in the small playground. 'Is it the weather?' she wondered. 'Is it the season? Is there a full moon on the way?'

'The season,' Frank told her. 'Hot nights coming. They stay out on the street till all hours, are too sweaty to sleep, then come in here fractious the next morning.'

'You reckon?'

'I do. You live round here, you see it, the toddlers playing out till nine, ten at night. Oh, I know they don't stray far, they're only on the doorstep. But still...'

He took a swig of coffee, allowing her time to disagree if she wanted to, but she only shrugged, looking out of the window at the teeming mass of children spinning around Anne. They looked like a storm building, its eye the adult standing serenely in the middle.

'The thing is,' Frank went on, 'the warm weather fires their fantasies, gives them dreams, keeps them restless. Maybe it's never been proven, but it wouldn't surprise me if people dream more in the summer than...'

Was it the weather?

The warm nights now that summer was coming?

Could that be what had kept Aitch so agitated last night, mumbling in his sleep, not just tossing and turning but actually gesticulating at times? She had tried to wake him a number of times, but never quite succeeded. Whenever she had got through to whatever level he was working on he had simply fallen back into a deep sleep, only to grow restless again within the hour.

Simple restlessness she could have coped with. At breakfast she would have confronted him over the fitful night he had caused her, they would have argued at first and then laughed and chided each other, he would probably have used the absence of lovemaking the night before as an excuse.

What had begun as an agitated grumbling, however, had quickly developed into an argument.

Between..?

Himself and himself?

And the garbled mutterings to be expected of someone sleeping poorly had soon become all too clear and coherent, so explicit that the worry they caused her had denied her the courage to mention them.

You gave me a bad deal... lying bastard... let's see some cash... God is dead, so Nietzsche says.

The last was Aitch, she knew.

And then:

It's your hatred I need... nasty bastard... pussy, pussy, pussy... horny young dude... nasssty bastard.

She could make little sense of much of it, clear though the words were, but that the 'bad deal' was the punter in the club she could understand only too well, it was the argument just as Aitch had described it.

But the rest?

Whatever ensued?

And the cry that followed -no, not followed, punctuated- the cry that punctuated each bout of gabbled arguing?

Aitch had flung his arm out a number of times, so that it slapped heavily across her chest, her thighs, her belly, and on each occasion the muscles and tendons were knotted hard, the fingers clenched into an arthritic claw, so stiff, when she took the hand in hers, that they refused to relax no matter how hard she tried.

Pain!

No. It's your hatred I need.

And Aitch would sob, a sob such as she had never heard from him before. A sob of pain, perhaps. And also despair.

A hot summer night that had troubled him, was it?

Or conscience?

She shook her head, blinked hard to bring her attention back to the present.

'...and the troubles on the streets, when we get them, that's always in the summer,' Frank was saying, 'balmy nights, bruised tempers...'

Outside on the playground there was a lull in the storm, the turbulence had abated and the children were as still as they could ever be outside sleep, grouped in a circle in the centre. Time for the horrors to come back in.

But no, Sonia saw, looking at her watch, they had five minutes of mayhem left to them yet.

Then she saw Anne's head dip out of sight, crouching in the crowd, and the circle of children drawn in deeper, only for one or two of them to be bundled back.

'Frank! There's something wrong!'

He joined her at the window as she opened it and they heard the agitated cries, some sobs and tears, and Anne's voice rising in panic. A sweep of her arm sent more children scurrying backwards and through the thinning forest of legs they could see the form of the prostrate child.

'Quick! The medical kit!' said Frank, hurrying from the room. 'It's little Debbie!'

Sonia rummaged through the drawer of the room's single desk, found the red plastic box and ran out after him, bundling her way through the children who stood and watched, some out of fear and some out of curiosity.

'She's thrown a fit!' said Anne trembling, her hands hovering over the child but not quite touching.

'Anaphylactic shock!' said Frank. 'Give me the hypo! She's having an allergic reaction!'

Peanuts, Sonia knew, handing him the pen-like syringe from the box. It had Debbie's name taped to it. They had all been warned, they knew about her condition, it was only recently that her mother had stopped spending the day in the nursery with the child.

'Call an ambulance!' Frank told Anne, as he inserted the needle. 'Now!' he said, when she still dithered. 'And you kids-! Get away!'

Sonia could see the dusting of salt on Debbie's cheeks and puffed blue lips, even down her chin and constricted throat.

Christ! Who'd given her peanuts! All the kids had been warned, had been so impressed by the potential danger that none would ever dare.

'Easy, Debbie, easy. It'll be alright,' she said, crouching at her side and taking her hand.

Feel the pain. Feel the sickness.

The child's throat was too swollen to form a sob, let alone a word, there wasn't the slightest tremor of movement in the body Sonia held.

But she heard the voice again.

Feel the sickness in me.

And the bowels opened, the bloated throat belched out a stream of filth and the air was filled with the foulest stink of excrement and vomit.

There were classes all morning and Aitch found them tedious, he could find little that was engaging in the contrasts and comparisons between Emma and Jane Fairfax, or in how Jane Austen sustained the narrative interest. He yearned for more taxing questions, for undergraduate debate rather than classroom discussion, but he knew that he would have to be patient for a little while longer; the work he was doing now he saw as the first leap from the starting blocks, he was barely getting going; once into his stride he would sprint like hell from the city.

He and Steve had lunch in the college canteen, after which their afternoon was free. Steve suggested they go for a drink and it was only then that Aitch, too late, remembered his appointment.

'Shit!' he said. 'I was supposed to meet Sonia. Come on, if you fancy that drink it'll have to be at the 'Angel'.'

They walked briskly from the college, turned from the city centre and climbed uphill.

'You're late, you've missed her,' Steve said.

'Maybe not,' said Aitch, but Steve repeated the view a number of times, suggesting that they call in one pub, then another, any one they happened to pass.

'There's a chance she might still be there,' Aitch hoped, pressing on, but he could sense his friend's anxiety. 'Is there something wrong with going to the 'Angel'?'

'It's just that I don't know the pub. I don't know any of the places round there, or the people.'

'You know me, you know Dedo. We both drink there.'

'But that's all. Nobody else. And nobody there knows me.'

Aitch laughed. 'You've nothing against drinking with black folk, have you?'

'No.'

'But the prospect scares you?'

Steve hesitated a moment before he nodded. 'Perhaps it does have me a little nervous.'

'You've spent too much time in Griffin's middle class morass, Steve. It isn't like people think, a mugger in every doorway and a pimp on every corner. You'll be safe, I promise.'

The pub was full of people who should have been at work but had none to go to; the old had not worked for any number of years, the younger ones not at all since the day they left school. To Steve's relief he was not the only white person there; perhaps the only middle class person, but not the only one of his colour. Aitch looked around for Sonia, asked if anyone had seen her and was told she had left some twenty minutes ago.

'And none too happy,' someone warned him.

'That's all I need, her with a temper.'

'What you need, Aitch, is a drink,' said the girl behind the bar. 'Or two or three if you're going to have the courage to face her.'

'I suppose so,' Aitch agreed.

'But is there any point in staying now that she's gone?' said Steve.

'Sweetheart, you can't come in here and not have a drink,' the barmaid told him. 'What can I get you both?'

Aitch bought pints of lager and they sat on stools at the end of the bar. Steve felt the eyes of the barmaid repeatedly returning to him.

'That girl's making me nervous,' he eventually confided in Aitch. 'She looks like she eats blokes for breakfast.'

'Connie? She's no cannibal,' Aitch grinned. 'She is a bit on the amorous side, though. She's probably taken a shine to you. She'll call it moonshine on account of you being white,' he laughed.

They drank their lagers, then another pint each. Connie was right when she said that Aitch would need a little Dutch courage if he was to face Sonia. Steve, too, felt in need of it, not because of the unfamiliar surroundings but because of the looks the barmaid continued to give him. She was a young woman, no older than twenty, her hair was plaited into tight knots close to her skull, so close that her scalp could be seen beneath, and her eyes made his cheeks burn whenever she looked his way, dark brown and the purest white, her full lips glistening with a deep red gloss each time she licked her tongue across them.

Aitch noticed the alarmed expression, told him, 'She's not on the game, if that's what you're worried about. It might look it, I know, but that's just her way. She's acting. That's what she has dreams of becoming, an actress. Basically she's just a very affectionate person.'

'You know this from experience, do you?' Steve asked, but was told to mind his own business.

When it got near to closing time and the pub filled up even more Aitch bought a double round of drinks, two pints apiece; he was getting a taste for the beer and was not yet prepared to go home and face Sonia. Forced to move along the bar by the crowd, hemmed in next to the fruit machine, they found themselves at the end where Connie was serving.

'Having a bit of a session?' she asked Aitch.

'We didn't start out to but it's beginning to look that way.'

'If you want to carry on you know we serve through till five.'

Again with no conscious intention, they found the doors locked and the curtains drawn with them still in the pub, drinking. There were about a dozen others spread about the room, mainly seated at tables. Aitch and Steve remained at the bar with Connie.

'I finish at five,' she told Aitch, when Steve excused himself to go to the gents. 'How about a drink at 'Mother McCready's'?'

Aitch shook his head. 'I've got to get home soon. Sonia's going to be in a bad enough mood as it is because I didn't meet her here.'

'She can't get into any worse a temper, can she?' said Connie with a pleading smile. 'Come on, Aitch. Do me a favour.'

'A favour?'

'Yes. Bring your friend along.'

Aitch understood. 'You're really not thinking of chasing after him, are you? Why?'

'He's sweet. Skinny and pale, with that long curly hair.' She took Aitch's hand and implored him. 'Please. He won't come on his own, you can tell that just by looking at him.'

'No, he wouldn't,' Aitch agreed. He thought of the welcome he would get from Sonia, which was sure to be unpleasant, no matter what time he arrived home. 'Okay, I'll come. I'm not staying long, though.'

'That's alright, it won't take long,' she grinned wickedly, and gave him a grateful peck on the cheek.

'You just behave yourself,' he warned, as Steve returned.

She gave a 'do-I-have-to?' pout and poured them two more drinks; Steve, who had drunk enough to make him carefree, noticed no change in mood and was unaware of the conspiracy, he needed no persuading to go along with them when Connie finished her spell of duty.

'Mother McCready's' was a house much like any other in the street, a four storey terrace with steps leading up to the entrance and columns on either side; the windows were blacked out, though, and there was a brightly lit sign above the porch and a spattering of some drunkard's vomit on the steps.

'Here?' asked Steve warily.

'It's alright,' Connie reassured him, and now had an excuse to take him by the arm. 'Come on, it's nice inside.'

But very dark, since every window was covered. Inside it could have been any time of day or night, the rooms were dimly lit, there was music being played in one room and cards in another, pool balls clicking softly against each other and a gentle mumble of voices. As if tracking a river upstream they followed the murmuring conversation along a hallway and into what had once been the drawing room of some prosperous person's home. The bar was no more than a few yards long, its beaten copper top reflecting spotlights.

'Aitch, boy! How're you doing?' asked a disembodied voice, lost in the shadows behind the spotlights' glare.

'Fine, Thomas,' Aitch replied.

'I can see that, and I reckon you must be on a bender to be here at this time of day. And Connie, too?' There was a chuckle and a flash of teeth in the gloom. 'And who's this, shining like a spook?'

It was Steve, the brightest face there, and Aitch introduced him. 'He's a friend of mine, Thomas, a good friend, so you make sure you remember that.'

'Sure, Aitch,' said Thomas. 'So what's your pleasure, Steve?'

Aitch ordered drinks, Steve paid and Connie thanked him.

'Let's sit down,' she said, her hand on his arm again, and they sat at one of the tables which were scattered like islands in the sea of murky light.

Connie and Steve sat together on a bench seat, Aitch took a low stool and moved a little into the background, listening to the conversation with a wry grin which no one saw; he watched Connie move closer and closer to his friend and noticed her movements become more demonstrative, her words now accompanied by gestures which gave her further excuse to touch.

Their drinks were emptied and Connie went to the bar for more.

'Hey, there's Griffin,' said Steve, gesturing towards the door. 'Still looking as harassed as he was this morning, too. Wonder what he's doing in this place.'

'Slumming it, probably, building up a rapport with his brothers,' said Aitch, turning, but too late to catch sight of the lecturer. He gave Steve a dig in the ribs, said. 'You know, Steve, I reckon you're on to something here.'

'With Connie?' Steve nodded, slightly weary, fairly inebriated. 'She's a nice girl. Do you think I stand a chance?'

'If you haven't guessed that already it must be because the room's so dark. Haven't you seen her hands all over you?'

Steve chuckled and gave a boozy hiccough. 'Felt, but not seen.'

Connie returned, but not alone. 'Look who I've just met,' she said to Aitch, pulling a figure after her whose face was lost beyond the range of the lighting. 'Diane. She was over by the bar.'

Diane stooped forward but her features were still lost, now among the waves of dark curls. She parted her hair to either side and smiled. 'Hello, Aitch. It's been quite a while.'

She had brought her drink with her and she pulled up a stool, sat beside him.

'And this is your friend, Steve,' she said. 'Connie's just been telling me all about you, Steve. Hi.'

'Hello,' said Steve, as Connie sat beside him again. 'And hello Connie.'

He was merry enough now, relaxed enough not to be startled by any sudden movement, so Connie took his hand in hers and held it in her lap. She began to talk quietly to him, too softly for anyone else to hear what was being said. Aitch could hazard a guess at where the conversation was leading, though; he smiled and turned to see Diane smiling back.

'Connie's fond of white boys,' she said in a low voice. 'I think it's the novelty value. She doesn't get to meet many, she's too much of a peasant.'

'That's a bit unkind,' said Aitch, for he liked Connie for her openness and simplicity.

'But true nonetheless. She's got limited horizons. Working in that pub, coming to this place, that's about the limit of it for her.'

'And you?' Aitch asked. He had known Diane a long time, had grown up with her as he had with Connie and Sonia, and he had always thought of her as rather conceited and arrogant, a cruel and spiteful girl.

She had always been good looking, though, there was no denying this as she grinned and said, 'Me? I get around a lot more now, meet lots of different people. I'm doing a secretarial course these days. Fuck working in a pub for a living.'

She spat out the expletive and Aitch could appreciate the contrast between her and Connie; though both were pretty, and both came from similar backgrounds, one was resigned to her lot and would quickly age while the other was ambitious and would find herself a more comfortable life. Diane, in fact, was rather like Sonia, self-assured, poised, not afraid to demand a better life. There was even a slight visible resemblance, too, in the high cheekbones and the almond eyes, features which were not as obviously negroid as Connie's.

'How's Sonia?' Diane asked, as if she had been reading his thoughts and was aware of the comparisons he had made.

'Fine,' he answered.

'You're still together? Still at her flat?'

'That's right.'

'But not for long? You'll be leaving soon?'

'Says who?'

'It's philosophy you're going to study, isn't it?'

He wondered how she knew, but before he could ask she was musing on whether or not Sonia would be going away with him.

'She might be,' he said.

'But then again-?'

'She might not be.' He gave a heave of the shoulders. 'We'll see.'

Diane's eyes sparkled as she stood and said, 'Everyone for another drink?'

Aitch was about to tell her no, he was suddenly sober and thinking of going home, but Steve and Connie were ready for another and Diane was on her way to the bar before he could speak again. She was quickly back with beers and spirits; he took a sip of lager and a sip of whisky and his sudden sobriety was just as suddenly gone. His vision became a little blurred as he drank, one minute he was looking at Sonia and the next minute she was Diane, their features fusing like some Identi-Kit composite. Who he was with did not seem to matter, and when she said there was someplace else to go, a party she knew of, he could think of no reason to refuse.

'Party?' she said to Steve.

'Isn't it already?' he asked, full of drink and in a daze.

'Honey you ain't seen nothing yet,' Connie told him, her arm draped around his neck.

A little dizzy with the drink and shaken by the chill air of a night which had sprung suddenly upon them, Aitch held onto Diane for support, held her to him for company and relied on her for guidance. They crossed streets which were all very much the same and came upon a house which was no different to 'Mother McCready's'; there was music again, many voices, the smell of dope being smoked. The pungent fragrance of the marijuana reminded him for a moment that he should have been about his business, earning money to take him away, but in that same moment he knew that he did not want to be away just yet, he was happy where he was.

There were people in each room of the house, on the stairs and in the halls, and as they stepped between the sprawling legs and dancing bodies he noticed a stained glass above the door in the inner porch, thought that here was too sacred a place to be desecrated by such goings on. He would add his songs to the rest, though, he was certain of that, he would dance and drink and join in the melee with Sonia or Diane or whoever it was he found himself with.

They found the room where the drinks were, filled glasses and moved on to the room where the dope was being smoked. People sat on the floor or crouched against the walls, seemingly oblivious to the fact that there were seats in the room, so the four of them -Steve and Connie, Aitch and Diane- squeezed onto the settee which which no one else wanted to use. They were close together, Diane's thigh was tight against his, and he felt the warmth of her flesh through the fabric of her skirt.

'Are you hot?' she asked, pressing a palm to his forehead. 'Yes, you are. Me, too. Come on, let's roam.'

Steve and Connie were in deep discussion, cheek to cheek, so he rose to his feet and went with Diane, his hand in hers, not noticing how tightly her fingers clutched his until he felt a fierce stab of pain across his knuckles.

He removed his hand from hers.

'Alright, Aitch?' she asked.

'Just a bit of cramp,' he said, flexing his fingers.

They found a room where people were dancing and the moving bodies created a breeze of sorts, it seemed a little cooler than elsewhere.

'A dance?' she said, and draped her arms around him.

They circled the room slowly, each in the other's embrace, and he felt her breath on his neck, could smell her perfume and feel her body moving against his.

He laughed and she asked what was funny.

'I was just thinking about Steve with Connie,' he said. 'She'll gobble the poor sod up alive.'

'I'll do the same for you if you give me half a chance,' Diane promised. 'There are bedrooms upstairs, you know.'

CHAPTER 8

When Aitch left Diane he had a key to her flat in his pocket and he wondered if he would ever have need of it. While he was drunk it had seemed possible. She had promised him that her flat would be more comfortable than the room in which they had spent the night, and it was a promise which had been made to sound quite tempting.

Now that he was sober, well, he didn't know.

Not yet prepared to face Sonia -she would be at the nursery by now, in any case- he started to walk into town. The day was colder than the sunlight had suggested, though, and the crisp air had him shivering before he had gone a hundred yards, so he opted for the bus. The trip was less than leisurely this way, he was in the city centre in a matter of minutes. Alighting at the railway station he had only to walk across the windswept plateau of St George's Hall and he was at the Central Library. As he approached the building he saw a small figure crouched on the step.

'Penny for the guy, is it?' he asked, when he was near enough to be heard.

The young boy he remembered as Clive was shaken by a startled spasm before he looked up.

'Oh, hi,' he said, glanced beyond Aitch as if expecting to see someone else, then asked, 'Are you going in this place?'

'That's right.'

'Well they won't let me in,' Clive said, letting his chin sink forlornly to his chest. 'There must be some real 'X' certificate stuff in there if you can't get in without an adult.'

Aitch thought about the work he had intended doing, then regarded Clive perched on the step like some waif from Dickens. 'Do you really want to go in? Are you interested?'

Clive's face brightened noticeably, though he did his best to conceal his enthusiasm. 'Why not?' he shrugged. 'It might be a giggle.'

'No ripping up the books, though,' Aitch warned. 'Understood?'

'Sure, I've grown out of that now,' said Clive, jumping to his feet and polishing his shoes on the back of his jeans.

Aitch led the way through the door, his hand placed on Clive's shoulder to show that they were together. The library filled five floors of the building but Clive stopped and stared in wonder when confronted by the ground floor, the general lending library. His eyes popped when Aitch, a hand at his back to nudge him along, told him that there was more.

'What do you do here?' Clive asked.

'I was going to work. Read.'

'In this place? Shit! There must be a million books here!'

'Well, I'll never manage to read them all,' Aitch smiled, before the youngster's quick frown warned him against any such condescending comments. 'There are some I wouldn't want to bother with, in any case.'

'Saucy ones?' asked Clive, hopefully.

'Does everything have to come down to sex with you?'

'It does when you ain't had a chance to try it,' Clive replied, and Aitch laughed, a little too loudly.

'Sssh!' someone told him.

'Come on,' Aitch whispered, leading Clive on. 'Let's move up a bit.'

'You mean there's more?'

'I told you, there's five floors. You can count, can't you?'

'Sure I can.'

'How old are you?' Aitch asked, as they climbed the stairs.

'Going on eleven and never been laid yet.'

Aitch laughed again, but there was no one on the staircase to tell him to be quiet. In the arts library he directed Clive to the pre-Christian section, took a book down from a shelf and flicked through it.

'Remember what I said about perfection? Well this is the Venus de Milo, reckoned to have the perfect body.'

Clive studied the reproduction long and hard, then said, 'But the girl's got no arms. That's even worse than having no fanny.' He thought a moment, before deciding, 'Mind you, maybe it's not such a bad idea after all. If a girl ain't got no arms she can't put up a struggle.'

It was Aitch who 'shushed' Clive this time; the boy's not too innocent thoughts were carrying across the silent resonant room and people were staring. They looked through a few more art books, to satisfy the youngster's curiosity, and then Aitch suggested that they go to the snack bar.

'They've got a snack bar in a library?' he marvelled. 'You're kidding!'

'Come on, I'll show you.'

They descended the stairs to the first floor and went along a corridor to the snack bar; it was a small room, hung with paintings on loan from the art gallery.

'Some boss place this is,' said Clive in awe as he looked around. 'You could read and eat and never have to leave.'

Aitch, leading the way to the counter, asked, 'What do you want? Lemonade?'

'Lemonade?' said Clive, his voice loud again and indignant. 'The man offers me lemonade like I was some kinda infant! A bottle of pop and a packet of crisps for the little 'un!'

The girl behind the counter looked down at Clive, half smiling.

'Keep quiet,' said Aitch. 'You'll get us both thrown out.'

'We ain't in the reading part now. It don't matter.'

'Anyway, I thought you'd like lemonade. It's thirst quenching.'

Clive wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Yuk! Gassy stuff! Let's have coffee.'

'Two coffees, please,' Aitch said to the girl.

Clive flared his nostrils noisily, snorting like a man greedy for air. 'You just can't beat the smell of fresh ground beans.'

'This is instant.'

The youngster shrugged. 'It's not what I'm used to but it'll have to do. I'm a conno- what's the word I want?'

'Connoisseur?' Aitch suggested.

'That's it. A man of taste.'

'And a very old ten year old,' remarked Aitch, carrying their drinks across to a table. 'Where'd you pick up words like that, words bigger than you are?'

'Just 'cause I don't go to school it don't mean I'm stupid,' said Clive indignantly.

'So why don't you go to school?' Aitch asked.

'Go to school and I'd have to be stupid. We're treated no better than kids. Shit, I'm surprised they don't still make us take an afternoon nap.' Clive sipped at his coffee, then looked around the room, nodding approvingly. 'Now in a set-up like this I could learn something.'

'Is that what you were doing when I caught you ripping the pages out of the art book?'

'Aw, I was just bored, I wanted pictures to stick over my bed.'

'Why bored? Haven't you got any friends? Why weren't you-?'

'Doing what kids do? Playing stupid games on street corners?'

He sipped thoughtfully at his coffee, lips pursed and brow as puckered as an aged professor's, licked his mouth and then said, 'Aitch? Do you believe in spooks? You know, ghosts and the like?'

