stranded - droppdf1.droppdf.com/files/ifqjo/stranded-val-mcdermid.pdf · 2015. 8. 31. · val...

STRANDED

ValMcDermid

ForewordbyIanRankin

GrovePressNewYork

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin2005byFlambardPress.

Grove/Atlantic,Inc.wishestothankFlambardPressfor

permissiontousetheirfiles.

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproducedinanyformorbyanyelectronicormechanicalmeans,including

informationstorageandretrieval

systems,withoutpermissioninwritingfromthepublisher,exceptbyareviewer,whomayquotebriefpassagesinareview.Scanning,

uploading,andelectronicdistributionofthisbookorthefacilitationofsuchwithoutthepermissionofthepublisheris

prohibited.Pleasepurchaseonlyauthorizedelectroniceditions,anddonotparticipateinorencourageelectronicpiracyofcopyrightedmaterials.Yoursupportofthe

author’srightsisappreciated.Anymemberofeducationalinstitutionswishingtophotocopypartorallof

theworkforclassroomuse,oranthology,shouldsendinquiriestoGrove/Atlantic,Inc.,154West

14thStreet,NewYork,NY10011orpermissions@groveatlantic.com.

Copyrightthiscollection©ValMcDermid2005

Press,2003)‘DrivingaHardBargain’copyright

©ValMcDermid1996,firstpublishedinTheMailonSunday

(1996)

publishedinGoodHousekeeping(2002)

(Polygon,1996)‘WhiteNights,BlackMagic’

(Do-NotPress,2002)‘TheWritingontheWall’

ValMcDermid1989,firstpublishedinReader,IMurderedHim(TheWomen’sPress,1989)

firstpublishedinReader,IMurderedHimToo(TheWomen’s

firstpublishedintheNewsoftheWorldmagazine(2000)

commissionedandbroadcastbyBBCRadio4(2004)

McDermid1995,firstpublishedinNorthernBlood2(FlambardPress,

ValMcDermid2004,firstpublishedin12Days(Virago,

2004)‘TheConsolationBlonde’

TartNoir(Picador,2002)‘WhenLarryMetAllie’copyright

©ValMcDermid2000,firstpublishedinTheNewEnglishLibraryBookofInternetStories

McDermid2004,commissionedbyNewWritingNorthin2004and

previouslyunpublished

eISBN:978-0-8021-9174-8GrovePress

animprintofGrove/Atlantic,Inc.154West14thStreetNewYork,NY10011

DistributedbyPublishersGroupWest

groveatlantic.com

AlsobyValMcDermidAPlaceofExecutionKillingtheShadowsTheDistantEchoTheGraveTattooADarkerDomainTrickoftheDarkTheVanishingPointNorthangerAbbeyTheSkeletonRoadTONYHILLNOVELS

TheMermaidsSingingTheWireintheBloodTheLastTemptationTheTormentofOthersBeneaththeBleedingFeveroftheBoneTheRetributionCrossandBurn

KATEBRANNIGANNOVELS

DeadBeatKickBackCrackDown

CleanBreakBlueGenesStarStruck

LINDSAYGORDONNOVELS

ReportforMurderCommonMurderFinalEditionUnionJack

BookedforMurderHostagetoMurder

SHORTSTORYCOLLECTIONS

TheWritingontheWall

StrandedChristmasisMurder

NONFICTION

ASuitableJobforaWomanForensics

Contents

ForewordbyIanRankinMittel

DrivingaHardBargain

TheWagonMoundBreathtakingIgnorance

WhiteNights,BlackMagic

TheWritingontheWall

KeepingontheRightSideoftheLaw

AWifeinaMillionATraditionalChristmas

TheGirlWhoKilled

SantaClausSneezeforDanger

GuiltTripHomecomingHeartburn

FourCallingBirdsTheConsolation

BlondeMetamorphosis

WhenLarryMetAllie

TheRoadandtheMilestoDundee

Foreword

Passion. Obsession.Revenge.These three words would

make a great tagline on amovie poster, and they aresubjects Val McDermidtackles in her short stories.Themark of great shortstorywriters,however, is that they

not only unsettle theirreaders, shaking us out ofcomplacency, but that theyexplore the psychology ofhuman interaction. In hisbook of modern aphorisms,The Book of Shadows, thepoet Don Paterson includesthe following: ‘A mercy, Isuppose, that it ended. Anydeeper intimacy with each

other’s anatomy would haveinvolvedamurder.’ValMcDermidcouldalmost

have written those words,including thatwry and tangy‘I suppose’. Of course, inVal’s world things often gofar beyond Don Paterson’simaginings, because thecrimewriter recognises thatloveisthemostdestructiveof

emotions. It turns worldsupside down and peopleinside out. It can so easilyturn to lust, or envy, orloathing. It can, and oftendoes, lead to violence, bothemotionalandphysical.Val has always been a

restless writer – the journeythroughherfictionaluniversecould never have been made

byasingle,consistentheroorheroine – and the shortstoryform suits her, allowing herto pick apart relationshipswith a furious skill,highlighting flaws andjealousies. The readers cansee tragedy and horroremerging while theparticipants cannot. Andalways there are those twists

awaiting us, just when wethink we’ve seen it all. ButVal is no fatalist: a darkhumour infuses many of thestories here, and one story –‘The Road and the Miles toDundee’–isverydifferenttothe others, allowing theauthor to explore her rootsand the strong pull of familyandbackground.It’sahugely

moving tale and one whichshows her extraordinaryrange.Those who have read her

novel Killing the Shadowswill be unsurprised that Valhas a dark view of thewriter’slife,exhibitedhereinno fewer than four stories.Her writers harbour darksecrets or painful memories,

or are driven to act outrevenge tragedies notdissimilar to the ones theywrite about. I only hope Inevergetonherwrongside...I should, right at the start,

have laid my cards on thetable. I’ve known Val foryears.ButbeforeIknewher,I knew her books. I was

intrigued by the authorbiography on her earlyjackets. It seemed to me wemusthavegrownupnearoneanother.And sowe did: fivemiles apart, yet we first metin Seattle, where we werebothattendingacrime-fictionconvention. We went outdrinking and talking and –eventually – singing. Since

then, we’ve sharedexperiences which wouldmake decent short stories inthemselves . . . except thatfew people would believethem. The short story, afterall, unlike real life, has toconvinceusthatitcouldhavehappened, or might behappening right now. Andthisistherealtrickofagood

short story: it has to pull usinto its world straight away,convincing us withimmediately recognisablecharacters. Once snared, wecanbeginourdescentintothedarkconfinesoftheplot.Therearestoriesherewhich

will make you shudder, andwhichwill linger long in themind.Tinyworldsofhurtand

healing: the hurt we do toeach other; the healing thatcomes with recognition. Therecognition that we havethesepotentialswithinus.It’sup to us to choose betweengood and evil, love anddestruction.

IanRankin

Mittel

Picture a city, itsarchitectureamixofAustro-HungarianempireandformerEastern bloc. A mix thatshould sit uneasily togetherbut instead fits comfortablyfromlongfamiliarity.Picturethis city, its long strings oftramsdominatingwidestreets

that feel dusty butwhich arein fact surprisingly clean.Picture this city, itsinhabitants going about theirimaginable business, theirpace brisker than by theMediterranean but moresultry than in its coldernorthern sisters. Picture thiscity.CallitMittel.And in this city, a street.

Andinthisstreet,acafé.Andin this café, a table. And atthis table, a woman. And inherhand,apen.What she is writing is not

important.Itisnotpartofthelesson she has to teach you.Thefactthatsheiswritingata table, alone, however, ispartofthatlesson.Youhavespentyearsliving

with a different woman, onewho never understood thatwhen you were irritable orimpatient itwas seldomwithher. It was simply your wayof externalising otherstresses, other frustrations.And it made you crazy, herinability not to take thispersonally.And now the wheel has

turned and you are in lovewith a woman who issometimes distant andshrouded.Andyouareslowlygrasping the fact that this isseldom anything to do withyou. It is simply her way ofexternalising other stresses,other frustrations. And youarehavingtolearnnottotakethispersonally.

Youwalkup to the table inthe café in the street in thecityofMittelaftertheagreedlength of time has passed.And now the sun is out.Hersmile dazzles you with itswarmth. And suddenly thetumblers click, the jugglerhangs seven balls in the airand you know you’ve donethe right thing. ‘Perfect

timing,’shesays.Yes, you think. But it

doesn’t last. Every time youtake a run at it, your feetstumble on unexpectedcobbles.Andthere’salwaysagood reason for it, a reasonthat makes perfect sense tobothofyou,butareasonthatstill leaves you feelingbleached and split like

driftwood on the shores oflove.Atlast,youcallheronit.‘Is

everything all right betweenus?’Apparently surprised, she

says,‘Ofcourseitis.’‘Only, you haven’t touched

mesincewegothere.I’mnottalkingaboutsex,I’mtalkingabout just touching me,

kissingme,holdingme.’‘You know I’m not

comfortable with publicdisplaysofaffection.’‘I know that. But I’m

talking about when we’rehere together, in bed, in ourroom, in the hotel. Byourselves.’‘I’m nervous about my

presentation today,’ she says.

‘And I’m tired. And thisbed’suncomfortable.Andit’shot. And I’m premenstrual.AndIfindithardtocombinework and pleasure. And it’snotfair,I’mnotevenawake.’And she turns away becauseshedoesn’twant to feelyoureyesonher.You tell her you love her.

Shegrunts,‘Loveyoutoo.’

So you keep your distanceallday.Youleavehertotalkto everybody else, to dazzlethem with her discourse,which she does supremelywell.Younoticethis,inspiteof your efforts not to let herfeel you’re scrutinising her.You stay back, out of herface, give her space. And atlast, at the end of the

afternoon, you’re back at thehotel, there’s the prospect ofa couple of hours togetherbefore the evening marathonof more presentations inlanguages neither of youspeak.

Listen to this. A city wherethelowboomofchurchbellscallingthehoursislostintherattleofrainoncaféawnings.

Breathe this. A city whosemarket square is heavy withthe perfume of strawberriesandlavender.Imaginethis.Acity where wars have leftrecent scars and wherehistory is alive and kicking,where conversations turn toconflicts on the turn of anuance. And in this city, ahotel. And in this hotel, a

room. And in this room, awoman. She’s standingbehind you, fingers tentativeonyourshoulderblades.Youwish to fuck she’d stop it.Youtoldherrightatthestartthatyoudon’tdoreassurance.Your self-sufficiency makesyou impatient of neediness.And today,with anunnamedanxiety gnawing at you,

making her feel better isn’tsomethingyou’recapableof.You love this woman.

You’veopenedyourselfuptopossibilities with her. Youdon’t do commitment, butyou’ve committed to her bythe simple – but for you,infinitelycomplicated–actoftelling the people you careaboutthatyou’rewithherand

you’rehappy.Butsometimesyou wish she was a millionmiles away. She’s easier tolove at a distance when herneed surfaces and makesdemands on you that youdon’twanttomeet.Sure,youaretouchedbyherpain.Andthereare timeswhenyouareproud to be the one that thisstrongwomaniswillingtobe

vulnerable with. Butsometimes it’s just too damnhard.You know you’re not

always fair toher.She’dpaywhatever it took to loveyou,and all you’re required to doistomakeaspaceinyourlifebigenoughforpart-timelove.But she’s not a small,insignificant person. She’s

big in every way and she’salreadycarvedanicheinyourworld.Hernamefollowsyouround at work and at play.Her face insinuates itself atunlikely and unpredictablepointsinyourdailyexistence.Youturnontheradioandhervoice fills the room. Andsometimes her ubiquity evenin her absence feels like

suffocation, her verygenerosityatrap.Youwantthistowork,more

than you’vewanted anythingfor a long time. You wantwhat she brings in her gift –reliability, intelligence, goodhumour and a sense of afuture thatcontainswhatyoubothwant.And you dowantso many of the same things;

truly, you do. You knowbecause you’ve both spent along time working them outbefore either of you evenknew that youwould end uplettingthislovebreathe.But still you shrug away

fromthestrokeofherfingers.Justa tinymovement,almostimperceptible but enough forher toget themessage.From

the corner of your peripheralvision,you seeherhand jerkback.‘What do youwant to do?’

you say. ‘It’s probably toolate in theday for amuseumor a gallery. We could goback up to the old town. Orlookatshoeshops.’This lastwith a grin. You know herweaknessforfootwear.

‘I don’t care,’ she says.‘This is the last time we’llhave alone together for ages.Idon’tmindwhatwedo.I’dbehappy to standona streetcorner in the rain as long asI’mwithyou.’You know she means it.

You picture the two of youlocked in an embrace on thebusy corner of the street,

oblivious to the tramsclatteringpast, thetrafficcopdressedinwhitedirectingthecarsandbuses, theumbrellaspartingaroundyouastherainpours down, plastering yourhair to your head, running inrivulets down the inside ofthe collar of your leatherjacket. You imagine thetender warmth of her lips

against yours, the feel of herbody soft against the stiffleather, and you know youloveherenoughtodoittoo.‘OK,’yousay.‘Let’sgo.’And then she reaches for

you,handsatyourwaist,eyespleading. And it’s gone, thedream of love in the rain onthestreetcorner.Your hands flutter up in a

defensivegesture.‘I’mnot... I can’t . . . I’m not in therightplaceforthis.’Youseethehurtshetriesto

hideandyouhatethewayshecan make you feel bad fornothingmorethanbeingwhoyouare.Out in the street, the rain

falls relentlessly.Twoblocksfrom the hotel, she stops

abruptlyandsaysshedoesn’twanttowalk.‘Yougooffanddoyour thing,’shesays. ‘I’llcatch up with you at thepresentation.’You smile. It’s a real smile

and you see that register inher eyes. And suddenly,surprisingly, she’s smilingtoo.Andhersmileisamirrorofyoursinitsgenuineness.

And that’s when youunderstand it might just befine.

Picture a city. A city whosetackysouvenirsincludeapairof wooden figures shelteringunder an umbrella. A citywhere statues of heroes areturnedtofacethedirectionofthe latest enemy. A city thattriesnottowearitshurtonits

sleeve. Picture this city. CallitMittel.

DrivingaHardBargain

I’d find it a lot easier tobelieve in therapists if theyacknowledged the existenceof the inner spiv as well asthe inner child, parent,teacher and washingmachinemechanic.We’veallgotone,

and no matter how hard wetry to be stylish andsophisticated, our inner spivwill sabotage us every time.It’s the driving force thatdictatesPrinceCharles’s cufflinks and Hugh Grant’ssexualhotbutton.I share my weakness with

Princess Diana. No, I’m nottalking bleating, indiscreet

me. I’m talking motors. Butit’snotthebigMercsandtheturbocharged Bentleys thatspeak to the spiv in me. It’sflashy cabriolets, sleek felinecoupés that make teenageboys on street corners drool.Tragically, these days, likesex formenwithXXXX-largebeerguts,it’sallinthemind.The one drawback to my

chosen career as KateBrannigan,privateeye,isthatwhenitcomestocruisingthemean streets of Manchester,it’sanonymitythatcutsit,notflamboyance.A girl can still dream,

though.SowhenGerryBankstold me he’d lost his BMWZ3 roadster, one of only halfa dozen then in the country,

an advance release that hadcost him a small fortune tocome by and which turnedevery head when he drovedown the street, Iunderstoodwhy he spoke as if he wastalking about the death of aparticularlycloseandbelovedfamily member. If I’d beenlucky enough to own one ofthose little beauties, I’d have

probably replaced thebedroom wall with an up-and-over door so I couldsleepwithit.Andifsomerathad kidnapped my baby andheld it to ransom, I’d havehiredeveryinvestigatorinthekingdom if itmeant bringingmydarlinghometome.Bankshadrevealedhispain

behind thecloseddoorofhis

office,afunctionalboxontheupperfloorofthecustombuiltfactory where his companymade state-of-the-artelectronic components. Thesort of things that tell yourtumble drier exactlywhen toscorch your favourite shirt.The best you could call theview of the nearby M62would be ‘uninspiring’. But

if, like Gerry Banks, all youcould see was a hole in thecar park where a scarletroadster ought to be, it musthavebeenheartbreaking.‘I take it that’s thesceneof

thecrime,’Isaid,joininghimbythewindow.He pointed to the empty

parking space nearest thedoor, the series of smooth

curves that made up hispudgy features rearrangingthemselves into corrugatedlines. ‘Bastard,’ was all hesaid.I waited for a couple of

minutes, the way you dowhen someone’spaying theirrespects to the dead.When Ispoke, my voice was gentle.‘I’m going to need full

details.’‘Fine,’ he sighed, turning

away and throwing himselfmiserably into his blackleatherexecutivechair. Iwasleft with the bogstandardvisitor’s number in charcoaltweedand tubularmetal. Justin case I didn’t know whowasthebosshere.‘Take me through it from

the beginning,’ I urgedwhenhe showed no signs ofcommunicatingfurther.‘He turned up on Tuesday

morning at nine. He said hisname was John Wilkins andhe ran an executive valetserviceforcars.Hegavemeabusiness card and a glossybrochure. It quotes half adozen top Manchester

businessmen saying what agreat job thisValet-While-U-Work does.’ His voice wasthe self-justifyingwhine of amandesperatenot tobe seenas the five-star prat he’dbeen.HepushedafoldedA4sheet towardsme, a businesscardlyingontopofit.Igavethemthebriefglancethatwasall they deserved. Nothing

thatcouldn’tcomeoutofanyneighbourhoodprintshop.‘So you agreed to let him

valetyourcar?’Henodded. ‘Igavehim the

keysandhepromisedtohaveit back by close of business.But he didn’t.’ He clenchedhisjaw,bunchingthemusclesunderhisear.‘And that’s when you got

thefax?’He looked away, ostensibly

searching for the piece ofpaperIknewwasrightunderhishand.‘Here,’hesaid.‘We’vegotyourcar.Bythis

time Friday, you’ll have tenthousand pounds. Fairexchange is no robbery. Nocops or the car gets it justbadly enough not to be a

writeoff. Yours faithfully,Rob-It-While-U-Work,’ Iread.Avillainwithasenseofhumour. ‘The price seems abit steep,’ I said. ‘I thoughttheZ3onlycostabouttwentygrandnew.’‘Ifyoucangetone.They’re

notofficiallyreleasedtillnextJanuaryand there’salreadyatwoyear waiting list. Money

can’t buy a replacement. I’mnot interested in commonrubbish. You know where Ilive? Not in some poxyexecutivedevelopment.Ilivein a converted sixteenth-century chapel. There’s notanother one like it in theworld.Anywhere. Iwantmycar back, you understand?Without a scratch on it,’

