parceled it up in the bag, it was the weight of a small child, no more. Sealing the bag up, she was about to take it down to the car when she heard the front door open.

The sound undammed all the panic she'd so assiduously kept from herself. She began to shake. Tears pricked her sinuses.

"Not now..." she told herself, but the feelings would simply not be suppressed any longer.

In the hallway below, Rory said: "Sweetheart?"

Sweetheart! She could have laughed, but for the terror. She was here if he wanted to find her-his sweetheart, his honeybun-with her breasts new-washed, and a dead man in her arms.

"Where are you?"

She hesitated before replying, not certain that her larynx was the equal of the deception.

He called a third time, his voice changing timbre as he walked through into the kitchen. It would take him a moment only to discover that she wasn't at the cooker stirring sauce; then he would come back and head up the stairs. She had ten seconds, fifteen at most.

Attempting to keep her tread as light as possible, for fear he heard her movements overhead, she carried the bundle to the spare room at the end of the landing. Too small to be used as a bedroom (except perhaps for a child), they had used it as a dump. Half-emptied tea chests, pieces of furniture they had not found a place for, all manner of rubbish. Here she laid the body to rest awhile, behind an upended armchair. Then she locked the door behind her, just as Rory called from the bottom of the stairs. He was coming up.

"Julia? Julia, sweetheart. Are you there?"

She slipped into the bathroom, and consulted the mirror. It showed her a flushed portrait. She picked up the blouse she'd left hanging over the side of the bath and put it on. It smelled stale, and there was

undoubtedly blood spattered between the flowers, but she had nothing else to wear.

He was coming along the landing; she heard his elephantine tread.

"Julia?"

This time, she answered-making no attempt to disguise the tremulous quality of her voice. The mirror had confirmed what she feared: that there was no way she could pass herself off as undistressed. She was obliged to make a virtue of the liability.

"Are you all right?" he asked her. He was outside the door.

"No," she said. "I'm feeling sick."

"Oh, darling..."

"I'll be fine in a minute."

He tried the handle, but she'd bolted the door.

"Can you leave me alone for a little while?"

"Do you want a doctor?"

"No," she told him. "No. Really. But I wouldn't mind a brandy-"

"Brandy..."

"I'll be down in two ticks."

"Whatever madam wants," he quipped. She counted his steps as he trudged to the stairs, then descended. Once she'd calculated that he was out of earshot, she slid back the bolt and stepped onto the landing.

The late afternoon light was failing quickly; the landing was a murky tunnel.

Downstairs, she heard the clink of glass on glass. She moved as quickly as she dared to Frank's room.

There was no sound from the gloomed interior. The walls no longer trembled, nor did distant bells toll. She pushed the door open; it creaked slightly.

She had not entirely tidied up after her labors. There was dust on the floor, human dust, and fragments of dried flesh. She went down on her haunches and collected them up diligently. Rory had been right. What a perfect hausfrau she made.

As she stood up again, something shifted in the ever-denser shadows of the room. She looked in the direction of the movement, but before her eyes could make sense of the form in the corner, a voice said:

"Don't look at me."

It was a tired voice-the voice of somebody used up by events; but it was concrete. The syllables were carried on the same air that she breathed.

"Frank," she said.

"Yes..." came the broken voice, "it's...me.

From downstairs, Rory called up to her. "Are you feeling better?"

She went to the door.

"Much better," she responded. At her back the hidden thing said: "Don't let him near me, " the words coming fast and fierce.

"It's all right," she whispered to him. Then, to Rory: "I'll be with you in a minute. Put on some music. Something soothing."

Rory replied that he would, and retired to the lounge.

"I'm only half-made," Frank's voice said. "I don't want you to see me...don't want anybody to see me...not like this..." The words were halting once more, and wretched. "I have to have more blood, Julia."

"More?"

"And soon."

"How much more?" she asked the shadows. This time she caught a better glimpse of what lay in wait there. No wonder he wanted no one to look.

"Just more, " he said. Though the volume was barely above a whisper, there was an urgency in the voice that made her afraid.

"I have to go..." she said, hearing music from below.

This time the darkness made no reply. At the door, she turned back.

"I'm glad you came," she said. As she closed the door, she heard a sound not unlike laughter behind her, nor unlike sobs.

1

Kirsty? Is that you?"

"Yes? Who is this?"

"It's Rory..."

The line was watery, as though the deluge outside had seeped down the phone. Still, she was happy to hear from him. He called up so seldom, and when he did it was usually on behalf of both himself and Julia. Not this time however. This time Julia was the subject under discussion.

"There's something wrong with her, Kirsty," he said. "I don't know what."

"Ill, you mean?"

"Maybe. She's just so strange with me. And she looks terrible."

"Have you said anything to her?"

"She says she's fine. But she isn't. I wondered if maybe she'd spoken with you."

"I haven't set eyes on her since your housewarming."

"That's another thing. She doesn't even want to leave the house. That's not like her."

"Do you want me to...to have a word with her?"

"Would you?"

"I don't know if it'll do any good, but I'll try. "

"Don't say anything about me talking to you."

"Of course not. I'll call in at the house tomorrow-"

("Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. "

"Yes...I know. "

"I'm afraid I'll lose my grip, Julia. Start slipping back.")

"I'll give you a call from the office on Thursday. You can tell me what you make of her."

("Slipping back?"

"They'll know I've gone by now. "

"Who will?"

"The Gash. The bastards that took me..."

"They're waiting for you?"

"just beyond the wall.")

Rory told her how grateful he was, and she in turn told him that it was the least a friend could do. Then he put down the phone, leaving her listening to the rain on the empty line.

Now they were both Julia's creatures, looking after her welfare, fretting for her if she had bad dreams.

No matter, it was a kind of togetherness.

2

The man with the white tie had not bided his time. Almost as soon as he set eyes on Julia he came across to her. She decided, even as he approached, that he was not suitable. Too big; too confident. After the way the first one had fought, she was determined to choose with care. So, when White Tie asked what she was drinking, she told him to leave her be.

He was apparently used to rejections, and took it in his stride, withdrawing to the bar. She returned to her drink.

It was raining heavily today-had been raining now for seventy-two hours, on and off-and there were fewer customers than there had been the week before. One or two drowned rats headed in from the street; but none looked her way for more than a few moments. And time was moving on. It was already past two. She wasn't going to risk getting caught again by Rory's return. She emptied her glass, and decided that this was not Frank's lucky day. Then she stepped out of the bar into the downpour, put up her umbrella, and headed back to the car. As she went she heard footsteps behind her, and then White Tie was at her side and saying: "My hotel's nearby."