'I don't know one way or the other,' Aitch answered. 'I reckon until I see one, or have someone prove they don't exist, I'll keep an open mind. Why do you ask?'

There was a half smile, just around the corners of the mouth but not in the eyes, the kind that might precede some embarrassed confession.

'Well, you know the old house I asked you about, where I thought you might keep your stash?'

'You're not going to tell me it's haunted?'

'I asked 'cause I heard someone in there. I hang out there sometimes, when I'm bunking school and the like, and I heard this person inching on up the stairs.'

'It could have been anyone,' Aitch said, 'the landlord, a wino, another kid-'

Clive shook his head vigorously. 'No, wasn't any of them. I was asking if it might have been you 'cause the person in there starting talking to me about fanny-'

'Give over, Clive!' Aitch laughed, thinking about the youngster's preoccupation with sex.

'-started talking about it like I did with you. You know, perfection and all that crap, and I said you can't screw a woman who ain't got no fanny. Whoever was in that house with me said exactly the same thing.'

'Imagination,' Aitch decided, looking for some explanation. 'Either that or you're trying to take the piss out of me.'

'I swear, Aitch. And then there was the guy.'

'What guy?'

'The penny-for-the-guy, the one I didn't have that night, outside the boozer.'

'Yes?'

'I fucking well found one later.'

'Language, Clive.'

'There's times you don't need to swear, and there's times you have to. I tell you, Aitch, this thing would make even the Pope let rip with a mouthful. Wicked, it was, absolutely yuck, no eyes, no balls, just blood and puss and all kinds of cack.'

'A guy? So maybe somebody'd thrown it away, it had its stuffing hanging out, in the dark-.'

'At this time of year?' Clive interrupted. 'With six months to bonfire night? Come on, Aitch. I might have been collecting, but there's nobody else has got the cheek. I tell you, Aitch, there's something weird going on and it's tracking me round the streets wherever I go.'

'Well maybe once you head on back to school it'll give up on you, find some other truant to follow,' Aitch said, finishing his coffee. 'That's what you need, Clive, to get back to school and channel this imagination of yours, or keep yourself so busy that it doesn't get time to wander.'

'There you go again,' Clive sulked into his coffee, 'treating me like an infant, just like everyone else does.'

'I'm sorry,' Aitch apologised. 'I'm just trying to come up with some explanation for what you saw. Come on, drink up and we'll go act like young men.'

'Go for a pint?' Clive said lazily, like a man who needed one.

'No!'

'Sniff some glue?'

'You don't-?'

Clive doubled into fits of laughter. 'You really do think I'm some stupid kinda bastard, don't you?'

As Sonia entered the flat and closed the door behind her she heard people talking in the living room. One was Aitch; the voice of the other, a younger person, she failed to recognise.

'You must have some sort of girlfriend if she's got a pad like this,' the youngster was remarking.

'Her Dad paid for it. He lives down there, at the other end of the garden.'

'Rich, is he?'

'He manages. He buys her a new car every birthday.'

'Now that's the sort of Dad I could use!'

Rather than go directly through to the living room Sonia paused in the small hallway, eavesdropping.

'What about your Dad? What does he do?' Aitch asked his young companion.

'Search me.' The answer came without feeling. 'I've never even met the guy.'

'Your mother, then. What about her?'

There was a mischievous chuckle. 'Oh, I've met her, we bump into each other a lot.'

'What does she do? Does she work?'

A harder tone now, a voice much older than it had first sounded. 'Mostly she gets drunk and tries to cop off with blokes. She never has much luck, though. She's too ugly.'

Sonia hoped that Aitch would not let this remark pass without comment.

'That's not very nice, Clive,' he said.

'No, and we don't live in a nice place, either. Not nice like this pad.'

It was a depressing observation to hear, and Sonia chose this moment to halt the conversation. She strode from the hall and into the living room, asked, 'And who might this be?'

Aitch introduced her. 'Sonia, this is Clive.'

'Pleased to meet you, Clive,' she said.

The youngster, small and urchin-like, with a mop of unruly curls, had turned around when she entered; he gazed at her for a moment, then snapped his fingers and gave a low whistle. 'Wow! She's a-!'

Aitch clamped his hand over Clive's mouth. 'He's very discerning for his age.'

Clive squirmed his way free. 'You think I've no style at all? You think I'm gonna embarrass you and the lady by saying something bad.'

'Not at all.'

'Liar.'

Sonia threw her coat over the back of the settee, sat down next to Aitch.

Clive, after wandering around the room and giving frequent glances over his shoulder to Sonia, stopped at the stereo and looked at the records stacked beneath it.

'Can I put some sounds on?' he asked.

Aitch was unsure. 'Well-'

'It's okay,' Clive told him, 'the fingers are clean, they ain't sticky from sweets or nothing.'

'Let him,' said Sonia.

With fingertips he extracted a CD from its case and placed it carefully in the player, delicately adjusted the bass. He sang along -'Oh momma momma you got me, living on the front line'- strutting across the floor, hips swaying and arms swinging back and forth.

'About last night-' Aitch began.

'It doesn't matter,' said Sonia, watching Clive dance. He moved better than Aitch could.

'-Steve and me went to a party, it got late and-'

'Really, it doesn't matter,' she insisted. 'Tell me later.'

She had not come home with the intention of demanding an explanation, though she would have expected one to be offered; now that an attempt had been made to do so she was satisfied enough. If the truth were known she felt no annoyance now, just a little disappointment the previous day. After the episode with little Debbie -who would be okay, thanks to Frank's prompt action- she really could have done with someone to talk to.

'Say, Aitch, are you going to be at the library again tomorrow?' Clive asked, shimmying to a halt and sitting down with them.

'Not tomorrow,' Aitch said. 'I've got lectures.'

'Lessons?'

'Something similar. Why?'

'I'd've liked to have gone back there, that's all. I reckon I could learn something in that place.'

Aitch told Sonia about their instructive hours spent in the library.

'I'll tell you what,' he then said to Clive. 'Why don't you give school a try instead?'

Clive shook his head. 'I've told you what's wrong with that place. They treat us like kids,' he explained to Sonia. 'Anyway, there are things I've missed, things I won't know.'

'There's only one way to pick up on those.'

'Go back?'

'Right.'

Clive chuckled. 'It's funny, isn't it? I don't want to be treated like a kid, but I'm scared of going back to school in case I look stupid. If anything's acting like a kid then that is.'

Sonia and Aitch exchanged a smile. 'Not at all,' she said. 'I think it's very grown-up of you to admit it.'

'You do?' he beamed, as if a compliment from her was worth ten from anyone else.

'I'll tell you what,' Aitch said. 'You give school a try and if there's anything that stumps you then come and see me.'

'Here, at your place?' said Clive eagerly. He turned to Sonia. 'And will you be here?'

'Probably. It depends when you come,' she said.

'It's a deal, then,' Clive agreed.

'And now, Aitch, shouldn't you be about your work?' Sonia reminded him, with a glance at her wristwatch.

'This man doesn't work,' Clive laughed. 'He just reads books.'

'No, Sonia's right, I do have some business to see to.'

Clive nodded. 'Ah. The weed.'

Sonia frowned, but knew it should have been no surprise that even a ten year old could be wise to what went on on the streets.

'Come on, you can walk part of the way with me,' Aitch said.

'That's okay,' Clive told him, hanging back. 'I'll stick around here for a while.'

'No you won't,' Aitch insisted, tugging him to the door. 'You think I'm going to trust you alone with my girl?'

'Shit! I'm gonna be eleven and still a virgin!'

Sonia helped Aitch shepherd him to the door, kissed Aitch goodbye and went back into the flat.

So Aitch had stayed out all night. She should have been annoyed, she had been little peeved when she had woken that morning without him, but these things happened, and with Aitch only rarely. They both needed the occasional evening apart, with other friends, and Aitch was not the selfish reprobate that some men could be, uncaring and inconsiderate. No, the true Aitch was the caring person she had witnessed being attentive to Clive, treating him with consideration rather than condescension.

Aitch had it in him to help people and she only wished that she could make him aware of this.

And that she could pluck up the courage to talk to him about the voices.

Winston had caught up with Dedo and extracted from him the money owed to Valentine. Now more at ease, no longer the hunted, Dedo stood with him at the bar of the 'Masons', sharing a drink and a chat.

'It's a bad business, this guy getting done for,' Dedo was saying. 'It makes things difficult for everyone, having the police nosing around.'

'Right,' Winston agreed.

'What do you reckon it was one of Valentine's cronies did it?'

'Why should it be?'

'You know Valentine. Anyone causes trouble in his club and they're in for a beating. He didn't like it one bit, that guy kicking up a fuss with Aitch.'

'Seems to me that Aitch is a more likely culprit than Valentine, then. Could be the two of them met up again outside the club and the argument kicked off a second time. Or maybe Aitch just wanted to give him a harder beating, followed him out.'

'Aitch? How can you say that about your own brother?'

'It's safer to say Aitch did it than go around hinting it was Valentine,' said Winston, with a cautioning glance. 'You just bear that in mind, Dedo.'

Dedo got the message and fell quiet; having only just made his peace with Winston and Valentine he wouldn't want to stir them up again too soon.

Winston grinned to witness the sudden dumbness, the instant submission which followed the sudden flash of fear in Dedo's eyes. It was that same fear he had seen in Mooney, when whatever it was affected him in the club, and whatever it was that had troubled the policeman had made itself felt now.

How, Winston didn't know.

He had just wished it...

Feel fear, Dedo.

Feel the sickness.

...it had been as simple as that, and though it might have been coincidence he preferred to believe not. It was so satisfying, no flashing a blade under a person's nose or waving a fist in front of their face, just the wishing, and then seeing that they felt fear without their knowing why.

If it could be cultured it would be like a gift from God.

Or someone.

Some ten minutes later Aitch arrived, joined his brother and Dedo at the bar.

Dedo's manner was a little more muted than usual, but he brightened when he saw Aitch, as if he was glad of his company.

'I take it you've made your peace with everybody?' said Aitch. 'So what was this thug chasing you for, anyway? What've you been buying off Valentine that you couldn't pay for?'

Dedo scowled. 'Shit, man, it was that bloody personal stereo. I take it off him for a piddling twenty quid and he sends Winston here hot-legging it after me for the bread. I mean, Aitch, a miserable twenty quid.'

'That's how come he's got so much, chasing after sums like that,' said Winston. 'It's good business practice.'

'Huh!' Dedo turned to Aitch. 'I'll tell you what, you marry Sonia like he says, sunning law, heir to the family fortune, and you'd have some clout in business matters, get me off the hook next time.'

'No way, and certainly not just to do you a favour.'

'No, I thought not,' Dedo sighed with a shake of the head. 'No, Aitch is pissing off to college, ain't he?'

'Why does everyone say I'm pissing off?' Aitch wanted to know. If he was white middle class it would be what was expected of him.

'Everybody don't,' Dedo chuckled wickedly, and shared a conspiratorial grin with Winston.

'That's right. Valentine knows nothing about it yet,' said Winston.

'No! And don't you tell him!' Aitch warned his brother.

'He's thinking you'll stay here and make an honest woman of his daughter.'

'Not that she ain't honest already, of course,' Dedo hurriedly added, not wanting to antagonise Aitch.

'Heaven forbid,' Winston agreed. 'Valentine thinks he's going to wed her, though, and then he'll get some respectability in the family. A clever man like Aitch, he could be an accountant maybe, or a bank manager.'

'Stuff that. It's philosophy I'm going to study, not business practice,' Aitch said, and Winston could see that the admission was made against his brother's better judgement, that it was blurted out in a brief moment of annoyance. Normally Aitch would be reticent about making his plans known to anyone, would keep them to himself; there was no telling who might say what to who.

The warning was written in the dark glance Aitch shot Winston: 'not one word of this to Valentine' it said.

'Ha!' laughed Dedo. 'Aitch a college boy!'

'And what's wrong with that? You pretend you're an artist, so why don't you get serious about it and go to art school?'

'Who needs art school?' said Dedo dismissively. 'Did Modigliani go to art school? Did he shit. He just suffered, like me.'

'Actually, Dedo, I think he did go to art school for a time.'

'He did?' Dedo's disappointment was evident, as if his hero had betrayed him, but he laughed it off. 'Well if he did it was probably just for the grant or something, for the money.'

'Talking of money, you still owe me a tenner,' Aitch reminded his brother.

Winston brushed aside the reminder. 'Soon, I'll get it to you soon,' he said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, then noticed Aitch's eyes fix on that hand as he rested it back on the bar. 'What's wrong?' he asked.

'I was just wondering what's happened to all the jewellery.'

Winston flexed his fingers, clenching them into a fist and then uncurling them again.

He did this with obvious difficulty.

'I'm skint, aren't I? I had to hock them, things are that bad. That's why I was onto you for some cash.' He licked his thumb and rubbed a cut on one of the knuckles; it was not a fresh cut, but it had been weeping at the corner. 'Almost ripped the skin from the bone trying to get that one off,' he smiled.

The fingers unfurled again, but not quite fully, and Aitch thought he detected a wince of pain from his brother.

Fucking fingers did hurt, though, and if he tried to ease the hurt then the two bright red weals at the back of the knuckles burned as bright as strips of neon.

Pain.

Feel the pain.

Winston could take it, though. He'd known worse. Not often, but he'd known worse.

A swap, then...

That had been the offer.

...give me...

What?

...give me your hatred.

Well Winston had plenty of that, enough to spare and then some to set by. He could give it like blood, replenished easily, and it was only of the rarest type, hatred for its own sake, summoned at will.

A swap, though? His hatred in return for what?

Your hatred for my fear.

Huh?

Fear?

Yes, and it would be a bargain, he knew, for the fear that was spoken of was that fear that had been so easily transmitted to Mooney and to Dedo, as easily as it would be passed to others, spread like a contagion. And when Aitch had witnessed enough, seen it spread all around him and come to understand its force, then he would feel it too.

'It's a deal,' he said, and his voice came as a whisper which seemed to cloud the night air before him, causing the shadows to shift and swirl and form a cloak around him.

CHAPTER 9

Sonia was at the breakfast bar when Aitch arrived home from college, her hair tied up in a towel, pouting before the mirror as she applied her makeup. They were due at his tutor's house in an hour's time but she could guess from his expression that he was not in a party mood.

'Are you sure you want to go there tonight?' he asked, flopping down on the settee, head flung back and legs splayed out.

'Yes, I do. You've been to one party already this week, so the least you can do is take me along to this one.' She considered his reflection in the mirror, either genuinely weary or maybe faking it, turned to him and asked, 'What's wrong? A bad day?'

'I had a bit of a set-to with Steve. Seems he got beaten up after that party the other night.'

'So what did that have to do with you?' she asked.

'It was friends of Connie's who laid into him,' he said, though Steve had actually claimed that they were friends of Diane's. Aitch wasn't going to mention her, though, said, 'You know what some folk are like, see a white guy with a black girl and they kick off.'

'I still don't understand what it has to do with you, though.'

'Oh, he's tarring us all with the same brush now, all black bastards together. Says if he can lay his hands on that bitch-'

Diane, not Connie.

'-well, he's in a mood, we had an argument.' Aitch let out a weary sigh. 'Do you really want to go to this party of Griffin's?'

'Yes, I do,' Sonia insisted. 'It couldn't be that you're ashamed to introduce me to your college friends, could it?'

'Of course not. Don't be stupid.'

'Or worried that I might make a fool of you?'

'No.'

She continued to regard him in the mirror as she glossed her lips and darkened her eyes. 'I'm not frightened of mixing with these people, you know.'

'I never thought you would be. I'm just tired, pissed off, I thought it might be a bit boring, that's all.'

'It can't be as boring as going down to Dad's club every night.' She turned, mascara brush in hand. 'It's one of the things I'll have to get used to, faculty parties, if I'm going to share a university life with you. Go on, change out of those jeans, put on a decent pair of trousers.'

In the car, driving through the city centre, she persuaded him to tell her more about his tutor, Griffin, and was amused that he had nothing flattering to say about the man.

'He's worried about our problems, see.'

'That's kind of him,' Sonia smiled, her eyes on the road ahead.

'And do you know why he's worried?'

'No. Why?'

'Because he's got none of his own. Now that he's comfortable and settled in life, short of nothing, he's got to involve himself in other people's trials.'

'I'm sure he must have some problems of his own,' she said. 'Everyone has problems.'

'Like school fees for the kids and mortgage repayments?' said Aitch cynically. 'Do you call those problems?'

'They probably are. Quite nice ones to have, though.'

They left the city centre behind, and then the inner city districts, cluttered redbrick terraces tumbling down to the river. The road widened and trees sprouted when they reached the neighbourhood of Griffin's house and Aitch gave Sonia more exact instructions, around the park, along sweeping crescents and quiet avenues, no kids playing on the streets, nobody hanging out on the corners. Certainly no prostitutes trying to trip the car up as they passed.

'There, that's the place,' he said at last, pointing to a gabled house at the end of the road. 'Now does that look like the kind of home that has problems? Be honest.'

'It looks very smart,' she said admiringly, as she pulled the car into the kerb.

The house was detached, perhaps thirty or forty years old, and what had once been a large front garden had been paved over.

'What a shame to do something like that to your garden,' Sonia thought, getting out of the car. The only things that broke the concrete court were a couple of wooden tubs.

'It's alright, he's got space to waste, there's a garden four times the size of that at the back.' Aitch walked around the car and towards towards the house, telling her over his shoulder, 'You needn't bother locking the car, it's not that sort of district.'

She locked it all the same.

Weaving their way between parked cars they reached the front door which was lit on either side by coach lamps. To Sonia these seemed a little out of character for the man Aitch had described; from the impression she had formed of him she would never have expected to see such things decorating his house.

'That's the hypocrisy, see,' said Aitch.

'No, I don't see.'

'He advocates one life but he lives another. What he is and what he pretends to be are two different things. The person he makes out he is at college could never live in a house like this.' Aitch rang the bell and they heard the chimes echo indoors; they could hear no party sounds, though, no music or singing, no shuffle of dancing feet. 'I pray to Christ it's not going to be one of those evenings,' he said.

'What sort?'

'A soiree. All earnest discussion.'

'Well if it is, you won't get into any arguments, will you?' Sonia hoped.

'Only if I'm given cause to,' Aitch answered.

'If you cause any trouble, or start to get unpleasant, I'll leave,' she warned, pointing a finger at him.

He felt a sudden urge to bite it off, knew that his mood was already worsening.

The door opened and a slightly built woman greeted them. Though her dress was long it was informal, more like something worn on a beach than at a party, and her short hair was tousled, as if even at that length it was unmanageable. When she smiled her nose wrinkled impishly.

'Ah, you'll be Aitch,' she said. 'Do come in.'

She walked ahead of them, leading the way into the house.

''Ah! You'll be Aitch!' And how did she know, if she's never met me?' Aitch whispered to Sonia. 'It stands out a mile, doesn't it? I'm the token black boy.'

'Sssh! Don't start!' Sonia hissed.

'Oh, by the way, I'm Judy,' said the woman, turning for a moment, and then took them on to a large crowded room. There was still no music as yet, but enough noise from the many people; the murmur of their voices was like a storm threatening from a distance. 'Now where is he?' Judy asked herself, and craned on tiptoe to see above the heads. 'Ah yes! Griff! Oh Griff!'

From among the shifting mass of bodies Griffin appeared. He waved first and then fought his way towards them.

'Aitch. Glad you could make it,' he said. 'And this is-?'

Aitch introduced Sonia.

'Hello, thanks for inviting us,' she said, taking the outstretched hand which was offered.

Aitch noted that the fingernails were grimy, not as well manicured as usual, and the customary two-day growth of beard had become a little longer, almost unkempt. His complexion was pallid, his eyes a little bleary.

'You're welcome, Sonia. Beauty is what the party's been lacking until now.'

'Well thank you!' said Judy, with a scowl which may or may not have been sincere.

Griffin slapped his wife's behind and they both laughed. 'Right,' he said, his hands out and fingers splayed as though about to orchestrate their evening, 'now you'll find the grub in the kitchen, and the booze, it's piled in there 'cause I refuse to have a drinks cabinet in the house. You know the sort of thing I mean,' he smiled at Sonia, 'one of those shiny wooden commodes that lights up and plays a tune when it's opened. They're so... so...'

'Middle class?' Aitch suggested.

'Unnecessary,' Griffin smiled.

'He's just thinking about the expense,' said Judy. 'He's such a miser. Now you two feel free, circulate, our house is your house.'

Sonia went through to the kitchen to get a drink.

'Our house is your house,' she heard Aitch grumble, as he followed her. 'But only for tonight, though.'

'What do you expect, for God's sake? An invitation to squat?' She crossed to the table in the centre of the room, on which there was a varied supply of drinks. Aitch stood by the door, surveying the kitchen and its fittings, as she helped herself. She poured out a glass of wine and then rested her haunches on the edge of the table. In Aitch's expression she recognised a look which was part disgust, part envy. 'Griff's only trying to be pleasant, Aitch. Why can't you do the same?'

As though having decided that it was safe to do so, Aitch finally entered the room. 'The more comfortable the surroundings are, the easier it is to be pleasant. Why else is the Queen always smiling on bank notes?'

'That's reasonable enough, so stop criticising and accept it.'

Aitch poured wine into a tumbler and gulped it down, grimacing at the taste. As he refilled his glass he said, 'Of course it's reasonable. I can accept that Griff's got a good home, a good job, a good life. It's when he starts preaching that he gets up my nose, dipping his big toe into inner city problems like he was testing the water. When he finds out it's too hot he can always jump back here, where it's safe and cosy.'

'You'll be just as safe and cosy one day,' Sonia pointed out hopefully. 'That's your plan, isn't it? To get away, to get to university? That's the first step to a home like this and a job like his.'

Aitch nodded as he sipped his second glass of wine, the taste rather too sharp to be taken in mouthfuls. 'Sure, I admit it. I won't be hypocritical about it, though, faking concern over issues that no longer affect me just so I won't feel guilty about what I've achieved.'

The ambition which Aitch hinted at was perhaps Sonia's greatest comfort, her only consolation, making bearable his fluctuating moods, the bouts of indignation, the periods when he withdrew into himself and seemed to need no one, not even her.

She suggested that they circulate, said they really ought to. Her primary concern, though, if she was honest with herself, was not to be sociable but to have an opportunity to inspect more of the house; she wanted to imagine how the two of them might look in such a place. It was like trying on a dress that you couldn't yet quite afford.

'Let me get rid of this swill first,' said Aitch, emptying his wine into the sink and refilling his glass with white rum.

'I take it I'll be driving us home,' she said, watching from the doorway.

Her comment was meant as a caution -don't drink too much- but she suspected that it would go unheeded. Aitch took his replenished glass and followed her from the kitchen, obediently trailing her from room to room, nodding in answer to the opinions she passed on their surroundings, occasionally muttering some garbled non-committal phrase when further response was called for. He could not pretend to be enthusiastic, but she didn't mind; she only needed him there to talk to, not to join in.

In the club Dedo was roaming from table to table, sketchpad and pencil in hand, other pencils sticking out like quills from his wild profusion of hair; scribbling down portraits, he worked quickly and to a formula, each face he drew was interpreted in the same mournful Modigliani way, elongated, with narrow almond eyes and pouting lips. All the portraits he did were of women, too, to the annoyance of some of the escorts.