Banks said, the ghost of hismanagement skills starting toemerge from the shadows ofhisgrief.‘I’llhavethemoneyheretomorrowafternoon,andIwantyoutotakecareoftheexchange. Can you handlethat?’I’m so used to middleaged

businessmen taking one lookat my twenty-nine-year-old

fivefeetandthreeinchesandtreating me like the tea girlthat it barely registers on theBrannigan scale ofindignation any more. ‘I canhandleit,’Isaidmildly.‘Butwouldn’t you rather get thecar back and hang on to thecash?’‘You think you could do

that?Without putting the car

atrisk?’I gave him the stare I’d

copiedfromAlPacino.‘Icantry.’

Like journalists, private eyesare only as good as theirsources. Unfortunately, ourbest ones tend to be peopleyour mother would bar fromthe doorstep, nevermind thehouse. Like my mechanic,

Handbrake.He’s no ordinarygrease monkey. He learnedhistradetuningupthewheelsfor a series of perfectgetaways after hismates hadrelieved some financialinstitution of a wad theyhadn’t previously realizedwas surplus to requirements.Heonlygot caught theonce.Thathadbeenenough.

When he got out, he’d sethimself up in a backstreetgarageandgonestraight.Ish.But he still knew who waswhoamongtheplayersonthewrongsideof thefence.Andas well as keeping my carnondescript on the outsideand faster than a speedingbulletontheinside,hetippedmetheoddwinkonitemshe

thought Imight be interestedin. It sat easier with hisconscience than talking toOfficer Dibble. He answeredthephonejustasIwasaboutto give up. ‘Yeah?’ Time ismoney;chatisinessential.‘Handbrake, Brannigan.’

The conversational style wascatching. ‘I’m working for apunter who’s had his BMW

Z3 ripped for a ransom. Theguy called himself JohnWilkins. Valet-While-U-Work.Anyideas?’‘Dunnothenamebutthere’s

acoupleofteamshavetriediton,’ he told me. ‘A Z3, yousay?Ididn’tthinktherewereanyoverhereyet.’‘There’s only a handful,

accordingtothepunter.’

‘Right. Rarity value, that’swhat makes it worthransoming. Anything else,forget it – cheaper to let thecar walk, cop for theinsurance. I’ll ask around,talktotheusualsuspects,seewhatthewordis.’I started the engine and

slipped the car into gear ataboutthesametimemybrain

did the same thing.Acoupleof minutes later, I wasgrinning at Gerry Banks’sreceptionist for the secondtime that morning. ‘Meagain,’ I chirped. Nothinglike stating the obvious tomake the victim of yourinterrogationfeelsuperior.‘Mr Banks has gone into a

meeting with a client,’ she

said in the bored singsongyou need to master beforethey let you qualify as areceptionist.‘Actually, it was you I

wanted a word with.’Ingratiatingsmile.She looked startled. I’d

obviouslygone foraconceptshewasunfamiliarwith.‘Why?’

‘Mr Banks has hiredme totrytogethiscarback,’Isaid.‘Acoupleofquestions?’Sheshrugged.‘When the car valet bloke

arrived, did he ask who theZ3belongedto?’She shook her head. ‘He

said, could he have fiveminutes with Mr Banksconcerning the ongoing

maintenanceofhisroadster.Ibuzzed Mr Banks, then senthimin.’‘Those were his actual

words?Hesaidroadster?’‘That’s right. Like Mr

Banksalwayscallsit.’I’d been afraid that’s what

shewouldsay.

I was being ushered into thepresence of my financial

advisorwhenHandbrakerangme back. Josh waved me tooneofhiscomfortableleatherarmchairs while I wrestledthephoneoutofmybagandto my ear. ‘You got aproblem I can’t solve,’Handbrake said. ‘Whoever’sgot your punter’s motor,either they’re not fromaround here or they’re new

talent.Sonewnobodyknowswhotheyare.’‘I had a funny feeling you

weregoing to tellme that,’ Isaid.‘Ioweyouone.’‘I’ll add it to your next

service.’I hung up. This was

beginning to look more andmore like something verypersonal.‘Drink?’Joshasked

sympathetically.‘I’m not stopping. This is

just a quick smashandgrabraid. Gerry Banks,Compuponents.Who’s got itinforhim?’

The only thing in commonbetweenGerryBanks’shomeand the flatwhosebell Iwasleaning on was that they’dboth been converted.

Somehow, I couldn’t seemyclient in this scruffyEdwardian rattrap in thehinterland between the curryrestaurants of Rusholme andthestreethookersofWhalleyRange.Eventually the door opened

onawomaninjeansfadedtothe colour of her eyes, abaggy chenille jumper and

herearlythirties.Darkblondehair was loosely pulled backin a ponytail. She had thekind of face thatmakesmenpausewiththeirpintshalfwayto their lips. ‘Yeah?’ sheasked.‘TaniaBanks?’Her head tilted to one side

and two little lines appearedbetween her perfectly

groomed eyebrows. ‘Whowantstoknow?’Iheldabusinesscardateye

level. ‘I’ve come about thecar.’Theanimationleakedoutof

her face like the air from apuncturedtyre.‘Ihaven’tgota car,’ she said, her voicegratingandcold.‘Neitherhasyourhusband.’

A muscle at the corner ofhermouthtwitched.‘I’vegotnothingtosay.’Ishrugged.‘Pleaseyourself.

I thoughtwe could leave thepolice out of it, but if youwanttoplayittheotherway...’‘Youdon’tfrightenme,’she

lied.‘Maybe not, but I’m sure

your husband knows peoplewhowould.’Her shoulders sagged, her

mouth slackened in defeat.‘You’dbettercomein.’The bedsit was colder and

damper than the streetoutside,inspiteofthegasfirehissing at full blast. Sheperched on the bed, leavingthechairtome.‘Youlefthim

threemonthsago,’Isaid.‘I got tired of everybody

feeling sorry for me. I gottiredofhimonlyevercominghomewhenthelatestmistresswas out of town on amodelling assignment,’ shesighed, lighting a cheapcigarette.‘And you wanted a life.

That’s why you’ve been

doing the part-time lawdegree,’Isaid.Her eyebrows flickered. ‘I

finished the degree. I’ve juststarted the one-year courseyouneedtobeasolicitor.’‘You don’t get a grant.’

Some of my best friends arelawyers; I know about thesethings. ‘The fees aresomewherearoundfouranda

halfgrand.Plusyou’vegottohave something to live on.Which you expected to getfrom the divorce settlement.Only,there’saproblem,isn’tthere?’‘You’rewellinformed,’she

said.‘It’s my job. He’s clever

with money, your husband.On paper, he’s spotless. It’s

theoffshoreholdingcompanythat owns the car, the house,everything.He takes a salaryof a few hundred a month.And the company pays foreverything else. And it’s allperfectly legal. On paper, hecan’t afford to pay you ashilling. So you decided toextract your divorcesettlement by a slightly

unorthodoxroute.’She looked away, studying

the hand that held thecigarette. ‘Ten grand’s afraction of what I’m entitledto,’ she said softly. Heradmissionofguiltdidn’tgiveme the usual adrenalin rush.She sighed again. ‘You haveno ideawhat I’ve had to putupwithovertheyears.’

I submitted my account toGerryBankswithoutaqualm.I’ddonethejobheaskedmeto do, and as far as I wasconcerned, he should begrateful. He’d asked me tohandletheexchange,tomakesurehiscarcamebacktohimin one piece. It had beenmewho’dmade thefoolishofferto get the Z3 back without

handing over the cash. Andeverybody knows that wewomen aren’t up to thedemanding job of beingprivate eyes, don’t they?Hardly surprising I wasn’table to live up to mypromises.Besides, we’ll have

forgotten each other insidesix months. But I’ll never

forgetthewindinmyhairthenight Tania Banks and myinnerspivcruised theM6tilldawnwiththetopdown.

TheWagonMound

Nothingdestroysthequalityof life somuch as insomnia.Ask any parent of a newbaby. It only takes a fewbroken nights to reduce themost calm and competentpersontoatwitchingshadowof their normal proficiency.Mywakefulnessstartedwhen

thenightmaresbegan.WhenIdid manage to drop off, thevisions my subconsciousmind conjured up wereguaranteed to wake me,sweatingand terrified,withinacoupleofhoursofnoddingoff.Itdidn’ttakelongbeforeI began to fear sleep itself,dreading the demons thatripped through the fabric of

my previous ease. I triedsleepingpills, I triedalcohol.Butnothingworked.I never dreamed that I’d

rediscover theartof sleepingthrough thenight thanks to alegal precedent. In 1961, thePrivy Council heard a caseconcerning a negligent oilspillagefromashipcalledtheWagon Mound in Sydney

Harbour. The oil fouled anearbywharf, and in spiteofexpertadvicethatitwouldn’tcatch fire, when the wharf’sowners began welding work,the oil did exactly what itwasn’t supposed to do. Thefire that followed causedenough damage for it to beworth taking to court, wherethe Privy Council finally

decreed that the ship’sownersweren’tliablebecausethetypeofharmsustainedbythe plaintiff must itself bereasonablyforeseeable.WhenRoger, the terminally boringcommercial attaché at theMoscow Embassy, launchedintothetaletheothernightinthe bar at Proyekt OGI, hecould never have imagined

that it would changemy lifeso dramatically. But then,lawyers have never beennotedfortheirimagination.Proximity. That’s another

legal principle that came upduring Roger’s lecture. Howmany intervening stages liebetween cause and effect. Ithink by then Iwas the onlyone listening, because his

disquisition had made methink back to the startingpointofmysleeplessnights.Although the seeds were

sown when my boss inLondon decided to invite thebestselling biographer SamUttley on a British CounciltourofRussia,Ican’tbeheldaccountableforthat.ThefirstpointwhereIcalculateIhave

to accept responsibility wason the night train fromMoscowtoStPetersburg.I’d been looking after Sam

ever since he’d landed atSheremetyevo airport twodays before. I hadn’t seenhim smile in all that time.He’d lectured lugubriouslyatthe university, glumlyaddressed a gathering at the

British Council library, donedepressing signings at twobookshops and sulked hisway round a reception at theIrish embassy. Even theweatherseemed to reflecthismood, grey clouds loweringover Moscow and turningApril into autumn. Mindingvisiting authors is normallythepartofmyjobIlikebest,

but spending time with Samwas about as much fun ashavingaholeinyourshoeina Russian winter. We’d allbeen hoping for someglamourfromSam’svisit;hisChannel Four series on therootsofbiographyhadledusto expect a glowing Adoniswith twinkling eyes and agleaming grin. Instead, we

gotagloweringblackdog.Over dinner on the first

evening, he’d downed hisvodka like a seasonedRussian hand, and gloomedlike themostdepressiveSlavintheCaucasus.Ontheshortwalk back to his hotel, Iasked him if everything wasall right. ‘No,’ he saidshortly. ‘My wife’s just left

me.’Right, I thought. Don’t go

there, Sarah. ‘Oh,’ I think Isaid.The final event of his

Moscow visit was a booksigning,andafterwardsItookhimtodinnertopassthetimetill midnight, when the trainwould leave for St Pete’s.Thatwaswhenthefloodgates

opened.Hewasmiserable,headmitted. He was terriblecompany. But Rachel hadwalkedoutonhimaftereightyears of marriage. Therewasn’t anyone else, she’dsaid. Itwas just that shewasbored with him, tired of hiscelebrity, fed up of feelinginferior intellectually. Ipointedoutthatthesereasons

seemed somewhatcontradictory.He brightened up at that.

And suddenly the sun cameout. He acted as if I’dsomehow put my finger onsomething that should makehim feel better about thewhole thing. He radiatedlight, and I basked in thewarmth of his smile. Before

long, we were laughingtogether, telling our lifestories, swapping intimacies.Flirting,Isuppose.Weboardedthetrainalittle

before midnight, eachdumping our bags in ourseparate first-classcompartments. Then SamproducedabottleofGeorgianchampagne from his holdall.

‘Anightcap?’hesuggested.‘Why not?’ I was in the

mood,cheeredbeyondreasonby the delights of hiscompany.Hesatdownonthesleepingberthbesideme,andit seemed only natural whenhis arm draped across myshoulders. I remember thesmell of him; a dark,masculine smell with an

overlay of some spicycologne with an edge ofcinnamon. If I’m honest, Iwas willing him to kiss mebefore he actually did. Iwasentirely disarmed by hischarm. But I also felt sorryfor thepain that hadbeen soobvious over the previoustwo days. And maybe, justmaybe, the inherent Doctor

Zhivagoromanceofthenighttraintippedthebalance.I don’t usually do this kind

ofthing.WhatamIsaying?Ineverdothiskindofthing.Infour years of chasing aroundafter authors, or having themchase afterme, I’d not giveninto temptation once. ButSam penetrated all of myprofessional defences, and I

moanedunderhishandsfromMoscowtoStPetersburg.Bymorning,hesworeI’dhealedhisheart.By the timehe leftSt Pete’s three days later,we’d arranged to meet inLondon, where I was due toattendameeting in tendays’time.I’dbeenoutoflovefora longtime; itwasn’thardtofall for a man who was

handsome, clever andamusing, andwho seemed tofindmeirresistible.Two days’ later, I got his

firste-mail.I’dbeencheckingevery waking hour on thehour,wonderingandedgy. Itturnedout I hadgood reasontobeanxious.Thee-mailwasshortandsour.

Dear Sarah, Rachel and I

have decided we want totry to resolve ourdifficulties. It’ll come as nosurprise to you that mymarriage is my numberone priority. So I think itbest if we don’tcommunicate further. Sorryif this seems cold, butthere’s no other way to sayit. Sam.

I was stunned. This wasn’t

cold,itwasbrutal.Ahardjabbelow the ribs, designed totake my breath away anddeflect any possiblecomeback. I felt the physicalshock in the pit of mystomach.Of course, I blamedmyself

for my stupidity, myeagerness to believe that aman as charismatic as Sam

could fall for me. Good oldreliableSarah,thesafepairofhands who secondguessedauthors’ needs before theycould even voice them. I feltsuch a fool. A bruised,exploitedfool.Time passed, but therewas

still a raw place deep insideme. Sam Uttley had takenmore from me than a few

nights of sexual pleasure;he’d taken away my trust inmy judgement. I toldnobodyabout my humiliation. Itwouldhavebeenonepaintoomany.Then Lindsay McConnell

arrived. An award-winningdramatist,she’dcometogivea series of workshops onradio adaptation. She was

impeccably professional, notrouble to take care of. Andwehititoffstraightaway.Onher last night, I took her tomy favourite Moscow eatingplace, a traditional Georgianrestaurant tucked away in acourtyard in the Armenianquarter. As the wine slippeddown, we gossiped andgiggled. Then, in the course

of some anecdote, shementioned Sam Uttley. Justhearing his name made myguts clench. ‘You knowSam?’Iasked,strugglingnottosoundtoointerested.‘Oh God, yes. I was at

university with Rachel, hiswife.Ofcourse,youhadSamoutherelastyear,didn’tyou?He said he’d had a really

interestingtime.’I bet he did, I thought

bitterly. ‘How are they now?Sam and Rachel?’ I askedwith the true masochist’sdesire for the twist of theknife.Lindsay looked puzzled.

