This last remark struck home with stinging force.Did they think she was verging on suicide; was thatwhy she was treated with kid gloves? They were onlytears she was shedding, for God's sake, and she was soindifferent to them she had not even known they werefalling.

'I'll go home,' she said. 'Thank you for your ...concern.'

The supervisor looked at her with some dismay. 'Itmust have been a very traumatic experience,' he said.'We all understand; we really do. If you feel you wantto talk about it at any time -'

She declined, but thanked him again and left theoffice.

Face to face with herself in the mirror of the women'stoilets she realised just how bad she looked. Her skinwas flushed, her eyes swollen. She did what she couldto conceal the signs of this painless grief, then pickedup her coat and started home. As she reached theunderground station she knew that returning to theempty flat would not be a wise idea. She wouldbrood, she would sleep (so much sleep of late, andso perfectly dreamless) but she would not improve hermental condition by either route. It was the bell of HolyInnocents, tolling in the clear afternoon, that remindedher of the smoke and the square and Mr Kavanagh.There, she decided, was a fit place for her to walk. Shecould enjoy the sunlight, and think. Maybe she wouldmeet her admirer again.

She found her way back to All Saints easily enough,but there was disappointment awaiting her. The demo-lition site had been cordoned off, the boundary markedby a row of posts - a red fluorescent ribbon loopedbetween them. The site was guarded by no less thanfour policemen, who were ushering pedestrians towardsa detour around the square. The workers and theirhammers had been exiled from the shadows of AllSaints and now a very different selection of people -suited and academic - occupied the zone beyond theribbon, some in furrowed conversation, others standingon the muddy ground and staring up quizzically at thederelict church. The south transept and much of the areaaround it had been curtained off from public view byan arrangement of tarpaulins and black plastic sheeting.Occasionally somebody would emerge from behind thisveil and consult with others on the site. All who did so,she noted, were wearing gloves; one or two were alsomasked. It was as though they were performing somead hoc surgery in the shelter of the screen. A tumour,perhaps, in the bowels of All Saints.

She approached one of the officers. 'What's goingon?'

'The foundations are unstable,' he told her. 'Apparently the place could fall down at any moment.'

'Why are they wearing masks?'

'It's just a precaution against the dust.'

She didn't argue, though this explanation struck heras unlikely.

'If you want to get through to Temple Street you'llhave to go round the back,' the officer said.

What she really wanted to do was to stand and watchproceedings, but the proximity of the uniformed quartetintimidated her, and she decided to give up and gohome. As she began to make her way back to the mainroad she caught sight of a familiar figure crossing the endof an adjacent street. It was unmistakably Kavanagh.She called after him, though he had already disappeared,and was pleased to see him step back into view andreturn a nod to her.

'Well, well -' he said as he came down to meet her.'I didn't expect to see you again so soon.'

'I came to watch the rest of the demolition,' she said.

His face was ruddy with the cold, and his eyes wereshining.

Tm so pleased,' he said. 'Do you want to have someafternoon tea? There's a place just around the corner.'

Td like that.'

As they walked she asked him if he knew what wasgoing on at All Saints.

'It's the crypt,' he said, confirming her suspicions.

They opened it?'

'They certainly found a way in. I was here thismorning -'

'About your stones?'

That's right. They were already putting up thetarpaulins then.'

'Some of them were wearing masks.'

'It won't smell very fresh down there. Not after solong.'

Thinking of the curtain of tarpaulin drawn betweenher and the mystery within she said: 'I wonder what it'slike.'

'A wonderland,' Kavanagh replied.

It was an odd response, and she didn't query it, at leastnot on the spot. But later, when they'd sat and talkedtogether for an hour, and she felt easier with him, shereturned to the comment.

'What you said about the crypt...'

'Yes?'

'About it being a wonderland.'

'Did I say that?' he replied, somewhat sheepishly.'What must you think of me?'

'I was just puzzled. Wondered what you meant.'

'I like places where the dead are,' he said. 'I alwayshave. Cemeteries can be very beautiful, don't you think?Mausoleums and tombs; all the fine craftsmanship thatgoes into those places. Even the dead may sometimesreward closer scrutiny.' He looked at her to see if hehad strayed beyond her taste threshold, but seeing thatshe only looked at him with quiet fascination, continued.They can be very beautiful on occasion. It's a sort of aglamour they have. It's a shame it's wasted on morticiansand funeral directors.' He made a small mischievousgrin. 'I'm sure there's much to be seen in that crypt.Strange sights. Wonderful sights.'

'I only ever saw one dead person. My grandmother,I was very young at the time ...'

'I trust it was a pivotal experience.'

'I don't think so. In fact I scarcely remember it at all,I only remember how everybody cried.'

'Ah.'

He nodded sagely.

'So selfish,' he said. 'Don't you think? Spoiling afarewell with snot and sobs.' Again, he looked at herto gauge the response; again he was satisfied that shewould not take offence. 'We cry for ourselves, don'twe? Not for the dead. The dead are past caring.'

She made a small, soft: 'Yes,' and then, more loudly:'My God, yes. That's right. Always for ourselves ...'

'You see how much the dead can teach, just by lyingthere, twiddling their thumb-bones?'

She laughed: he joined her in laughter. She had misjudged him on that initial meeting, thinking his faceunused to smiles; it was not. But his features, whenthe laughter died, swiftly regained that eerie quiescenceshe had first noticed.

When, after a further half hour of his laconic remarks,he told her he had appointments to keep and had to be onhis way, she thanked him for his company, and said:

'Nobody's made me laugh so much in weeks. I'mgrateful.'

'You should laugh,' he told her. 'It suits you.' Thenadded: 'You have beautiful teeth.'

She thought of this odd remark when he'd gone,as she did of a dozen others he had made throughthe afternoon. He was undoubtedly one of the mostoff-beat individuals she'd ever encountered, but he hadcome into her life - with his eagerness to talk of cryptsand the dead and the beauty of her teeth - at just theright moment. He was the perfect distraction from herburied sorrows, making her present aberrations seemminor stuff beside his own. When she started home shewas in high spirits. If she had not known herself bettershe might have thought herself half in love with him.

On the journey back, and later that evening, shethought particularly of the joke he had made aboutthe dead twiddling their thumb-bones, and that thoughtled inevitably to the mysteries that lay out of sight inthe crypt. Her curiosity, once aroused, was not easilysilenced; it grew on her steadily that she badly wantedto slip through that cordon of ribbon and see the burialchamber with her own eyes. It was a desire she wouldnever previously have admitted to herself. (How manytimes had she walked from the site of an accident, tellingherself to control the shameful inquisitiveness she felt?)But Kavanagh had legitimised her appetite with hisflagrant enthusiasm for things funereal. Now, with thetaboo shed, she wanted to go back to All Saints and lookDeath in its face, then next time she saw Kavanagh shewould have some stories to tell of her own. The idea, nosooner budded, came to full flower, and in the middle ofthe evening she dressed for the street again and headedback towards the square.