No answer.

‘I hope you’re feeling better.’ The innuendo I hoped to put into the phrase fell sadly flat.

‘Are you…’ Again I was lost for words. ‘Are you new to…I mean…Are you…?’ I could sense her mockery again, heady and bewildering.

‘I am here for you,’ she murmured, and for a moment I imagined that she had come to take my soul, like the Angel of Death. ‘Just for you.’

‘Ah.’ Absurdly, I felt diminished, inarticulate as a schoolboy with a whore many years older than himself. Almost…almost as if this girl were not a fifteen-year-old slut but the virgin keeper of some immortal mystery. I shifted uneasily in my chair, wanting her but unable to speak. She was in control.

‘Come closer, Mr Chester,’ she whispered, ‘and I’ll tell you a story.’

‘The young man set off in search of the Witch, and from afar the Witch saw him in her glass and smiled. She had waited so long for him to come, and for three days now she had felt his presence everywhere, in the milky winter sky, in the misty moor, in the chestnuts roasting by the hearth and, this morning, in the eye of the Hanged Man. It was hardly anything: a glance, no more, a semblance of a knowing wink, but for the Witch it was enough, and she waited, throwing another brick of peat on to the fire, scanning the cards for the first glimpse of his face.

‘Others saw him come and shook their heads: they did not know his story, though it would have made a fine tale for a winter’s evening, and they did not want to know it-only the blameless or the mad go in search of witches, and the gifts they offer are not always easy to bear. But the young man was rash and confident, striding out over the moor with the eagerness of one who has never strayed from the path. There was anger in his heart, and revenge, for beneath his handsome face there was a monster: a monster which came shambling out of the darkness every night to feed upon human flesh. The Witch’s enchantments had created the monster, and the young man knew that only by slaying the Witch could he ever break the curse.’

She paused for a moment, laying her small, cool hand on my face. I felt her arms creep around me so that she was whispering into the hair at the back of my neck, making the hackles want to rise. The feeling was both erotic and disturbing.

‘So…’ I could hear the smile in her voice as she continued: ‘The young man travelled across the moor until he came to the spot where the Witch lived; and when he saw her red caravan in a hollow of the hills he felt a thrill of joy and terror. It was almost night and, under cover of the bloody sunset, he crept to her caravan and looked in.

‘The Witch was waiting. She saw him at the door and could not suppress her laughter as he raised his sword.

“‘Prepare to meet your end, Witch!” he cried.

‘The Witch stepped out into the light, and the young man saw that she was beautiful. She parted her robe…like this.’

With a superb gesture she dropped the kimono to the floor. For a moment she stood before me like a pagan goddess, her skin red copper in the rosy light, her hair loose, brushing her waist. Behind her Shiva stretched out his arms in graceful, savage desire. In a single, fluid movement she reached for my shirt and unbuttoned it: I, like a victim of bewitchment, found myself unable to move, assailed from all sides by the vibrant sensuality which clung to her, almost visibly, like St Elmo’s fire. As she turned her face towards the light I saw her through the red veil of her hair: it reached into my entrails and dragged me screaming towards her…And yet there was no love, no tenderness in her eyes: only a kind of hunger, a fathomless elation which might have been lust or vengeance or even hate. I found I didn’t care.

She sat atop me like a scarlet Centaur, face turned towards the ceiling, every muscle straining towards completion. I felt her devouring me; the pleasure was huge, annihilating, agonizing…

‘…And when they had finished the young man drew out his dagger and cut the Witch’s throat so that no-one would ever know how she had fed the monster within him, nor how eagerly it had fed.’

She was behind my back once more, the fall of her hair streaming over my left shoulder, the fragrance of her sweet, warm skin overwhelming me. I hardly heard what she was saying, but was content simply to be in her presence.

‘Then the young man slept for many hours, and when he awoke he found that it was daylight and the caravan was empty. He turned to go, but suddenly he caught sight of the Witch’s card-case lying open on the table. An inexplicable compulsion seized him to open up the case and see the cards. They were beautiful, each one smooth as ivory and painted in exquisite detail.’

At any moment I expected the usual rush of self-loathing to break upon me: all my lust was spent and I never dallied with whores after I had used them…I rarely even wanted to see them again. But this was different. For the first time in my life I felt a tenderness for this woman-this girl-something I had not experienced even with Effie. Especially not with Effie. Something in me wanted to taste her, to know her: as if the mere act we had performed had been nothing…nothing revealed, nothing spoiled. I realized with sudden, exhilarating clarity, that this was the Mystery. This girl; this tenderness.

‘On an impulse the young man spread the cards on the table in the pattern he knew as the Tree of Life. The Hermit, the Star, the Lovers, the Knave of Coins, Love, Lust, the High Priestess, Change…Suddenly the young man felt uneasy. He did not want to see the last card, the Fate card. His hand trembled as he reached out towards the card and turned it over, gingerly, afraid to see it.

‘Le Pendu: the Hanged Man…He looked away, chilled. It meant nothing! The cards had no power over him.

‘And yet, his eyes turned once again towards the card on the table, slyly, fearfully.’

I touched her neck, her arm, the taut curve of her thigh.

‘Marta…’

‘The face on the card seemed familiar. He looked again. Dark hair, clear brow, even features…He stepped back a pace.

‘No! No. His imagination was playing tricks on him. And yet, looking at the card from a distance, he could almost believe that he recognized the face of the Hanged Man…was almost sure he did…’

‘Marta.’

‘Yes?’

‘I love you.’

In the dark, her kiss was sweet.

At first I was furious.

At myself, for supposing that Fanny would give me any real help, at Effie for allowing herself to be dragged into such a dangerous, idiotic masquerade, but most especially with Fanny. I damned her to six kinds of hell when she told me that Effie was in the room with Henry and demanded to know what game she was playing.

She was maddeningly aloof.

‘But your game, my dear Mose,’ she replied sweetly. ‘We’re fabricating a scandal so that you can discredit Henry and lay hands on his money. Isn’t that right?’

It was, but I didn’t want the whole thing exposed before I got any profit out of it, and I said as much.

‘It won’t be exposed,’ she said with a smile. ‘Henry won’t recognize her.’

That was ridiculous. Henry was married to her, for God’s sake!

‘To tell you the truth,’ continued Fanny, ‘I don’t think you’d recognize her. She’s a very good…actress.’

I uttered an expletive which only made her smile.

‘Just watch,’ she urged, with gentle mockery. ‘I assure you that your precious money is quite safe.’

There was nothing else but to do as she asked. There was a peep-hole set into the wall behind a hanging tapestry and from it I could see into the parlour without any danger of being seen. As I set my eye against the hole I recall wondering uneasily how many other peep-holes existed in the house, and how often they were put into use.