"CR?" I said.

"Crow Road," Janice said quietly, looking down at the folder in my hands.

I wasn't sure what to say. While I was still thinking, she looked up, bright-eyed, glanced around at the walls of the flat and shrugged. "Yeah; I know. Sentimental of me, eh?" She smiled.

"No," I said. "It's… it's — " The words sweet and nice suggested themselves, but didn't seem right. " — fitting. I guess." I stuck the folder under my arm, cleared my throat. «Well…» I said.

She had taken off her jacket; she wore a blouse and cords. She shrugged. "Would you like some coffee? Something stronger?"

«Umm…» I said, taking a deep breath. "Well… aren't you tired?"

"No," she said, folding her arms. "I usually read way past this time of night. Stay; have some whisky."

She took my jacket, poured me a whisky.

I sat down on a huge, surprisingly firm old couch. It looked like brown leather, but any smell it had had was gone. I held the whisky glass up. "Won't you?" I said. This is like playing chess, I thought.

"Well, not if I have to drive you home, Prentice."

"Oh… I could… walk," I smiled bravely. "Can't be more than three or four miles. Less than an hour. You'd lend me a brolly, wouldn't you? Or there might be a night bus. Please; have a whisky; sit down, make yourself at home."

She laughed. "Okay, okay." She went to the table where the bottles were, poured herself a whisky. Somewhere in the distance, that sound of the city: a siren warbling.

Stay here, if you like," she said, slowly putting the top back on the bottle. She turned, leaning back against the table, drinking from her glass, looking down at me. "That's if you want to… I don't want you to think I'm seducing you or anything."

"Shit," I said, putting my glass down on a rather over-designed coffee table. I put my hands on my hips (which is rather an unnatural thing to do when you're sitting down, but what the hell). "I was kinda hoping you were, actually."

She looked at me, then gave a single convulsive laugh, and right until then I think it might still have gone either way, but she stood there, her back to the table, set her glass down upon its polished surface, put her hands behind her back, and looked down, her head forward and a little to the left. Her weight was on her left leg; her right leg was relaxed, knee bent in slightly towards the left. I could see she was smiling.

I knew I'd seen that stance before, and even as I was getting up from the couch to go over to her I realised she was standing just the way Garbo does in Queen Christina, during the Inn sequence, when she's sharing the best room with John Gilbert, playing the Spanish ambassador who doesn't realise until that point the disguised Garbo is a woman, not a man. She starts to take her clothes off eventually, and gets down to her shirt; then Gilbert looks round, does a double take and looks back; and she's standing just like that, and he knows.

It had — I recalled, even as I went over to her — been one of Uncle Rory's favourite old films.

It was one of those wonderful first nights when you never really do more than drowse between bouts of love-making, and even when you do think no more; that's it, finito… you still have to say goodnight, which itself means a kiss, and a hug; and each touch begets another touch more sweet, and the kiss on the cheek or neck moves to the lips, the lips open, the tongues meet… so every touch becomes a caress, each caress an embrace, and every embrace another coupling.

She turned to me, during that night, and said, "Prentice?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Do you think Rory's… away the crow road? Do you think he's dead?"

I turned on my side, stroked her flank, smoothing my hand from thigh to shoulder, then back. "I really don't know," I admitted.

She took my hand, kissed it. "I used to think, sometimes, that he must be dead, because otherwise he'd have been in touch. But I don't know." There was just enough light seeping in past the curtains to let me see her head shaking. "I don't know, because people sometimes do things you'd never have thought they would ever do." Her voice broke, and her head turned suddenly; she pushed her face into the bedclothes; I moved over to hold her, just to comfort her; but she kissed, hard, and climbed on top of me.

I had, up until that point, been performing an agonising reappraisal of the indignant signals of total, quivering, painful exhaustion flooding in from every major muscle I possessed. My body's equivalent of the Chief Engineer was screaming down the intercom that the system just wouldn't take any more punishment, Jim, and there was no doubt that I really should have been pulling out and powering down just then…

But, on the other hand, what the heck.

"… all your your nonsenses and truths, your finery and squal-adoptions, combine and coalesce, to one noise including laugh and whimper, scream and sigh, forever and forever repeating, in any tongue we care to choose, whatever lessened, separated message we want to hear. It all boils down to nothing, and where we have the means and will to fix our reference within that flux; there we are. If it has any final signal, the universe says simply, but with every possible complication, "Existence," and it neither pressures us, nor draws us out, except as we allow. Let me be part of that outrageous chaos… and I am.»

Her voice was sleepy; the hand that had been quietly ruffling my hair had now gone limp. The litany subsided, the quiet words not echoing in the dark room.

Uncle Rory's words, apparently. At first just thought; a mantra to delay ejaculation — a slightly more civilised, if narcissistic, alternative to brother Lewis's thoughts about constructing MFI kitchen units. Then, once, she had asked him what he thought of when they made love (and smoothed over his protestations of eternal in-head fidelity) to discover that — purely to prolong her pleasure — he sometimes recited a piece of his own poetry to himself. He was persuaded to repeat it, for her, and it became a shared ritual.

"Always… always liked that," she said quietly, shifting a little to fit her body to mine. "Always…»

"Hmm," I said, and felt her breathing alter. "Good-night, Janice," I whispered.

"Night, Rore," she murmured.

I wasn't sure what to feel. Eventually I yawned, pulled the duvet over the two of us, and smiled into the darkness.

I went to sleep wondering what on earth had possessed Uncle Rory to write a miserable, incomprehensible line "your finery and squal-adoptions'.

What in the name of hell was a squal-adoption, for goodness" sake?

There was something else nagging me; my conscience. The embarrassing truth was that despite having taken a sort of policy decision years ago, the gist of which was: no condom, no sex, Janice and I had not been using one. She'd emplaced a cap, but that, as the leaflets will tell you, don't provide no AIDS protection. So here I was indulging in casual — if intensive — sex with a woman I hadn't even heard anything about for eight years; hell, she could have been up to anything! But she had claimed the opposite, and I'd believed her. It was probably the truth, but it was exactly such instances of casually misplaced trust that were undoubtedly going to kill better men and women than me over the next decade or so.

Still, it was done. I drifted away.

I swear I was asleep when my eyes flicked on their own and in a burst of dark certainty I thought: squalid options! that's what he wrote: Squalid options, before going instantly back to sleep again.