‘Whatdoyoumean,howaretheynow?’‘When Sam was here,

Rachelhadjustlefthim.’Shefrowned. ‘Areyousure

you’re not confusing himwith someone else? They’resolid as a rock, Sam andRachel.Godknows,ifhewasmine I’d havemurdered himyears ago, but Rachel thinksthesunshinesoutofhisarse.’Itwasmyturntofrown.‘He

toldmeshe’djustwalkedout

on him. He was reallydepressedaboutit.’Lindsay shook her head.

‘God, how very Sam. Hehates touring, you know.He’ll do anything to squeezeout a bit of sympathy, makesure he gets premier-leaguetreatment. He just likes tohave everyone runningaround after him, Sarah. I’m

tellingyou,Rachelhasneverlefthim.NowIthinkaboutit,thatweekhewasinRussia,Iwent round there for dinner.Me andRachel and a coupleofhercolleagues.Youknow,from Material Girl. Themagazine she works for. Ithink if they’d split up, shemight have mentioned it,don’tyou?’

Ihoped Iwasn’t lookingasstunned as I felt. I’d neverthought of myself as stupid,but that calculating bastardhadspunmealineandreeledme in open-mouthed like thedumbestfishinthepond.Butof course, because I’m awomanand that’showwe’retrained to think, I was stillblaming myself more than

him. I’dclearlybeensendingout the signals of needygullibilityandhe’djustcomeup with the right line toexploitthem.A few weeks later, I was

stillsmartingfromwhatIsawasmyself-inflictedwoundattheEdinburghBookFestival,where us British Counciltypes gather like bees to

pollen.ButatleastI’dfinallyhave the chance to sharemyidiocy with Camilla, myopposite number inJerusalem. We’d workedtogetheryearsbeforeinParis,and we’d become bosombuddies. The only reason Ihadn’t told her about Sampreviously was that everytimeIwrote itdowninane-

mail, it just looked moronic.It needed a girls’ night inwith a couple of bottles ofdecent red wine before Icouldletthisonespillout.Late on the second night,

after a particularly gruellingAmnesty International event,we sneaked back to the flatwe were sharing with acouple of the boys from the

Berlinofficeandstartedinonthe confessional. My storycrawled out of me, and IrealisedyetagainhowfoolishI’d been from the horrifiedexpressiononCamilla’sface.Thatandherappalledsilence.‘I don’t believe it,’ shebreathed.‘Iknow,Iknow,’Igroaned.

‘How could I have been so

stupid?’‘No, no,’ she said angrily.

‘Notyou,Sarah.SamUttley.’‘What?’‘That duplicitous bastard

Uttley.He pulled exactly thesamestuntonGeorgieBulleninMadrid. The identical lineabout his wife leaving him.She told me about it when IflewinforSemanaNegralast

month.’‘But I thoughtGeorgiewas

livingwithsomeone?’‘She was,’ Camilla said.

‘Paco, the stage manager atthe opera house. She’d takenUttleydowntoGranadatodosome lectures there, that’swhen it happened. Georgiesaw the scumbag off on theplaneandcamestraighthome

and told Paco it was over,she’dmet someone else. Shethrewhimout,thentwodayslater shegot thekillere-mailfromSam.’We gazed at each other,

mouthsopen.‘Thebastard,’Isaid.For thefirst time,angerblotted out my selfpity andpain.‘Piece of shit,’ Camilla

agreed.We spent the rest of the

bottleandmostofthesecondonethinkingofwaystoexactrevenge on Sam Uttley, butweboth knew that therewasno way I was going back toMoscow to find a hitman totake him out. The troublewas, we couldn’t think ofanything that would show

him up without making uslooklikesillycredulousgirls.Most blokes, no matter howmuch they might pretendotherwise, would reckon:goodonhimforworkingoutsuch a foolproof scam to gethis leg over. Most womenwould reckonwe’d got whatwe deserved for being sonaïve.

I was thirty thousand feetabove Poland when theanswer came to me. Thewomanintheseatnexttomehad been reading MaterialGirl and sheoffered it tomewhenshe’dfinished.Ilookeddown the editorial list,curious to see exactly whatRachel Uttley did on themagazine.Hernamewasnear

thetopof thecredits.Fictioneditor,RachelUttley.Aquicklook at the contents helpedmededucethat,aswellasthebooks page, Rachel wasresponsible for editing thethree short stories. There, atthe end of the third, was asentence saying thatsubmissions for publicationshouldbesenttoher.

I’vealwayswantedtowrite.OneofthereasonsItookthisjob in the first place was tolearnasmuchasIcouldfromthosewho do it successfully.I’ve got half a novel on myhard disk, but I reckoned itwastimetotryashortstory.Two days later, I’d written

it.Thecentralcharacterwasabiographerwhospecialisesin

seducing professionalcolleagues on foreign tripswith a tale about his wifehaving left him. Then he’ddump them as soon as he’dgot home. When one of hisvictims realises what he’sbeen up to, she exposes theserialadultererbysendinghiswife, a magazine editor, ashort story revealing his

exploits. And the wife,recognising her erranthusband from the penportrait,finallydoeswalkoutonhim.Before I could have second

thoughts, I printed it out andstuffed it in an envelopeaddressed to Rachel atMaterialGirl.ThenIsatbackandwaited.

For a couple of weeks,nothinghappened.Then, one Tuesday

morning, I was sitting in theoffice browsing BBC onlinenews. His name leapt out atme. ‘Sam Uttley Dies inBurglary’, read the headlinein the latest-news section. Iclickedonthe<more>button.

Bestselling biographer and

TV presenter Sam Uttleywas found dead thismorning at his home inNorth London. It isbelieved he disturbed aburglar. He died from asingle stab wound to thestomach. Police say therewas evidence of a break-inat the rear of the house.

Uttley was discovered byhis wife, Rachel, a

journalist. Police are callingfor witnesses who mayhave seen one or two menfleeing the scene in theearly hours of the morning.

Ihadtoreadthebarewordsthree or four times beforethey sank in. Suddenly, hislies didn’t matter any more.All I could think of was hiseyesonmine,theflashofhiseasy smile, the touch of his

hand. The sparkle of wit inhis conversation. The life inhim that had been snuffedout. The books he wouldneverwrite.Over a succession of numb

days, I pursued the story viathe internet. Bits and piecesemerged gradually. They’dhad an attempted burglary afew months before. That

night,Rachelhadgoneofftobed but Sam had stayed uplate, working in his study.Sam,thepolicereckoned,hadheard the sound of breakingglass and gone downstairs toinvestigate. The intruder hadsnatched up a knife from thekitchenworktop and plungedit into his stomach then fled.Samhadbledtodeathonthe

kitchen floor. It had takenhim a while to die, theythought. And Rachel hadcome down for breakfast tofind him stiff and cold. PoorbloodyRachel,Ithought.On the fifth day after the

newsbroke,therewasalargemanila envelope among mypost, franked with theMaterialGirl logo.My story

had come winging its waybacktome.Inside, therewasa handwritten note fromRachel.

DearSarah,Thank you somuch for yoursubmission. I found yourstory intriguing and thought-provoking.Arealeye-opener,in fact. But I felt the endingwas rather weak and so Iregretwe’reunabletopublish

it.However,Ilikeyourstyle.I’d be very interested to seemoreofyourwork.Gratefullyyours,RachelUttley

That’s when I realised whatI’d done. Like Oscar Wilde,I’dkilledthethingI’dloved.AndRachel hadmade sure Iknewit.That’s when my sleepless

nightsstarted.

Andthat’swhyI’msovery,very grateful for Roger andthe case they call WagonMound (No.1). And for anunderstanding of proximity.Thanks to him, I’ve finallyrealised I’m not the guiltypartyhere.NeitherisRachel.The guilty party is the one

who started the wagonrolling.Lovely,sexy,reckless

SamUttley.

BreathtakingIgnorance

Every caterer’s nightmare.The choking customer,collapsedonthefloorgaspingforbreath.I’dalreadyhurtledthrough from the kitchen assoonas I heard the coughingandspluttering,andImadeit

tohissidejustasheslumpedto the floor like a BonfireNightguy,legssplayed,headlolling,eyespopping.Theboardroomcrowdwere

keeping their distance,rememberingallthestricturesthey’d ever heard aboutgiving people air. There wasa nervous hush, the onlysounds the croakinggaspsof

themanon the floor. Iknewexactly who he was. BrianBayliss, chief legal executiveof Kaymen Merchant Bank.I’dcateredfunctionsforhim,both at the bank’s CanaryWharfheadquartersandathisopulenthouseinSuffolk,andI knew he was as pompousand bossy as they come.Butthat didn’t stop me kneeling

down beside him anddragging him into a sittingposition so I could performthe Heimlich manoeuvre.That’s one of the manyfascinatingthingsyoulearnatcateringcollege.Youencirclethe victim with your arms,hugthemtightlyandsharply,forcing the air out of theirlungs, which in turn frees

whatever is blocking theirwindpipe. The downside isthat somebody usually endsupcoveredinsick.Baylisswasbrightscarletby

now, his lips turning anominousblue. I gotmyarmsroundhim,smellingthesweatthat mingled with hisexpensive cologne. Icontracted my arms, forcing

his ribs inward. Nothinghappened. His gaspingsounded ever more frantic,lesseffective.‘I’ll call an ambulance,

Meg,’ John Collings saiddesperately, moving towardsthe boardroom phone. He’dorganised this lunch, and Icould see this was the lastcontract for a directors’

thrashthatI’dbegettingfromhim.Itriedthemanoeuvreagain.

This time, Bayliss slumpedheavily against me. Thedreadful retching of hisbreathing suddenly ceased.The heaving in his chestseemed to have stopped. ‘Ohmy God,’ I said. ‘He’sstoppedbreathing.’

Acoupleoftheotherguestsmoved forward and gingerlypulled Bayliss’s still bodyaway from me. I freed myskirt from under him andcrawled round him on myknees, saying, ‘Quick, thekissoflife.’Outofthecornerof my eye I could see Johnslam the phone down. In thecornerbehindhim,Tessa,the

waitress who’d served him,wasweepingquietly.John’s chief accountanthad

taken on the unenviable taskof mouth-to-mouthresuscitation. Somehow, Iknew he was wasting histime. I leaned back on myheels, muttering, ‘I don’tunderstand it. I just don’tunderstandit.’

Theambulancecrewarrivedwithin five minutes andclamped an oxygen maskover his face. They strappedBayliss to a stretcher and Ifollowed them down thecorridor and into the lift.David Bromley, Bayliss’sdeputy, climbed into theambulance alongside me,lookinglikehewantedtoask

what thehell I thought Iwasdoing.‘It was my food he was

eating,’ I said defensively. ‘Iwant to make sure he’s allright.’‘Looksabitlateforthat,’he

said. He didn’t sound filledwithregret.Atthehospital,DavidandI

foundaquietcornernear the

WRVS coffee stall. I staredglumly at the floor and saidsoftly,‘Hedidn’tlooklikehewasgoingtopullthrough.’‘No,’ David agreed with a

note almost of relish in hisvoice.‘You don’t sound too

upset,’Ihazarded.‘That obvious, is it?’ he

asked pleasantly. ‘No, I’m

notupset.Thebankwillbeabetterplacewithouthim.Theguy’sacompleteshit.He’satyrant at the office and athome too, from what I cangather.Hesaysjumpandtheonly question you’re allowedtoask is,howhigh?Hegoesthrough secretaries like otherpeople go through rolls ofSellotape.’

‘OhGod,’ Igroaned. ‘So ifhe recovers, he’ll probablysuemefornegligence.’‘Idoubtifhe’dhaveacase.

Hisowngreedwastoomuchofacontributoryfactor.Isawhim stuffing down thosechicken and garlic canapéslike therewasno tomorrow,’Davidconsoledme.Beforewecouldsaymore,a

weary-looking woman in awhite coat approached us.‘Areyouthetwopeoplewhocame in the ambulance with–’,shecheckedherclipboard.‘BrianBayliss?’We nodded.‘Are you related to MrBayliss?’Weshookourheads.‘I’ma

colleague,’Davidsaid.‘And I catered the lunch

where Mr Bayliss had hischokingfit,’Irevealed.The doctor nodded. ‘Can

you tellmewhatMrBaylisshadtoeat?’‘Just some canapés. That’s

all we’d served by then,’ Isaiddefensively.‘And what exactly was in

thecanapés?’‘There were two sorts,’ I

explained. ‘Smoked chickenorsalmonandlobster.’‘Brian was eating the

chicken ones,’ David addedhelpfully.The doctor looked slightly

puzzled.‘Areyousure?’‘Of course I’m sure. He

never touched fish,’ Davidadded. ‘He wouldn’t evenhave it on the menu if we

werehostingafunction.’‘Look,’ I said. ‘What

exactlyistheproblemhere?’The doctor sighed. ‘Mr

Bayliss has died, apparentlyas a result of anaphylacticshock.’ We must both havelooked bewildered, for shewent on to explain. ‘Aprofound allergic reaction.Essentially, the pathways in

his respiratory tract justclosed up. He couldn’tphysicallygetenoughairintohis lungs, so he asphyxiated.I’ve never heard of it beingbrought on by chicken,though. The most commoncauseisanallergicreactiontoa bee sting,’ she addedthoughtfully.‘I know he was allergic to

shellfish,’ David offered.‘That’swhyhehadthisthingaboutneverservingfish.’‘Oh my God,’ I wailed.

‘The lobster!’ They bothstaredatme.‘Igroundupthelobstershellsintopowderandmixed themwithmayonnaisefor the fish canapés. Themayo for the chicken oneshad grilled red peppers and

roast garlic mixed into it.They looked very similar.Surely there couldn’t havebeen a mix-up in thekitchen?’ I covered my facewith my hands as I realisedwhathadhappened.Of course, theyboth fussed

overmeandinsisteditwasn’tmy fault. I pulled myselftogether after a fewminutes,

then the doctor asked Davidabout Bayliss’s next of kin.‘His wife’s calledAlexandra,’ he told her, andrecitedtheirhomenumber.HowdidIknowitwastheir

home number? Not fromcatering executive lunches,I’m afraid. Perhaps I shouldhave mentioned thatAlexandra and I have been

lovers for just over a yearnow. And that Brian wasadamant that if she left him,he’d make sure she leftwithout a penny from him.And, more importantly, thatshe’d never see her childrenagain.I just hope themix-upwith

the mayo won’t hurt myreputation for gourmet

boardroomfoodtoomuch.

WhiteNights,BlackMagic

When night falls in StPetersburg, the dead becomemore palpable. In this citybuilt on blood and bone,they’re always present. Butwhen darkness gathers,they’reharder toescape.The

frozen, drowned serfs whopaid the price for Peter theGreat’sdeterminationtofulfilNostradamus’spredictionthatVenice would rise from thedeadwaters of the north; theassassinated tsars whosemurderschangedsurprisinglylittle; the starved victims ofthe Wehrmacht’s nine-hundred-daysiege;theburied

corpses of lords of theimagination such asDostoevsky, Borodin andRimsky-Korsakov – they’reall there in the shiftingshadows, their foetid breathtainting the chilly air thatcomes off the Neva andshiversthroughthestreets.My dead too. I never feel

closer to Elinor than when I

walk along the embankmentof Vasilyevsky Ostrov on awinter’s night. The familiargrandeur of the Hermitageand St Isaac’s cathedral onthe opposite bank touch menot at all. What resonatesinsideme is thesoundofhervoice, the touch of her hand,thesparkofhereyes.It shouldn’t be this way. It

shouldn’tbethedarknessthatconjures her up for me,becausewedidn’tmakethosememoriesinthedeadcoreofwinter. The love thatexploded between us was achild of the light, a dreamstate that played itself outagainst the backdrop of theWhite Nights, those headysummerweekswhen the sun

neversetsoverStPetersburg.Like all lovers, we thought

thesunwouldneversetonuseither. But it did. Andalthough Elinor isn’t one ofthe St Petersburg dead, shecomesbacktohauntmewhenthecity’sghostsdriftthroughthe streets inwraithsof rivermist. I know too that this isno neutral visitation. Her

presence demands somethingof me, and it’s taken me along time to figure out whatthat is. But I know now.ElinorunderstoodthatRussiacan be a cruel and terribleplace, and also that I amprofoundly Russian. Sotonight, I will makereparation.