'Do me,' Peter challenged, when Dedo approached the girl he was with.

'No way,' Dedo said. 'Beauty is what I'm about, man, and that's all in the eyes. There just ain't no beauty about you, Peter, I can't see nothing behind those thick glasses you wear. It's like they're masking your soul, you know?'

'Then go screw yourself, find another table.'

'But Peter-' the girl at his side said, in a mewling voice.

Dedo smiled. No matter how their menfolk felt about it, women were always keen to have their portrait done; they liked the attention, they were flattered that he found them beautiful enough to inspire him. And his drawings were complimentary enough, competent enough, in a stylised way, not to cause offence to anyone.

'This way, sweetie,' he said to the girl, touching a finger to her chin, inclining her head slightly. 'That's nice.'

Peter frowned. 'A little less of the touching, Dedo. Just keep the hands off.'

'Oh, Peter,' the girl chided, though touched by his jealousy.

'Oh, Peter,' Dedo joined in, starting on the drawing, putting down tentative hesitant lines at first, then becoming more confident and expressive.

The drawing took no more than five minutes, and even this was time wasted, Peter thought.

'It's nothing like her,' he said.

'Oh, but I think it is,' said the subject. 'It makes me look sort of, you know-?'

'Spiritual?' Dedo suggested.

'That's it!' she said, delightedly, and inevitably Peter was obliged to buy the drawing, for Dedo's art was not just about beauty, it was also about profit, and both were easily found when he confined his attentions to the female of the species.

He was at the bar, drinking from his profit and trying to persuade Valentine that his work was an investment, when he became aware of someone standing at his shoulder.

He could smell woman at any distance, turned, said, 'Diane! Well hello!'

She smiled a greeting, and at Valentine, too.

'It's some time since we've seen you down here, Diane,' Valentine commented. 'Where've you been? Away somewhere?'

'No. Just keeping busy, trying to better myself.'

'Now there's something getting contagious round here!' Valentine laughed. 'You'll be rubbing shoulders with Aitch there!'

Diane smiled, looked around the room. 'Is he here tonight, by any chance?'

'Aitch?' said Valentine, as he called to Winston to bring Diane a drink. 'No, he's taken Sonia to some party one of his college blokes is giving.'

'Griffin?' she asked.

'Don't know about that. I think maybe they'll call here later, though. I don't reckon they'll want to spend too much time with those snobby sorts.'

'Then you don't know Aitch,' said Winston, setting a glass of lager down before Diane. 'It is lager, isn't it?'

'A good barman always knows, doesn't he?' She took the glass, sipped from it, gestured to the sketchpad Dedo had tucked beneath his arm. 'Still drawing, I see.'

'It's a way of life that I'm cursed with, I've got to get the anguish out of my soul,' Dedo said nobly. 'Beauty torments me, see? I find it everywhere and I've got to take it, put it down on paper. Then I can live with it, it doesn't dazzle me anymore.' He shielded his eyes as he looked at her. 'Now you-'

'I've got you dazzled and you need to do my portrait?' she laughed, and turned to look for an empty table. 'Come on, then. I've got time.'

'Won't cost you more than a fiver,' he promised her, as he followed. 'Or a tenner for full length in the buff.'

'Could be something in this art lark,' Valentine said to Winston, as artist and model moved away from the bar. 'If I say I want a woman without her clothes on she slaps me one in the gob more than likely. Dedo, ugly sod that he is, he gets away with it 'cause of art.'

'I don't reckon you'd need much of an excuse to get Diane to shed her bra and panties,' Winston said, polishing glasses, his eyes on her at the far end of the room, posing for Dedo.

'Shame on you! She's a nice young lady, always pleasant and polite. Complimented you on your barman skills, didn't she?' He laughed at the notion that Winston might ever be thought a good barman. 'You? Only reason she got lager was you were too lazy to reach out for anything else. You didn't know that was her tipple.'

'You're wrong there, Valentine,' said Winston. 'I remembered she drank lager 'cause that's what I saw her supping a couple of nights ago, in 'Mother McCready's' with Aitch.'

'She was drinking with Aitch?'

Winston nodded, and his eyes took on a cast which was sly enough to be unusual, for he generally lacked the wit to be cunning. 'And what I'm wondering,' he said, 'is why she's asking for him down here.'

'Looking to score, after some weed most probable,' said Valentine, but he frowned, his brow creasing into deep furrows as he stared across at the smiling young woman. 'Shit, Winston, you can stir it just as bad as Mooney at times.'

'I'm just telling you what I saw. I'm not saying he's cheating on your daughter-.'

'He'd damn well better not be!'

'-just commenting that I saw the two of them sharing a drink.'

'Right, ain't nothing wrong with that,' said Valentine, but still he kept his gaze fixed on her, saw Dedo finish his drawing and hand it over, then wave his hand as he refused his customary fee.

'She's got some charm, that girl,' Winston remarked. 'It's not often you see Dedo give his things away for free.'

Dedo came back to the bar smiling radiantly despite his lack of profit, voiced Valentine's earlier opinion, that Diane was a lovely girl.

'She's going to sit for me,' he said.

'What the shit does that mean?' Valentine snapped, no longer quite so enamoured of the girl.

'You know, pose, reclining-' He cupped his hands in front of his chest, as dirty young men do. '-letting it all hang out.'

'The tramp,' said Valentine, his opinion now revised.

'It's art,' Dedo pretended.

'Like hell it is. The girl has no shame.'

'It's an enlightened attitude,' Dedo maintained.

'Whatever it is, it makes her a lot of friends,' said Winston, just casually enough to fan the fire of Valentine's suspicions, and as he enjoyed the man's agitation he felt a stirring inside him.

He wanted her.

And yet... he didn't.

It was something within him, craving through him, as if he was no more than its instrument.

After touring the ground floor and paying a visit upstairs, ostensibly to use the bathroom, Aitch and Sonia found themselves once again in the large lounge. It was no less crowded than it had been before, so rather than fight their way through the crowd with no fixed target in mind they settled in a corner of the room, wedged in the angle of the two walls.

To Aitch's right a tall bespectacled man smiled, then took two steps towards them and introduced himself.

'...and I assume you're one of Griff's lot?' he finished with.

'Why?' asked Aitch.

The man cupped a hand to his ear and bowed forward. 'I'm sorry. What was that?'

'Why do you assume I'm one of Griff's lot?'

'Well... you just look like one of his crowd.'

'Coloured?'

'No, I didn't mean-'

'But you thought?'

Uncomfortable, the man ran a finger inside his collar, even though it was unfastened and he wore no tie.

'You thought,' Aitch went on, 'that any coloured students here would have to be Griffin's students and would have to be like him, righteous, socially aware, banner-wavers.'

The man's discomfort was eased by the arrival of Griffin himself, who placed a hand on his shoulder and said, 'You're wasting your time arguing with this one, Keith. He's too self-centred and politically naive.'

The one named Keith said that he had not been arguing, a point which was endorsed by Sonia.

'It was Aitch who was doing all the talking,' she said, in a tone which hinted at disapproval.

'Aitch? Surely not defending his black brothers at last?'

'No,' Sonia grimaced. 'Just making sure that nobody else does.'

Though Aitch slurped his drink, sulked and feigned indifference, it was inevitable that he should be drawn deeper into the conversation; the type of crowd gathered at the party was such that there had to be more discussion than dancing. He did his best to excuse his attitude, but when Griffin's wife joined in she began to take him to task.

'How can you say such a thing, that issues will no longer affect you once you've left?' she asked.

'Because they won't,' he insisted, almost petulantly. 'I won't be here, or there, or wherever it's all happening. Your issues won't touch me, not in the slightest.'

'They won't even touch your conscience?'

'You make it sound as though I'm to blame. Or will be.'

'But aren't we all to blame?' asked Judy, her eyes as innocently wide as those of a martyred saint.

'You're to blame for the problems on the streets where I live, are you?' Aitch asked incredulously; then, after a moment's consideration, he added, 'Yes, maybe you are at that, you and your husband and your kind.'

'And what is our kind?' Judy wondered, with a patient smile.

'The kind that agitates a situation.'

'Oh my goodness!' cried Griffin in horror. 'Now we're agitators!'

'Not professional agitators, not like the generals in balaclavas we had up here during the riots, directing operations. You're just as bad, though, your misplaced benevolence does just as much harm as their interference did. Your methods may be different but they both lead to the same madness.'

Griffin's horror of a moment ago now became a mock innocence. 'Benevolence is wrong?'

'We're killing with kindness, are we?' asked his wife.

'I don't think it's kindness that drives you, I think it's nothing more than curiosity. You're poking your nose in where it's not wanted. There are problems, sure, but you know nothing about them, so don't go putting textbook interpretations on them and coming up with solutions that won't work.'

Rather too cleverly, Judy said, 'How can they be solutions if, as you say, they don't work? Surely the definition of a solution is that it does work.'

'Get stuffed,' Aitch told her.

Sonia groaned audibly, settled her bag on her shoulder as if about to leave.

No one was offended by the ill-mannered retort, though. Griffin, still wearing the bleary smile that had been with him throughout the evening, merely said that it was hardly the response of a prospective student of philosophy.

'Fuck you too, Griff. You're just trying to cloud the issue.'

Sonia touched Aitch's arm, gestured that she was going to leave, but he paid her no attention.

'What issue? I thought you wanted us to forget about issues, Aitch, pretend they don't exist.'

The anger Aitch felt was as much with himself, for being drawn into the discussion, as it was with Griffin for provoking him. He stiffened as he said, 'I just want you to butt out, to stop interfering.'

'But if you're running away, not getting involved, what right have you to stop anyone else?'

'I'm not running away.'

'Just getting out?'

'Getting out. Yes,' he said, and as he saw Sonia walking towards the door, her car keys in her hand, he sulked off in the other direction, towards the garden.

There were people who tried to persuade Diane that she should not walk home from the club alone.

Dedo, for one. And, even more forcibly, Winston.

And why?

Well certainly not for the altruistic reasons they pretended.

Dedo, as she looked into his eyes -and deeper still- while he did her portrait, she could see would only ever be fired by one thing: lust. All that guff about the torment of beauty and the anguish of his artist's soul was nothing more than pure unadulterated bullshit.

And what use was bullshit?

Winston, she guessed to be much the same, but on a baser level, barely one step up from the animal. She brushed aside the offers of an escort home, then, laughed off Valentine's rather half-hearted caution that she 'go careful', and left the club alone some twenty minutes after midnight. The street was as dark and deserted as ever. Around two o'clock, three o'clock, then it might fill as the clubs emptied, but for the moment there was no one about, and no traffic either, except for the occasional car crossing the junction some two hundred yards ahead. It was towards the brighter lights of this main road that she headed, the ring of her heels on the pavement echoing about her the only sound to break the silence.

In this silence her thoughts were able to roam, more freely than had been possible in the hubbub of the club, and it was inevitable that they should turn to Aitch. She had worked her charm on him, she was aware, it had not been so much a seduction as an enchantment; never mind that he had been a little drunk and a little stoned when she persuaded him to bed, and that in one lost moment he had called her Sonia rather than Diane. That was the passion, her passion, which had had his mind reeling, and it would have him reeling again until he was so dizzy he didn't know up from down or left from right; she would take him from that bitch Sonia and have him for herself.

Of all her contemporaries, all those she had grown up with and those she still knew, he was the only one who had ever appealed to her, the only one she wanted. There were some with money, and there was that much to recommend them, but they had no future, they would remain in the ghetto they had made for themselves until they were either bored or busted or dead; and there were some -just a few- with brains, but they didn't have the nous to make use of their intelligence, nor the ambition. White boys did, of course, which is what had attracted her to them, they had prospects and futures, but she had soon come to understand that she could never be included, could never marry one -if the bastard wasn't already married, and there had been a few of those- or come close enough to share in his life. College boys she had known all went away sooner or later -'cheerio, thanks for everything, but now I've got a career to sort out'- and local ones pissed off back to that middle class life she envied when the novelty of a coloured girlfriend wore off. All that 'ebony and ivory' stuff was no more than shit, to them she was just something to be screwed for a while, paraded on the arm like a fashion accessory but eventually set aside.

There was only Aitch, then, who had the brains and the gumption -and the selfish determination- to want to get out.

Just like her.

When she reached the junction at the top of the street she saw a taxi approaching and for a moment considered hailing it. There was little point, though, she was only a fifteen minute walk from her flat and the cabbie would only complain that the fare wasn't worth his while. She waited for it to pass, crossed over, and was then back in the shadows of the side streets, climbing the hill towards the cathedral. She took a right and a left to cut off one corner, behind the art school and the Institute, to bring her out on the brow of Canning Street. Diagonally opposite was the Georgian terrace where her flat was, the large wrought iron barrier keeping out cars but having a small gate to one side to admit pedestrians. She stepped through, was two doors from home when the figure strode out of the shrubbery to her right, a dark silhouette against the floodlit bulk of the cathedral beyond.

'Bitch!' it rasped. 'Fucking nigger bitch!'

She could have sprinted for her door, the way was not blocked, but she stood rooted to the spot, and as the featureless form slowly took on a clearer detail, with shoulders hunched and arms held a little from the body as if about to lunge, she was able to make out a face which was as misshapen as a clot of tar; a protrusion of a cheekbone hid one eye, which was no more than a pinprick, while the other was as glassy and round as a fish's; swollen lips twisted into a grin which seemed full of effort and pain, the head hung lopsided under its uneven weight.

'Pretty, eh?'

The figure moved forward, within the beam of a streetlight. It was Aitch's college friend, Steve.

'You did this. Bitch.'

'Come on, Steve-'

'You and your nigger friends.'

The person she now recognised she knew to be less threatening than it had first seemed and she permitted herself a smile.

'You shouldn't mess around with coloured girls, Steve, especially not peasants like Connie. It's a risky business. Now with someone like me-'

'You did this!'

She laughed, a feminine, couldn't-harm-anyone laugh. 'Me?'

'Friends of yours. I saw you with them.'

'I have lots of friends, Steve. We could be friends-' she began, but stopped as he raised his arm. In his hand he held a length of metal, rusted in places but still heavy enough, she saw, as it glinted in the moonlight. 'Stupid fucker,' she hissed, with a soft exhalation of anger, and reached slowly into her shoulder bag, closed her fingers around the small knife she carried there.

He would teach her, he promised, taking a step closer to her, and when he raised a finger to point she thought it was an accusation, only realised her mistake when she sensed his fright and saw that his gaze was now directed beyond her, over her shoulder. Then from behind she felt a sudden rush of air, a chill, a pall of gloom as when a cloud passes before the sun, and a shadow swept through her and around her as quick as the blink of an eye to envelope Steve and crumple him to the ground. For a moment it seemed as though he was wrestling his own shade, his body contorted, his limbs strained, his face grimaced with an effort which then seemed ridiculous for there was nothing for him to fight against but the night itself.

He slumped, so quickly spent, arse on the ground and knees drawn up into his chest, the arms wrapped around his legs quivering just slightly.

Diane relaxed her grip on the knife and chuckled at the threat he thought he might have posed.

'Cool, eh?'

The voice might have startled her if she had not been so engrossed with Steve's condition. As it was, the whisper in her ear didn't even cause her to turn her head.

'So what should we do with the trash? What do you fancy?'

She imagined herself swinging her foot into his face and even quicker than the thought there was a gush of blood from Steve's nose. She gazed down in astonishment at the body which, though still out of reach, lay broken before her, helpless because of her. There was something beseeching about the pose and the stricken gaze but she felt no pity, just an uncontrollable surge of delight as more blood poured, this time from the eyes, and the ears, finally followed by a heaving of the stomach and a welling of the throat which fountained out a thicker black torrent.

Steve tried to sob but all he could do was choke on the curdled clots of blood. As his breath failed him and he gasped his last he fell back, sprawling among the bushes and the shrubbery; tangled in their branches, hidden from the light, he seemed as insubstantial as the shadow which had enveloped him.

'What the-?' Diane wondered.

And then, more importantly: 'Who the-?'

'Raveface is the name, mayhem the game. Pleased to meet ya.'

CHAPTER 10

Just about recovering from Griff's party by midday, his hangover easing and temper mellowing, Aitch stepped from the flat to find Clive waiting, squatting against a lamp-post on the opposite side of the street.

'What are you doing here?' he called over, as he went on his way.

Clive jumped to his feet and fell in step beside him. 'Waiting for you, boss,' he said.

'So what's wrong with school? Couldn't you stick it out, after all you promised me?'

'There's no promises broke, Aitch. I just couldn't go today, that's all.'

'You don't look sick, don't try that on with me. So what is it? The teachers on strike or the school burned down?'

It was with an obvious reluctance that Clive explained. 'There's a school trip today, all the other kids in my class have gone to Chester Zoo.'

'So why didn't you?'

'What with?' said Clive, now with annoyance. 'Buttons? It takes cash to get into Chester Zoo, even for little 'uns. Shit, man! A pound fifty to see a bunch of animals in cages? No way!'

Aitch sensed the boy's awkwardness at admitting that he could not afford the trip, it was the first time he had seen him anything less than cocksure or full of bravado, and as they walked slowly along the street he felt guilty at having pressed him over the matter.

'They're not all in cages you know, not at Chester Zoo. It's not a bad place at all as far as zoos go.'

'They don't keep 'em all caged round here, either,' said Clive. 'There's animals on the streets running free, like your brother Winston, for one. Now there's one crazy animal, a real mean fucker.'

'You'd better not let him hear you saying that,' Aitch warned. 'And don't swear, I've told you you're too young for that.'

'Sorry, Aitch. But I'm excused, though, for missing school?'

'You're excused,' Aitch agreed. 'There were trips I couldn't afford to go on as a kid,' he remembered. 'We'd have to sit and read all day, those of us who stayed in school.'

'Yeh. Boring, eh? You understand why I stayed off, then?' He saw that Aitch had slipped into a distracted mood, nudged him hard and said, 'Hey! Are you listening?'

'Sorry,' Aitch apologised. 'Just thinking.'

'Yeh?'

'Nothing important.'

'Worried about your mate, maybe?'

Aitch stopped, looked down at Clive. 'Who's that?'

'Your college buddy. Word is he got worked over outside Mother McCready's.' Clive laughed at the other's surprise, said, 'You know how it is round here, news spreads, no one's got no secrets.'

They walked on.

'So what'll you do when you find out who did it to him?' Clive asked.

'There's not much I can do.'

'Not much?' said Clive. 'He's your mate and you say there's not much you can do?'

'What would you expect me to do?' Aitch said. 'The same thing that was done to him?'

'That much at least! And then some more!'

'That would solve nothing, Clive.'

'Shit, man! And you think I'm stupid? Suppose the guy who did your mate is thinking to do you next. You get the bastards before they get you. That's the way not to be stupid.'

'No, Clive. That's the way to get locked up.'

Clive gave a bitter laugh, too cynical for his years; it sounded like the choking rattle of an embittered old man, one whose life had crumbled as much as the streets around him.

'But they lock you up for anything round here,' he said. 'You know that as well as I do, Aitch. This is a jungle like Chester Zoo. Suppose you was locked in there at night with the animals all out their cages. You'd have to fight then, wouldn't you, just to survive? It's the same here.'

Yes, it was jungle, Aitch could see that, perhaps not green and luscious but just as full of menace. The cat in the undergrowth or the viper in the grass was the mugger lurking out of range of the sodium streetlight, the pimp or the psycho or even the policeman, all bitterly venomous creatures. They crossed a path of razed ground where once a row of shops had stood; these had been smashed, looted, burned during the last spell of trouble, during that innercity strife which some -such as Winston or Griffin- saw as a war against oppression and injustice. And if it was a war, then it had its mercenaries; in pubs and clubs and on the streets Aitch had heard unfamiliar accents during the last troubles, strangers to the city arguing the politics of the situation, he had seen motorcyclists riding from street to street coordinating assaults, working class generals in balaclavas and crash helmets. And in the middle of all this had been the kids like the one now by his side, hurling fragments of paving stone at any passing vehicle -even the ambulances and fire engines- and asking the older soldiers how to make petrol bombs.

Yes, Aitch should have wanted to stay and help, as others urged him to, but all he could think of was to get away before the trouble flared again.

'Where are we headed, by the way?' Clive wanted to know.

'I don't know about you, pal, but I'm going to meet Sonia. She's got the afternoon off.'

'Then me too, that's where I'm going. Where does she work?'

'The nursery, just at the back of the university. Do you know the place?'

'Do I? I went there myself since the age I could barely walk. Christ, though, there was no one pretty as her then!'

'Wouldn't you have been a bit young to be thinking about things like that?' asked Aitch.

'About women? Maybe so,' said Clive. 'But it was a bit young to be going to nursery, too. Mum wanted shut of me, though, so I went. I couldn't really complain much at that age, could I?'

'No, only cry perhaps,' Aitch supposed, affected again by the unfolding of a little more of Clive's story.

'Ah, but it wasn't too bad,' the youngster added, brave again and not wanting the pity or whatever it was that he sensed in Aitch's tone. 'I only cried at first. Then I found out there were kids to play with and more toys than I ever had at home. It got so I started to enjoy it more than home; songs, games, a bit of crying but a whole lot of laughing too.'

According to Frank young Debbie was being kept in hospital even though she had fully recovered from her allergic reaction to -who had given them to her?- the peanuts. All was fine on that front, he told Sonia, everything clear. Only problem was that at the same time that she had suffered the anaphylactic shock she had shown symptoms of dysentery, showed them still, debilitating bouts of diarrhoea and -as Frank described it, but with certain exaggeration- an almost endless stream of vomit.

Sonia remembered the stink of excrement as the child threw her fit, and so vividly that she could smell it still. It seemed that every kid who came close to her that morning had just soiled its pants or broken wind, or sometimes it was the faint odour of vomit clinging to unwashed clothes. By lunchtime the air was thick with a bouquet of the foulest smells imaginable and it was with relief that she finished early for the day, not least because -heaving stomach apart- it seemed that she was the only one who was aware of how cloying the atmosphere had become. But then, stepping from the nursery, she found young Clive waiting and had to pray to God that he'd washed that morning. He was leaning against her car, beaming proudly as if it was his own, while to one side Aitch was smiling apologetically.

'Didn't I say he'd never stick it at school?' she said to Aitch, approaching cautiously, sniffing carefully.

'But I ain't bunking!' said Clive indignantly.

'No?'

'No way! I'm here 'cause I'm the underprivileged one who can't afford a day out with the other kids.'

She looked to Aitch for confirmation and he nodded, said, 'He's telling the truth. The rest of the class have gone to Chester Zoo but he couldn't make it. It costs too much.'

Close to, Clive smelled fragrant enough, so she ruffled his hair as she commiserated. 'The poor little urchin,'

'You stop that!'

'I'm only sympathising,' she said, as he danced out of reach.

'Sympathy I can take, but not pity.'

'He's an independent little mite, isn't he?' Sonia remarked to Aitch, took keys from her bag and unlocked the car door. 'Come on then, let's be off.'

'Where're we going?' Clive asked, racing Aitch to the passenger door.

'We?'

'You're surely not leaving me on my own, are you, not when all the other kids are off having a good time?' He stood before the door, blocking the way and challenging them. 'Is that how much sympathy you've got? You say 'poor little urchin', make all those sorry sounds, then bugger off and leave me?' He looked from Sonia to Aitch, then broke into a broad grin. 'No, you're not. I can see it in your faces.'

Sonia laughed, asked, 'Where would you like to go, then, on my afternoon off?'

