"What place is this?" he said.

"This is Unger's Creek."

"I meant the town."

"It's not a town, it's a city. It's called Everville."

"Everville@'

"Are you lost?"

The man started down the incline between the trees. He was barefoot, Erwin saw, and with every stride the strangeness of his garb and features became more apparent. As Erwin had guessed, he was indeed wearing robes, of a blue so deep it was almost black. As for his face, it was a curious mingling of severity and ease: the brow knitted, the eyes lively, the mouth narrow, but carrying a little smile.

"I thought I was lost," he said, "but now I see I'm not. What's your name?"

"Erwin Toothaker."

"Erwin, I have a favor to ask of you."

"First tell me who you are."

"Oh, by all means." The stranger had reached the opposite bank now, and opened his arms to Erwin. "My name," he said, "is Richard Wesley Fletcher. And I am come to save you from banality."

"Joe. There's somebody coming up the stairs."

He unglued his lips from her breast, and listened. There were children yelling in the street outside and a radio playing in the apartment below. But no footfall, no creak. He went back to licking her nipple.

"I swear," she whispered, her eyes turned towards the door.

"Okay," he said, snatching his shorts off the floor and pulling them on, pressing his ever-buoyan errection against his belly in order to do so.

She ran her fingers over the breast he'd so conscientiously licked, then plucked the nipple between middle finger and thumb.

"Let me see what you got, baby," he said, looking back at her from the doorway.

She let one leg drop off the sofa on which she was sprawled and raised her hips a little. He stared at her cunt.

"Oh baby."

"You like that?" she whispered.

"You're going to see how much I like that."

She almost called him back to her there and then, but before she could do so he was gone into the hallway. She looked down at her body, grabbing hold of the excess flesh around her waist. He said he loved her this way; but she didn't. She would shed twenty pounds, she swore to herself, twenty pounds before Thanksgiving. That was "Nigger!" she heard Morton yell. The door smashed against the wall. Joe stumbled back along the hallway, clutching his bare belly.

She reached for the back of the sofa to haul herself up, but before she could do so Morton was in the doorway, staring down where Joe had stared moments before, disgust on his face.

"Christ!" he yelled. "Christ, look at you!" and came at her across the room, arms outstretched. He grabbed her splayed legs, and pulled her off the sofa with such violence she screamed.

"Don't!"

But he was past hearing anything. She'd never seen such an expression on his face: teeth bared, lips flecked, veins, sweat, and eyes popping. He wasn't red, despite his exertion: he was the color of somebody about to puke or pass out.

He reached down and hauled her up onto her knees.

"You fucking whore!" he yelled, slapping her face. "Does he like these?" He slapped her breasts this time, back and forth. "I bet he does!" Harder now, back and forth, stinging blows. "I bet he fucking eats your fucking tits!"

She tried to cover herself, but he was into the sport of it now.

"Nice tits!" Slapping, slapping so hard tears came. "Nice tits! Nice, nice tits!"

She hadn't seen Joe get up, she was too busy begging Morton to stop. But suddenly he was there, grabbing hold of her tormentor's collar and flinging him back across the room.

Morton was a good three or four inches taller, and easily fifty pounds heavier, but Joe was after him in a heartbeat, fists driving him against the wall.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Phoebe reached for some article of clothing to cover her nakedness. As she did so Morton-his nose pouring blood-let out a roar and lunged forward again, the mass of his body thrown against Joe with such force they were carried across the room. Joe landed on the television, which toppled off the low table on which it was set, and Joe went down with it, the table cracking beneath him.

Morton fell on top of him, but he was up a moment later, returning Joe's punches with kicks. they were aimed between Joe's legs, and landed solidly, five, six, seven times, while Joe lay winded and dazed on a bed of splinters and glass.

Forsaking her attempts at modesty Phoebe got to her feet and tried to pull Morton off him, but he put his hand over her face, pinching her cheeks.

"You wait your turn!" he said, stomping on Joe's groin now. "I'll get to you."

Then he pushed her away, almost casually, so as to concentrate on his brutalities. She looked down at Joe-at his body sprawled over the debris, at the bloody patch spreading in his shorts-and realized with a kind of giddiness that Morton would not be done till Joe was dead.

She had to do something, anything. She looked around the room for a weapon, but there was nothing she could lift that would fell Morton. In desperation she raced through to the kitchen, hearing as she went the terrible dull thud of boot against body, and the moans of Joe, weaker by the moment.

She pulled the kitchen drawers open one after the other, looking for a steak knife or a bread knife; something to threaten Morton with. But there was only a collection of battered cutlery.

"You're fucked, nigger@' Morton was saying. Joe's moans had stopped altogether.

In desperation she snatched up an ordinary knife and fork and raced back into the living room, in time to see Morton reach down and pull Joe's shorts away from his body to inspect his handiwork. The sickening intimacy of this fueled her rage, and she threw herself at Morton, weapon sed. He swung round as she did so, and more by chance intention dashed the knife from her hand. The fork, wever, found its mark, her momentum sufficient to thrust it into the flesh of his upper chest.

He looked down at it, more puzzled than pained, then struck her a backhanded swipe that had her stumbling back towards the door. Blood was running from the wound, but he didn't waste time pulling the fork out.

"You fucking slut!" he said, coming at her like a driverless truck. She backed out into the hallway. The front door was still open. If she made a dash she might still outrun him. But that meant leaving Joe here while she found somebody to help her, and God alone knew what Morton would do to him in the meantime.

"Stand still," he said to her, his voice dropping now to a pained rasp.

"You've got this coming." He almost sounded reasonable. "You know you got this coming."

She glanced down the narrow hallway towards the bathroom, and as he lunged at her she threw herself through the door, turning to close it before he reached her. Too late. His arm shot through the gap; grabbed hold of her hair. She threw her weight against the door, slatnming it on his arm. This time he yelled, a stream of obscenities rising into a howl of rage and pain. He started to push against the door, pulling his bloodied arm out again and wedging his leg in the gap when it was wide enough.

Her bare feet slid on the tiles; it was only a matter of moments before he had the door open. Then he would kill her, she was certain of it. She started to scream at the top of her voice, her din filling the tiny bathroom. Somebody had to come quickly, or it would be too late.

His face appeared at the opening now, white and clammy as the tiles.

"Open up," he said, pushing harder. "You know how to do that." And with a final shove he threw the door wide. She had nowhere to run and he knew it. He stood in the doorway, bleeding and gasping, looking her up and down.

"You're a whore," he said. "A fat, fucking whore. I'm going to rip your fuckin' tits off."