Three summers ago, Elinor

unpacked her bags in theMoscow Hotel down at thefar end of Nevsky Prospekt.She’d never been to Russiabefore,andwhenwemetthatfirst evening, she radiated abuzz of excitement thatenchanted me. We Russiansare bound to our native landby a terrible, doomedsentimental attachment, and

we are predisposed to likeanyone who shows theslightest sign of sharing thatlove.But there was more than

that linking us from the verybeginning. Anyone who hasever been in an abusiverelationship has had theirmental map altered forever.It’s hard to explain precisely

how thatmanifests itself, butonce you’ve been there, yourecognise it in another. Analmost imperceptible flickerintheeyes;sometinyshiftinthe body language; an oddmoment of deference in thedialogue. Whatever thesignals, they’resubconsciously registered bythoseofuswhoaremembers

ofthesameclub.Inthatveryfirst encounter, I read thatkinship between myself andElinor.By the time Imet Elinor, I

waswellclearofthemarriagethat had thrown me offbalance, turned me from aconfident, assuredprofessional woman into abundle of insecurities. I was

backonevenkeel, incontrolof my own destiny andcertain I would never walkinto that nightmare again. Iwasn’tsosureaboutElinor.She seemed poised and

assertive. She was a well-qualified doctor who hadgained a reputation for herwork on addiction withintravenousdrugusers inher

native Manchester. She wasthe obvious choice for amonth-long exchange visit toshare her experiences withlocal medical professionalsand voluntary-sector workersstruggling to come to termswith the heroin epidemicsweeping St Petersburg. Sheexuded a quiet competenceandaneasymanner.Butstill,

Irecognisedthesecretshame,thehiddenscars.I hadbeen chosen to act as

her interpreter because I’dspent two years of my post-graduate medical training inSanFrancisco. IwasnervousabouttheassignmentbecauseI had no formal training ininterpreting, but my bossmade it clear there was no

room for argument. Thebudget wouldn’t run to aqualified interpreter, andbesides, I knew all thetechnical terminology. IexplainedthistoElinoroveraglassofwineinthehalfemptybar after the official dinnerwith the meeting-and-greetingparty.Somespecialistsmighthave

regarded my confession as aslight on their importance.But Elinor just grinned andsaid, ‘Natasha, you’re adoctor, you can probablymake me sound much moresensible than I can managemyself. Now, if you’re notrushing off, maybe you canshowme round a little, helpmegetmybearings?’

Wewalkedoutofthehotel,roundthecornertotheMetrostation. Her eyes were wide,absorbed by everything. Theamputee war veterans roundthe kiosks; the endlessescalator; the young womanslumped against the door ofthe train carriage, vodkabottle dangling from herfingers, wrecked mascara in

snail trails down her cheeks;Elinor drank it all in, tossingoccasionalquestionsatme.We emerged back into

daylight at the opposite endof Nevsky Prospekt, and Isteered her round the bigtourist sights. The cathedral,theAdmiralty,theHermitage,then back along theembankment to the Fontanka

Canal. Because she was stilloperating on UK time, shedidn’t really register theWhiteNightsphenomenonatfirst. It was only when Ipointedoutthatitwasalreadyeleven o’clock and sheprobably needed to thinkaboutgettingsomesleep thatshe realised her normal cuesforwakingandsleepingwere

going to be absent for thenextfourweeks.‘Howdoyoucopewith the

constant light?’ she said,wavinganarmataskyonlyacouple of shades lighter thanhereyes.Ishrugged.‘Ipullthepillow

overmyhead.Butyourhotelwill have heavy curtains, Ithink.’ I flagged down a

passing Lada and asked thedriver to take us back to thehotel.‘It’s all so alien,’ she said

softly.‘It’llgetworsebeforeitgets

better,’ I told her. I droppedher at the hotel and kept thecaron.As thedriverweavedthrough the potholed streetsback to my apartment on

Vasilyevsky Ostrov, Icouldn’t escape the image ofher wide-eyed wonderingface.But then, I wasn’t exactly

trying.

Over the next week, I spentmost of my waking hourswith Elinor. Mostly it waswork, constantly stretchingmy brain to keep pace with

the exchange of informationthat flowed back and forthbetween Elinor and mycolleagues. But in theevenings, we fell into thehabit of eating together, thenstrollingroundthecitysoshecould soak up theatmosphere. I didn’t mind.There were plenty of otherthings I could have been

doing, but my friends wouldstill be there after she lefttown.WhatIwasn’tallowingmyself to acknowledge wasthatIwasfallinginlovewithher.On the sixth night, she

finally started opening up.‘You know I mentioned mypartner?’ she said, fillingourwine glasses to avoid my

eyes.‘He’s a lawyer, right?’ I

said.Hermouthtwistedupatone

corner. ‘He’s a she.’ Sheflickedaquickglance atme.‘Doesthatsurpriseyou?’I couldn’t keep the smile

from my face. For days, I’dbeen telling myself off forwishfulthinking,butI’dbeen

right. ‘It takes one to knowone,’Isaid.‘You’re gay?’ Elinor

soundedstartled.‘Labelsareformedicines,’I

said. ‘But lately, I seem tohavegivenuponmen.’‘You have a girlfriend?’

Now,hereyeswereonmine.I didn’t know what to readinto their level stare, which

unsettledmealittle.‘Nothingserious,’Isaid.‘A

friend I sleepwith from timeto time, when she’s in town.Just fun, for both of us. Notlikeyou.’She looked away again.

‘No.Notlikeme.’Something about the angle

of her head, the downcasteyes and the hand that

gripped the wine glass toldmemyfirst instincthadbeenright.Whatevershemightsaynext, I knew that thisapparently confident womanwasinthralltosomeonewhostripped her of her self-esteem.‘Tellmeabouther,’Isaid.‘Hername’sClaire.She’sa

lawyer, specialising in

intellectual property. She’svery good. We’ve beentogethertenyears.She’sverysmart, very strong, verybeautiful. She keeps my feetontheground.’Iwantedtotellherthatlove

should be about flying, notabout the force of gravity.But I didn’t. ‘Do you missher?’

Again, shemetmy eyes. ‘Ithought I would. But I’vebeen so busy.’ She smiled.‘And you’re such goodcompany, you’ve kept mefrombeinglonely.’‘It’s been my pleasure.

Where would you like to gothisevening?’Her gaze was level,

unblinking. ‘I’d like to see

whereyoulive.’Itriedtostaycool.‘It’snot

veryimpressive.’‘You don’t have to impress

me. I’d just like toseea realRussian home. I’m fed upwithhotelsandrestaurants.’So we took the Metro to

Vasileostrovskaya andwalked down SrednyProspekt to the Tenth Line,

whereI liveina two-roomedapartment on the secondfloor. Buying it took everypenny I managed to save intheUS,andit’sprettydrabbyWestern standards, but to aRussian it feels like totalluxurytohavesomuchspaceto oneself. I showed Elinorinto the living room withsome nervousness. I’d never

brought a Westerner homebefore.She looked round thewhite

walls with their Chagallposters and the secondhandfurniture covered withpatchwork throws, thenturned to me and smiled. ‘Ilikeit,’shesaid.I turned away, feeling

embarrassed. ‘Interior design

hasn’t really hit Russia,’ Isaid. ‘Would you like adrink? I’ve got tea or coffeeorvodka.’‘Vodka,please.’There is a moment that

comes with drinking vodkaRussian style wheninhibitions slip away. That’sthe time to stop drinking,before you get too drunk to

doanythingwiththewindowofopportunity.IknewElinorhadhitthemomentwhensheleaned into me and said, ‘Ireallylovethiscountry.’Ipushedherdarkhairaway

from her forehead and said,‘Russia can be a very cruelplace. We Russians aredangerous.’‘You don’t feel very

dangerous to me,’ shewhispered, her breath hotagainstmyneck.‘I’m Russian. I’m trouble.

Thetwogotogetherlikehandinglove.’‘Mmm. I like the sound of

that.Yourhand,myglove.’‘That would be very

dangerous.’She chuckled softly. ‘I feel

the need for a little danger,Natasha.’Andsowemadetrouble.

Of course, she went back toEngland. She didn’t want to,but she had no choice. Hervisawas about to expire, shehad work commitments athome. And there was Claire.Shehadsaidverylittleabouther lover, but I understood

howdeeplyingrainedwashersubservience.Theclueswerethere, both sexually andemotionally. Claire wasn’tphysically violent, butemotional abuse can causedamage that is far moreprofound. Elinor had learnedthe lesson of submission sothoroughly it was entrenchedin her soul. No matter how

deepthelovethathadsprungup between us, in her heartshe couldn’t escape theconviction that she belongedtoClaire.Itdidn’tstopuslovingeach

other. We e-mailed daily,sometimes several times aday.Wemanagedtospeakonthephoneevery twoor threeweeks,sometimesforanhour

atatime.Acoupleofmonthsafter she’d gone back, shecalled in distress. Claire hadaccepted a new job inLondon, and was insistingElinor abandon her work inManchester and move to thecapital with her. I gentlysuggested this might be theopportunity forElinor to freeherself,notnecessarilyforme

but for her own sake. But Iknew even as I spoke it waspointless. Until Clairedecided it was over, Elinorhad no other option but tostay. I understood that; I hadonlymanaged to freemyselfwhenmyhusbandhadgrowntiredofme. Iwanted to saveher,butIdidn’tknowhow.Three months later, they’d

moved. Elinor had found ajob at one of the Londonteachinghospitals.Shedidn’thave the same degree ofautonomy she’d enjoyed inManchester, and she found itmuchlesschallenging.Butatleast she was able to usesome of her expertise, andshe liked the team she wasworkingwith.

I was actually reading oneofhere-mailswhenmybosscalled me into his office.‘You know I’m supposed togotoLondonnextweek?Theconference on HIV andintravenousdruguse?’Inodded.Luckybastard,I’d

thought when the invitationcamethrough.‘Iremember.’‘My wife has been

diagnosed with breastcancer,’ he said abruptly.‘They’re operating onMonday.Soyou’llhavetogoinstead.’It was an uncomfortable

way to achieve my heart’sdesire, but therewas nothingI could do about my boss’smisfortune.Afewdays later,I was walking through

customsandimmigrationandinto Elinor’s arms. We wentstraighttomyhotelanddivedback into the dangerouswaters.Handinglove.Mothstoaflame.Fourdaysoftheconference.

Three evenings supposedlysocialising with colleagues,but in reality, timewe couldsteal to be together. Except

that on the last night, theplans went spectacularlyawry. Instead of a discreetknock at my bedroom door,thephonerang.Elinor’svoicewas unnaturally bright. ‘Hi,Natasha,’shesaid.‘I’mdowninreception.Ihopeyoudon’tmind,butI’vebroughtClairewithme.Shewantedtomeetyou.’

Panic choked me like agloved hand. ‘I’ll be rightdown,’ I managed to say. Idressed hurriedly, fingersfumbling zip and buttons,mouth muttering Russiancurses. What was Claire upto? Was this simply aboutcontrol,orwas theremore toit?Had she sussedwhatwasgoing on betweenElinor and

me? With dry mouth anddamppalms,Irodethelifttothe ground floor, trying tohold it together. Not formyself,butforElinor’ssake.They looked good together.

Elinor’s sable hair, denimblue eyes and olive skin onone side of the table, acontrast to Claire’s blondehair and surprising brown

eyes.WhereElinor’sfeatureswere small andneat,Claire’swerestrongandwell-defined.She looked like someoneyou’d rather have on yourside than against you.WhileElinor looked nervous, herfingers picking at a cocktailcoaster,Claireleanedbackinher seat, a woman incommand of her

surroundings.As I approached, feeling

hopelessly provincial next totheir urban chic, Claire wasfirsttoherfeet.‘YoumustbeNatasha,’ she said, her smilelighting her eyes. ‘I’m sopleased to meet you.’ Iextendedahand,butherhandwas on my shoulder as sheleaned in to kissme on both

cheeks. ‘I’ve been tellingElinoroff forkeepingyou toherself. I do hope you don’tmindme butting in, but I sowantedtomeetyou.’Control, then, I thought,

daring to let myself feelrelieved as I sat down at thetable. At once, Clairestamped her authority on theconversation. How was I

enjoyingLondon?WasitasIexpected? How were thingsin Russia? How was lifechangingforordinarypeople?By the time we hit the

seconddrink,shewasflirtingwithme.Shewantedtoproveshe could own me the wayshe owned her lover. Elinorwas consigned to thesidelines, and her

acquiescence to thisconfirmedallIbelievedabouttheir relationship. My heartached for her, an uneasymixture of love and pitymaking me feel faintlyqueasy. I don’t know how Imanaged to eat dinner withthem. All I wanted was tostealElinoraway,toprovetohershehadthepowertotake

her life back and make of itwhatshewanted.But of course, she leftwith

Claire.Andinthemorning,Iwas on a plane back to StPetersburg, half-convincedthattheonlyhealthythingforme to do was to end ourrelationship.

Ididn’t.Icouldn’t.Inspiteofeverything I know about the

tentacles of emotional abuse,Ifounditimpossibletorejectthe notion that I mightsomehowbeElinor’ssaviour.SoIkeptonwriting,keptontellingherhowmuchI lovedherwhen she called, kept onseeingher face inmymind’seye whenever I slept withotherpeople.More weeks trickled by,

thenoutoftheblue,ane-mailin a very different tonearrived.

Natasha, darling. Can youget to Brussels nextweekend? I need to seeyou. I can arrange airtickets if you can arrange avisa. Please, if it’s humanlypossible, come toBrussels. I love you. E.

I tried to get her to tellmewhat was going on, but sherefused. All I could do wasfix up a visa and collect thetickets from the travel agent.WhenElinoropenedthehotelroom door, she looked adozen years older than whenI’d seen her in London. Myfirst thought was that Clairehaddiscoveredouraffair.But

thetruthwasinfinitelyworse.We’d barely hugged when

Elinor was moving awayfromme.Shecurledupintheroom’s only armchair andcovered her face with herhands. ‘I’m so scared,’ shesaid.I croucheddownbesideher

and gently pulled her handsaway from her face. ‘What’s

wrong,Elinor?’Sheflickedhertonguealong

dry lips. ‘You know I’mmostly working with HIVpatientsnow?’Itwasn’twhat I’d expected

to hear, but somehow Ialready knew what wascoming.‘Yes,Iknow.’A deep, shuddering breath.

‘A few weeks ago, I got a

needle stick.’Her eyes filledwithtears.‘Natasha,I’mHIVpositive.’Intellectually, I knew this

wasn’t a death sentence. SodidElinor.Butinthatinstant,it felt like the end of theworld. I couldn’t think ofanything else that wouldassertherrighttoafuture,soIcradledher inmyarmsand

said,‘Let’smakelove.’Atfirst,sheresisted.Butwe

both knew too much aboutthetransmissionroutesofthevirus for the idea of puttingme at risk to take deep root.Sure, it meant changes forhow we made love, but thatwasatinypricetopayfortheaffirmation that her lifewouldgoon.

We spent the weekendbehind closed doors, lovingeach other, talking endlesslyabout what she’d have to doto maximise her chances oflong-term health. At somepoint on Sunday, sheconfessed that Claire hadrefused tohave sex since thediagnosis. That made meangrier than anything I’d

previously known orsuspected about the abuse ofpower between the two ofthem.Thatpartingwastheworst.I

wantedtotakeherhomewithme. I wanted our passion tobe her cocoon against thevirus. But realistically, evenif she’d been able to leaveClaire,webothknewherbest

chanceforaccesstothelatesttreatments would be toremainintheWest.Oddly, in spite of the

cataclysmic nature of hernews,nothing really changedbetweenus.Theoldchannelsof communication remainedintact, the intensity betweenus diminished not at all. Theonlydifferencewas thatnow

we also discussed drugtreatments, dietary regimesandalternativetherapies.Then one Monday, silence.

No e-mail. I wasn’t tooworried.TherehadbeendayswhenElinorhadn’tbeenabletowrite,butmostlythosehadbeen on the weekend whenshe’dnotbeenabletoescapeClaire’s oppressive attention.