He climbed into the rear of the car, settling himself there to make sure he was not going to be left behind before he even considered the matter.

'How about the seaside?' Aitch suggested, getting into the passenger seat.

'Or Chester Zoo, like the other kids?' said Sonia. 'We could be there in an hour.'

'Now wouldn't that be something, having them see me with a girl like you,' he said, thinking of the envy and the covetous glances of the other children, travelling there by private car with no teachers to watch over him. He decided against the zoo, though, said, 'No, the place I'd really like to go is the museum.'

'The museum?' Sonia had some difficulty in hiding her surprise. 'You sure you mean the museum?'

The way she said it the word might have rhymed with 'mausoleum'.

'Why not? Have you ever been there?'

'Well not for a long time, not since I was at school,' she was forced to confess.

'Right, that's it then,' Clive decided for them. 'The museum's the place. There's education there, and before you say you're too old for more education I'll tell you we can all take more. Ain't that right, Aitch? There's never an end to it, no matter how much we get.'

'I feel humbled by your wisdom,' said Sonia, smiling at Aitch; the smile was by way of congratulation, for the influence he was obviously having on the youngster, but this probably went unnoticed.

The museum was situated by the library and art gallery, the three buildings side by side on a broad street which showed a marked incline, climbing appreciably from the museum at one end to the art gallery at the other. Because of this incline there were two dozen or more steps to climb to reach the entrance to the museum and Clive sprinted up these two at a time while Sonia and Aitch followed more slowly, was waiting impatiently for them to take him in when they finally reached the doors. The museum attendants were always wary of children on their own and there was a swaggering cockiness about Clive as he stepped through the doors in the company of the two adults, a defiant posture which dared any official to challenge him.

Then the arrogance faded, giving way to awe.

'Shee-it!' he gasped softly. 'Will you take a look at those!'

Before them were row upon row of model ships housed in glass, accurate in every detail, each as remarkable a feat of construction as the original on which it was based. Some were ten feet long or more; too long to fit in a bathtub, he remarked, and he circled them slowly, as reverent as any churchgoer, spent so much time over each that Sonia quickly grew bored.

'I'm going to leave you boys to your toy boats,' she said. 'Wander around.'

'Off up to the ethnic stuff,' Aitch guessed, as she left them and climbed the stairs.

'Ethnic?'

'What we are, where we come from. Tribal ancestors.'

'Ah,' said Clive, and walked on.

Aitch followed slowly, keeping his distance, not intruding.

Ahead, the ranks of ships in their glass cases petered out, were replaced by larger tableaux showing the people who had manned those vessels, masters from Victorian times and before, clipper captains and their families at leisure in their living rooms, or sometimes just the wife and children who had been left behind.

'Even more miserable than home,' Clive remarked, though Aitch was trailing too far back to hear, and he spent less time on these than he had on the earlier displays.

There was something about the sallow faced dummies that made him shiver, their poses caught in a frozen moment, the faded moth-eaten clothes that could give off a fragrance even through the glass, and he hurried past with only an occasional glance, worried in case he should catch any of them in movement. He rushed on so quickly, in fact, that the street he stepped into caught him by surprise, he was only really aware of it when he felt the cobbles underfoot and heard the distant babble of noise. What he found himself in was a mock-up of a city street of more than a century ago, shops and chandlers and doss houses on either side, posters on the walls advertising passage to Australia and America. The hubbub of voices never grew any louder or came any closer, it was only some recording hidden out of sight, but it did a pretty good job of convincing him that he was there.

He could even smell the river and sewage and rotting vegetables.

Then, turning a corner in this pretend cobbled lane, he came up against the wooden hull of a ship, heard the slap and wash of water even louder as he crossed the gangplank and entered.

The ceiling was low, the walls bore in on him, the air was thick and choking. At a table in the centre the figure of a man sat, trying to read by the light of an oil lamp which was only inches above his head but still did little to lift the gloom; at a bunk or two others lay sleeping or resting, no more than a foot of headroom separating them from the one above, while some just stood, thankful to be able to stretch their legs.

Couldn't the poor sods get up top for a little air and a little more space? Probably not, if, as the posters outside had announced, the cost of their passage could be counted in shillings and pence. It must have been a miserable few weeks for them, and especially the kids. Christ, it was bad enough being cramped in the flat for a wet afternoon, and the experience was so real for Clive, the lack of air so claustrophobic, that he froze on the spot, waiting for Aitch -or anyone- to come and join him.

Then out of the shadows one of the dummies moved.

'Obeah was the religion of the slaves and even the fiercest of warriors would crumble before its power. The God of Obeah was a creator but not a lawgiver, remote from their lives, and so it was to the spirits of nature and their ancestors that the slaves turned. Cat's teeth, jaws and claws, cock's blood, feathers...'

Sonia set down the handset, cutting short the commentary which she sensed was about to become too gory, and walked on. The tribal masks which were mounted on the screens to either side reminded her of Dedo's portraits, almond eyes, tapered chins, vacant looks which Dedo always claimed were soulful. There was an elegance in the simpler ones, she thought, in the clean lines and the polished wood, but others were altogether too ornate, overly elaborate. The colour sense in those that were painted seemed crude, even though the pigment had faded over the years, the smooth patina of the surface was often gouged by deep scars, the neat symmetry unbalanced by all manner of additions; teeth, bone, straw and raffia and clumps of hair. Looking more closely, despite the disgust she felt at approaching them, she could almost believe that the teeth were rotting still, that the bone bore flakes of blood and meat and the hair traces of the scalp to which it had once belonged.

'And what would you expect? Tooth decay and hair loss would be the least of it. We had yaws and dropsy and the bloody flux to suffer...'

Sonia turned, saw that one of the handsets had fallen from its cradle and was dangling loose on its coil of cable, swinging gently as if someone had just dropped it. She picked it up, heard the voice continue as she went to set it back in place.

'...the surgeons were charlatans and drunken incompetents, their idea of hygiene would be to wash our mouths with vinegar to stave off the scurvy, the same vinegar they swabbed the decks with...'

The account continued though the she had replaced the handset, was now coming from another some paces ahead. This, too, had unseated itself, but rather than dangling free, as the other had done, it was raised a head's height above the ground, as though some unseen hand was holding it to an unseen ear.

'...the same vinegar they gave Christ on the cross. We had to sleep shoulder to shoulder, stored on shelves like any other cargo, and piss and shit in buckets when we could, or just wherever we lay, on whoever we lay...'

There was rolling peal of laughter, like gravel washing on a beach, and Sonia covered her ears to block out the sound, looked around in horror to see that it was not just the handsets which were speaking to her now, but the masks too, their slashed mouths contorting, their rotten teeth chewing over the words.

'...smell the stench, Sonia, imagine it...

The nostrils of the mask nearest her dilated with a rattling noise as the dried wood contracted and started to split.

'...no wonder there was dysentery. And then what did they do, these purveyors of the white man's medicine? What was the only help they could offer? WHY, TO BUNG OUR ANUSES WITH OAKUM TO STOP SHIT SPILLING OUT!'

The man was as black as bitter chocolate, and with such a high sheen to his complexion that it seemed he was melting. His chest, bare beneath a waistcoat of coarse sacking, ran with sweat which was so profuse that it pooled in the gullies of his bony ribs, then spilled down in a series of salty cataracts to soak the tattered trousers he wore.

'It was as hot as this, and hotter still...'

His elbows rested on his knees, chin jutting, leaning forward eagerly like an old man telling a favourite tale.

Like a grandfather.

Only this was no ordinary old man, no grandfather of anyone Clive would ever want to meet. But still he remained rooted, attending to every word, like a dutiful child in class.

'Do you know what the dropsy is, Clive? The dreaded beri-beri? Do you know how it affects people? Their bodies bloat and swell...'

As his was now doing, the spare frame filling, the bony ribcage vanishing beneath an eruption of flesh, the cheeks ballooning to swamp the skull beneath. He was holding his breath, catching each exhalation as if inflating himself.

'And then the yaws...'

The mouth still closed, said without the lips moving, like some kind of ventriloquist!

'...the fever and the pain, the weeping skin eruptions, the stinking ulcers which dripped, dripped, dripped...'

Like fat splattering on the floor, burning into the timbers, the viscous yellow pus spouted from the sores which burst out all over his body, hissed and sputtered all around Clive. His toes curled within his shoes, but this was all he could manage; try as he might, despite all the will he summoned, it was impossible to step back, to turn away.

Then, with a hiss of sulphurous steam, the figure was as he was before, the sweating chocolate skeleton. The arms lifted from the knees, spread wide, and Clive thought that it was a welcome, trembled as he resisted the impulse to step into the embrace. He had misunderstood the gesture, though, the man turned his head slowly to one side, then the other, taking in his surroundings.

'These people, they had it rough, but nothing like what it was for us.'

He stood to his full height, had to bow his head beneath the low ceiling, and mercifully for Clive he took a pace back. That mercy was short-lived, though, for Clive found himself following, tracing the steps of the hunched figure into the furthermost shadows of the room.

'Come see, Clive. Come see just what it was like.'

In a corner of the room the figure bent, raised slightly to lift a hatch in the floor and then began to descend, sinking to the knees, to the waist, to the shoulders, his skinny arm beckoning before he finally disappeared.

'Come see my vision of hell.'

Clive stepped forward, closer and closer to the still open hatch, heard the voices as he neared it, the cries and the moans, a restless shuffle and murmur which for the moment was as seductive as anything from his dreams.

He reached the gaping hole, felt the heat rise from it, placed his foot on the first step...

'HEY YOU! KID!'

The shock of the cry froze Clive, had him teetering on the brink of the pit, but it was the dizziness he felt, as much as the challenge, which caused him to turn and see the museum attendant.

'Get out of there! What do you think you're doing?'

'I was going down-'

'Where?' the man demanded, and Clive saw that the area of floor he was pointing at was just that, solid floor; no pit, no hatch, no way down to... my vision of hell.

He was snatched by the collar and hauled away, dragged around the table where the dummy still sat reading, alongside the bunks where others lay resting, looking at each anxiously for some gesture of recognition.

'Bloody kids!' the attendant grumbled, and his words echoed behind them as he led Clive from the room.

'Bloody kids.'

'What have you two been up to? Can't I trust either of you?'

Neither Sonia or Clive answered but stood motionless on the top of the museum steps, gazing out at the city as if it held more interest for them than whatever they had left behind

Or fewer fears.

'Well? Where've the two of you been?' Aitch wanted to know. 'And what've you been up to together?' he winked at Clive. 'I looked everywhere for you. I've been sat out here for ages.'

Sonia was the first to respond. 'Let's just go home, eh?'

Beside her Clive nodded as if the afternoon had been a disappointment.

Aitch was surprised by the sudden change of mood.

'So soon? But why? It's not as though any of us is expected.'

Yet they were expected.

There were ones who waited for them on their return.

Waited for Sonia and Aitch.

And Clive.

CHAPTER 11

They went to the car and Clive gave directions, though there really was no need, for Sonia and Aitch were both well enough acquainted with the district where he lived. They drove across the city to the cathedral, made a circuit of it, and then along more desolate streets, streets which had been the centre of the riots in previous years. If Clive felt any embarrassment about the neighbourhood which was home then he did not show it; as Aitch had come to accept, the young boy bore the disadvantages of his background and his upbringing with a stoic matter-of-factness.

'Over there,' he said at last, pointing to a house on the far corner of the street, and Sonia pulled over.

There was loud music blaring from an upstairs window, children playing on the step, people passing to and fro or simply standing around with no obvious purpose in mind. Like many others along the street the house where Clive lived had once been grand, intended for one family and their servants, but now the plasterwork was flaking and the facade crumbling and there were families crowded on every floor. Clive looked at it for a moment as if with loathing, as if reluctant to enter, but he knew that it was his home and the best he could hope for.

'Thanks for the lift,' he said, as Aitch let him out of the car. 'Thanks for the day out, too. It was great. You too, Sonia. I know you gave up your afternoon off.'

'I enjoyed it,' she smiled weakly.

'Told you you would, didn't I?' he said, but his grin was as strained as her smile, and with a wave he was running across the road and into the house.

Aitch watched him safely through the door, then got back into the car. 'Look at the state of the place,' he said. 'Is it any wonder he's the way he is? He went to nursery before he was even two years old, you know, your nursery, and got to like the place better than home.'

Sonia pulled away from the kerb, said, 'You don't need to tell me about it, Aitch. I see his sort every day, the kids who brighten up as soon as they come in and then go quiet as half three comes around, hating the place they have to go back to. They can sit there all day with kids who're better off and they're happy. The sad thing is it takes a while to realise these other kids are better off, that they have better homes to go to; they just think everyone should get miserable when the time comes to go home from nursery. Sometimes, just sometimes, you see a touch of confusion when they look at a kid they've been playing with all afternoon and wonder why that kid seems glad to be going home. Usually, though, the only sort of home they know is the home they go back to. Christ! If they knew there could be a better life they'd crack up before they reached their teens!'

And why, she wondered, was she talking sociology after what had happened that afternoon?

Out of fear, she knew.

'It's sad,' said Aitch.

'It's more than that, it's tragic.' Sonia waited for traffic lights to change, then moved the car forward once again. In the faces of pedestrians they passed there were glimpses of the masks which had tormented her, and she had to struggle to dismiss them from her mind. 'You've had a good effect on Clive, though. That much is obvious.'

Aitch had been expecting this, the praise, the complements, mention of what a good influence he was on the boy and what a rapport he had developed. He had seen it in Sonia's eyes from the moment Clive mentioned going to the museum, this need to pass comment, had seen it in the frequent smiles she gave him.

'He's not as bad as he makes himself out to be,' he said, making light of any success he might have had. 'Beneath all that streetwise stuff he's picked up from television and the like he's really quite a good kid.'

'I don't think his teachers could have noticed.'

'No, perhaps not.'

'But you have.'

She was in a mood to dwell on the matter, he knew. He turned to her, her face lit by the glow from the dashboard and the lights of the oncoming traffic, sensing the meaning behind her words and the hidden intent in her expression.

'Stop beating about the bush, Sonia. What are you trying to get at?'

'Just that perhaps you've got a talent that could help,' she said, giving him one quick sideward glance before turning her attention back to the road.

'Help around here, you mean? I've told you-'

'I know,' she nodded, her gaze fixed ahead. 'You're getting out, you're going to university.'

'So what's all this talk leading up to?' he wanted to know.

'I was thinking you might be better off studying something else, that's all.'

'You want me to train to be a teacher, perhaps? Or maybe study something that you consider worthwhile?' He levelled a finger at her as he said, 'You'd better get this right once and for all, Sonia. It's philosophy I'm going to study and sod it if it's no use to anyone else. Okay?'

'I know. It's just that I've seen the effect you've had on Clive, you've done something his teachers couldn't do, you got through to him where they didn't.'

'All the more reason why I shouldn't train to be a teacher,' he told her. 'It's a redundant profession, ineffective, teachers aren't prepared for this life and there's fuck all they can do to help. Alright, if I've helped Clive that's good, I'm glad. I don't wish harm on anyone, if I can help people along the way then I will. I'm not going out of my way to try, though. My way. Right? No kids, no classrooms, no caring for people.'

'Alright, I'm sorry I mentioned it,' Sonia said, falling into a sullen silence.

The mood might have continued, the argument might have been resurrected or Sonia's thoughts might have returned to her fright in the museum, if it had not been for Mooney, whose car fell in behind them as they turned the corner and pulled up outside the flat.

Mooney had been searching everywhere for Aitch, had tried all his usual haunts around the city centre and its fringes.

'Where've you been all day?' he asked, meeting him and his girlfriend at the door to the flat.

'We had a day out at the museum,' he answered, with a flatness which said that he didn't care whether he was believed or not. 'Why? What do you want with me this time?'

'It might be more convenient if we spoke inside.' Mooney nodded to the door, looked to Sonia. 'Is that alright? Do you mind?'

Perhaps they were aware that he was conducting himself with rather more courtesy than was usual, as strictly as his superiors would insist a police officer should. Aitch's girlfriend gave a slight shrug, opened the door and led the way into the flat. She stepped up to the kitchen space, to set the kettle to boil; Mooney followed Aitch down to the shallow well of the living area.

'So what is it?' Aitch asked, sitting down on one of the settees.

There was no invitation for Mooney to do likewise and he made a mental note of the deliberate snub.

'It's murder,' he said.

'But I told you-'

'Yes, you were with your friend Sonia at the time of the last one.'

Sonia was quicker than Aitch to catch the inference, descended the low steps from the kitchen. 'The last one? Do you mean to say there's been another?'

'A girl by the name of Diane Reed. Do you know her? She lives-'

'We both know her, we went to school with her,' she said, looking at Aitch. He nodded dumbly in agreement. 'What happened to her?' she asked.

'She was found at the door to her flat. She'd been cracked over the head with a hammer. Just the once, but hard enough to do the business. One good solid blow that knocked the shit out of her, pumping from every orifice.'

Sickened by the man's bluntness, Sonia sat down on the settee beside Aitch. 'Poor Diane,' she said, taking his hand. 'Isn't that terrible?'

He nodded his agreement again, his silence in itself justification for Mooney to question him. Where was the usual cry of 'why me?' Where was the righteous indignation?

'I happened to be speaking to the girl just a while ago, in the course of my enquiries,' Mooney went on, 'and I caught a suggestion that she might have known who was responsible for the first murder.'

Finally Aitch spoke up. His wits were returning and he had noticed the cautious choice of words. 'A suggestion?' he asked.

'The same person could be responsible for both deaths?' Sonia supposed.

Mooney gave a shrug of the shoulders, there was no certainty about that. 'No, let me rephrase that. I say suggestion, which is all it is, because what she actually told me, Aitch, is that it wasn't you.'

'Eh?'

'Not Aitch? But how would she know that?' asked Sonia.

'More to the point, why should she bother to tell me?' Mooney wondered, and asked, 'Where were you last night, Aitch? Between, say, seven and midnight.'

Sonia answered for him. 'We were out together.'

Mooney smiled, his best condescending smirk. 'Again? It must be love.'

'We were at the house of one of my college tutors,' Aitch said, looking daggers at him. 'There were a host of his colleagues there, too, respectable people, professional folk.'

'Hob-nobbing, were you? Going up a bit in the world, Aitch?' Mooney took out his notebook, poised pen over paper. 'What's the name of this college chap, then? Where does he live?'

Mooney wrote down the details which Aitch gave him. Then Sonia asked the question which the policeman might have expected of Aitch, if Aitch had been completely blameless and unconnected with the death of Diane Reed.

'Tell me, Sergeant Mooney, why come here asking Aitch questions in the first place? He knows Diane no better than I do, no better than a dozen or more old schoolfriends might.'

'But no, surely he's a little better acquainted with her than that,' Mooney smiled. 'Weren't you with the girl only a few days ago, Aitch, drinking together in 'Mother McCready's'?'

'Were you?' Sonia asked him.

'I did see her, yes.' The admission was forced from him, and Mooney thought he saw him search his girlfriend's eyes for some glimmer of suspicion. 'It was the night I went drinking with Steve. Remember? We went on to a party and I didn't get home till late.'

Did she remember? Mooney wondered. Was she perhaps just a little bit peeved that her bloke had been drinking with this girl? It had obviously been kept a secret from her, which was reason enough for concern, and the policeman smiled to think of the arguments which might follow, on his account.

'So what happened?' he asked. 'What could have prompted this Diane Reed to take it upon herself to assert your innocence?'

'Search me.'

Mooney laughed. 'This isn't a drug-bust, Aitch. This is a murder investigation. So, what was said?'

Aitch shook his head, as if memories of that night were so vague, maybe trying to persuade Mooney that they were necessarily so if it had been a night out on the booze. 'We had a drink, we chatted, the body of that chap being found near the club was mentioned and it was Steve, I think, told her that you'd had words with me. But then,' he managed to smile, 'you have words with me about everything that goes on around here, don't you?'

'Only when I have reason to,' Mooney maintained.

'And a drink and a chat with an old schoolfriend is enough of a reason?' Sonia challenged, apparently trusting that the encounter had been as innocent as Aitch suggested.

That was love for you, though, innocent trust, so Mooney ignored the comment, asked Aitch, 'And how did she react when it was mentioned that I'd spoken to you? Was she agitated? Aggrieved?'

'Why should she be? No, she just accepted it as a matter of course. Everyone's used to you around here, Mooney. They all hold you in the same low esteem.'

Mooney could afford to let the insult pass.

'Satisfied?' demanded Sonia.

'Well no, not totally,' he confessed.

'He had a drink with a friend, for goodness sake! Where's the crime in that? A person can't be a suspect just because they knew the victim. You'd have hundreds of suspects if that were the case.'

'That's true,' Mooney agreed. 'But there is just one other thing that I thought Aitch might be able to help us with.'

'Yes?' said Aitch warily.

His notebook still in his hand, Mooney flicked it open to consult it, though he really had no need to; the scene was still fresh in his mind.

'There was a message scrawled on a bit of paper, left with the body. It read 'This'll teach the bitch to mess with a superman'. Now isn't that one of the sayings of your philosopher hero, Neitzsche? Doesn't he preach about the Superman?'

'Ubermensch. I'm impressed,' said Aitch, with undisguised sarcasm. 'I thought the only Superman you'd know-'

'Would be found in a comic book?' Mooney gave a sad shake of the head. 'That's a bit corny if it's meant to be funny. I'm disappointed in you, Aitch, I'd expect a rather more sophisticated humour from someone of your supposed intelligence.'

It had been a trite joke and Aitch was embarrassed to have made it. He said, 'So you're familiar with Nietzsche, then?'

'I was tempted to delve, after you corrected me about the pronunciation of the name. I now know a little about him, yes. I don't think he had this in mind, though, when he wrote about philosophising with a hammer. Eh?'

'And don't you think there's any number of people in this city who've heard of Nietzsche. You and me aren't the only ones.'

'Quite,' Mooney concurred, getting to his feet. 'And who's to say it was a reference to Nietzsche in the first place?' he smiled. 'It could simply be that the culprit, whoever he is, was just boasting by referring to himself as a superman.' He puffed out his chest, struck the mocking pose of a super-hero, said, 'I'll be off then, check with this tutor of yours. See you again, Aitch.'

Sonia took the policeman to the door, returned to find Aitch still seated on the settee. She made the coffee, which had been interrupted by Mooney's news of the murder, carried the mugs to the table and then sat down, not beside Aitch, as before, but now facing him as the policeman had done.

Aitch recognised the significance of her choice of seat; time to talk a few things over. He waited for her to choose what course the discussion would take.

'Well?' she finally said, after sipping thoughtfully at her drink.

'What?'

'You never mentioned seeing Diane.'

So it was to be a discussion about the happenings of that night; she was more concerned about him having met Diane than she was about the girl's later demise.

'I saw Connie, too. There were a lot of people I saw that night, until I got drunk.'

'Yes. So why the secrecy?'

'There was no secrecy. I was out all night, on a bender. I should have met you at lunchtime, and I didn't, I didn't get home until morning and I was just grateful that it didn't cause an argument. I was happy to keep quiet about the night.'

'You didn't get home until morning,' Sonia echoed, studying him over the rim of her mug. Her almond eyes were narrowed, as if she was trying to see more deeply than Aitch would permit. 'It's fortunate I didn't mention that to Mooney.'

Aitch looked up sharply. 'What do you mean by that? Are you saying you deliberately didn't tell him?'

