'Okay,' he said.

The six of them walked quickly to the hogpen, their respiration shortening with excitement. The two sows were both as tame as tabbies, and the old boar lay asleep on his side at the far end. Henry swung the sledge once more through the air, but this time with no conviction. He handed it to Billy.

'I can't,' he said sickly. 'You.'

Billy took it and looked questioningly at Lou, who held the broad butcher knife he had taken from the glove compartment.

'Don't worry,' he said, and touched the ball of his thumb to the honed edge.

'The throat,' Billy reminded.

'I know.'

Kenny was crooning and grinning as he fed the remains of a crumpled bag of potato chips to the pigs. 'Doan worry, piggies, doan worry, big Bills gonna bash your fuckin heads in and you woan have to worry about the bomb any more.' He scratched their bristly chins, and the pigs grunted and munched contentedly.

'Here it comes,' Billy remarked, and the sledge flashed down.

There was a sound that reminded him of the time he and Henry had dropped a pumpkin off Claridge Road overpass, which crossed 495 west of town. One of the sows dropped dead with its tongue protruding, eyes still open, potato chip crumbs around its snout.

Kenny giggled. 'She didn't even have time to burp.'

'Do it quick, Lou,' Billy said.

Kenny's brother slid between the slates, lifted the pig's head toward the moon – the glazing eyes regarded the crescent with rapt blackness – and slashed.

The flow of blood was immediate and startling. Several of the boys were splattered and jumped back with little cries of disgust.

Billy leaned through and put one of the buckets under the main flow. The pail filled up rapidly, and he set it aside. The second was half full when the flow trickled and died.

'The other one,' he said.

'Jesus, Billy,' Jackie whined. 'Isn't that en-'

'The other one,' Billy repeated.

'Soo-ee, pig-pig-pig,' Kenny called, grinning and rattling the empty potato-chip bag. After a pause, the sow returned to the fence, the sledge flashed, the second bucket was filled and the remainder of the blood allowed to flow into the ground. A rank, coppery smell hung on the air. Billy found he was slimed in pig blood to the forearms.

Carrying the pails back to the trunk, his mind made a dim, symbolic connection. Pig blood. That was good. Chris was right. It was really good. It made everything solidify.

Pig blood for a pig.

He nestled the galvanized steel pails into the crushed ice and slammed the lid of the chest. 'Let's go,' he said.

Billy got behind the wheel and released the emergency brake. The five boys got behind, put their shoulders into it, and the car turned in a tight, noiseless circle and trundled up past the barn to the crest of the hill across from Henty's house.

When the car began to roll on its own, they trotted up beside the doors and climbed in panting.

The car gained speed enough to slew a little as Billy whipped it out of the long driveway and on to the Henty Road. At the bottom of the hill he dropped the transmission into third and popped the clutch. The engine hitched and grunted into life.

Pig blood for a pig. Yes, that was good, all right. That was really good. He smiled, and Lou Garson felt a start of surprise and fear. He was not sure he could recall ever having seen Billy Nolan smile before. There had not even been rumours.

'Whose funeral did ole man Henty go to?' Steve asked.

'His mother's,' Billy said.

'His mother?' Jackie Talbot said, stunned. 'Jesus Christ, she musta been older'n God.'

Kenny's high-pitched cackle drifted back on the redolent darkness that trembled at the edge of summer.

She put the dress on for the first time on the morning of May 27, in her room. She had bought a special brassiere to go with it, which gave her breasts the proper uplift (not that they actually needed it) but left their top halves uncovered. Wearing it gave her a weird, dreamy feeling that was half shame and half defiant excitement.

The dress itself was nearly floor-length. The skirt was loose, but the waist was snug, the material rich and unfamiliar against her skin, which was used only to cotton and wool.

The hang of it seemed to be right – or would be, with the new shoes. She slipped them on, adjusted the neckline, and went to the window. She could see only a maddening ghost image of herself, but everything seemed to be right. Maybe later she could…

The door swung open behind her with only a soft snick of the latch, and Carrie turned to look at her mother.

She was dressed for work, wearing her white sweater and holding her black pocketbook in one hand. In the other she was holding Daddy Ralph's Bible.

They looked at each other.

Hardly conscious of it, Carrie felt her back straighten until she stood straight in the patch of early spring sunshine that fell through the window.

'Red,' Momma murmured. 'I might have known it would be red.'

Carrie said nothing.

'I can see your dirtypillows. Everyone will. They'll be looking at your body. The Book says-'

'Those are my breasts, Momma. Every woman has them.'

'Take of that dress,' Momma said.

'No.'

'Take it of, Carrie. We'll go down and bum it in the incinerator together, and then pray for forgiveness. We'll do penance.' Her eyes began to sparkle with the strange disconnected zeal that came over her at events which she considered to be tests of faith. 'I'll stay home from work and you'll stay home from school. We'll pray. We'll ask for a sign. We'll get us down on our knees and ask for the Pentecostal Fire.'

'No, Momma.'

Her mother reached up and pinched her own face. It left a red mark. She looked to Carrie for reaction, saw none, hooked her right hand into claws and ripped it across her own cheek, bringing thin blood. She whined and rocked back on her heels. Her eyes glowed with exultation.

'Stop hurting yourself, Momma. That's not going to make me stop either.'

Momma screamed. She made her right hand a fist and struck herself in the mouth, bringing blood. She dabbled her fingers in it, looked at it dreamily, and daubed a spot on the cover of the Bible.

'Washed in the Blood of the Lamb,' she whispered. 'Many times. Many times he and-'

'Go away, Momma.'

She looked up at Carrie, her eyes glowing. There was a terrifying expression of righteous anger graven on her face.

'The Lord is not mocked,' she whispered. 'Be sure your sin will find you out. Burn it, Carrie! Cast that devil's red from you and burn it! Burn it! Burn it!'

The door slammed open by itself.

'Go away, Momma.'

Momma smiled. Her bloody mouth made the smile grotesque, twisted. 'As Jezebel fell from the tower, let it be with you,' she said. 'And the dogs came and licked up the blood. It's in the Bible! It's-'

Her feet began to slip along the floor and she looked down at them, bewildered. The wood might have turned to ice.

'Stop that!' She screamed.

She was in the hall now. She caught the doorjamb and held on for a moment; then her fingers were torn loose, seemingly by nothing.

'I love you, Momma,' Carrie said steadily. 'I'm sorry.'

She envisioned the door swinging shut, and the door did just that, as if moved by a light breeze. Carefully, so as not to hurt her, she disengaged the mental hands she had pushed her mother with.

A moment later, Margaret was pounding on the door. Carrie held it shut, her lips trembling.

'There's going to be a judgment!' Margaret White raved. 'I wash my hands of it! I tried!'

'Pilate said that,' Carrie murmured.

Her mother went away. A minute later Carrie saw her go down the walk and cross the street on her way to work.