Tuesday dragged past, thenWednesday. No reply to mye-mails, no phone call.Nothing. Finally, on theThursday,Itriedtocallheratwork.Voice-mail. I left an

innocuousmessage and hungup. Friday brought moresilence. The weekend was anightmare. I checked my e-

mailneurotically,everyhour,onthehour.Iwasafraidtogooutincaseshecalled,andbySunday night my apartmentfelt like a prison cell.Monday,Ispoketohervoice-mail again. Desperation hadme in its grip. I evenconsidered taking the chanceof calling her at home.Instead, I hit on the idea of

calling the departmentsecretary.‘I’ve been trying to contact

DrStevenson,’ I saidwhen Ifinallygotthrough.‘Dr Stevenson is away at

present,’ the stiff Englishvoicesaid.‘Whenwillshebeback?’‘Ireallycan’tsay.’I’d been fighting fear for

days, but now my defenceswere crumbling fast. ‘Look,I’m a personal friend ofElinor’s,’ I said. ‘From StPetersburg. I’m due to be inLondon this week and wewere supposed to meet. ButI’ve had no reply to my e-mails, and I really need tocontact her about ourarrangements. Can you help

me?’The voice softened. ‘I’m

afraidDrStevenson’sveryill.Shewon’t bewell enough tohaveameetingthisweek.’‘Is she in hospital?’

Somehow,Imanagedtokeephold of my English in theteeth of the terror that wasrippingthroughme.‘Yes.She’sapatienthere.’

‘Canyouputmethroughtothewardshe’son?’‘I’m. . .I’msorry,she’sin

intensive care. She won’t beabletospeaktoyou.’Idon’trememberendingthe

call. Just the desperate painher words brought in theirwake. I couldn’t make senseofwhat Iwas hearing. It rancounter to all I knew about

HIV and AIDS. It was amatterofmonthssinceElinorhadbeen infected.Forher tobesoillsosoonwasvirtuallyunheardof.PeoplelivedwithHIV for years. Some peoplelivedwithAIDS foryears. Itwasimpossible.But the impossible had

happened.

I spent the next couple of

days in a frenzy of activity,staving off my alarm withaction. I couldn’t afford theflight, but I managed to getthe money together byborrowing from my threeclosest friends. I couldn’texplain to my boss why Ineeded the time off and wewereunder pressure atwork,so there was no prospect of

making it to London beforetheweekend. The rest ofmyspare time I spent trying tosortoutavisa.ByThursdayevening,Iwas

almost organised. The travelagent had sworn she wouldcallfirstthinginthemorningabout last-minute flights. I’dmanaged to persuade acolleague to cover for me at

the beginning of thefollowing week so I had acoupleofextradays inhand.And the visa was promisedforthenextafternoon.I’d just walked through the

door of my apartment whenthe phone rang. I ran acrossthe room and grabbed it.‘Da?’Breathingrasped inmyear.

‘Natasha.’Elinor’svoicewaslittlemorethanawhisperbuttherewasnomistakingit.‘Elinor.’ I couldn’t speak

through the lump in mythroat.‘I’m dying, Nat.

Pneumocystis. Drug-resistantstrain.’She couldonly speakon the exhalation of hershallow breaths. ‘Wanted to

call you. Brain’s fucked,couldn’t remember thenumber.Clairewouldn’t . . .bring me my organiser. Hadtogetnursetogetitfrommyoffice.’‘Nevermind.We’re talking

now. Elinor, I’m comingover.Attheweekend.’‘No. Don’t come, Nat.

Please. I love you toomuch.

Don’twantyou to remember. . . this.Rememberthegoodstuff.’‘I want to see you.’ Tears

running down my face, Istruggledtokeepthemoutofmyvoice.‘Please, no. Nat, I wanted

youtoknow. . . lovingyou?Best thing that ever hit me.Wanted to say goodbye.

Wantedtosay,behappy.’‘Ya tebyeh lublu,’ I gulped.

‘Don’tdieonme,Elinor.’‘Wish I had . . . choice.

Troublewithbeingadoctor.. . you know what’shappening to you. A coupleof days, Nat. Then it’s . . .DNRtime.Iloveyou.’‘Iknow.’The breathing stopped and

another voice came on theline. ‘Hello? I’m sorry, DrStevenson is too tired to talkanymore.’‘How bad is it?’ I don’t

know how I managed tospeakwithoutchoking.‘I shouldn’t really speak to

anyone who isn’t immediatefamily,’shehedged.‘Please. You saw how

importantthiscallwastoher.I’m a doctor too, I know thescore.’‘I’m afraid her condition is

very serious. She’s notresponding to treatment. It’slikelywe’llhavetoputheronaventilatorverysoon.’‘It’s true she’s signed a

DNR?’‘I’m very sorry,’ the nurse

saidafterashortpause.‘Take good care of her.’ I

replaced the phone as gentlyas if it had been Elinor’shand. I’d spent enough timein hospitals to read betweenthe lines. Elinor hadn’t beenmistaken.Shewasdying.

I never went to London. Itwould have been an act ofselfishness. Claire never

calledme,whichtoldmethatshe knew the truth. But thenursefromintensivecaredidphone, on the Sundaymorningatninetwenty-sevena.m. Elinor had asked her tolet me know when she died.A couple of weeks later, Iwrote to Claire, saying I’dheard about Elinor’s deathfrom a colleague and

expressingmysympathy.I’mnot sure why I did, butsometimes our subconsciouspaves the way for our futureactions without bothering toinformus.Grief twisted in me like a

rusty knife for a long time.But everything transmuteseventually, and slowly itturned to anger. Generally

when people die, there’snobody to blame. ButElinor’s death wasn’t likethat. The responsibility forwhathappenedtoherlaywithClaire,impossibletododge.If Claire had not ruled her

with fear, Elinorwould haveleft her forme. IfClaire hadnot stripped her of her self-confidence, Elinor would

have stayed in Manchesterandsomeoneelsewouldhavesuffered that needle stick.However you cut it, Elinorwould still be alive if Clairehad notmade her feel like apossession.For a long time, my anger

felt pointless, a dry fireburning inside me thatconsumed nothing. Then out

of the blue, I had an e-mailfromClaire.

Hello, Natasha. I’m sorry Inever got in touch with youafter Elinor’s death, but asyou will imagine, it was notan easy time for me.However, I am attending aconference in StPetersburg next month,and I wondered if youwould like to meet up for

dinner. I have such fondmemories of the eveningwe spent together inLondon. It might bring usboth some solace to spendsome time together. Letme know if this would suityou. Best wishes, ClaireSomerville.

The arrangements are made.Tonight,shewillcometomyapartment for dinner. I know

she will seduce me. Shewon’t be able to resist thechallenge of possessing thewomanElinorloved.But Claire is a Russian

virgin. She doesn’tunderstand the first thingabout us. She will have nosense of the cruelty or thedanger that always lurksbeneath the surface,

particularlyinthiscityof thedead.She will not suspect the

narcotic in the alcohol. Andwhen she wakes, she won’tnoticethescabontheveininthe back of her knee. Thesyringe is loaded already,thick with virus, carefullymaintained in perfect cultureconditions.

It’s almost certain she’llhave longer than Elinor. Butsooner or later, the blackmagic of thoseWhiteNightswill take its revenge. Andperhaps then, my dead willsleep.

TheWritingontheWall

I’ve never written anythingon a toilet wall before, but Idon’t know what else to do.Pleasehelpme.Myboyfriendisviolenttowardsme.HehitsmeandIdon’tknowwheretoturn.

Kick the bastard where ithurts. Give him a taste ofhis own medicine.

Get out of the relationshipnow before he does youserious injury. Batteringmen only batter with ourconsent.

I can’t believe theseresponses. I asked for help,not a lecture. I love him,

don’t you realise that? Hewas raped and battered as achild. Are we just supposedtoignoredamagedpeople?

If you don’t get out of therelationship, then you’regoing to end up anotherone of the damagedpeople. And who willhelp you then?

Askyourfriendsfortheir

support in dealing withhim. When his violencebegins, leave the houseand go and stay with afriend.

I can’t walk out on him. Heneedsme.AndIcan’ttellmyfriends because I’m tooashamedtoadmittothemthatI’m in a relationship with amanwhobattersme.

Sooner or later they’regoing to notice and thenthey’re going to feelangry that you’veexcluded them fromsomethingsoimportant.

How come you’re the onewho’s ashamed, not him?He’stheonedishingouttheviolence,afterall.

Like I said at the start,

fight back. Let him knowwhat being hurt feelslike.

He knows what being hurtfeels like. He spent hischildhoodbeinghurt.Andheis ashamed of his violence.He hates himself for hisbehaviour, and he’s alwaysreallysorryafterwards.

Well, whoopee shit! That

must really help yourbruises!

ThisisthefirsttimeI’vebeeninthislooandIcan’tbelievehow unsupportive you’re allbeing to this woman! Sister,thereiscounsellingavailable.You deserve help; there’s anumber for the confidentialhelpline in the studenthandbook.Useit,please.

It’s not just you that

needs counselling. Tellyour boyfriend thatunless he comes forcounselling with you,youwill leavehim.Ifherefuses, then you knowhis apologies aren’tworthatoss.

Leave him; tell him you’llonly takehimbackoncehehas had counselling and

learned to deal with hisproblem in a way thatdoesn’t include violence.Anything else is a betrayalofalltheotherwomenwhogetbatteredeveryday.

Thanks for the suggestion.I’ve phoned the helpline andwe’rebothgoing tomeet thecounsellornextweek.

Istillsayleavehimtillhe’s

gothimselfsortedout.He’sonly going to end upresenting you for makinghimgothroughallthisshit.

I’m glad you’ve taken thisstep forward; let us knowhowyougoon.

Sorryit’stakenmesolongtoget back to you all. Mylectures were moved out ofthis building for a couple of

weeks because of the ceilingcollapse. We’ve had threejoint counselling sessions sofar and I really feel thatthingsaregettingbetter!

You mean he onlybatters you once a weekinstead of every night?

Now he’s made the firststep,youcantellhimyou’regoing to move out till the

course of counselling hasfinished.You owe it toyourself and to the othervictimisedwomenout theretoshowthisbattererthatheisno longer inapositionofpoweroveryou.

Welldone.Goodluck.

I’m not moving out on him.I’m going to stick with himbecause he’s trying so hard.

He’s reallymaking theeffortto dealwithhis anger and toresolve the conflicts thatmake him lash out at me. Ilovehim,everybodyseemstokeep forgetting that. If youlove somebody, you want tohelp them get better, notabandon them becausethey’renotperfect.

Answer the question; is

he still hitting you?

Oh for God’s sake, leaveher alone. Can’t you seeshe’s having enough of astrugglehelpingtheguysheloves without having theholier-than-thou tendencyonherback?

Save us from the bleedinghearts. If he’s still hittingher,she’sstill collaboratingwith his oppressive

behaviour.Sheshouldwalkaway while she can stillwalk.

Sowhere’s she supposed togo? A woman’s refugepacked with damaged kidsand mothers isn’t exactlythe ideal place to study, isit?

Anywhere’s got to be betterthan a place where you gethurtconstantly.

And you think batteringsomeone is the onlyway tohurtthem?Growup!

He hasn’t hit me for over aweek now.He’smade a realbreakthrough. He hascontacted his mother for thefirst time in three years andconfrontedherwiththeabusehe experienced from hisstepfather. He says he feels

like he’s released so muchpressure just by telling heraboutit.

Surprise, surprise. Nowhe’s found a woman toblame, he’s going to beall right.

Yeah, how come he hasn’tconfronted theabuser?Howcome he has to offload hisguilt on his poor bloodymother who was probably

batteredtoo?

Leave him. You areperpetuating the circle ofviolence. He will see yourforgivenessascondoninghisbehaviour.Breakout.Now.If you stay, you are as badasheis.

Don’t listen to them. Stickwith him. You are makingprogress.Peoplecanchange.

Bollocks. Been there, donethat, got the bruises. Menwho abuse do it becausethey like it, not because ofsome behaviour patterntheycanchangeaseasilyasgivingupsmoking.Theonlywaytostopbeingthevictimofabuseistowalkaway.

He is making changes. Iknow he is. It’s not easy forhim and sometimes it feels

likehehatesmebecauseI’mtheonewhopersuadedhimtoconfront his problems, he’sstarted to get really jealousand suspicious, evenfollowing me to lecturessometimes. He’s convincedthat because I suggested thecounselling, I’mseeing somewomen’s group that is tryingtotalkmeintoleavinghim.If

he only knew the truth! Arethere any women out therewho have been through this,whowouldbepreparedtodosome one-to-one counsellingwithme?

Ah, the power of thesisterhood of the toiletwall! He’s right, though,isn’t he? We are trying tomake you see sense andget out of this

destructive relationship.

Soundslikeyou’reswappingone problem for another.Theguyismajor-leaguebadnews. Sometimes if you lovepeople, the best thing youcan do for them is to leavethem.

I know what you’re goingthrough. I’ll meet you onSaturday morning on theKelvin walkway under the

Queen Margaret Drivebridge at ten thirty. Comealone. Make sure he’s notwithyou.I’llbewatching.Ifyou can’t make thisSaturday,I’llbethereeveryweekuntilyoucan.

From the Scottish SundayDispatch:BODY FOUND IN RIVERKELVIN

Police launched a murderhunt last night after thebattered body of a womanstudentwas foundfloating intheRiverKelvin.A woman walking her dog

on the river walkway nearKelvinbrige spotted the bodytangledintherootsofatree.Police revealed that the

victim, who was fullydressed, had been beaten

about the head before beingthrownintheriver.Thewoman,whosenameis

not being released until herfamily can be contacted,wasa secondyear biochemistrystudent at GlasgowUniversity.Police are appealing for

witnesseswhomayhaveseenthe woman and her attackeron the Kelvin walkway

upstream of Kelvinbridgeyesterday.A spokeswoman for the

Students’ Union said lastnight, ‘This is a terribletragedy.Whenawomangetskilled in broad daylight in apublic place, you startwondering if there isanywherethatissafeforustobe.’

KeepingontheRightSideoftheLaw

Just imagine trying to get astraight job when you’vebeen a villain all your life.Even supposing I couldbullshit my way round anapplication form, how thefuck do I blag my way

through an interview, whenthe only experience I’ve gotofinterviews,I’vealwayshada brief sitting next to mereminding the thickheaddickheadsontheothersideofthetablethatI’mnotobligedto answer? Imean, it’s not atechnique that’s going toscore points with thepersonnelmanager,isit?

You can imagine it, can’tyou? ‘Mr Finnieston, yourapplication form was a littlevague as to dates. Can yougive us a more accuratepicture of your careerstructuretodate?’Well, yeah. I started out

with burglary when I waseight.My two older brothersfiguredIwas littleenough to

getintoiletwindows,sotheytaught me how to hold theglass firm with rubbersuckers then cut round theedge with a glass cutter. I’dtakeoutthewindowandpassit down to them, slide inthroughthegapandopentheback door for them. Thenthey’dcleanoutthetelly,thevideo and the stereo while I

keptwatchouttheback.All good things have to

come to an end, though, andby the time Iwaseleven, I’dgot too big for the toiletwindows, and besides, Iwanted a bigger cut thanthose greedy thievingbastards would give me.That’s when I started doingcars. They called me Sparky

onaccountofI’dgooutwithasparkplugtiedontoapieceof cord. You whirl the plugaround like a cowboywith alasso, and when it’s goingfastenough,youjustflickthewrist and bingo, the driver’swindow shatters like one ofthem fake windows they usein the films.Hardlymakes asound.

InsideaminuteandI’dhavethe stereo out. I sold themround the pubs for a fiver atime.Inagoodnight,Icouldearn a fifty, just like that, nohassle.But I’ve always been

ambitious, and that was mydownfall. One of my matesshowed me how to hot-wiretheignitionsoIcouldhaveit

awayonmytoeswiththecaras well as the sounds. Bythen,oneofmybrotherswasdoing a bit of work for ablokewhohad a secondhandcar pitch down Strangewaysand a quiet little back-streetgaragewherehisteamringedstolen cars and turned themoutwithawholenewidentitytosellontomugpunterswho

knewnobetter.Only,hewasn’tascleveras

he thought he was, and onenight I rolledupwith aFordEscort and drove right intothe middle of a raid. It waswall-to-wall Old Bill thatnight, and I ended up in adifferentpartofStrangeways,behindbars.Ofcourse,Iwastoo young to do proper time,

and my brief got me out ofthere and into a juveniledetention centre faster thanyou could say ‘of previousgoodcharacter’.It’s true, what they say

about the nick.You do learnhow to be a better criminal,justsolongasyoudowhatittells you in all themAmerican self-help books in

the prison library. You wantto be successful, then hangout with successful peopleanddowhattheydo.Only,ofcourse, anybody who’sbanged up is, by definition,nothalfasfuckingsuccessfulastheyshouldbe.Anyway, I watched and

listened and learned and Imade some good mates that

first time inside.Andwhen Icame out, I was ready forbiggerandbetterthings.Backthen, banks and Post Officeswere still a nice little earner.They hadn’t learned aboutshatterproof glass and grillesandallthatbollocks.Youjustran in, waved a shooteraround, jumped the counterand cleaned the place out.