'Well, it could only cause further trouble for you if he learned that you were out all night.'

'You're hinting that there's something to hide.'

'There was certainly a lot not admitted to.' She paused a moment, as if to give Aitch time to dwell on any sins of omission, then asked, 'Why should Diane tell the police that you had nothing to do with the death near the club?'#'I don't know. Perhaps she was becoming righteous like Griffin, championing the oppressed.'

Sonia gave a mocking laugh. 'You must have made a hell of a lot of your oppression to stir her up like that.'

'I did nothing of the sort,' Aitch insisted. 'It was mentioned in conversation, that's all.'

'Just mentioned? And what else was said, in this conversation?'

'Christ, Sonia!' said Aitch, in his agitation spilling coffee from his still full mug. 'You're acting as though I slept with the girl!'

'That would have kept you out all night, wouldn't it?' she said, standing and striding across to the sink, to get a cloth to wipe the table.

'Well I didn't!' Aitch shouted after her.

She was back, mopping up the spilt drink. She picked up her mug and his, said, 'I take it you don't want this?'

'Sonia!' He reached out for her, caught her arm and caused more coffee to be spilled from the mugs she held.

'Now see what you've done!'

'Leave it!' he told her, gripping her by the shoulders. 'Listen to me! Nothing happened with Diane!'

'Nothing happened? The girl's dead, and you say nothing happened? Here! Clean the bloody mess yourself!'

Throwing the cloth at him, she stamped towards the stairs, then stopped at the foot. There was a low chuckle of mischief which had each looking accusingly at the other.

For once Clive was home at a time that might be expected of him, within an hour or so of the end of school, but it didn't matter that he might be seen to be another ordinary schoolkid, about a schoolkid's routine day. It was unlikely that there would be anyone home to bear witness; being dutiful didn't pay, there was never anyone there to notice or pass comment.

He climbed the stairs slowly, hearing the sounds which were the same at almost any time of day; babies crying and children bawling, a couple arguing, the blaring of a television and the thumping of a stereo. Once in the flat itself the din became muted to a distant rumble, anonymous enough -when he was in the mood- for him to imagine it to be the far off crash of surf on a beach. Now, though, it reminded him only of the slap of sea against a timbered ship, the same ship he had visited in the depths of the museum.

He crossed to the living room window, looked out onto the street, strained for a glimpse of the river but could not quite make it out beyond the bulk of the cathedral.

There was always something in the way.

So. Any supper, or an excuse for a meal which might have been left for him some hours before?

He went through to the kitchen but found nothing, not even a hastily scribbled note -'get yourself some chips'- and a scattering of coins, sticky from booze and smelling of cheap perfume. The loaf in the bread bin was days old, but foraging in the middle he found a couple of slices which were moist enough, buttered these, then smeared them with the last of a pot of jam. Aitch and Sonia, he supposed, would be having burgers or steak or something exotic.

In a fair world he would have had a couple like them as parents.

Life as it was, the bitch, had given him-

As he bit down on the sandwich he froze, teeth clamping on the crust so that the bread filled his mouth like a gag.

There was a sound from his mother's room.

Something.

Someone.

They had mice in the flat, it was inevitable, with the building so old and riddled with holes, and sometimes a rat in the hallway or on the stairs.

He cocked his head, listened, the unchewed bread turning to a soggy pulp in his mouth.

There it was again, a faint scratching.

A mouse.

But a fucking rusty mouse, 'cause it was creaking as well as scratching!

He crept to the bedroom door, put his ear to it, and could now catch the rhythm of the sound, a regular to and fro... back and forth... in and out!

The cow had a man in there with her! She'd brought someone back with her and she couldn't even wait until he'd gone to bed!

'Clive?' she said, from the other side of the door. 'Clive, hon?'

His face burned fierce with rage, and with humiliation enough for him not yet to feel any fear, that usual fear that this particular 'uncle' might kick his arse every time they met, clout him across the ear every time they passed.

'Clive, come here sweetie.'

He straightened, his feet planted firmly, glared at the door and felt the tears well in his eyes.

'Just for a minute, honey.'

The tears made him angry, with himself as much as with his mother. 'No!'

'Clive! You come here this instant!' his mother ordered. And then more softly, as softly as when she was happily tipsy, said, 'Please?'

The rhythmic sounds of the mattress had ceased now, there were only the intermittent protests of the springs, as though whoever lay there was simply restless or uncomfortable.

Just one person.

His mother.

Drunk enough to want sleep but not smashed enough to find it.

She spoke his name again in that slurred tone which suggested that she was harmlessly happy, as lovingly as any mother might speak the name of her only son, and he inched open the door little by little, letting the light from behind him slowly fill the curtained room.

'Ma!' he screamed.

She was spread-eagled naked on the bed, her arms and legs splayed out, and at first these were the only parts of her he could see, for the whole of her torso was blotted out by a pitch black stain, darker than her half dark skin, chocolate smeared on coffee. Then she raised her head, smiled up at him and tutted at his outburst.

'Sssh,' she said. And: 'Kids.'

'Bloody kids.'

Still bitter chocolate, still sweating, but now with the muscles of a heavyweight, the figure on top of her turned and rolled. There was a loud 'slurp' and 'plop' as his glistening penis pulled out of her, just like someone in class popping their finger in their cheek, and in any other circumstances it might have seemed funny, but all Clive felt was terror, all he could see was horror.

'Bloody kids.'

And then the bloody kids came, as the man lay beside his mother and her groin was bared Clive saw the monstrous embryos tumbling one after the other, filthy black and shining, like misshapen clots of treacle.

'Shoulder to shoulder and toe to toe,

Just like the nigger slaves, here we go!'

They sprawled over each other when there were too many to lay side by side, peeing and farting and defecating on each other, started to climb up his mother's body, pulling themselves on with stumpy fingers to suck and bite at her breasts. One fell on her face and moulded itself like molten tar to her features, veiling her eyes, stopping her nose and mouth, then started to contract and shrivel so that the mask it presented was that of a shrivelled old woman.

'Beautiful, eh? The image of great-granma Raveface.'

The wad of dough which had been Clive's sandwich welled up in his throat, spat out with a frightening force and was as black as the swarming monsters even before it hit the floor.

'But hey, we're still not introduced-'

A hand like knotted ebony slowly raised.

'-Raveface again, gamely carrying on the family name.'

And as Clive turned to flee still the hand reached out, the length of the bed and then yet further.

CHAPTER 12

They went separately to bed that night, Aitch much later than Sonia, and he slept uneasily, was woken early by the sound of the telephone ringing. It was answered as he opened his eyes, he heard Sonia speaking below without hearing what was said, then saw her from the window walking down the garden to her father's house. It must have been Valentine on the phone, he assumed, as he dozed off again, and it was mid-morning when he awoke for a second time.

More alert, now, he wondered why Valentine might have been on the telephone to his daughter. He went downstairs to the living room but found no clue as to Sonia's whereabouts, there was no message for him, no hint in the clothes she might have worn or the coat she had taken; she had so many clothes that there was simply no way he could decide what was missing and deduce what she was wearing, where she had gone. To work at the nursery? It was possible, but her time there was so flexible that it was by no means certain. One thing was sure, though, and that was that Aitch would not trip down the length of the garden to ask Valentine where she was; whatever the man's reasons for ringing his daughter so early in the morning, it could not bode well.

'Why didn't you tell me Aitch had been with Diane?' Sonia asked her father.

'I only just found out myself, sweetie,' he answered, busying himself with the coffee percolator. 'Besides, what's there to tell? He had a drink, you know the girl, the three of you are old schoolpals.'

Stated simply, no, there was nothing to tell, but it had caused an argument between Aitch and Sonia loud enough to be heard the length of the garden, and this was what had prompted his phone call that morning. And for all that he made light of Aitch being seen with Diane his agitation was obvious.

The percolator was causing him trouble, he only brought it out when he had visitors to the house, and he swore under his breath as he fumbled with the machine.

'Here, let me do that,' said Sonia, going across to help, and he stood aside.

'Aitch is good to you, isn't he? He doesn't hurt you, cause you upset?' he asked, as he watched her prepare the coffee with an efficiency which had eluded him.

'Of course he doesn't hurt me,' she said.

''cause if he ever should-'

'It was just a silly argument, Dad, a silly bit of jealousy. I was annoyed because he stayed out late.'

Again! She was denying it again, keeping secret the fact that he had not just stayed out late but stayed out all night. Why? Was it a lack of trust? Was she worried that something had occurred between Aitch and Diane and subconsciously denying it?

And was this worry preoccupying her because she had deeper fears which she would not admit to?

'But you're troubled,' her father could tell. He rested his hand gently on her arm. 'What is it, Sonia?'

I've been hearing things, I've been seeing things, the television tried to kill me and dumb wooden masks in the museum spoke out to me.

I'm being haunted.

I'm being scared shitless.

'Diane's dead,' she said, stating the simplest of recent events, the one most easily grasped. 'She was murdered, and Aitch was with her just before it happened. Oh, I know he had nothing to do with it, but because he was seen with her he's involved. We've got Mooney coming round questioning us-'

'He won't be questioning you no more,' her father promised. 'No way my girl's caught up in this, and I'll make sure of that.'

'But Aitch-'

Valentine shrugged. 'He's got to answer Mooney's questions till the man's satisfied, there's no getting away from that. I'll tell you another thing, too, he answers these questions away from your flat, he don't give Mooney no cause to come round. If he brings any more aggravation for you I swear to God I'll take my fist to the boy. Why, if I thought that girl having a drink with him would-'

It was one of those sudden flares of temper which he rarely allowed his daughter to witness. He clenched his teeth in a grimace, left the threat unfinished.

'Yes?' said Sonia, pausing from pouring out the coffee.

'Forget it. The poor girl's dead and should be left to rest, no matter what.'

Sonia set the coffee cups on a tray, with cream and sugar, and her father took it from her.

'We'll have it in the drawing room,' he said, as if he was entertaining, forgetting for the moment that it was his daughter he was with. He grinned sheepishly, said, 'Call it the lounge, eh, while there's just the two of us?'

'Call it whatever you like, Dad,' she smiled back.

'That's the spirit. You pack up your troubles, sweetie, and smile.' He passed her coffee, said, 'It's a time since we've done this, eh? Sat around to chat.'

'It is,' she agreed.

'You spend all your time with Aitch these days. It must be love.'

There was no need for her to admit it, though she might have found it difficult to do so to her father. She acknowledged that she was fond of Aitch, very fond.

'That's why I'm worried about him. All this bother. And then peddling dope down the 'Masons' to earn money for college.'

'There's no hard drugs,' her father said, excusing the enterprise, which he saw as only minimally illicit, much like many of his own ventures.

'No, thank goodness. Still-'

'You want to keep him, you know what you could do.'

'Marry him?' she smiled.

'That would be nice, but it ain't necessary. No, I was thinking you persuade him to work for me. He could have a comfortable life. You both could. I've got plans, another club or two, some more ideas.'

'I don't know,' said Sonia.

'Nothing illegal,' he assured her.

'He's determined to go to college.'

'There's always evening classes.'

'That's not quite the same, Dad.'

'But I've told him there's no need to get any papers to say he's smart. Shit, he don't want to go rubbing shoulders with that crowd you see drinking in the 'Cambridge' and the 'Phil' and the like. He needs to stick nearer to home.'

Sonia did not like to say that he had it in mind to move even further away; such revelations would have to be made at a more opportune moment, in a way which was tactful enough not to upset her father. Best to keep him in a state of happy ignorance, for the moment at least. He would have to be told sooner or later, though, for she knew that she would leave with Aitch.

And it was no longer just out of a love for him.

Now it was out of fear, too.

It was early afternoon and so the club was closed to custom. The 'Pun' was a night-time only place and found no business in catering for a casual passing trade. The door was open, though, to let out the staleness of the previous night, and there was a cleaner there, Hoovering the carpets and mopping the small dance floor. Aitch nodded a greeting to her as he walked past and went to the office at the rear where he supposed Valentine would be.

He heard Valentine's voice before he reached the door, he was speaking on the telephone, and what he heard caused him to stop and listen, to stand at the door but not step through. It was the name being mentioned which caused him to pause.

'Mooney!' Valentine was saying. 'You listen to me! We do each other favours, you and me, and I don't call quizzing my daughter doing me no favours!'

Mooney obviously made some excuse at the other end of the line, an excuse which failed to satisfy.

'I don't give a shit, Mooney! There's no way my girl gets involved! You hassle who else you like but keep my Sonia out of it!'

Aitch took a cautious step back, then another, into the body of the club. Hassle who else you like? Did that include a prospective 'sunning law'? Quite probably. Valentine would be prepared to see anyone sacrificed for the sake of his daughter. And he was angry, in one of those moods it was wise to avoid.

Aitch had backed across the dance floor and was about to turn to the door when he was shaken by a slap on the back and a greeting too loud to be sincerely meant.

'Hi brother!' said Winston, and grinned broadly as his unnecessarily loud hello brought Valentine rushing from the office.

'You step cautious, Aitch, you just be damn sure you step cautious!' he warned, rounding the bar and levelling a finger at Aitch.

Aitch approached the bar voluntarily, before Winston could take it into his mind to nudge him along. 'You're angry, Valentine. I understand that.'

'You're damn sure I'm angry!'

'Yes, I can appreciate how you feel,' said Aitch, standing just a foot or so from the bar, carefully out of arm's reach.

'Then appreciate this, Aitch. You don't get my Sonia in no trouble, you make no messes for my girl. Having the police come round quizzing her, and over a murder... you don't drag her in to give you alibis, Aitch.'

An angry sweat made his brow sparkle as brightly as the jewellery and the gold teeth, his eyes were so wide that they seemed about to pop and his snarling lips were drawn back over his gums.

'It's been out of my hands, Valentine. I'm dogged by coincidence, and that bastard Mooney making a nuisance of himself.'

'Out of your hands, right, and you know why? 'cause you got no clout, that's why.' Valentine leant forward, his angry grimace flashing gold and white like a semaphore warning. 'You're a nobody, Aitch. Smart, maybe, but a nobody. Lucky for my Sonia I'm not, though. I've got clout and when I speak there's people who hear, even people like police who owe me favours and listen when I say my daughter's being badly done by.'

This confirmation of his authority seemed to ease his temper a little, his grimace became a smile and his anger was slowly spent.

'And me?' said Aitch. 'I'm being badly done by, too.'

'Sure you are. But you got no clout, like I say. You're nobody round here unless maybe you work for me. Your smartness means nothing till you get some clout behind it. Why, even your brother Winston, he's got more of the stuff than you, and that's all 'cause of me.'

Winston gave a leering grin.

'Anything Winston's got, I'll do without,' Aitch said, to wipe away that smile, and Valentine was now in a mood to appreciate the humour.

'Too right you will,' he said. 'You got no clout but you're still full of resource, you make the best of your brains and what you've got. Shit, if you ever get stuck you can always make some extra salary with me.' He turned his father-in-law smile full on, dazzling Aitch. 'There's always part time, you know, if you don't want to make a proper career with me.'

It was prudent to thank Valentine before refusing.

How could children react so strangely to the death of a friend? Young Debbie had passed away in hospital the previous night -'wasted away', Frank had told Sonia, but been a little more circumspect in breaking the news to the children- but rather than the expected misery and gloom it seemed that all hell had broken loose, tempers and tantrums, bursts of fury and fits of pique. It was as if the children were angered by the news rather than saddened by it.

All in all it had been a tiring day for Sonia, a trying few hours, and when she was finally able to leave, after the last child had been collected, it was with a truant's sense of relief that she stepped out onto the street. It was then, too, that it occurred to her just how much better Aitch would have been able to cope with the trials of the day.

Four year olds who come to blows over petty squabbles are difficult to reason with and her reserves of patience had been found lacking, she had slapped one child across the back of the legs and dragged the other forcibly across the room, sat him down in a chair so hard that it was the sudden jolt to the senses, and this alone, which had shocked him into silence. It was only out on the street and calmer that she realised her mistake had been in misunderstanding just how much reasoning a four year old child can take. Aitch would have been much more patient, he would never have resorted to anything other than reason.

The flat was empty when she got home, there was no sign of Aitch. Picking up the mail from the doormat, she shuffled through the envelopes as she went through to the living room. Bills for her, she set to one side on the breakfast bar; the large envelope which had come for Aitch she turned over in her hand. Another university prospectus, this time from Birmingham according to the postmark. It seemed that his thoughts were turning ever further afield. Manchester she had thought a distance away, but Birmingham was even more remote. Where next? Would London be the place which eventually lured him?

As she made coffee and a sandwich she wondered which disturbed her more, the choice of a place to study or the choice of subject. Any move away from home would pose problems, of course, and especially with her father, when she chose to go with Aitch. This she could handle, though, she would be able to cope with her father's disappointment and placate the inevitable anger he would feel towards Aitch. Being away from home and having to make new friends would be no great trial, either. No, what troubled her was the feeling that Aitch was misdirecting his talents; it had been remarked upon by a number of people and she had come to appreciate their arguments. She had only to think of the rapport he had developed with the young boy Clive to see that he would be better employed in some other course of study. What use was philosophy? Its discipline was more selfish than she thought Aitch could ever be and she wished she could dissuade him from it. If she was to succeed, though, she knew that she would have to step carefully. Reason was what he appreciated and she knew that she would have to employ a particularly subtle logic with him.

After she had eaten, she showered and changed. It was then seven thirty and still Aitch had not returned. Too restless to sit and wait, she snatched up her coat and went out to search for him.

Walking into town she passed 'Mother McCready's', and seeing the bright light spilling from the door, hearing the muted sounds from within, she thought of Diane Reed. Poor Diane. She had always been ambitious, and perhaps preposterously so, for her attitude had earned her more than a few enemies among the girls at school. She had talked so much about getting away and bettering herself that many had regarded her as an arrogant snob, and her snubbing of boyfriends of her own kind, from her own school, had only served to confirm this in the eyes of her peers. That her bias was not so much against a certain colour as towards a certain class did not excuse her behaviour, her preference for grammar school boys who were coincidentally white, then for college youths and university men who were invariably that same colour, had made her quite unpopular in certain quarters. Sonia had guessed that there was no malevolence in her attitude, though; her mistake had not been in her ambition but in the broadcasting of it.

And what had come of this ambition? Where had it got her?

She was lying cold in the mortuary.

Perhaps it was a fact, as some pessimists said, that there was no leaving, that the district itself set limits as to what a person could be and where a person could go. And if you had the courage to strive against this there was always going to be someone who would resent you.

It was at the foot of the hill, a few hundred yards from the 'Masons', that she saw Clive. He was standing in the shadow of a shop doorway, but stepped out when he saw her. It was as if he had been waiting for her and for once she didn't welcome meeting him.

'I got problems and I'm scared,' he said. 'I think the same goes for you. Right?'

There were occasions when Aitch found it easier to concentrate amid the noise of the 'Masons' than in the peace of the library, the sharp crack of balls across the pool table and the dull insistent beat of music from the lounge seemed to focus his mind, hem his thoughts in and prevent them from straying. The drink, too, within limits, seemed to help to a certain extent, and he closed his eyes for a moment to the text in his lap in order to conjure up an image of Nietzsche's 'Ubermensch'. He dreamt for a moment and it was onto the green baize plain of the pool table that Zarathustra might have stepped after his years of solitude. There he would have stood to speak, only for onlookers to think that he was announcing some sort of performance, turn their eyes skywards to watch the tightrope-walker rather than listen to his message, enjoying the only distraction they had from their stinking fires and soiled dreams. And then, in Aitch's mind, the tightrope-walker tumbled, slipped from his precarious perch and splashed his bright red blood across the flat green surface where people played.

He was tempted to smile, might indeed have done so as he focussed on the text momentarily, but then looked up to see Sonia staring at him from the other side of the room. Clive was standing beside her. When they saw that he had seen them they came across slowly, as if they had been standing there too long and their legs had become cramped.

'How long have you been there? Why were you looking at me like that?' he asked, closing his book.

'Just at that moment I was thinking how much like Diane you looked,' she answered.

'What? Dead?'

'Distracted,' she told him, and frowned first at his tactless remark and then at her own unfortunate choice of word. A dead person would look distracted. She tried again. 'Determined. Ambitious. As if you've found a way out of this place and nothing's going to stop you from taking it.'

'And are we going to argue about that, or should I buy you a drink?' he asked warily, cast a cautious glance at Clive. 'And what are you doing bringing him in here?'

'We need to talk.'

He thought this sounded ominous, went to the bar to get drinks for them. When he returned he saw that she was flicking through the pages of the book he had been reading. Here goes, he thought, the cue to continue the argument about rights and wrongs and the socially responsible way, but was then surprised to see her set down the book without comment. Grateful for this, perhaps obliged to her, he apologised for the disagreement of the night before.

'I was at fault, too,' she conceded, dismissing the matter. Beside her Clive sat with his head bowed, sipping his Coke, noticeably quieter than usual.

Perhaps he was adopting a tactful silence, Aitch thought, embarrassed by the apologies which were being made.

'It's not as though we're married, after all. I have no right to complain about you having a night out from time to time.'

'It wasn't the night out we were arguing over,' he reminded her. 'It was Diane.'

'No. Not even Diane. It was Diane's death.'

She raised her glass to her lips, drank thoughtfully.

'You're not still upset that I was with her, then?' he ventured.

'Suspicious, you mean?' She smiled as she shook her head. 'No. If Dad can trust you then I surely can.'

'Valentine?' Aitch's hand stopped short of his mouth, then set his glass slowly back down onto the table. 'You mean he knows what we were arguing about? He knows I was with Diane?'

'He knew about her before I did, so he could guess what our row might have been over. He knows everything that goes on around here, Aitch, you should have realised that by now.'

So why had Valentine said nothing to him that morning, then? Aitch was as wary of this silence as he was worried that his every move could be such public knowledge. When Valentine was silent about a matter, then it was time for concern; outright anger -as exhibited that morning- was always preferable, for silence could only hint at a secret rage and plans afoot.

His gaze wandered around the room, fell on Winston across the bar, just entering the lounge. The wave and smile which his brother gave him was something else to mistrust.

'Don't look so worried,' said Sonia, resting her hand on his. 'You're forgiven.'

'But what about Diane?' he wondered.

'What do you mean by that?' she asked, her fingers pausing in the act of giving his a reassuring squeeze.

'You always look for motive in a murder.'

'Yes?'

'So how might your father have reacted when he found out about Diane and me?'

'Found out what? That the two of you shared a drink?'

'You suspected something worse than that,' he reminded her. 'What if Valentine did, too? What would he do if he thought that someone was trying to come between the two of us, if someone was threatening his darling daughter's happiness?'

Sonia snatched her hand back from his, glaring at him. Clive, growing restless, tugged at her arm, but she pushed him away, too. 'You're surely not suggesting-?'

'I'm just looking for reasons, that's all.'

'Well just look somewhere else!' she told him angrily.

'Like Winston, then.'

Clive tried to attract her attention again, but she 'shushed' him, said, 'Eh?'

'He claims he's so hard up that he's had to pawn his jewellery, the sovereign rings he always wears, but he can't be all that short of cash to judge by the way he's spending it.'

'So? What of it?''

'Remember the bloke who was killed near the club, Mooney said his face looked like it had been thumped with a fistful of sharpened pennies. Heavy sovereign rings cut like that, which is why Winston wears them.'

When she finally realised what Aitch was suggesting Sonia laughed incredulously. 'You amaze me, Aitch! You can't be serious! First it's my father, and now it's your very own brother!'

