He had a sheet of notepaper in his hand. This he nowpassed over to her, relinquishing his hold an instantbefore she took it.

They left that number for you to call,' he said.'You've to contact them as soon as possible.' Hismessage delivered, he was already retiring up the stairsagain.

Elaine looked down at the sheet of paper, with itsscrawled figures. By the time she'd read the seven digits,Prudhoe had disappeared.

She went back into the flat. For some reason shewasn't thinking of Reuben or Sonja - who, it seemed,she would not see again - but of the sailor, Maybury,who'd seen Death and escaped it only to have it followhim like a loyal dog, waiting its moment to leap andlick his face. She sat beside the phone and stared atthe numbers on the sheet, and then at the fingers thatheld the sheet and at the hands that held the fingers.Was the touch that hung so innocently at the end ofher arms now lethal? Was that what the detectives hadcome to tell her? That her friends were dead by her goodoffices? If so, how many others had she brushed againstand breathed upon in the days since her pestilentialeducation at the crypt? In the street, in the bus, in thesupermarket: at work, at play. She thought of Bernice,lying on the toilet floor, and of Hermione, rubbing thespot where she had been kissed as if knowing somescourge had been passed along to her. And suddenlyshe knew, knew in her marrow, that her pursuers wereright in their suspicions, and that all these dreamydays she had been nurturing a fatal child. Henceher hunger; hence the glow of fulfilment she felt.

She put down the note and sat in the semi-darkness,trying to work out precisely the plague's location. Was ither fingertips; in her belly; in her eyes? None, and yet allof these. Her first assumption had been wrong. It wasn'ta child at all: she didn't carry it in some particular cell.It was everywhere. She and it were synonymous. Thatbeing so, there could be no slicing out of the offendingpart, as they had sliced out her tumours and all that hadbeen devoured by them. Not that she would escape theirattentions for that fact. They had come looking for her,hadn't they, to take her back into the custody of sterilerooms, to deprive her of her opinions and dignity, tomake her fit only for their loveless investigations. Thethought revolted her; she would rather die as thechestnut-haired woman in the crypt had died, sprawledin agonies, than submit to them again. She tore up thesheet of paper and let the litter drop.

It was too late for solutions anyway. The removal menhad opened the door and found Death waiting on theother side, eager for daylight. She was its agent, and it- in its wisdom - had granted her immunity; had givenher strength and a dreamy rapture; had taken her fearaway. She, in return, had spread its word, and therewas no undoing those labours: not now. All the dozens,maybe hundreds, of people whom she'd contaminated inthe last few days would have gone back to their familiesand friends, to their work places and their places ofrecreation, and spread the word yet further. They wouldhave passed its fatal promise to their children as theytucked them into bed, and to their mates in the act oflove. Priests had no doubt given it with Communion;shopkeepers with change of a five-pound note.

While she was thinking of this - of the diseasespreading like fire in tinder - the doorbell rang again.They had come back for her. And, as before, theywere ringing the other bells in the house. She could hearPrudhoe coming downstairs. This time he would knowshe was in. He would tell them so. They would hammerat the door, and when she refused to answer -

As Prudhoe opened the front door she unlocked theback. As she slipped into the yard she heard voices at theflat door, and then their rapping and their demands. Sheunbolted the yard gate and fled into the darkness of thealley-way. She already out of hearing range by the timethey had beaten down the door.

She wanted most of all to go back to All Saints, but sheknew that such a tactic would only invite arrest. Theywould expect her to follow that route, counting uponher adherence to the first cause. But she wanted to seeDeath's face again, now more than ever. To speak withit. To debate its strategies. Their strategies. To ask whyit had chosen her.

She emerged from the alley-way and watched thegoings-on at the front of the house from the cornerof the street. This time there were more than twomen; she counted four at least, moving in and out ofthe house. What were they doing? Peeking throughher underwear and her love-letters, most probably,examining the sheets on her bed for stray hairs, andthe mirror for traces of her reflection. But even ifthey turned the flat upside-down, if they examinedevery print and pronoun, they wouldn't find the cluesthey sought. Let them search. The lover had escaped.Only her tear stains remained, and flies at the light bulbto sing her praises.

The night was starry, but as she walked down to thecentre of the city the brightness of the Christmasilluminations festooning trees and buildings cancelled

out their light. Most of the stores were well closed by

this hour, but a good number of window-shoppers still

idled along the pavements. She soon tired of the displays

however, of the baubles and the dummies, and made

her way off the main road and into the side streets.

It was darker here, which suited her abstracted state

of mind. The sound of music and laughter escaped

through open bar doors; an argument erupted in an

upstairs gaming-room: blows were exchanged; in one

doorway two lovers defied discretion; in another, a man

pissed with the gusto of a horse.

It was only now, in the relative hush of these

backwaters, that she realised she was not alone.Footsteps followed her, keeping a cautious distance, butnever straying far. Had the trackers followed her? Werethey hemming her in even now, preparing to snatch herinto their closed order? If so, flight would only delaythe inevitable. Better to confront them now, and darethem to come within range of her pollution. She slidinto hiding, and listened as the footsteps approached,then stepped into view.

It was not the law, but Kavanagh. Her initialshock was almost immediately superseded by a suddencomprehension of why he had pursued her. She studiedhim. His skin was pulled so tight over his skull shecould see the bone gleam in the dismal light. How, herwhirling thoughts demanded, had she not recognisedhim sooner? Not realised at that first meeting, whenhe'd talked of the dead and their glamour, that he spokeas their Maker?

'I followed you,' he said.

'All the way from the house?'

He nodded.

'What did they tell you?' he asked her. 'Thepolicemen. What did they say?'

'Nothing I hadn't already guessed,' she replied.

'You knew?'

'In a manner of speaking. I must have done, in myheart of hearts. Remember our first conversation?'

He murmured that he did.

'All you said about Death. Such egotism.'

He grinned suddenly, showing more bone.

'Yes,' he said. 'What must you think of me?'

'It made a kind of sense to me, even then. I didn'tknow why at the time. Didn't know what the futurewould bring -'

'What does it bring?' he inquired of her softly.

She shrugged. 'Death's been waiting for me all thistime, am I right?'

'Oh yes,' he said, pleased by her understanding of thesituation between them. He took a step towards her, andreached to touch her face.

'You are remarkable,' he said.

'Not really.'

'But to be so unmoved by it all. So cold.'

'What's to be afraid of?' she said. He stroked hercheek. She almost expected his hood of skin to comeunbuttoned then, and the marbles that played in hissockets to tumble out and smash. But he kept hisdisguise intact, for appearance's sake.