You could be in and out infiveminutes,with enough inyour sports bag to see youclearforthenextfewmonths.Ilovedit.Itwasacleanwaytoearna

living. Well, mostly it was.OK,acoupleoftimesweraninto one of them have-a-goheroes. You’d think it wastheir money, honest to God

youwould.Now,I’vealwaysbelieved you should be ableto do a job, in and out, andnobodygetshurt.Butifsomedickhead is standingbetweenmeandtheout,andit’smeorhim, I’m not going to standthere and ask himpolitely tomoveaside,amI?No,fuckit,you’ve got to show himwho’s in charge. One shot

into the ceiling, and if he’sstill standing there, well, it’shisownfault,isn’tit?You’vegot to be professional,haven’t you? You’ve got toshowyoumeanbusiness.AndImusthavebeengood

atit,becauseIonlyevergotatug the once, and theycouldn’t pin a thing on me.Yeah,OK,Ididendupdoing

a three stretch around aboutthen, but that was for whatyou might call extra-curricular activities. When IfoundoutJohnnytheHatwasgiving one to my brother’swife,well, I had tomake anexample of him, didn’t I? Imean, family’s family. Shemightbeaslagandadog,butanybody that thinks they can

fuckwithmyfamilyisgoingto find out different. You’dthinkJohnnywouldhavehadthe sense not to tell theDibble who put him in thehospital, but some peoplehaven’t got the brains theywere born with. They hadhim in witness protectionbeforethetrial,butofcourseall that ended after I went

down. And when I wasgettingthroughmythreewithvisits from the family, I hadthe satisfaction of knowingthat Johnny’s family werevisitinghisgrave.LikeIsay,families have got to sticktogether.BythetimeIgotout,things

had changed. The banks andbuilding societies had wised

upandsharpeneduptheiractand theonlypeople trying torob them were amateurs andfuckingeejits.Luckily, I’d met Tommy

inside.Honest toGod, itwaslike it was written in thefucking stars. I knew allabout robbing and burgling,and Tommy knew all therewas to know about antiques.

What he also knew was thathalf themuseumsandstatelyhomes of England – not tomention our neighbours inEurope – had alarm systemsthatwereanembarrassment.Iputtogetheradreamteam,

and Tommy set up thefencing operation, and wewere in business. We rapedsomany private collections I

lost count. The MO wassimple. We’d spend thesummer on research trips.We’d case each place once.Then we’d go back threeweeks later to case it again,leaving enough time for thesecurity vids to be wiped ofour previous visit. We’dfigure out the weak pointsand draw up the plans. Then

we’d wait till the winter,when most of them wereclosedupfortheseason,withnothingmore thana skeletonstaff.We’d pick a cold, wet,

miserable night, preferablywithabitofwind.Thatway,any noise we made gotswallowedup in theweather.Then we’d go in, seven-

pound sledges straightthrough the vulnerable dooror window, straight to thecabinets that held the stuffwe’d identified as worthnicking. Here’s a tip, by theway. Even if they’ve gottoughened glass in the cases,chances are it’s still onlygota wooden frame. Smack thaton the corner with a three-

pound club hammer and thewhole thing falls to bits andyou’rein.Mostly, we were off the

estate andmiles away beforethe local bizzies even rolledup. Nobody ever got hurt,exceptinthepocket.Theywerethebestyearsof

my life.Better than sex, thatmomentwhenyou’re in, you

do the business and you’reout again. The rush is purerthanyou’llevergetfromanydrug. Not that I know aboutthat from personalexperience, because I’veneverdonedrugsandIneverwill.Ihatedrugdealersmorethan I hate coppers. I’veremoved my fair share ofthemfrommypatchover the

years.Nowtheyknownot tocome peddling their shit onmy streets. But a couple ofthe guys I work with, theylike their Charlie or whizzwhen they’re not working,and they swear that they’veneverhadahighliketheygetwhen they’re doing thebusiness.We did some crackers. A

museum in France wherethey’dspenttwomillionquidon their state-of-the-artsecurity system. They had agrandopeningdowhere theywere shouting their mouthsoff about how their museumwas burglarproof. We did itthatverynight.Weriggeduppulleys from the buildingacross the street, wound

ourselvesacrosslikeweweretheSASandwent straight inthrough the skylight. Theysaid we got away with stuffworthhalfamillionquid.Notthat we made anything likethat off it. I think I clearedfifteen-K that night, afterexpenses. Still, who dareswins,eh?Weonlyever tookstuffwe

already knew we had amarketfor.Well,mostly.Onetime, I fell in love with thisRembrandt. I just loved thatpicture. It was a selfportrait,and just looking at it, youknew the geezer like he wasone of your mates. It washanging on thisDuke’swall,right next to the cases ofsilver we’d earmarked. On

the night, on the spur of themoment, I lifted theRembrandtan’all.Tommy went fucking ape.

Hesaidwe’dnevershiftthat,thatwe’dnever findabuyer.ItoldhimIdidn’tgiveashit,itwasn’tforsaleanyway.Hethought I’d completely lostthe plot when I said I wastakingithome.

Ihaditonthebedroomwallfor sixmonths.But itwasn’tright. A council house inWythenshawe justdoesn’tgowith a Rembrandt. So onenight, I wrapped it up in atarpaulinand left it ina fieldnexttotheDuke’sgaff.Irangthe local radiostationphone-in from a call box and toldthem where they could find

theRembrandt.Ihatedgivingit up, mind you, and Iwouldn’t have done if I’dhavehadanicerhouse.Butthat’snotthesortoftale

you can tell a personnelmanager,isit?‘Andwhyareyouseekinga

change of employment, MrFinnieston?’Well, it’s down to Kim,

innit?I’ve known Kimmy since

we were at school together.She was a looker then, andtime hasn’t taken that awayfrom her. I always fanciedher, but never got round toaskingherout.By the time Iwas back in circulation aftermy first stretch, she’d takenupwithDannyMcGann,and

beforeIworkedupthebottletomake amove, bingo, theyweremarried.I ran intoher againabout a

yearago.Shewasonagirls’night out in Rothwell’s, agaggle of daft women actinglike theywerestill teenagers.Just seeinghermademe feellikeateenageran’all.Isentabottle of champagne over to

their table, and of courseKimmy came over to thankme for it. She always hadgoodmanners.Any road, it turned out her

and Danny weren’t exactlyhappy families anymore.Hewas working away a lot,leavingherwiththetwogirls,whichwasn’t exactly a pieceofcake.Mindyou,she’sdone

well for herself. She’s got areally good job, managing atravel agency. A lot ofresponsibility and a lot ofrespect from her bosses. Westartedseeingeachother,andIfelt likeI’dcomeuponthelottery.The only drawback is that

after a fewmonths, she tellsme she can’t be doing with

the villainy. She’s got aproposition for me. If I gostraight, she’ll kick Dannyinto touch andmove in withme.So that’swhy I’m trying to

figure out away tomake anhonest living. You can seethat convincing a bunch ofsuits they should give me ajobwouldbedifficult.‘Thank

you very much, MrFinnieston,butI’mafraidyoudon’t quite fit our presentrequirements.’The only way anybody’s

evergoingtogivemeajobisif Imonster theminto it,andsomehow I don’t think thestraightworldworkslikethat.You can’t go aroundpersonnel offices saying, ‘I

know where you live. SogizzajobortheLabradorgetsit.’This is where I’m up to

when I meet my mateChrissie for a drink. Youwouldn’t think it to look ather, butChrissiewrites themhardasnails cop dramas forthetelly.Shelooksmorelikeone of them bleeding-heart

social workers, with herwholemeal jumpers andjeans. But Chrissie’s deadsound, her and her girlfriendboth.Thegirlfriend’sabrief,but in spite of that, she’sstraight. That’s probablybecause she doesn’t docriminal stuff, just divorcesandchildcustodyandallthatbollocks.

So I’m having a pint withChrissie in one of themtrendy bars in Chorlton, allwooden floors and hardchairs and fifty differentbeers, none of them onesyou’ve ever heard of exceptGuinness.AndI’mtellingherabout my little problem.Halfway down the secondpint,shegetsthatlookinher

eyes, the dreamy one thattells me something I’ve saidhas set the wheels inmotioninsideherhead.Usually,Iseetheresultssixmonthslateronthe telly. I love that. SittingdownwithKimmyandgoing,‘See that? I told Chrissieabout that scam. Course,she’ssofteneditupabit,butit’smytale.’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ Chrissiesays.‘What? You’re going to

write a series about somepoor fucker trying to gostraight?’Isay.‘No, a job. Well, sort of a

job.’Sheknocksbacktherestofherpintandgrabshercoat.‘Leave it with me. I’ll getbacktoyou.Staylucky.’And

she’s off, leaving mesurrounded by thewellmeaning like the lastcoveredwagonhemmedinbytheApaches.A week goes by, with me

trying to talk my way intosetting up a little businessdoingone-dayhall sales.Buteverybody I approach thinksI’m up to something. They

can’t believe I want to doanything the straightway, soall Igetoffered is fiftykindsof bent gear. I am sick as apigby the time I get the callfromChrissie.This time, we meet round

her house. Me, Chrissie andthe girlfriend, Sarah thesolicitor. We settled downwith our bottles of Belgian

pop and Sarah kicks off.‘Howwouldyouliketoworkon a freelance basis for aconsortiumofsolicitors?’sheasks.I can’t help myself. I just

burst out laughing. ‘Dowhat?’Igo.‘Justhearmeout.Ispenda

lot of my time dealing withwomen who are being

screwed over by the men intheirlife.Someofthemhavebeen battered, some of themhave been emotionallyabused, some of them arebeing harassed by their exes.Sometimes, it’s just thatthey’re trying togeta squaredeal for themselves and theirkids, only the bloke knowshow to play the system and

they end up with nothingwhilehelaughsallthewaytothe bank. For most of thesewomen, the law either can’tsort itoutor itwon’t. I evenhadacasewheretwocopperscalled to a domestic gaveevidence in court against thewoman, saying she wascompletelyoutofcontrolandirrational and all the bloke

was doing was exertingreasonable force to protecthimself.’‘Bastards,’Isay.‘Sowhat’s

thisgottodowithme?’‘People doing my job get

really frustrated,’ Sarah says.‘There’s a bunch of us gettogether for a drink now andagain,andwe’vebeentalkingfor a long time about how

we’ve stopped believing thelawhasalltheanswers.Mostoftheseblokesarebulliesandcowards. Their womenwouldn’tsee themfordust iftheyhadanybodytostandupfor them. So what we’reproposing is that we’d payyou to sort these bastardsout.’I can’t believe what I’m

hearing. A brief offering mereadiestogoroundandheavythekindof toeragsI’dgladlysort out as a favour? Therehastobeacatch.‘You’renottelling me the Legal Aidwouldpayfor that,areyou?’Isay.Sarahgrins.‘Behave,Terry.

I’m talking a strictlyunofficial arrangement. I

thought you could go andexplaintheerroroftheirwaysto these blokes. Introducethem to your baseball bat.Tell them if they don’tbehave, you’ll be visitingthem again in a less friendlymode. Tell them that they’llbegettingabillforincidentallegal expenses incurred ontheir partners’ behalf and if

they don’t come up with thecash prontomonto, you’ll becoming round to make acollection. I’m sure they’llrespond very positively toyourapproaches.’‘You want me to go round

andteachthemalesson?’I’mstillconvincedthisisawind-up.‘That’saboutthesizeofit.’

‘Andyou’llpayme?’‘We thought abasic rateof

twohundredandfiftypoundsa job. Plus bonuses in caseswhere the divorce settlementprovedsuitablysubstantial.Abit like a lawyer’scontingency fee. No win, nofee.’I can’t quite get my head

round this idea. ‘So itwould

work how? You’d bell meand tell me where to do thebusiness?’Sarah shakes her head. ‘It

would all go throughChrissie. She’ll give you thedetails, then she’ll bill thelegal firms formiscellaneousservices,andpassthefeesonto you. After this meeting,we’ll never talk about this

againfacetoface.Andyou’llnever have contact with thesolicitorsyou’dbeactingfor.Chrissie’sthecut-outonbothsides.’‘What do you think, Tel?’

Chrissie asks, eager as avirgininthebackseat.‘YoucouldtellKimmyyou

were doing process serving,’Sarahchipsin.

That’stheclincher.SoIsayOK.That was six months ago.

NowI’monChrissie’sbooksas her research assistant. Ipay tax and NationalInsurance,whichwasabitofafacerforthesocialsecurity,whocouldnotgettheirheadsround the idea of me as aproper citizen. I do two or

three jobs a week, andeverything’s sweet. Sarah’ssortingoutKimmy’sdivorce,andwe’re gettingmarried assoonasallthat’ssorted.Itellyou,thisisthelife.I’m

doingtherightthingandIgetpaidforit.IfI’dknowngoingstraight could be this muchfun, I’d have done it yearsago.

AWifeinaMillion

Thewomanstrolledthroughthe supermarket, choosing afew items for her basket. Asshe reached the display ofsauces and pickles, amusclein her jaw tightened. Shelookedaround,willingherselfto appear casual. No onewatched. Swiftly she took a

jarof tomatopickle fromherlarge leather handbag andplaced it on the shelf. Shemovedon to the frozenmeatsection.A few minutes later, she

passed down the same aisleandpaused.She repeated theexercise,thistimeaddingtwomorejarstotheshelf.Asshewalked on to the checkout,

shefelttensionslidefromherbody, leaving her light-headed.She stood in the queue,

anonymous among themorning shoppers, anotherneat woman in a well-cutwinter coat, a faint smile onher face and a strangelyunfocused look in her paleblueeyes.

Sarah Graham was sprawledon the sofa reading theSituations Vacant in theBurnalder Evening Newswhen she heard the car pullup the drive. Sighing, shedropped the paper and wentthroughtothekitchen.Bythetime she had pulled the corkfrom a bottle of elderflowerwineandpouredtwoglasses,

thefrontdoorhadopenedandclosed. Sarah stood, glassesin hand, facing the kitchendoor.Detective Sergeant Maggie

Staniforth came into thekitchen, took the profferedglass and kissed Sarahperfunctorily. She walkedinto the living-room andslumped in a chair, calling

overhershoulder,‘Andwhatkindofdayhaveyouhad?’Sarah followed her through

andshrugged.‘Anothershittyday in paradise. You don’twant tohearmycatalogueofboredom.’‘You never bore me. And

besides,itdoesmegoodtobereminded that there’s a lifeoutsidecrime.’

‘I got up about nine, bywhich time you’d probablyarrestedhalfadozenvillains.I whizzed through theGuardian job ads, and wentdownthelibrarytocheckouttheotherpapers.AfterlunchIcleaned the bedroom, did abitofironingandpolishedthedining-room furniture. Thendown to the newsagent’s for

the evening paper. A thrill aminute.Andyou?Solved thecrimeofthecentury?’Maggiewinced.‘Nothingso

exciting. Bit of breaking andentering,bitofpaperworkonthe rape case at the bluesclub. It’s due in court nextweek.’‘Atleastyougetpaidforit.’‘Something will come up

soon,love.’‘And meanwhile I go on

beingyourkeptwoman.’Maggie said nothing. There

was nothing to say. The twoof them had been togethersincetheyfellheadoverheelsin love at university elevenyearsbefore.Thingshadbeenfine while they were bothconcentrating on climbing

their career ladders. ButSarah’s career in personnelmanagement had hit a brickwall when the company thatemployed her had collapsedninemonthspreviously.Thatcrisishadopenedawoundintheir relationship that wasrapidly festering. NowMaggie was often afraid tospeak for fear of provoking

another bitter exchange. Shedrankherwineinsilence.‘No titbits to amuse me,

then?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Nofunny little tales from theunderbelly?’‘One that might interest

you,’Maggiesaidtentatively.‘Notice a story in the Newslast night about a womantaken to the General with

suspectedfoodpoisoning?’‘I saw it. I read every inch

ofthatpaper.Itfillsanhour.’‘Well,she’sdied.Thenews

cameinjustasIwasleaving.And there have apparentlybeen another two familiesaffected. The funny thing isthat theredoesn’t seem tobeacommonsource.JimBryantfrom casualtywas tellingme

aboutit.’Sarah pulled a face. ‘Sure

you can face my spaghetticarbonaratonight?’The telephone cut across

Maggie’s smile. She quicklycrossed the room and pickedit up on the third ring. ‘DSStaniforth speaking . . . Hi,Bill.’ She listened intently.‘Good God!’ she exclaimed.