'Sonia. Tell him,' Clive hissed.

Sonia looked down at the youngster, at the earnest expression and the hint of fear, and was forced to concede that their discussion of murder and the apportionment of guilt was of no consequence at all.

There were darker things than death, blacker creatures than murderers.

'Tell me what?' asked Aitch.

'You're trying to solve a murder, but it's more complicated than that.'

'How?'

'It's... strange...'

'Spooky,' said Clive.

'Oh, Clive, you've not been waking up squatters and winos again and thinking they're bogeymen,' Aitch smiled.

'Tell him, Sonia.'

Sonia told him.

CHAPTER 13

Outside the pub Clive refused to go home, he begged and pleaded to be allowed to spend the night with them, said he would sleep outdoors if not, and no matter how Aitch tried to dissuade him he knew that Sonia would agree to the request. Her own experiences were still vividly real to her, convincing enough for her not to doubt those of the youngster.

Aitch, he just didn't know, as much as he trusted her sincerity he still found her tale as hard to credit as Clive's.

'Your mother, she'll worry where you are,' he argued with Clive.

'That... that thing... that ain't my mother! That's some putrid shitty monster and I'm going nowhere near it!'

'But tell her where you're going.'

'No!'

'Slip a note under the door, at least.'

'And then he'll find me! No!' He turned to Sonia, said, 'Please?'

She nodded and he took her hand, now the child he should have been rather than the streetwise urchin Aitch had first met. It was such an unexpectedly meek attitude that Aitch could not contradict Sonia, said okay, Clive could stay the night with them; then, jokingly trying to lighten the mood, he added that the boy would be sleeping on the settee, nowhere else, certainly nowhere near Sonia.

For once he was met by no protests, there were no comic comments or macho posturing. The only response, in fact, was for Clive to begin to cry, silently and without shame.

As they walked back to the flat Aitch was aware that his two companions would start at each rustle of trees above them and worry over each approaching figure, slowing their step, narrowing their eyes, then hurrying again once the person had passed. A soft rain began to fall, then grew heavier, and Clive would repeatedly brush it from his brow, wipe it from his hand. Against his dark skin the raindrops seemed like beads of blood erupting from his pores.

When they eventually stepped through the door of the flat there was a palpable sigh of relief, strong enough that it even affected Aitch.

'Right. Bedding,' he said, going to a cupboard and pulling out a duvet, throwing it onto one of the settees. 'There you go,' he told Clive.

Clive tugged off his shoes, sat on the settee and was about to swing his legs beneath the duvet.

'Oh no, get those filthy jeans off.'

The youngster glanced at Sonia.

'I'll go straight up,' she said, walking towards the staircase. 'Goodnight, Clive. Sleep...'

Well?

No. Just sleep.

Once she had gone Clive stripped off his jeans and shirt, folded them neatly and laid them over the back of the settee.

'Are those undies clean?' Aitch asked him, looking at the boxer shorts he wore.

'Well I ain't been so scared that I've shit myself, if that's what you mean.'

Aitch grinned, hoped to see it returned but it wasn't.

'I'll catch you in the morning,' he said. 'Don't worry. The door's bolted and the windows are locked.'

'Big fucking deal,' Clive muttered, burrowing down beneath the duvet.

Winston followed them from street to street, within minutes of leaving the 'Masons' he could guess where they were heading but kept tracking them just to be sure. At the end of the alley he melted with the shadows to watch -melted, didn't just creep back into them but actually became a part of them- saw the group pause at Sonia's door while she unlocked it, then enter.

Jesus, Mary and fucking Joseph.

Shelter in the stable.

He laughed, the cackle recklessly loud in the night, reverberating down the cobbles. He was sure, though, that if they heard it would strike the fear of God into them rather than bring them running.

That was the way things were for them now.

He tried to flex his hand into a fist, a salute of triumph, but there was a stab of pain as the knuckles protested and the fingers locked into an open claw. He turned the hand over, saw the vicious red weals pulsing, the skin breaking.

The pain was there to remind him.

He hung around for a while, just in the event that they might come out with the kid and take him home, only wandered off once he was certain that they were settled for the night. It was just after one in the morning as he crossed Catherine Street and made his way to the rear of the old Women's Hospital. Ahead he saw a couple of late night drinkers sauntering home, waited until they had passed the derelict house and rounded the corner, then approached the overgrown porch. The door was boarded over with a sheet of corrugated metal, as were the windows, but as he climbed the crumbling steps there was a loud 'click', as if the bolt of a lock had been pulled back, and the door inched open with a creak of straining metal, the corrugated tin curling out to admit him.

He stepped through the narrow gap, into the darkness.

'Where are they?'

He knew better than to search out the voice, the mouth it issued from could take on so many different aspects that it only confused him, and so he kept his eyes a little downcast, fixed on the floor before him and seeing its cracked tesserae slowly come into focus, splintering the ground at his feet. The tiled floor seemed as fragile as eggshell.

'They're all three at the girl's. Sonia's. The bitch.'

'Ah.'

The word was said with relish, like a gourmet anticipating a favourite dish, Winston could almost hear the smacking of chops and licking of lips and he cringed. The distaste he felt was intense, as strong as any fear, but he knew that he had to contain it. Raveface enjoyed people's fear, it was constructive and a boost to his ego, but like any vain person he took offence at less flattering responses.

The distaste was sensed, though, and would not be allowed to pass unchecked.

'How's the hand, Winston?'

The reminder, again.

The pain.

The agony crippled his fingers, searing them as if his hand had been wrapped around a red hot poker. There was even the smell of branded flesh.

'Just my fucking luck that the first person I meet has to have his digits crushed by that cunt of a brother of yours.'

'Cunt,' Winston repeated.

'Left us with a curse we all have to carry, like stigmata.'

'Stig-'

Winston could only half repeat the word, his tongue seemed too clumsy to cope with it, and a rush of breeze like a sigh of exasperation swept down the stairs and along the hall, blasting him in the face and causing him to rock on his heels.

'Shit, Winston, are you dim or are you dim? Stigmata! It's the echoes of Christ's wounds!'

Winston's knees trembled. He wanted to please, but knew it was beyond him; he felt fear, and his only solace was the knowledge that soon it would be his to pass on.

'Hey! I've had the place decorated! Wanna see?'

He didn't, the walls could well have been papered with viscera and painted with blood, but a grey dawn slowly welled around him to pick out faces dotting the hallway, half seen at first, the simple oval shapes that a child might draw.

Or Dedo.

The shapes filled, took on recognisable form, and Winston recognised Diane, Connie, Aitch's college pal, the punter from the club who had had the set-to with Aitch...

'The guy shows talent, don't you think?'

Winston gave a non-committal grunt; he had never liked Dedo's work and thought even less of it now, in this derelict museum.

'But look at the way they live, the way they breath...'

And they did, but not in any aesthetic sense, the way Aitch and his poser friends might talk about fine art.

They actually did live and breath.

A tongue flicked out at him from one portrait, thick and black and crusted with sores which oozed a sickly yellow pus; Diane pouted her blood red lips in a kiss as fat as a carnival balloon, pecked out at him, then opened her mouth wide in a roar of laughter which scorched his face; a belch behind him shrouded him in a choking cloud of the foulest fumes.

'Yesss! Coool! Let's go spread some mayhem!'

Dedo lay on his bed, the drawing of Diane copied a dozen times on the wall before him, her body described beneath each like a striptease artist's in various degrees of nudity and voluptuousness. The skimpiest of garments, masking the initial difficulty he had in coping with the human body, were quickly divested; the breasts, tentatively outlined at first, swelled to comfortable handfuls; the nipples perked up and the hips filled out until she was the image of naked perfection.

Dedo, too, was naked, his flaccid penis in his hand, a sodden wad of Kleenex by his side.

His eyes scanned the faces which gazed down at him, each differing in expression, sultry and seductive, come-hither and approach-if-you-dare, innocent, alluring and pitying. He was as pleased with the portraits as any he had done, they worked better than his usual sketches because he had spent the time to develop them and felt a personal attachment to the subject.

Lust, in actual fact.

His penis started to rise again.

The only version he wasn't too sure about was the one in which she looked pitying, the eyes half closed, the line of the mouth a touch condescending. How that look had come about, he couldn't understand. He hadn't had it in mind to make her appear this way, he had not been aware of it in her gaze as she posed for him and it was not an emotion he had ever associated with the girl.

And what cause was there to pity him?

'Because you're lying there with a swollen prick, prostrate and path-et-eek.'

It was his conscience which made him start, guilt, the same embarrassment he had felt when he tossed off as a kid and worried about his mother barging in on him.

It wasn't the accusing voice, no, that was all in the mind.

His hand stroked slowly, his attention fixed on that unsettling look of forebearance, and as disturbing as it was it still aroused him. Snooty cow, that's what she was. Not pitying, but haughty. He'd fuck the arrogance from her features given half the chance. Eyes closing to picture the scene, her beneath him -of course- gasping for breath, heaving with the pleasure and the pain, he felt a warm flush suffuse the length of his body, was aware of beads of sweat pricking all over. They felt like a palm print on his chest, like fingertips touching his thighs.

His breathing grew laboured, but it took some moments for him to realise that it was no longer with imagined pleasure.

It was the room that was growing warmer.

He opened his eyes and it was as if dawn had come some hours too early. A rosy glow was filling the tiny bedroom. Not from the window, though, not breaking through the thin worn fabric of the curtains; it was coming from his drawings. A lick of flame and a play of shadow made each shift and waver, a dozen Dianes beginning to dance slowly before him.

One, the pitying portrait, had shown her naked to the thighs, but now he saw a knee, an ankle, the whole leg raising and then stepping over the lower edge of the drawing, into the room. The second leg followed, the head ducked, the arms squeezed the body through and she was standing before him, glistening with streaks of a viscous red afterbirth.

He rubbed the sweat from his eyes but the world still seemed blurred, shimmering in a heat haze, the naked body at the foot of the bed rippling with each movement as it came closer. It -she- sat on the bed beside him and seemed insubstantial, there was no weight bearing down on the mattress, no dipping down or creak of springs, just pulsing waves of heat washing over him, wearying him.

Then a hand took the place of his, curled loosely around his penis.

It was cramped, or broken, it did not grip him tightly but was held open loosely like a claw so that as it began its movements it slapped him about rather than manipulated him. The sensation was as painful as it was exciting, the swollen tip chafed red-raw as it was scoured against his coarse black body hair, the shaft scorching until it blistered in the fierce heat of her palm, the organ thrown about so viciously that it seemed about to come free by its roots.

'Please!' he begged. 'Please!'

The mocking voice which came was not Diane's.

'Path-et-eek!'

He looked beyond her, to see if there might be some other person in the room goading her on with this torture.

But goading who on? It was one of his own drawings that was tormenting him, for fuck's sake!

And then he saw other Dianes following the first, stepping down from the sheets on the wall, hanging by fingertips to drop to the floor, leaping down in delight and then bounding up onto the bed to swarm all over him. The agony they caused him was excruciating enough, but it was not fear for his life but fear for his sanity that caused him to scream as he saw their places taken by other figures, saw the sheets they had vacated start to fill under the hand of some monstrous artist, an artist more accomplished than he could ever hope to be. Like windows onto another world they showed him a whole army of figures spitting and kicking and crawling over each other, spilling down to the floor in a filthy black torrent. Eyes were gouged and limbs torn away as they fought to reach him, they showed little mercy for each other and would show less for him, he knew, for their evil carried with it a palpable stench, as rank as the fluids which seeped from every orifice of their bodies.

There would be no pleasure in the pain these creatures intended causing him.

It was a bellow of anguish rather than a scream, deep and low, as discordant as the pealing of the cathedral bells.

Clive heard it and leapt from the settee, scrambled up the staircase and then squatted halfway, the duvet wrapped about his trembling frame. He had been dreaming about his mother and her men, thirty, forty, fifty years on and withered as parched wood but still crowding her bed with a congregation of rotted lovers. She had held out her arms to him, they had laughed and mimicked the gesture and in their armpits there were mouths with teeth which opened and closed as if they could already taste his flesh.

Sonia heard and curled into Aitch's body, her arms around him and her face tucked into his chest, finding comfort here even though moments before, in sleep, he had seemed to be no more than a wasted hollow shell lying beside her.

Aitch, he had slept soundly, but still the unearthly cry woke him; he tried to dismiss it as a dream.

'What time is it?' Sonia asked, feeling him stir beside her.

He reached out for his wristwatch, noting that Sonia kept her body close to his as he stretched to the bedside table.

'Getting on for four,' he told her.

A sob of a cough from the stairs alerted them to Clive's presence.

'Clive? You awake?' Sonia asked, and a grunt was was all the response the question deserved. She pulled the bedclothes up to her chin. 'Do you want to come on up?'

His head popped into view, a little sheepish but not so much so that he would refuse the invitation. He sat on the end of the mattress, still swathed in his bedding.

'Did you hear?' he asked, a nervous tremor in his voice. 'What was it?'

'A dog?' Aitch suggested. 'A drunkard?'

'I don't think so, boss.'

'You're still finding it hard to accept, aren't you, that all we've told you actually happened?' said Sonia.

Aitch shrugged. 'I don't disbelieve you. I can't. I still find it all a bit fantastic, though. I mean, how come nothing's happened to me? How come I've seen none of this?'

'Maybe you have, in your dreams, but the philosopher in you is denying it, the logic or the positivism or whatever won't let you accept anything that's a touch beyond reason.'

'But if there was a sociologist in me I might be a bit more susceptible, is that what you're saying?' Aitch smiled grimly, though he knew it was no longer his choice of a degree course which Sonia was talking about.

She said nothing.

'I don't know about the whys and whotsits and anything else,' Clive joined in, 'but I do know I'm shit scared and I'm wondering what we're going to do.'

'Make some coffee, so turn around,' Sonia told him, waited until his back was to her and then slipped from the bed and put on a dressing gown.

She didn't suppose they would be getting any more sleep that night, she said, as she went downstairs.

Clive turned to Aitch. 'So? What are we going to do?'

'Join her downstairs for coffee, I reckon. Come on. We may as well.'

'You're taking this pretty damn cool,' Clive remarked, padding down the stairs after Aitch like some child-king with his cloak of down trailing after him. 'Aren't you just the least bit scared?'

'I've seen nothing yet to make me-'

At the foot of the stairs he stopped so sharply that Clive bundled into him.

What the-?

Who the-?

'Raveface. Heard about me? I want to tell you a story, college boy, full of academic interest and historical fact.'

'That's the guy was with my Mum,' Clive said, peering around Aitch at the figure on the settee, dark, lean, wearing canvas rags which seemed to be crumbling before their eyes.

'And a smooth screw she was, too. Not much to look at, a bit of a dog in fact, but she banged away like she was a well-oiled machine. An experienced woman, I suppose.'

Clive tensed, pressed against the back of Aitch's thighs, but Aitch held him there. He knew the kid wanted to go nowhere near the man, but honour was served if he made the effort, if there was a brief blaze of anger, half-hearted though it was.

And who could blame him? Who would want to go near that sweating bundle of filth?

Only Sonia, it seemed.

She was seated on the settee beside him as prim as a nursery assistant should be, knees together and hands clasped in her lap, straight shouldered and stiff backed. She had a glazed look in her eyes, seemed oblivious to his presence. It was only when he looked closely that he saw she was in a faint.

She had gone to him, and then fainted?

'It's okay. She's fine.'

'Sonia?'

She didn't move, didn't even blink, and Raveface smiled.

'So. The story. Sit.'

They were on the settee facing him without knowing how they got there, Aitch and Clive side by side like attentive children waiting to be entertained.

'You've seen what it was like, youngster, bobbing across the ocean on the way to a life of servitude and misery...'

The nauseous movement of the ocean's swell came back to Clive, the stink and the heat made his stomach roll, the constant groans of the sick and dying made his head ache. He wanted to vomit but couldn't; something was preventing him, and it wasn't worry about making a mess of Sonia's carpet.

'...and life was little better on the other side, for those of us who made it. They housed us in hovels, they beat us and raped us, they even took our women's milk to build up their own sickly children. And then they forced their religion on us. Do you know what they told us? They said we slaves would go to heaven if we were good, but we weren't ever to think that we would be close to our mistress or master. No. There would a wall between us, their preachers said, one with holes in that would let us look and see our mistress as she passed by. If we wanted to go to their heaven, if we wanted to sit behind this wall, then we were to do the language of the text and obey our masters.'

The exhalation was like a growl, an angry gasp of disgust-

'I obey no one!'

-fierce enough to make Clive flinch.

'And so, after a century of kicking against it, I ran, joined a barque to set sail for your fair city. I had to claim some experience as a seaman, it was the only way, but it took less than a day at sea for it to be demonstrated that I was less than able. So unable, in fact, that I could not be suffered. I was flogged daily, a large iron bolt was tied in my mouth to still the cries, the Captain set his dog on me to tear out chunks of my flesh. I was forced to eat my own excrement, my nostrils were plugged with it, by the end of the voyage I was one evil-smelling, maggot-infested wound.'

Clive screwed his eyes shut, knowing the tricks that the evil bastard could get up to, arsing about with people's minds and fucking with the things they saw. He could do without any maggot-infested wounds, the way his stomach was feeling.

'And dead, of course.'

Until-?

A century or more and then-?

'You breaking the man's fingers, that's what you owe me to. That's what I'm indebted to you for. You should have felt the anger coming from him, the hatred. Enough to wake the dead, which is precisely what it did!'

Aitch heard again the cry which had woken them, distant but fearsome. Clive cringed against him, as timid as if he was the quarry, but Sonia still sat motionless.

'What do you want from us?' he asked. 'What are you doing to us?'

'What I want from you is your anger and what I'm doing is provoking it. That's what helped me to survive, that's what brought me back.'

Aitch remembered the reaction to Clive's burst of anger, when his mother was insulted, the one who called himself Raveface swelling with what had seemed like pride and delight. Now, thinking back, he realised that the presence of the man had actually grown in that instant, become more substantial and imposing, more threatening.

'Our anger? Well you can't have it.'

'Eh?'

Raveface looked as confused as a child who had been denied a treat, a sullen pout darkened his face and his shoulders slumped a little.

'You'll find no anger here,' Aitch told him. 'We're a happy enough bunch. What do we have to be angry about?'

As the hand swept up to strike Sonia across the cheek Aitch pulled Clive to him, hiding his face in his lap so that he wouldn't see the blow, covering his ears so that he wouldn't hear the cry.

And the cry which Aitch heard he knew was not Sonia's; it was the pitiful bleat of another person, not the roar of indignation which he would have expected of her.

'I don't know why you hit her,' Aitch said, forcing a smile, looking at Sonia and persuading himself that it wasn't her. 'Whatever the reason, she must have deserved it.'

'And this?'

Fingers fixed on her throat and disappeared up to the knuckles, burrowing into the flesh like worms. It was such a surreal metamorphosis, this merging of flesh with flesh, that it was no more convincing than a movie's special effects. That the fingers constricting the throat made it impossible for Sonia to cry out only served to heighten the feeling that it was all an illusion.

'Damn you!'

'If you want,' said Aitch affably.

In his lap Clive was struggling to get free, but Aitch held him there; it was best that the youngster not witness what was happening, not risk responding to it.

Best, too, for all of them, that Sonia not wake from her faint.

Raveface began to tremble, becoming as angry himself as he wanted Aitch to be, and all around him the room began to shake, the wooden floor rippled as timbers sprang, furniture rose and fell, the glass coffee table shattered and sprayed them with its debris. Aitch thought of the cost of the damage, began itemising it in his mind to quell any anger he might feel towards the cause of it, breathed deeply and evenly and in the instant that he closed his eyes to calm his mood he saw Raveface stand, retreat, begin to diminish into the distance faster than the laws of perspective should permit.

Amid the sounds of mayhem breaking loose all around the receding voice left behind its threat:

'I'll have you! All of you! I'll have you chained and humbled like I was!'

CHAPTER 14

'Why didn't he hurt me?' Sonia asked Aitch. 'I mean, if he did all you say he did then why are there no signs of it?'

She bore no marks or bruises, neither from the slap to the cheek nor the fingers gripping her throat so fiercely that they might have choked the life from her. She had come round a little dazed, a little sickly, but otherwise unaffected by her ordeal.

'Because you weren't angry, because you were in too deep a faint to feel angry,' Aitch supposed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he was tackling a particularly difficult examination question. 'It's my guess he feeds on people's anger, he said himself that that's what helped him survive for so long. Now that's what has brought him back, the anger he felt in the guy I had the trouble with. Our friend Raveface must be able to take the anger from people, grow strong on it and then hurl it back at them. That's the way he hurts them.'

'That's why you tried to smother me, then?' Clive said.

Aitch nodded. 'If you'd seen what he was doing to Sonia you'd have got mad enough to make him stronger. I couldn't chance that happening.'

'But it didn't make you mad, to see what he was doing to me?' Sonia challenged.

It was as if he had betrayed her rather than saved them all, as if she found it hard to believe that he could remain unaffected by the assault on her.

'I didn't think I couldn't afford to let it. You see that, don't you?'

'A hunch? That's a hell of a chance to take, Aitch.'

'It worked, though.'

'Yes,' she agreed. 'Thank God.' She took in the room, the shattered glass and the torn floorboards, the broken crockery which littered the kitchen. 'Just look at the place, though. Look at the mess. If he could do this to the room, then why couldn't he do as much to us? To me, when he had me?'

Aitch could only shrug, guess again. 'Perhaps he needs a person's anger to be able to direct his violence. Without that, well, maybe what comes is just a random violence.'

Sonia started to right furniture, used a torn cushion to sweep the fragments of glass from the coffee table into a tidier pile.

'What does he want?' she wondered, without looking up from what she was doing.

'Revenge?'

'But why us? We weren't the ones to make him suffer, we weren't his slave masters. We're the same colour, for Christ's sake!'

'Coloured people sold each other into slavery, if you check your facts. Okay, so it was the white men who came along with the money, with the beads and the bullets and the guns to swap for bodies. It was the coloured folk who gave them those bodies, though, one tribe betraying another, village against village, selling each other into servitude.'

'Don't give me a lecture, Aitch.'

'I'm not. I'm trying to look for reasons, that's all.'

'Seems to me like we should forget the reasons and look to what we're going to do,' said Clive. His glance switched from one to the other, looking for comfort from either. 'What are we going to do if the guy comes back? Is he going to come back? Aitch?'

'I, er, I don't know,' Aitch answered, for the moment keeping to himself Raveface's parting threat. 'We know what to do if he does, though,' he added, on a more optimistic note.

'Keep smiling? Keep happy? Don't lose our rag?' Sonia threw aside the cushion she had been using to sweep the floor, went to the kitchen for a brush and pan. 'Jesus, Aitch!'

'So what do you suggest? Christ! If he came back now he'd have himself enough anger to keep going till judgement day!'

'Cool it, you two!' Clive shouted, standing and glaring. 'This ain't helping at all!'

No, it wasn't, Aitch knew, watching Sonia bend to brush up the mound of glass and then curse when she pricked her finger on a stray sliver. They needed to keep calm, they needed to keep their tempers in check at least, they needed to...

What?

'How about we call the bizzies?' Clive said. 'I know it's not what we usually do round here, we like to keep them out our lives, but... shit... who else can stop this guy?'

'A pillock like Mooney?' Aitch laughed. 'You think he could help?'