‘I’ll be with you in tenminutes. OK?’ She stoodholdingthephone.‘Sarah...that woman we were justtalking about. It wasn’t foodpoisoning. It was a massivedoseofarsenicandtwooftheothersocalledfoodpoisoningcaseshavedied.Theysuspectarsenic there too. I’ve got togo and meet Bill at the

hospital.’‘You’d better get a move

on, then. Shall I save yousomefood?’‘No point. And don’t wait

up, I’ll be late.’ MaggiecrossedtoSarahandgaveherabriefhug.Shehurriedoutofthe room. Seconds later, thefrontdoorslammed.

The fluorescent strips made

the kitchen look bright butcold.Thewomanopenedoneof the fitted cupboards andtook a jar of greyishwhitepowderfromtheverybackoftheshelf.She picked up a filleting

knifewhose edgewas honedto a wicked sharpness. Sheslid it delicately under theflap of a cardboard pack of

blancmange powder. She didthe same to five otherpackets. Then she carefullyopened the inner paperenvelopes. Into each shemixed a tablespoonful of thepowderfromthejar.Under the light, the grey

strands in her auburn hairglinted. Painstakingly, shefolded the inner packets

closedagain andwith adropof glue she resealed thecardboard packages. She putthem all in a shopping bagand carried it into the rearporch.She replaced the jar in the

cupboardandwentthroughtothe living-room where thetelevision blared. She lookedstrangelytriumphant.

It was after three whenMaggie Staniforth closed thefrontdoorbehindher.Asshehung up her sheepskin, shenoticed lines of strain roundher eyes in the hall mirror.Sarahappearedinthekitchendoorway. ‘I know you’reprobably too tired to feelhungry, but I’ve made somesoupifyouwantit,’shesaid.

‘You shouldn’t have stayedup.It’slate.’‘I’vegotnothingelsetodo.

After all, there’s plenty ofopportunity for me to catchuponmysleep.’Please God, not now,

thoughtMaggie.Asifthejobisn’t hard enough withoutcominghometohasslesfromSarah.

But shewas provedwrong.Sarahsmiledandsaid,‘Sodoyouwantsomegrub?’‘Thatdepends.’‘Onwhat?’‘Whether there’s Higham’s

ContinentalTomatoPickle init.’Sarah looked bewildered.

Maggie went on. ‘It seemsthat three people have died

from arsenic administered inHigham’s ContinentalTomato Pickle bought fromFastfareSupermarket.’‘You’rejoking!’‘Wish Iwas.’Maggiewent

through to the kitchen. Shepoured herself a glass oforange juice as Sarah servedup a steaming bowl of lentilsoup with a pile of buttered

brown bread. Maggie satdown and tucked in, givingher lover a disjointedsummaryassheate.‘Victim number one: May

Scott, fiftyseven, widow,lived up Warburton Road.Numberstwoandthree:GaryAndrews, fifteen, and hisbrother Kevin, thirteen, fromPriory Farm Estate. Their

father is seriously ill. So aretwoothers now,Thomas andLouise Foster of BryonyGrange. No connectionbetween them except thatthey all ate pickle from jarsbought on the same day atFastfare.‘Could be someone playing

at extortion–youknow,paymeamillionpoundsorI’lldo

it again. Could be someonewith a grudge againstFastfare. Ditto againstHigham’s. So you can betyoursweetlifewe’regoingtobehammeredintothegroundon this one. Already we’regettingflak.’Maggie finished her meal.

Her head dropped into herhands. ‘What a bitch of a

job.’‘Betterthannojobatall.’‘Isit?’‘You should know better

thantoask.’Maggiesighed.‘Takemeto

bed, Sarah. Let me forgetaboutthebattlefieldforafewhours,eh?’

Piped music lulled theshoppers at Pinkerton’s

Hypermarket into a druggedacquisitiveness. The womanpushing the trolley was deafto its bland presence and itsblandishments. When shereached the shelf with theinstant desserts on display,shestoppedandchecked thatthecoastwasclear.She swiftly put three packs

of blancmange on the shelf

withtheirfellowsandmovedaway. A few minutes latershe returned and studiedseveral cake mixes as shewaited for the aisle to clear.Then she completed hermission and finished hershopping in a leisurelyfashion.At thecheckout shechatted

brightlytotheboredteenager

who rang up her purchasesautomatically. Then she left,gentlyhummingthesongthatflowed from the shop’sspeakers.

Three days later, MaggieStaniforth burst into herliving-room in the middle ofthe afternoon to find Sarahtypingajobapplication.‘Redalert, love,’ she announced.

‘I’m only home to have aquick bath and change mythings. Any chance of asandwich?’‘Iwasbeginning towonder

if you still lived here,’ Sarahmuttereddarkly.‘Ifyouwerehaving an affair, at least I’dknowhowtofightback.’‘Notnow,love,please.’‘Do you want something

hot?Soup?Omelette?’‘Soup,please.Andatoasted

cheesesandwich?’‘Coming up. What’s the

panicthistime?’Maggie’s eyes clouded.

‘Our homicidal maniac hasstruckagain.EightpeopleonthecriticallistattheGeneral.This time the arsenic was inGarratt’s Blancmange from

Pinkerton’s Hypermarket.Bill’s doing a televisionappeal right now asking forpeopletobringinanypacketsboughttherethisweek.’‘Different manufacturer,

differentsupermarket.Soundslike a crazy rather than agrudge,doesn’tit?’‘And that makes the next

strike impossible to predict.

Anyway, I’m going for thatbathnow. I’ll bedownagainin fifteen minutes.’ Maggiestopped in the kitchendoorway, ‘I’m not beingfunny, Sarah. Don’t do anyshoppinginthesupermarkets.Butchers,greengrocers,okay.But no self-service, pre-packagedfood.Please.’Sarah nodded. She had

never seen Maggie afraid ineight years in the force, andthe sight did nothing to lifeherdepressedspirits.

This time it was jars ofmincemeat. Even theSalvationArmybandplayingcarolsoutsidetheNationwideStores failed to make thewomanpause inhermission.Her shopping bag held six

jars laced with deadly whitepowderwhensheentered thesupermarket.When she left, there were

none.Shedropped50pinthecollecting tin as she passedthe band because they wereplaying her favourite carol,‘IntheBleakMidwinter’.Shewalkedslowlybacktothecarpark, not pausing to look at

the shopwindow Christmasdisplays. She wasn’tanticipating a merryChristmas.

Sarah walked back from thenewsagent’swiththeeveningpaper, reading the front pageas she went. The BurnalderPoisonerwas frontpage newseverywhere by now, but thestories in the local paper

seemedtocarryanextraedgeof fear. They were thoroughin theircoverage, tracinganypossible commercialconnection between the threegiant food companies thatproduced the contaminatedfood.Theyalsospeculatedonthe possible reasons for theweek-long gaps betweenoutbreaks. They laid out in

stark detail the drastic effectthe poisoning was having onthe finances of the food-processing companies. Andthey noted the paradox ofpublic hysteria about thepoisoning while people stillfilled their shopping trolleysin anticipation of the festiveseason.ThelatestkillerwasUnivex

mincemeat.Sarahshiveredasshe read of the latest threedeaths, bringing the toll totwelve. As she turned thecorner,shesawMaggie’scarinthedriveandincreasedherpace. A grim idea had takenroot in her brain as she readthelongreport.While she was hanging up

her jacket, Maggie called

from the kitchen. Sarahwalkedslowlythroughtofindher tucking into a plate ofeggs and bacon, but withouther usual large dollop oftomato ketchup. There weredark circles beneath her eyesandtheskinaroundthemwasgrey and stretched. She hadnot slept at home for twonights. The job had never

made such demands on herbefore. Sarah found amoment to wonder if theatmosphere between themwas partly responsible forMaggie’s total commitmenttothisdesperatesearch.‘Howisitgoing?’sheasked

anxiously.‘It’s not,’ said Maggie.

‘Virtually nothing to go on.

Nolinkthatwecanfind.It’snotasifweevenhaveproperleads to chase up. I camehomeforabreakbecausewewere just sitting staring ateach other, wondering whattodonext.Shortofsearchingeveryone who goes into thesupermarkets, what can wedo? And those bloodyreporters seem to have taken

up residence in the station.We’re being leaned on fromall sides.We’ve got to crackthis soon or we’ll becrucified.’Sarah sat down. ‘I’ve been

givingthissomethought.Thegrudge theory has brokendown because you can’t findalinkbetweenthecompanies,amIright?’

‘Yes.’‘Haveyouthoughtaboutthe

effect unemployment has oncrime?’‘Burglary, shoplifting,

mugging, vandalism, drugs,yes. But surely not masspoisoning,love.’‘There’s somuch bitterness

there, Maggie. So muchhatred. I’ve often felt like

murdering those incompetenttossers who destroyedLiddell’sandthrewmeonthescrapheap. Did you thinkabout people who’ve beengiventheboot?’‘We did think about it. But

onlyahandfulofpeoplehaveworked for all threecompanies. None of themhave any reason to hold a

grudge. And none of themhave any connection withBurnalder.’‘There’s another aspect,

though, Maggie. It only hitme when I read the papertonight. TheNews has a bigpiece about the parentcompanies who make thethree products. Now, I’dswear that each one of those

companies has advertised inthe last coupleofmonths formanagement executives. Iknow,Iappliedfortwoofthejobs. I didn’t even getinterviewed because I’ve gotno experience in the foodindustry, only in plastics.Theremustbeotherpeopleinthe same boat, maybe lessstablethanIam.’

‘My God!’ Maggiebreathed. She pushed herplate away. The colour hadreturned to her cheeks andshe seemed to have foundfresh energy. She got up andhugged Sarah fiercely.‘You’ve given us the firstpositive lead in this wholebloody case. You’re agenius!’

‘I hope you’ll rememberthatwhentheygiveyouyourinspector’sjob.’Maggiegrinnedonherway

outthedoor.‘Ioweyouone.I’llseeyoulater.’As the front door slammed,

Sarah said ironically, ‘I hopeit’s not too late already,babe.’

Detective Inspector Bill

Nicholson had worked withMaggie Staniforth for twoyears. His initial distrust ofher gender had been brokendown by her sheer grasp ofthe job.Nowhewaswont todescribe her as ‘a bloodygoodcopperinspiteofbeinga woman’, as if this were adiscoveryuniquelyhis,andadirectproductofworkingfor

him.AssheunfoldedSarah’ssuggestion, backed byphotostats of newspaperadvertisements culled fromthe local paper’s files, herealised for the first time shewas probably going toleapfrog him on the careerladder before too long. Hedidn’t like the idea, but hewasn’t prepared to let that

stand betweenhim and a jobofwork.They started on the long

haul of speaking directly tothe personnel officers of thethree companies. It meantquartering the country andtheyknewtheywereworkingagainst the clock. Back inBurnalder, a team ofdetectives was phoning

companies who hadadvertised similar vacancies,asking for lists of applicants.The lumbering machinery ofthelawwasingear.

Ontheeveningofthesecondday, an exhausted Maggiearrived home. Six hundredand thirty-seven miles ofdriving had taken their tollandshelookedcrumpledand

older by ten years. Sarahhelpedheroutofhercoatandpoured her a stiff drink insilence.‘You were right,’ Maggie

sighed. ‘We’ve got the nameandaddressofamanwhohasbeen rejected by all threefirmsafterthefirstinterview.We’re moving in on himtonight. If he sticks to his

pattern, he’ll be aiming tostrike again tomorrow. Sowith luck, it’ll be a red-handed job.’ She soundedgrim and distant. ‘What abloody waste. Twelve livesbecausehecan’tgetabloodyjob.’‘I can understand it,’ Sarah

said abruptly and wentthroughtothekitchen.

Maggie stared after her,shocked but comprehending.Shefeltagainthelowrumbleof anger inside her against asystem that set her to catchthe people it had so oftenmade its victims. If onlySarah had not lost her well-paid job, then Maggie knewshewouldhave left the forceby now, but they needed her

salary to keep their headsabove water. The job itselfwas dirty enough; but theadded pain of keeping herrelationship with Sarahconstantly under wraps wasgradually becoming morethan she could comfortablybear. Sarah wasn’t the onlyone whose choices had beendrastically pruned by her

unemployment.

By nine fifty-five a dozendetectives were stationedaroundaneatdetachedhousein a quiet suburban street. Inthe garden a ‘For Sale’ signsprouted among the rosebushes. Lights burned in thekitchenandliving-room.Inthecar,Billmadeafinal

check of the search warrant.

Then, after a last word overthe radio, he and Maggiewalkeduptheshortdrive.‘It’suptoyounow,’hesaid

and rang the doorbell. Itwasansweredbyatall,bluffmaninhismid-forties.Therewerelinesof strain roundhis eyesandhis clothes hung loosely,as if he had recently lostweight.

‘Yes?’ he asked in apleasant,gentlevoice.‘Mr Derek Millfield?’

Maggiedemanded.‘That’sme.HowcanIhelp

you?’‘We’re police officers, Mr

Millfield.We’dliketohaveaword with you, if you don’tmind.’He looked puzzled. ‘By all

means.ButIdon’tseewhat.. .’ His voice tailed off.‘You’d better come in, Isuppose.’They entered thehouse and

Millfield showed them intoasurprisingly large living-room. It was tastefully andexpensively furnished. Awoman sat watchingtelevision.

‘My wife Shula,’ heexplained. ‘Shula, these arepolicemen – Imean officers.Sorry,miss.’ShulaMillfieldstoodupand

facedthem.‘You’vecomeforme,then,’shesaid.It was hard to say who

looked most surprised. Thensuddenly she was laughing,crying and screaming, all at

Maggie stretched out on thesofa. ‘It was appalling. Shemust have been living on aknife-edge for weeks beforeshefinallyflipped.He’sbeenoutofworkforsevenmonths.They’vehadtotaketheirkidsout of private school, had tosell a car, sell theirpossessions. He had no idea

what she was up to. I’veneverseenanyonegoberserklikethat.Allforthesakeofanicemiddleclasslifestyle.‘There’snodoubtabouther

guilt, either. Her fingerprintsarealloverthejarofarsenic.Shestolethejaramonthago.She worked part-time in thepharmacy at the cottagehospital in Kingcaple. But

they didn’t notice the loss.God knows how. Deputy-heads will roll,’ she addedbitterly.‘What will happen to her?’

Sarahaskedcoolly.‘She’ll be tried, if she’s fit

to plead. But I doubt if shewillbe.I’mafraidit’llbethelocked ward for life.’ Whenshe looked up, Maggie saw

there were tears on Sarah’scheeks. She immediately gotupandputanarmroundher.‘Hey,don’tcry,love.Please.’‘Ican’thelpit,Maggie.You

see, I know how she feels. Iknow that utter lack of allhope.Iknowthathatred,thatsense of frustration andfutility. There’s nothing youcan do to take that away.

What you have to live with,Detective-SergeantStaniforth, is that it couldhavebeenme.‘Itcouldsoeasilyhavebeen

me.’

ATraditionalChristmas

Lastnight,IdreamedIwentto Amberley. Snow hadfallen, deep and crisp andeven,garlandingthetreesliketinsel sparkling in thesunlightasweswept throughthe tall irongates andup the

drive.Dianawasdriving,hergloved hands assured on thewheel in spite of the hazardsof an imperfectly clearedsurface. We rounded thecoppice, and there was thehouse, perfect as aphotograph, the sun seemingtobreathelifeintothegoldenCotswold stone. AmberleyHouse, one of the little jobs

Vanbrugh knocked off oncehe’d learned the trade withBlenheimPalace.Diana stopped in front of

the portico and blared thehorn. She turned tome, eyestwinkling, smile bewitchingas ever. ‘Christmas beginshere,’ she said.As ifoncue,the front door opened andEdmund stood framed in the

doorway, flanked by his andDiana’smother, andhiswifeJane, all smiling as gaily asdaytrippers.I woke then, rigid with

shock, pop-eyed in the dark.Itwasoneofthosedreamssovivid that when you waken,youcan’tquitebelieve ithasjust happened. But I knew itwas a dream. A nightmare,

rather. For Edmund, sixthBaron Amberley ofAnglezarkehadbeendeadforthreemonths. Ishouldknow.Ifoundthebody.Beside me, Diana was still

asleep. I wanted to burrowintoherside,seekingcomfortfrom the horrors ofmemory,butIcouldn’tbringmyselftobesoselfish.Apropernight’s

sleep was still a luxury forher and the next couple ofweeks weren’t exactly goingtobe restful. I slippedoutofbed and went through to thekitchen to make a cup ofcamomiletea.I huddled over the gas fire

and forced myself to thinkbacktoChristmas.Itwasthefourth year that Diana and I

hadmadethetripbacktoherancestral home to celebrate.As our first Christmastogether had approached, I’dworried about what we weregoing to do. In relationshipslike ours, there isn’t astandard formula. The onlything I was sure about wasthat I wanted us to spend ittogether. I knew that meant

visiting my parents was out.Aslongastheyneverhavetoconfront the physicalevidence of my lesbianism,they can handle it. Bringingany woman home to theirtenement flat inGlasgow forChristmas would beuncomfortable. Bringing thedaughterofabaronwouldbeimpossible.