'He's the best we've got,' said Sonia dispiritedly. 'He's all we've got. And it is a question of murder, after all is said and done. The punter from the club is dead, Diane is dead-'

'And we're going to try to convince Mooney that it's some centuries old slave who's the culprit when he'd rather think it's me? Come on, Sonia, that's the worst defence I've had to offer yet.'

Yes, the notion of the supernatural was the most pitiful defence that Aitch could offer, but it was also so ridiculous that some credence would have to be given to it. As much as Mooney might hate Aitch, he also knew that he was too intelligent to come up with such a poor lie.

He caught up with the policeman on the steps of Hope Street station, chatting with a uniformed constable, took the initiative by approaching willingly.

'I need to talk,' he said.

'Confess?' said, Mooney winking at his colleague.

'Serious talk,' Aitch stressed. 'Have you got a half hour?'

'For you, Aitch, I'd devote as much as a whole day of my life if it meant locking you up,' he smiled. 'But yes, I can spare thirty minutes. But then it's my turn. I was wanting to talk to you, too, as it happens.'

'It's about your two murders,' Aitch began, as they walked along the street, joining the morning flow of people. These were mainly students who were switching this way and that, some towards the university, some towards the polytechnic, others towards more humble places like Aitch's college of further education.

'My two murders?' said Mooney, looking at the throng about him with some distaste.

'Diane Reed and the other guy, the labourer.'

'You're going to give me a clue?' Mooney hoped, using the word as though it was a synonym for self-incrimination. 'Look, can we get away from this crowd? They upset me. Bunch of wastrels, the lot of them.'

'They remind you of the education you were deprived of?'

Mooney cocked an eyebrow in a cautioning glance. 'You wanted serious talk? Or would you rather we get back to the status quo where we insult each other until I get pissed off enough to take it out on you?'

'Okay. Sorry.' Aitch led the way across the road by the Philharmonic, pointing them in the direction of the Catholic cathedral. 'We can sit out there. It's peaceful enough.'

Mooney had no objections.

'Right,' he said. 'You were going to tell me who did for our peripatetic labourer and your old schoolfriend, Diane.'

'I was?'

'I'd hoped so. I certainly hope you've not just collared me to tell me it wasn't you.'

'It wasn't!

'Oh, Aitch-'

'But-'

'Yes?'

They reached the cathedral, sat on the low stone wall which skirted its base. Mooney took out cigarettes, but didn't offer one.

'This is difficult,' said Aitch.

'For you and me both. I'm under increasing pressure to find out who killed these two people.'

Aitch glanced over his shoulder, to look at the central body of the cathedral which pricked the sky like a crown. A group of tourists were coming out of the entrance, just gone nine in the morning and the first part of their tour of the city was over.

Next the riverside, the Beatles' museum, maybe the art gallery and then off.

'Do you believe in God, Mooney?'

'Eh?'

'In good and evil? In the supernatural and all that stuff?'

'The bogeyman did it!' Mooney laughed, clapping his hands together in delight. 'Of course! If it wasn't the butler, then it has to be the bogeyman!'

The group of tourists looked cautiously at him as they passed, then hurried on to their waiting coach.

'Will you just listen for a moment?' Aitch insisted. 'Hear me out and then laugh if you want to.'

'Okay, Van Helsing. Fire away.'

It was more confusing than any essay he had ever had to write, there were things he could mention, things he had to and others which were best left unsaid. He tried to keep Clive out of it as much as possible, knowing that the testimonies of an ten year old would not be particularly convincing, made no mention of the 'guy' or the visitor to the derelict clubhouse, only of those events which had been witnessed by an adult. And as he dipped deeper into his confused tale he cursed Sonia for persuading him to see Mooney.

For what was there to relate?

A couple of frights in the museum, the even greater horror encountered at the flat that morning, the rambling hallucinations of a couple of shit-heads.

That's what it would seem to the policeman. As far as the he was concerned they could have been dropping acid rather than just smoking a relaxing joint or two, and Aitch kicked himself away from the wall when he saw the grinning response, the look of amused disbelief.

'Oh, fuck it!' he said, kicking himself away from the wall and stamping off.

'Hold on there, Aitch,' said Mooney, striding along beside him. 'I said I wanted a word with you too, remember.'

'Yes? About what?'

'Your pal, Griffin.'

To Mooney's delight the college lecturer had afforded only the flimsiest of alibis for Aitch. Yes, the student and his girlfriend had been at the party; but no, Mr Griffin was unable to say how long they had stayed. There had been a discussion in which the student had involved a number of other guests, it had been noisy and bordered on an argument, but this had been early in the evening; after this the host was unable to vouch for Aitch, the alibi was good for an hour of the evening at the most.

'But that's ridiculous!' said Aitch. 'We were there for bloody hours, Sonia had to check out every square inch of the house to see how a place like that would suit her. She's got dreams...'

'About hundred year old slaves coming back to haunt her?'

'About living in a place like that! You ask her! She'll tell you!'

'Yes, she would, wouldn't she?' Mooney smiled. 'This argument you had, what was it about?' he asked.

'Argument?'

'With Mr Griffin and his friends. I'm told there was a bit of an altercation.'

'That? It was something insignificant, social injustice and inner city problems, that sort of thing. You know what those people are like, righteous and concerned.'

Taking in their surroundings beyond the cathedral, the grubby buildings and uneven pavements, the litter strewn outside the shops, Mooney said, 'A place like this, it hardly seems worth arguing over.'

Ahead of them lay the college. Aitch had not intended going there today, but now he crossed the road towards it.

'Like I say, insignificant,' he repeated.

Mooney knew that Aitch had ambitions above and beyond this place, that he had set his sights higher than a college where dilatory pupils went for a second chance. It could not be much of a challenge for a young man of his intelligence.

'They don't stretch you much here?' he said, as they approached the redbrick building which had once been a hospital.

Aitch shrugged; he was aware of the limitations of the place, was conscious that it was no more than a stepping stone to something better.

'They don't really test your powers of debate?' Mooney went on. 'A smart lad like you, I reckon you'd be shit-hot at debate.'

'What are you driving at?' Aitch asked.

'This argument of yours... could it perhaps be that you started it just so you'd be noticed at the party? Draw some attention to yourself, make sure you were seen and remembered, then you could go about your business?'

'And what business might I have had, other than trying to enjoy myself at a bloody boring party? To go round to Diane Reed's flat, maybe, and club her to death?'

They paused on the pavement some fifty yards from the college, Aitch inevitably reluctant to approach any closer for the moment, not wanting to be seen in the company of the police officer.

'Perhaps not intentionally,' Mooney said. 'It could be that you went around there to see her, though, and then perhaps you argued. Again. As is your wont.'

'Over what?'

'You knew the girl,' Mooney stressed. 'You'd been drinking with her only days before.'

'It would have had to have been a hell of an argument for the girl to end up dead.'

'Why should that be? You're easily roused, Mr Griffin and his guests can attest to that. He says you got quite heated at his place.'

'But I thought we were already agreed that I staged the argument just so I'd be noticed.'

'We were?' Mooney grinned.

Aitch went to search out Griffin, but the man was not to be found in the college, he had only one class that morning and had passed it on to a colleague to give himself a free day.

After a quick coffee in the canteen -where he noticed that Steve, still bruised, was quite blatant in choosing to sit at another table- he pondered on what to do. Walking past the library he wondered if he might usefully spend some time in there. After all, wasn't that what a hero, a Van Helsing, would do, search dusty library shelves until he happened upon the answer in some ancient manuscript?

Fat chance in that library, in that college. There'd be no 'Malleus Malleficarum' there, not even Nietzsche's views on how to philosophize with a hammer, only the well-thumbed texts for 'A' levels and the like.

He walked on, down the steps and out of the building, hailed the first passing taxi.

When he arrived at Griffin's safe suburban residence he found that the lecturer was out. Taking the dog for a walk, his wife said, but Aitch was welcome to come in and wait, he shouldn't be too long.

'Walking the dog is a duty rather than a recreation for Griff,' said Judy, stepping to one side and gesturing for Aitch to enter. 'Please, do come in.'

He stood in the hallway while she closed the door after him, then followed her through to the sitting room. She sat in an armchair and directed him to another, facing her; the settee, set apart from these and at right angles to them, was strewn with books. She apologised for the mess.

'You're husband's?' he supposed.

'No. They're mine, actually. I'm trying to better myself,' she said, with a patently sorry smile. 'I'm doing an Open University course.'

'Why so apologetic about it?' he asked.

'Because of Griff's mockery. He reckons that anyone can get a degree from the Open University, he looks down on me because I'm a late starter.'

'Like me?'

'Quite,' she said. 'Griff likes to see things done in the right order, and according to an established timetable. 'O' levels, 'A' levels and a degree should be out of the way by the time a person's twenty-three or -four. Anyone who starts after that age is either a dilletante or a waster and shouldn't be afforded the opportunity.'

Aitch noticed that she referred to her husband by his surname again, much as the students at college did, and she laughed when he commented on this.

'He likes people to call him Griff. Or Griffin,' she said, scrubbing her fingers across her scalp where another woman might have tossed her hair back. 'He thinks that it has a certain ring to it, like Guevara or Castro.'

'But you? His wife?'

'In my case I suppose it might suggest a certain detachment.' In a sudden startling movement she raised a hand to her mouth, said, 'I certainly hope you don't think it suggests respect!'

She was wearing a loose fitting dress and he was aware of her body shaking inside the thin fabric as she laughed again, thought of a stripper doing a shimmy on the stage to make her breasts tremble. He was loathe to remark upon, or even to consider, the lack of respect which she hinted at, but this did not prevent her from expanding upon the matter.

'He has his work and his students and he keeps me apart from all that. If he ever speaks to me as if I was a student, which he does from time to time, then it's only because he looks down on me so.'

There was the brutal honesty of a woman who has come to terms with an unsatisfactory marriage and this made Aitch feel rather uncomfortable. He thought of leaving, of saying that he would catch her husband at some other time, but she was on her feet and inviting him to have a drink.

He hesitated. 'Well, I-'

'Will beer be okay?' she asked, and was on her way to the kitchen before he could say anymore.

In her absence he looked around the room and found himself regarding it in much the same way that Sonia had, as if trying to picture the two of them in some similar place. Empty of people as it now was, though, he saw it as a cold and unfeeling room, no one lived in it, it was nothing more than a shell which afforded shelter. Why, even Griffin's room at college took on a more friendly aspect in comparison, and he gave an involuntary shiver as the lecturer's wife came back into the room with two cold glasses of beer.

It could have been his imagination, but Aitch thought that her dress was a little looser than before, as if there might have been buttons -there were none, in fact- which she had unfastened while in the kitchen. And could it have been imagination again, or had there earlier been a small coffee table separating their two chairs, a coffee table which had now been cunningly nudged to one side?

'Here you are, Aitch. I'm sorry there's nothing else,' Judy said, leaning forward to hand him his drink, though there really was no need for her to crane her body that far. 'You know Griffin-' she smiled.

'He refuses to have anything resembling a cocktail cabinet in the house,' Aitch knew.

'Much too bourgeois for him,' she nodded, taking a mouthful of beer.

'I thought it was the expense he was against. I thought you said it was because he was a miser.'

'Oh, he is,' she laughed. 'And lots more things besides.'

The dog came yapping noisily into the house, a springer spaniel with an obvious pedigree. Griffin followed guiltily, as if ashamed at having been caught at such a homely middle-class pastime as walking the dog. He showed no surprise at finding his student there, however; he might have been expecting him, and could perhaps even guess at the reason for the visit.

'Judy's been looking after you?' he said, seeing the two empty glasses on the floor. He unzipped his jacket, but did not remove it, asked, 'A social call, is it? Or college business?'

'It's about your party and my presence there,' Aitch said. 'And a detective sergeant named Mooney.'

'He's seen you, then?' Griffin nodded. His wife looked up, obviously knowing nothing of the matter, and her close scrutiny had him silent for a moment. 'Look,' he then said, 'how about we go round to the local for a pint? This stuff Judy's serving you is just cheap swill left over from the party. Okay, Judy?'

His wife shrugged disinterestedly; he was free to do as he liked.

'Come on,' he said to Aitch, zipping up his coat again.

Aitch rose, thanked Griffin's wife for her hospitality.

'Anytime,' she smiled, with an exaggeratedly sincere smile. 'I enjoyed the company.'

As if it was a thing she was usually deprived of.

'Bloody bitch,' Griffin grumbled, but Aitch realised that his curse was directed at the dog, who chased them along the hallway. 'Get back in there,' he said, brushing it aside with his foot. 'I've done my duty by you for one day.'

He closed the door on the yelping hound, led the way down the tree-lined avenue, past the carefully kept gardens. There were acknowledgements from a neighbour or two and he accepted these grudgingly, as if embarrassed to be considered a part of their world. He did not belong, or pretended not to, and it occurred to Aitch that he might only live there because his wife did, not out of any choice of his own. It this was true then perhaps the views and opinions he preached at college were a little more sincere than was sometimes suspected; then again, it might simply have been guilt which had him so uncomfortable, guilt that his home was so at odds with his ideals.

He was just as silently apologetic about the public house he took Aitch to, entered with hunched shoulders and accepted the greetings of those who knew him with a shrug. It was a comfortable establishment where everyone had their place at the bar, casually dressed men in their early retirement and younger men in suits, all on first name terms with each other.

Griffin ordered pints of lager from the landlord

-first name used there, again- then suggested that they move from the bar to a quieter corner.

'About Mooney-' Aitch began, when they were seated.

Griffin nodded. 'An unpleasant chap, that. He paid a call on me at college, wanted to know if you'd been at the party.'

'And did he tell you why he wanted to know?'

Murder was not mentioned; the lecturer simply said, 'Yes.'

'So what were you playing at?' Aitch demanded. 'Why did you say I'd only been there for an hour or so, early in the evening.'

'I didn't say that, Aitch. All I said was that I could only vouch for you early in the evening. I didn't say you weren't there later on, just that I hadn't seen you there later.'

'But you must have done.'

'Sorry, Aitch.'

'We were there all evening, Griff, it must have been midnight when we left.'

'Maybe. Most probably you were. The only problem is that I wasn't.'

'It was your own party and you weren't there?' Aitch asked, with a disbelieving laugh.

'No, not all night,' he said.

CHAPTER 15

It was already mid morning but the light was so leaden that it could have been evening, the sky heavy and overcast so that in the flat it seemed that night might never have lifted. There was the glumness of twilight indoors, casting a pall of grey over everything; the colour could be felt in the mood.

Sonia had entertained faint hopes, but not been unduly surprised to learn that Mooney give no credence to Aitch's tale; he was a policeman, after all, matter-of-fact and witless, he lacked the imagination to see beyond the expected. She did not dwell on her disappointment, then, but concerned herself more with the news of Griffin's affair, for a man's unfaithfulness to his woman was the one thing guaranteed to return her attention to a more material plane; though infidelity might be a commonplace fact of life it was still disturbing enough to distract her from other matters, at least momentarily.

It was, if she could only admit it to herself, an excuse to forget.

Clive, still there when Aitch arrived home, seemed content to be distracted by the stereo, squatting on the floor with headphones plugged in, his head bobbing slowly to a regular rhythm, and for those few moments they could pretend that their problems were those of ordinary people, their concerns as humdrum as any regular family.

A regular family is what they might have appeared to be.

'Some working class hero,' Sonia had grumbled, not caring to disguise her disgust with the lecturer. 'If having an affair isn't a middle class pastime then I don't know what is. It's even more bourgeois than walking a pedigree dog in Sefton Park.'

Aitch was compelled to agree, feeling a frisson of delight at having found his tutor out, a pleasure which could almost compensate for the man's denial of his alibi. To think of it, their very own reactionary, the champion of the people, being turned astray by common lust, struck him as pathetic.

Sonia predictably found the matter rather less humorous, thinking it shameful of the man to leave his wife entertaining his friends and cronies while he crept off to another woman. It was despicable, she said, the word spat out as if it was poisoned, at which point Aitch reminded her that it was also a little unfortunate, since it meant that Griffin could not vouch for them being at his house all night.

As if the need for an alibi might still have been important.

Sonia seethed with indignation at the treatment of one of her kind, though, her fingers drumming irately on the coffee table and then tapping an agitated rhythm against the side of a cup.

'But didn't his wife notice?' she wondered.

The crockery rattled together beneath her impatient beat, matching the tinny percussion which crept from Clive's headphones.

'I suppose if I press her she might recall having seen us there later on in the evening,' Aitch thought, taking the two empty cups out of her reach.

'No, what I mean is didn't she notice her husband had gone missing? She couldn't have been such a perfect hostess, distracted by her guests, that she wasn't aware he'd sloped off somewhere.'

'Perhaps she knows what's going on, perhaps not. I'm not sure. I certainly got the impression that she's none too happy in her marriage. Maybe she's having a bit on the side as well. You know how these liberated intellectuals can be. You've read about them.'

As he took the cups from the coffee table to the sink he thought of Griff's wife posturing before him while they sat in the sitting room, of being flatteringly attentive while they waited for her husband, and he suspected that perhaps Sonia was being a little unfair in her apportionment of blame. What was sauce for the goose, and so on; it might take two to fulfil the physical requirements of an affair but it could often be the case that the wife was just as much to blame in the spoiling of a marriage.

'So what do you do now?' Sonia asked, following him to the sink but not helping wash the crockery, just standing there with arms crossed. 'Do you tell Mooney why there was no alibi from Griff?'

'What purpose would that serve?' he asked.

'It would make sure people know him for the bastard he really is.'

'That's a little petty,' he told her, swilling the cups and plates and stacking them to one side to dry. 'His wife probably knows already, and in any case it doesn't really concern Mooney. It's not Griffin that needs an alibi, it's me.'

'Do you really think Mooney can suspect you? We have each other as witness, after all. We were together for most of that night.'

'True,' Aitch conceded. 'He has no real reason to suspect me, if the truth is known he probably doesn't, but that won't stop him harassing me. He'll do it just for the fun of it. You know what he's like. Harassing people is one of his greatest pleasures in life, one of the perks of his job.'

'Still, some excuse to put a stop to it would be welcome.'

They returned to the settee, watched Clive swaying and nodding to the music, and in the ensuing silence Sonia applied herself to the matter unnecessarily, for Aitch was fully aware that there would be no further harassment of her, only the mischievous tormenting of him. Valentine would see to that.

'Did you know your father more or less offered me a job working for him?' he said, after a while.

'I'd guessed he might do. I know he'd like to. He thinks it would keep us together.'

'Like we need to be super-glued?' he smiled, though he knew what she meant and could guess at her father's intentions.

'He suggested night-school, if you were set on continuing studying,' she told him.

Aitch laughed at the innocence of the man; as if day-release employment with Valentine would be enough to satisfy his ambition. It was a dangerous innocence that he was crediting her father with, though, and Sonia could see the worry in his troubled expression.

'When I go with you-' she began.

'It's not 'if' anymore, but 'when'?' Aitch interrupted

'When,' she agreed, with only a brief smile, for making this decision was the easy part. They were both aware of the problems which would follow. 'When we go, there's Dad to consider,' she said.

'He won't like it. He'll try to stop you leaving.'

The music had stopped now, Clive had taken off the headphones and was listening in on their conversation. A frown puckered his brow to realise that they were talking of such mundane matters, there was a sad disappointment that they could think that leaving would ever be so easy. They might be adults but they were showing the misguided optimism of young children.

'He can't, not really. But still, I'd like to make the parting easy for all our sakes. I want to be the one who tells him, I don't want him to be hearing about our plans from somebody else.'

'He doesn't suspect anything yet?' Aitch hoped.

'Not at the moment, I'm sure he doesn't, but there are plenty of people who are all too aware of your intentions, they know you're going to college and they're probably guessing that I'll go with you. Most would say nothing, they know how Dad will react and they won't let anything slip deliberately.'

'And there are others-' Aitch knew, and added, 'Winston.'

'Right. If anyone is likely to tell Dad then it's your brother. So please, be nice to him,' she urged. 'Don't give him cause to say anything. For goodness sake don't provoke him.'

It was then that Clive spoke, with the gravity of an older man correcting his children. 'It's not her old man you need to worry about stopping you leaving,' he told Aitch. 'It's not your brother Winston, either. It's him.'

They turned to look at him hunched on the floor, shoulders slumping, head bowed by the wisdom of some ancient Buddha.

'Him,' he repeated. 'Raveface.'

'I thought you had no classes today?' Judy said, arms crossed and foot tapping as she watched her husband pack books and lecture notes into two carrier bags. She had expected him to be home all day, was not sure whether she had welcomed it but was annoyed by the change of plan.

'I don't, but I have work to do. Preparation. Marking.'

He forced one book too many into the second bag and it split. He cursed and went through to the kitchen, rummaged through the cupboards for another.

'Why don't you treat yourself to a proper briefcase? You can afford it,' said Judy, following him.

He made no answer.

Not that she had expected any. A briefcase was like a drinks cabinet, or a decent saloon car; not Griff's style. She confirmed, again, his plans for the day.

'Yes, I've got preparation to do,' he said gruffly, impatiently tipping books from the torn bag into another.

'You've got a study upstairs,' she reminded him.

'There are books at college I need.'

'Ah. Yes,' she smiled. 'Of course.'

'What do you mean by that?' he demanded, bristling at the tone he detected, the pretence at understanding.

'Nothing. There are books at college you need. That's reasonable.'

'For God's sake, Judy!' He heaved the bags under his arm as he stood, glowered a moment at his wife. 'I'm going into college, to work, to earn my living. It's how we get the money you spend!'

'Oh, so it's the money that's important, is it? That's what drives you? There's no job satisfaction?' she smirked. 'No satisfaction at all?'

There was the usual innuendo, the sneering jibes and sly suggestions which she knew he found so annoying; their arguments were never a direct trade of insults, nor a reasoned exchange of views, which was why he found them so difficult to handle.

He stamped along the hall, his bags tucked under his arm.

'Give the pretty young college girls a kiss from me,' she cooed after him.

At the door he turned.

'And Aitch?'

'What about him?' his wife asked.

'Didn't you try to get into his pants, while the two of you were sat here waiting for me?' he said, and slammed the door on her before she could answer.

His hands were trembling as he opened the car door and he dropped the bags onto the seat beside him, had to fight to contain his annoyance. His anger was unreasonable, he knew, and was as much with himself for being goaded into that last insult as it was with his wife and her barbed remarks. It wasn't that he cared, after all. Not about his wife and her suspicions. Nor about Aitch, and all the wasted effort which had been expended on the student. Let the stupid bastard go off and squander his talents on studying philosophy if he wanted to!

The engine grumbled a time or two before it decided to start and he sent the car lurching into the road with his gaze fixed firmly ahead, refusing to look back in case Judy should be there, at the window, smiling knowingly to witness the ancient car's halting progress. And predictably it was only when out of sight of the house that the car finally started to run smoothly.

Damn bitch probably put a spell on it, he thought, swinging from the avenue onto the dual-carriageway which would take him into the city, to the college and the students, to Aitch and his grievance over the alibi, to that meddlesome detective sergeant and the dangers he presented.

'Aitch?'

Hunched over the coffee table, Aitch ran the tip of his tongue along the gummed edge of a cigarette and broke the tobacco onto the mat of Rizla papers before him.

'Aitch? What are you doing?'

'Rolling a joint. Or two,' he said, giving the first a twist at the end and then starting immediately on a second.

'I really don't think that's what we need.' Sonia gave an impatient sigh, the kind that was usually occasioned by the antics of the children at the nursery. 'Not at the moment.'

Aitch ignored her, began to roll a third.

'Are you listening to me?' She was about to slap her hand on the table for attention when he passed one of the joints to Clive. 'Aitch! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

He pushed a box of matches towards her, said, 'Give him a light.'

'He's ten years old, for God's sake!'

'Going on for eleven,' Clive corrected her, holding the shabby cigarette in his hand and regarding it like an old colonel might a cigar.

'An angry young man,' Aitch said. He passed the second joint to her and kept the third for himself. 'As angry as you are at the moment. And what's the one thing that we don't want to be right now? What is it our friend Raveface reckons gives more power to his elbow?'

'Anger,' Sonia knew. She looked at the joint she held, still unlit. 'And you think-? Seriously?

'What better way to stay mellow?' he reasoned,

He wasn't sure what was happening to them, or how or why, but he did know that they had to stay calm, that they had to quell their tempers and deny Raveface the nourishment he needed. Then, once that was achieved... well, go with the flow. He took the matches from Sonia, struck one and offered her and Clive a light. 'Take it easy now,' he warned the youngster. 'Go slow.'

'Hey, I've been smoking years,' said Clive, but the first drag made him splutter. He coughed, blinked back the tears and wiped them from his cheeks. 'Bit like a rough Woodbine, eh?' he grinned.

'You too,' Aitch encouraged Sonia, holding the burning match before her face. 'Think nice thoughts, harmony and understanding. Right?'

She inhaled, held the smoke deep inside, let it rise slowly.

'Crazy,' she wheezed softly, but not like the ones who make something spiritual out of getting stoned. She really meant what she said: 'This is crazy.'

'Far out, man,' Clive chuckled.

'That's the spirit,' Aitch agreed. 'All is calm, there is no anger.'

All the anger was Judy Griffin's, even after a beer -too weak to be effective- and two large scotches she could feel it welling within her, her body bubbling with rage at her husband. When he left the house she had flung her own study books from the armchair and the table, kicked them around the room in temper until the spines started to break and the pages tear, then bundled them into a pile in the corner. She might have set fire to them there, if only for the fact that she would be the one to clear up the mess, might still do it if her mood did not improve. Cutting off her nose to spite her face? Maybe. But for all that Griff belitted her studies it would still peeve him to see books wilfully destroyed, and anything that rattled him would bring its own satisfaction.

She poured a third scotch, sat on the settee and seethed, knowing full well that it was not devotion to work which had taken her husband into college but the company of his nymphet students. They were of the impressionable age that he preferred, they could be wooed by his intellect and flattered by his attentions, the mature man who was less condescending than a schoolmaster but not as intimidating as a university professor, the first man in their life who would treat them as an equal.

Griff could have been a professor if he had had the courage to accept the post that had been offered to him at the university, but instead he chose to be the big fish in the little pond, not prepared to match himself against any brighter intellects.

An ivory towered academia was how he described university life, the pompous prick!

A grubby little keep was the life he had opted for, a medieval high-rise with just enough comforts to contain his ambition.

The glass slipped from her fingers and spilled its amber liquid on the carpet. She picked it up, let it fall again, was annoyed that it bounced on the cushioned pile so picked it up a third time and hurled it against the wall.

'Shit!' she screamed, but even above her cry and the sound of smashing of glass she heard the soft chime of the door bell.

A little befuddled with drink by now, she got slowly to her feet and crossed the room, wondering who might be calling. Her life was so tedious a regime that more than one visitor in a day was an event. The sudden thought that it might be Griff's student again, Aitch, caused her to pause. If it was -she composed herself, straightened her dress and stiffened her back- if it was then she would screw the pants off him just to get one back on Griff, no tender love-making, just a brutal angry fuck. With a conscious effort -think sex, think anger- she walked along the hall and opened the door on her visitor.

'Mrs Griffin?' the figure smiled. 'I'm Diane Reed, your husband's mistress. What do you say we go and haunt a few people's dreams?'

CHAPTER 16

Moonlight dappled the garden and a breeze stirred the trees, sending shadows flickering across the carpet to make it ripple like a living mass, like an army of ants advancing or the sea swelling under a heavy tide. Even before he was fully awake Aitch snatched back his feet in a reflex action, tucked them beneath him on the settee, and in his semi-conscious state he felt it shift gently under him, dipping and rolling with his movements. As if it was the raft which was his one hope of survival, his fingers clutched the cushion beneath him, steadying himself, then more fiercely still when Clive turned restlessly beside him, causing the settee to give a lurch, almost pitching him off.

His mouth dry and raw, his mind still a little numbed from the effects of the cannabis, he blinked the room into focus, trying to clear the grey mist of evening which blurred the scene. Clive was sleeping soundly again, curled up at his side, one hand against his cheek and the other resting on his chest, on the dark blue sweater which was covered with smudges of grey ash. Ash had fallen on the carpet, too, and across the coffee table, where the cut glass ashtray was littered with roaches and the debris from the makings of half a dozen joints. A jug of orange squash was almost empty, the three glasses around it sticky with its juices.

Aitch rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and focussed again, searching out Sonia.

She had slipped from the settee facing and lay sprawled against it, one elbow hooked over its arm, her head thrown back to catch the moonlight which streamed through the window, giving her face a dull ashen tone. Her legs were splayed apart, her skirt hitched up around her thighs, and where they disappeared beneath the coffee table it seemed that they were cut off at the knee.

Seemed-?

Aitch leant forward, narrowed his eyes to peer more closely.

No, not 'seemed'. At the knees Sonia's legs bent and disappeared into the carpet, the limbs ending abruptly in perfect ellipses around the calves, ringed by the pile of the Axminster.

The carpet lapped gently at her flesh, leaving a stain of a tide mark each time it fell.

'Sonia?'

As he leaned forward the settee dipped once more to send a ripple sweeping across the floor. It was for all the world as if some unseen hand had taken the carpet by the edge and billowed it out, like a cloth across a table, like a sheet across a bed; the coffee table rose and fell beneath the swell, toppling the glasses and the jug, the far settee was caught by the wave and the carpet washed higher up Sonia's legs, then sucked her down as it ebbed.

'Sonia!'

He reached out, caught the edge of the coffee table, but it bobbed away from him and his hand splashed -splashed!- into the carpet, so Arctic cold that his fingers were chilled to the bone even before he could snatch them back. In his panic, torn between fear for his own safety and concern for Sonia, he toppled forward and found himself floundering in a glycerine sea, the patterned weave of the carpet swirling about him like a slick of oil. His flailing arms stirred the eddies around him, roused them to a gummy viscous storm which had the whole room rising and falling, catching the furniture in its eddies, slapping like breakers of treacle against the steps which led to the kitchen, dragging Sonia deeper and washing her away from him. He kicked out after her, plunging his arms into the filthy black mass and heaving his body through its sticky swell; he felt himself caught and lifted by the mounting waves, was thrown closer to Sonia but then saw her swept out of his reach, sent crashing through the windows and into the garden. Broken glass scored his shoulders as he went tumbling after her.

The ground beneath him was a sodden mass and he lay face down in it while the last of the tacky deluge washed over him, his nostrils plugged with mud, his fingers digging into the gritty mire. The stench of the earth was overpowering, a rising stink of dung and faeces so strong that he might have been flung into a pit of his own excrement, but even before he could spit out the filth his stomach heaved, belching out all manner of muck. For a moment, like a curious child, he stared down at the waste he had spewed out, thought he saw it boil and writhe, but then a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye made him look up. Sonia was on her feet and running across the garden, moving between the shrubbery as silently as a wraith, making for the gate which led to the back alley.

He gave chase, but like Alice in a dreamland each glimpse he caught of her she was just moving out of sight around the next corner, from the garden to the alley, from the alley to the street. His sodden trousers clung uncomfortably to his legs, his shoes squelched with each step, his pursuit required such an effort that he might still have been fighting his way through the viscous torrent which had flooded the flat. The evening air was as thick as syrup in his throat, each breath he took seemed to clot his lungs.

It was only some streets away, on the brow of the hill which led down past the cathedral, that he paused to look around. Everything was silent, the streets deserted, no people to be seen and not even the sound of distant traffic to be heard. He checked his watch and saw that it was a little after ten. There should still have been people about at that time, making their way from pub to pub, leaving restaurants, finding clubs, just strolling in enjoyment of the warm summer evening. The streets should have been busy, but they were deserted.

There was an impulse to turn and go home, a sudden fear of the emptiness which had fallen on the city, but as he hesitated, stranded in the silence, he saw Sonia appear some hundred yards ahead. She stood still, as motionless as a statue, her dress forming itself to her body as if caught by a breeze, and though there was no call, no beckoning gesture, he felt drawn to her. It was expected, as he went towards her she turned her back to him and walked on slowly, a measured stride which now allowed him to draw nearer, close enough to recognise the sway of her hips and swing of her arms, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume.

Feet away, then inches, he reached out to pluck at her dress. The fabric tore, turned to powder at his touch, as brittle as if it had been aged in the grave, and she turned and laughed.

'Diane?'

'Of course. Who else did you think it was?'

'Sonia, he thought it was Sonia,' said a second voice, and Judy Griffin sidled up beside him, slipping an arm through his.

' _Kommen, mein ubermensch_ ,' crooned Diane, taking his other arm, and their bare limbs linking through his felt as cold as metal.

The water streaming down her body stank of sweat, it felt tacky to the touch and clung to her skin. Against her face it was an irritation, tickling like cobwebs; over her breasts it oozed slowly, as if a thousand clammy hands were pawing her; between her thighs it seeped insidiously, almost as if its intention was to violate her.

Her eyes closed beneath the force of the shower, such ridiculous thoughts were easily admitted

CHAPTER 17

Aitch had his apologies ready when he returned to the flat later that evening, but there was no one there to accept them, no sign of Sonia nor any note saying where she might be. She could have been round at her father's place, which would have been bad news for Aitch in view of her mood, or she could have been with a friend, which would have been the rather more preferable alternative. He did not dwell too deeply on her absence, though, or her whereabouts, but sat silently considering the key he held in his hand.

The key was to Diane's flat, the one she had given him after their night together, to tempt him to return a second time. The fact that he had not returned was of little significance, it was not a promise of fidelity to Sonia nor an assurance that he never would have been tempted, for within days the girl had been murdered and any opportunity gone; that he still had the key in his possession was mere chance.

He tossed it in his hand, wondered if Griffin had one, or anyone else, then thought of Griffin watching Diane enter her flat with... who?

A figure shifted in his mind as he dozed, tall and slim, with slender legs clad in tight denim jeans. First it was Sonia, smiling at him over her shoulder, but then as she turned to face him her chest became too flat and shapeless, her hips too slim for a woman's. Then it was Dedo who was grinning at him, his weak chest sprouting breasts which he began to fondle lewdly, and his wild shock of hair teased itself into a more controlled coiffure.

Sonia smiled, Dedo laughed, and in his dreams Aitch heard Diane scream.

He fell asleep on the settee, woke soon after six the next morning. There was still no sign of Sonia, whoever she had turned to in her anger she had spent the night with, and he decided to leave before she returned; it would be easier to make his peace with her if he could be sure exactly who Griffin had seen with Diane.

He splashed cold water on his face, changed the shirt he had slept in for a fresh one and stepped from the flat.

Diane lived -had lived- in a terrace facing the cathedral. Most of the Georgian houses had been converted into flats, hers he knew to be one of many owned by a housing cooperative and he guessed that this would mean a maximum use of space, as many flats housed in the building as was possible. there were six, in fact, to judge by the six bell-pushes beneath the grille of the intercom. He opened the front door cautiously, hoping that he would be too early to meet any of the other residents, stepped quietly along the hall and up the stairs, found the flat he wanted on the first floor.

The bed-sitting room was large enough to serve its dual purpose, with a high ceiling and large windows facing out onto the cathedral grounds. He could see down into the gardens through which he had walked the previous day; closer, the drive which served the terrace was where Griffin would have parked while he waited.

The house shook as the front door slammed below and Aitch stepped back a little from the window, saw one of the residents leaving. Only minutes before and they might have met on the doorstep, or in the hall.

He moved deeper into the room, took in his surroundings.

There was the bed he might have slept in, if he had ever succumbed to the temptation, a single bed in the corner strewn with cushions, and a fleeting thought that it would have been cramped with the two of them in was quickly dismissed. He stepped around the furniture -a settee, a single armchair and a low coffee table in the centre of the room, a small dining table and chairs to one side, by the serving hatch which opened onto the tiny kitchen- crossed to one wall which had been fitted with shelves. There was a scattering of books, mainly paperbacks, a clutch of them here and a clutch of them there, but as much shelf space was given to ornaments and bric-a-brac; a family of pale pink pigs and a black Sambo money box, his cupped hand held out, might have been seen by some cynics as descriptive of her attitude to men of either colour; an old school photograph of her on a lower shelf, her complexion artificially pale and faded by sunlight, might similarly have been read as an interpretation of her ambitions.

On other walls were posters and prints, all framed, not a one with curling corners untidily fixed by Sellotape, and Aitch moved along from one to another. He lifted one frame slightly from the wall to note the faint mark where the polished wood had rubbed against the wallpaper, moved a second to see the discolouration left by the effect of sunlight.

And there, on the last of the four walls, to the right of a Monet reproduction, he finally saw the glint of a small nail catching the light. It was white enamelled, as tidy and unobtrusive as the rest, and had been freshly hammered in; nothing had hung there, not for any appreciable length of time at least, for there were none of the tell-tale marks of dust or fading which he had seen elsewhere.

What had been its purpose, then? Where was the print -or more likely drawing- which had been intended to be hung? He searched the flat, the kitchen and its cupboards, even the bathroom, but found nothing; he returned to the settee, sat down to sketch out a scenario in his mind.

The portrait of Diane was framed and ready to take its place on the wall. Perhaps Dedo had done the job for her, or perhaps they had collected it from a picture-framer in town and returned to her flat, witnessed by the frustrated Griffin, to see to its hanging. And what else? Could Dedo have been hoping that the promise to pose nude would be kept, and then disappointed, or was it some more carnal relationship between artist and model that he had hoped for?

Thwarted in respect of whichever dream, had he argued, then, and in a fit of temper taken the hammer to Diane, that same hammer, never found, which had been used to fix the nail? He had always believed his charm over women to be exceptional, and Diane rejecting him -as she surely would, since in colour and class he failed to meet her required standard- would have been too great an insult to suffer. Creatively, too, he thought himself a superman; that note by the body need not have been a deliberate attempt to implicate Aitch. The only person implicated was Dedo himself, compelled as he would have been to take the portrait with him once Diane had no further use for it.

Other scenarios suggested themselves, but none as convincing; Aitch searched for flaws in his argument but found none to dissuade him. The only certain course now, all that was needed, was to confront Dedo with his suspicions.

The remainder of the morning Aitch spent on the off-chance of stumbling upon Dedo, rather than with any real hope of finding him, for Dedo's habits, like those of Peter and Winston, were mainly nocturnal; he slept late in order to stay out late, believing that the morning was only for those people who worked.

It was midday, then, before Aitch's search took on any real purpose, as the public houses opened he toured those around the art school where Dedo was most likely to be found playing out the role of bohemian. No one had seen him in any of the places he tried. It was the same in the 'Masons', he had not been seen for a night or two, when he was last in with his sketchpad.

'Boasting, perhaps?' Aitch asked. 'Maybe mentioning that he had found someone to pose nude for him?'

'Could have been he mentioned something,' said the barmaid. 'But then wasn't he always shooting his mouth off? If you believe him there was never a shortage of girls ready to shed their clothes for him -though I'll swear the drawings he did were all copied from dirty magazines- and wasn't there always some big commission lined up? Last I heard, it was murals in Valentine's club.'

It was a possibility, he could be there right now, and Aitch decided to chance Valentine's wrath; Sonia might well have stayed the night with a friend, just for a change, rather than go crying to her father with her troubles.

'Any message for Dedo if he comes in?' asked the barmaid.

'No, that's alright, I'll find him,' Aitch was sure, and left the pub, crossed the road and cut down the backstreet to Valentine's club.

There was the usual stink of last night's beer and sweat, the clatter of the Hoover kicking up clouds of dust, but no sign that Dedo might have been at work there. Apart from the cleaner the only people there were Valentine and Winston, seated on stools at the bar.

They looked up as the Hoover cut out and they heard Aitch step across the dance floor, Winston with his usual ambiguous grin.

There was no sudden outburst of rage from Valentine, just a calm and unconcerned acknowledgement. 'Yes, Aitch?'

'I'm looking for Dedo. I wondered if you'd seen him.'

'Dedo?' said Valentine, and the unspoken question was 'why?'; why look for Dedo, and why there in the club?

Aitch had no need to answer, though, for Valentine seemed to know full well why; he and Winston exchanged a quick glance, and then Winston was dismissed.

'Go have yourself a drink somewhere, Winston. We don't want any witnesses to this. Know what I mean?'

Winston nodded; he knew. Aitch did not; confused, he watched his brother leave.

'Witnesses to what?' he asked Valentine, when the two of them were alone.

'My Sonia's home. You had her in tears again.'

So there was a beating to come, to which there would be no witnesses? No, surely not. Aitch could handle Valentine, even if he was fired by a paternal rage, and any beatings would usually come from his minions.

'In tears,' Valentine repeated, 'and all 'cause you think it was her with that tart the night she got her comeuppance. You really could think that, Aitch?'

'No, Valentine, I don't-'

'No, you don't, now you know it was that dickhead Dedo went round to deal with the slut. You're smart, I always said that, I knew you'd 'sus' it out eventually, though I never thought you'd be stupid enough to think it was my girl seen with her. My girl don't associate with tramps like that.'

He could have wondered how Valentine knew these things, but instead asked, 'Where is Dedo?'

'Sent off, out of harm's way. I told the stupid shit he shouldn't have come back out the flat with his drawing, but the dope never could do what was wise.'

'Told?' Aitch echoed.

Valentine flashed his golden smile, though only briefly, said, 'Come on, college boy, you're taking your time adding the twos and twos and you still can't figure the sum.'

'You sent Dedo to Diane's flat?'

'You don't think I'd let a slut like her come between you and my girl, do you? No, she needed seeing off. Arsehole Dedo got carried away, though. Maybe it was that grumbling groin of his got the better of him -them gonads, you know?- or could be he wanted her down to the bare tits and fanny so's he could do one of his grubby drawings.' Valentine shrugged, it was irrelevant, there was nothing more important than his daughter's happiness. 'So he did for her when she wouldn't come across for him. He could've got away with it if he hadn't wanted his shitty art back. And leaving that crazy note-' Valentine let out a low whistle of disbelief. 'Shit, Aitch, I didn't want you setting up for murder, just wanted you keeping by the side of my Sonia where you belong. Dedo, though, he thought he was being clever.'

'I can't believe this,' said Aitch

'Me neither. The stupidity of the shit! I'd've been better off sending your Winston to do the task. He's just as few brains but at least he'd do what I say and not pretend any initiative. Leave Winston to it and it would've looked like it should, the girl killed by the same one who did for the navvy.'

'Winston did that?'

'Same person could've done for them both if I'd sent Winston along,' said Valentine, vaguely noncommittal.

It was not the confirmation of Dedo's guilt which worried Aitch, though, but the blatant admission, by Valentine, of a heartless crime.

'You'd have found out,' Valentine smiled. 'You'd have searched out the truth sooner or later so I've laid it out for you to save time.'

'Why?' Aitch asked.

'To keep you here, where my Sonia wants you. No way I was going to let you piss off to college and take her with you, like you planned. No way you were going to piss off with someone else, either, and make my girl unhappy.'

'So Diane was killed?'

'By Dedo, it looks like, if you can find him and get him to admit it.'

'But there are no witnesses,' Aitch said, understanding that anything which had been admitted to would have to be proven.

'No witnesses. Not even your brother, who'd lie through his back teeth in any case if I asked him to.'

No witnesses, other than Dedo, and he would have to incriminate himself, if he could be found, if the police could trace him.

Aitch stepped away from the bar, took a pace back as Valentine picked up the telephone.

'Here, Aitch, if it's Mooney you want to speak to I'm just getting him,' said Valentine, tapping out a number.

The public telephone on the corner of the street was out of order, as was the next one, and Aitch was forced along to the 'Masons' to make his call from there. It was reasonably private, the telephone was located in the corridor which led to the toilets, he dialled the number of the central police station and asked to be put through to Detective Sergeant Mooney.

He waited, heard the clicking of calls through the exchange, then was told that Mooney was out.

Could someone else help, perhaps?

Aitch was not even sure that Mooney could, said that he would try again and hung up. He had a beer while he waited, drank it slowly, checked his watch against the bar clock and wondered if it was too soon to try again.

As he hesitated, the door opened and Mooney himself appeared.

'Evening all and don't nobody bother running!' the policeman greeted the assembly, sauntering into the bar. Two constables followed, while behind him, through the closing door, other officers could be seen massing.

'I want a word-' Aitch began, but Mooney pre-empted him by coming directly towards him.

'You've been upsetting people, Aitch. I'm going to have to search you.'

'Me?' said Aitch, surprised, and for the first time that day broke into an amused smile.

'Yes, you. Let's see what you're carrying today, Aitch, and I don't mean those piddling little scraps of shit you stash under the pool table.'

'I'm as clean as a whistle,' Aitch warned, surrendering himself to the two constables. 'You know me, Mooney.'

'It's 'mister' to you, Aitch, and let's just see, shall we?'

Aitch's pockets were emptied and the contents offered for Mooney to inspect; a few pounds, some change, a driving licence and a students' union card.

'Still the penniless student, eh?'

'That's all there is in his pockets,' one of the constables confirmed.

'Then let's see what's down here!' Mooney said with glee, suddenly thrusting his hand down the front of Aitch's trousers. 'This is where he keeps his precious jewels and the like!'

The watching constables laughed, others in the bar exchanged curious glances and Aitch could only wince as Mooney's hand groped crudely around.

'You really have upset someone badly this time,' Mooney whispered in Aitch's ear, and then, in mock surprise, exclaimed, 'But what do we have here? 'hat have we found?' He pulled out his hand, and with it two small packets of a white powder, no larger than tea bags. 'Why I do believe it's 'H', Aitch!'

'You didn't find that on me!'

'Heroin, Aitch. I never thought you'd be so stupid, a college boy like you.'

'You planted it!'

'Sleight of hand, was it? Prestidigitation? You think I'm a fucking conjurer? Come on, Aitch , you're nicked good style this time.'

'You put it there!' Aitch protested, and turned to others in the bar, to Peter, to Winston. 'You saw him! He put it there!'

Winston shrugged, Peter was nudged forward with the crowd as hands caught hold of Aitch, pulling him to the door. More police were ranked on the pavement outside; there were two dark blue vans parked there, a couple of patrol cars and Mooney's own vehicle.

'You set him up!' someone shouted.

'Fucking bastards!'

A bottle struck Mooney's car, not as damaging as a television dropped on it from a height but it cracked a sidelight and scarred the paintwork.

'That's the idea, kid,' Winston said to the youngster stood beside him. 'Stir it up.'

Encouraged, Clive hurled a second bottle, swearing at the retreating uniformed figures.

'Poor sod,' said Peter, shaking his head sadly as Aitch was bundled into one of the vans. 'I always said it was the only way he'd leave this place.'

THE END