When I’d nervouslybroached the subject, Dianahad looked astonished, hereyebrows raised, her mouthtwitching in a halfsmile. ‘Iassumedyou’dwant tocometo Amberley with me,’ shesaid. ‘They’re expecting youto.’‘Areyousure?’Dianagrabbedmeinabear-

hug. ‘Of course I’m sure.Don’t you want to spendChristmaswithme?’‘Stupidquestion,’Igrunted.

‘I thought maybe we couldcelebrateonourown,justthetwo of us. Romantic,intimate,thatsortofthing.’Diana looked uncertain.

‘Can’t we be romantic atAmberley? I can’t imagine

Christmasanywhereelse.It’sso . . . traditional. SoEnglish.’My turn for the raised

eyebrows.‘SureI’llfitin?’‘You know my mother

thinks theworld of you. Sheinsists on you coming. She’sfanatical about tradition,especially Christmas. You’llloveit,’shepromised.

AndIdid.Unlikelyas it is,this Scottish working-classlesbian feminist homeopathfell head over heels for thewhole English country-housepackage. I loved drivingdown with Diana onChristmas Eve, leaving themotorway traffic behind,slippingthroughnarrowlaneswith their tall hedgerows,

driving through thechocolate-box village ofAmberley, fairy lights strunground thegreen, and, finally,cruising past the DowerHouse where her motherlived and on up the drive. Iloved the sherry and mincepies with the neighbours,even theoneswhowanted toregalemewiththeirailments.

I loved the elaborateChristmas Eve meal Diana’smother cooked. I loved thebriskwalkthroughthewoodsto the village church for themidnight service. I lovedmost of all the way theysimplyabsorbedmeintotheirritualwithoutdistance.Christmas Day was

champagne breakfast,

stockings crammed withchildish toys and expensivegoodies from the SloaneRanger shops, church again,then presents proper. ThegargantuanfeastofChristmasdinner,withfree-rangeturkeyfrom the estate’s home farm.Then a dozen close familyfriends arrived to pullcrackers, wear silly hats and

masks, drink like tomorrowwas another life and playevery ridiculous party gamefrom Sardines to Charades.I’m glad no one’s evervideotaped the evening andthreatened to send a copy tothe women’s alternativehealth co-operative where Ipractise. I’d have to pay theblackmail.DianaandIleada

classless life in London,where almost no one knowsher background. It’s not thatshe’s embarrassed. It’s justthat she knows from bitterexperiencehowmanybarriersit builds for her. But atAmberley,weleftbehindmyhomeopathy and her LegalAid practice, and for a fewdayswe lived ina timewarp

that Charles Dickens wouldhaverevelledin.On Boxing Day night, we

always trooped down to thevillage hall for the dance. Itwas then that Edmund cameinto his own. His huntin’,shootin’ and fishin’ personaslipped from him like themasks we’d worn the nightbeforewhenhepickeduphis

altosaxandsteppedonto thestagetoleadthetwelve-pieceAmber Band. Most of hisfellow members wereprofessional sessionmusicians, but the drummerdoubled as a labourer onAmberley Farm and thekeyboard player was thevillage postman. I’m noconnoisseur, but I reckoned

the Amber Band was one ofthebest liveoutfits I’ve everheard. They playedeverything from DukeEllington to Glenn Miller,including Miles Davis andJohn Coltrane pieces, allarrangedbyEdmund.Andofcourse, they played some ofEdmund’sowncompositions,strange haunting slow-

dancingpieces that somehowachieved the seeminglyimpossible marriage betweenthe English countryside andjazz.Therewasnothingdifferent

tomarkout lastChristmasasawatershedgig.Edmund ledthebandwithhisusualverve.DianaandIdancedwitheachother half the night and took

it in turns to dance with hermother the rest of the time.Evangeline (‘call me Evie’)still danced with a vivacityand flair that made meunderstand why Diana’sfather had fallen for her. Asusual, Jane sat stolidlynursing a gin and tonic thatshe made last the wholenight. ‘I don’t dance,’ she’d

said stiffly to me when I’daskedheruponmyfirstvisit.It was a rebuff that brookedno argument. Later, I askedDianaifJanehadknockedmebackbecauseIwasadyke.Diana roared with laughter.

‘Good God, no,’ shespluttered.‘Janedoesn’tevendance with Edmund. She’stonedeafandhasnosenseof

rhythm.’‘Bit of a handicap, being

marriedtoEdmund,’Isaid.Diana shrugged. ‘It would

be if music were the onlything he did. But the AmberBand only does a fewgigs ayear.Therestofthetimehe’srunning the estate and Janeloves being the countrysquire’swife.’

Intheinterveningyears,thatwas the only thing that hadchanged.Wordofmouthhadincreased the demand for theAmber Band’s services. BylastChristmas,thebandwereplaying at least one gig aweek.They’dmovedupfromplayingvillagehallsandhuntballs onto the student-unioncircuit.

LastChristmas I’dgone fora walk with Diana’s motherontheafternoonofChristmasEve. As we’d emerged fromthe back door, I noticed athree-ton van parked over bythestables.Alongtheside,intall letters of gold and black,it said, ‘Amber Band!Bringingjazztothepeople.’‘Wow,’ I said, ‘That looks

serious.’Evie laughed. ‘It keeps

Edmund happy. His fatherwas obsessed with breakingthe British record for thelargest salmon, which,believe me, was a far moreinconvenient interest thanEdmund’s.AllJanehastoputupwithisalackofEdmund’scompany two or three nights

aweek atmost.Going aloneto a dinner party is a farlighter cross to bear thanbeing dragged off to fishinglodges in the middle ofnowheretobebittentodeathbymidges.’‘Doesn’t he find it hard,

trying to run the estate aswell?’ I asked idly as westruck out across the park

towardsthecoppice.Evie’s lips pursed

momentarily, but her voicebetrayed no irritation. ‘He’staken a man on part-time totake care of the day-to-daybusiness. Edmund keeps hishandsfirmlyonthereins,butLewis has taken on theburdenofmuchoftheroutinework.’

‘Itcan’tbeeasy,makinganestate like this paynowadays.’Evie smiled. ‘Edmund’s

very good at it. Heunderstandstheimportanceoftradition, but he’s not afraidto try new things. I’m verylucky with my children, Jo.They’ve turned out betterthan any mother could have

hoped.’I accepted the implied

complimentinsilence.

The happy family idyllcrashed around everyone’sears the day after BoxingDay. Edmund had seemedquieterthanusualoverlunch,but I put that down to thehangover that, if there wereany justice in the world, he

should be suffering. As Eviepoured out the coffee, hecleared his throat and saidabruptly, ‘I’vegot somethingtosaytoyouall.’Diana and I exchanged

questioning looks. I noticedJane’sfacefreeze,herfingersclutching the handle of hercoffee cup. Evie finishedwhat she was doing and sat

down. ‘We’re all listening,Edmund,’shesaidgently.‘Asyou’reallaware,Amber

Band has becomeincreasingly successful. Afew weeks ago, I wasapproached by arepresentative of a majorrecordcompany.Theywouldlike us to sign a deal withthem to make some

recordings. They would alsolike to help us move ourtouring venues up a gear ortwo. I’ve discussed this withtheband,andwe’reallagreedthat we would be crazy toturn our backs on thisopportunity.’Edmundpausedand looked aroundapprehensively.‘Congratulations, bro,’

Diana said. I could hear thenervousness in her voice,thoughIwasn’tsurewhyshewas so apprehensive. I satsilent, waiting for the othershoetodrop.‘Goon,’Eviesaidinavoice

sounemotional it sentachilltomyheart.‘Obviously, this is

something that has

implications for Amberley. Ican’t have a career as amusician and continue to beresponsible for all of this.Also,weneedtoincreasetheincome from the estate inorder to make sure thatwhatever happens to mycareer, there will always beenough money available toallowMa to carry on as she

has always done. So I havemade the decision to handovertherunningofthehouseand the estate to amanagement company whowill run the house as aresidential conference centreandmanagethelandinbroadaccordance with theprinciples I’ve alreadyestablished,’ Edmund said in

arush.Jane’sfaceflusheddarkred.

‘How dare you?’ she hissed.‘Youcan’tturnthisplaceintosome bloody talking shop.The house will be full ofghastly sales reps. Our liveswon’tbeourown.’Edmundlookeddownatthe

table.‘Wewon’tbehere,’hesaid softly. ‘It makes more

sense if we move out. Ithought we could take ahouse inLondon.’He lookedup beseechingly at Jane, alook so naked it wasembarrassingtowitnessit.‘Thisisextraordinary,’Evie

said,findinghervoiceatlast.‘Hundreds of years oftradition, and you want tosmash it to pieces to indulge

somehobby?’Edmundtookadeepbreath.

‘Ma,it’snotahobby.It’stheonly time I feel properlyalive. Look, this is not amatter for discussion. I’vemademymindup.Thehouseand the estate are mineabsolutelytodowithasIseefit, and these are my plans.There’snopointinargument.

The papers are all drawn upand I’m going to towntomorrow to sign them. Theother chaps from the villagehave already handed in theirnotice.We’reallset.’Jane stood up. ‘You

bastard,’ she yelled. ‘Youinconsiderate bastard! Whydidn’t you discuss this withme?’

Edmund raised his handsout to her. ‘I knew you’d beopposedtoit.AndyouknowhowhardIfindittosaynotoyou. Jane, I need to do this.It’ll be fine, I promise you.We’ll find somewhere lovelyto live in London, near yourfriends.’Wordlessly, Jane picked up

hercoffeecupandhurleditat

Edmund.Itcaughthiminthemiddle of the forehead. Hebarely flinched as the hotliquid poured down his face,turning his sweater brown.‘You insensitive pig,’ shesaid in a low voice. ‘Hadn’tyou noticed I haven’t had aperiod for two months? I’mpregnant, Edmund, you utterbastard. I’m two months

pregnantandyouwanttoturnmy life upside down?’ Thenshe ran from the roomslamming the heavy doorbehind her, no mean feat initself.In the stunned silence that

followed Jane’s bombshell,no one moved. ThenEdmund, his face seeming todisintegrate, pushed his chair

back with a screech andhurried wordlessly after hiswife. I turned to look atDiana. The sight of herstrickenfacewas likeablowto the chest. I barelyregisteredEviesighing,‘Howsharper than a serpent’stooth,’beforeshetooleft theroom.Before thedoorclosedbehind her, I was out of my

chair, Diana pressed close tome.

Dinner that evening was thefirst meal I’d eaten atAmberley in an atmosphereof strain.Hardly awordwasspoken,andIsuspectIwasn’talone in feeling relief whenEdmund rose abruptly beforecoffeeandannouncedhewasgoing down to the village to

rehearse. ‘Don’twait up,’ hesaidtersely.Jane went upstairs as soon

asthemealwasover.Eviesatdownwithustowatchafilm,but half an hour into it, sheroseandsaid,‘I’msorry.I’mnot concentrating. Yourbrother has given me rathertoomuch to think about. I’mgoing back to the Dower

House.’Diana and I walked to the

door with her mother. Westood under the portico,watching the dark figureagainstthesnow.Theairwasheavy, the sky lowering.‘Feels like a storm brewing,’Diana remarked. ‘Even theweather’s cross withEdmund.’

Wewatched the rest of thefilmthendecidedtogouptobed. As we walked throughthe hall, Iwent to switch offthe lights on the Christmastree. ‘Leave them,’ Dianasaid.‘Edmundwill turnthemoff when he comes in. It’stradition–lasttobeddoesthetree.’ She smiledreminiscently. ‘The number

oftimesI’vecomebackfromparties in theearlyhoursandseen the tree shining downthedrive.’About an hour later, the

storm broke. We werereadinginbedwhenaclapofthunder as loud as a bombblast crashed over the house.Thena rattleofmachine-gunfire against the window. We

clutched each other insurprise, though heavenknowswe’veneverneededanexcuse. Diana slipped out ofbed and pulled back one oftheheavydamaskcurtainssowe could watch the hail peltthe window and the bolts oflightning flash jagged acrossthe sky. It raged for nearlyhalf an hour. Diana and I

played the game of countingthegapbetweenthunderclapsand lightning flashes, whichtold us the storm seemed tobe circling Amberley itself,movingoffonlytocomebackand blast us again withlightningandhail.Eventually it moved off to

the west, occasional flasheslighting up the distant hills.

Somehow,itseemedtherighttimetomakelove.Aswelaytogether afterwards, revellingin the luxury of satiatedsensuality,thelightssuddenlywent out. ‘Damn,’ Dianadrawled. ‘Bloodystorm’sgotthe electrics on the blink.’She stirred. ‘I’d better godown and check the fusebox.’

I grabbed her. ‘Leave it,’ Iurged. ‘Edmund can do itwhenhe comes in.We’re allwarm and sleepy. Besides, Imightgetlonely.’Diana chuckled and

snuggled back intomy arms.Moments later, the lightscamebackonagain. ‘See?’ Isaid. ‘No need. Probably aproblem at the local sub-

station because of theweather.’

Iwokeupjustafterseventhefollowingmorning,fullofthejoys of spring.Wewere dueto go back to London afterlunch, so I decided to sneakoutforanearlymorningwalkin the copse. I dressedwithout waking Diana andslipped out of the silent

house.The path from the house to

the copse was well-trodden.TherehadbeennofreshsnowsinceChristmasEve, and thepath was well used, since itwas a short cut both to theDowerHouseandthevillage.There were evenmountainbike tracks amongthe scatteredbootprints.The

trees, an elderly mixture ofbeech, birch, alder, oak andash, still held their traceryofsnow on the tops of somebranches, though followingthestormamildthawhadsetin.AsImovedintothewood,I felt drips of melting snowonmyhead.In themiddle of the copse,

there’saclearingfringedwith

silver birch trees. When shewas little, Diana wasconvinced this was the placewhere the fairies came torecharge their magic. Therewasnomagic in the clearingthat morning. As soon as Iemergedfromthetrees,IsawEdmund’s body, sprawledunder a single silver birchtree by the path on the far

side.Foramoment,Iwasfrozen

with shock. Then I rushedforward and crouched downbeside him. I didn’t need tofeel for a pulse. He wasclearly long dead, his righthandblackenedandburned.

I can’t remember the nexthours. Apparently, I went totheDowerHouseand roused

Evie. I blurted out what I’dseen and she called thepolice. I have a vaguerecollectionofher staggeringslightly as I broke the news,butIwasinshockandIhaveno recollection of what shesaid. Diana arrived soonafterwards.Whenhermothertold her what had happened,shestarednumblyatmefora

moment, then tears poureddown her face. None of usseemedeagertobetheonetobreak the news to Jane.Eventually, as if by mutualconsent, we waited until thepolice arrived. We meritedtwo uniformed constables,plus two plain-clothesdetectives. In the words ofNoël Coward, Detective

Inspector Maggie Staniforthwould not have fooled adrunken child of two and ahalf. As soon as Evieintroduced me as herdaughter’s partner, DIStaniforth thawed visibly. Ididn’tmuchcareatthatpoint.I was too numbed even totake in what they weresaying. It sounded like the

distant mutter of bees in aherbgarden.DI Staniforth set off with

herteamtoexaminethebodywhile Diana and I, after amuttered discussion in thecorner,informedEviethatwewould go and tell Jane. Wefound her in the kitchendrinking a mug of coffee. ‘Idon’t suppose you’ve seen

my husband,’ she said intonesofuttercontemptwhenwe walked in. ‘He didn’thave the courage to comehomelastnight.’DianasatdownnexttoJane

and flashed me a look ofpanic.Isteppedforward.‘I’msorry, Jane, but there’s beenan accident.’ In moments ofcrisis, why is it we always

reachforthenearestcliché?Jane looked at me as if I

were speaking Swahili. ‘Anaccident?’ she asked in amacabreechoofDameEdithEvans’s‘Ahandbag?’‘Edmund’s dead,’ Diana

blurted out. ‘He was struckby lightning in the wood.Coming home from thevillage.’

As she spoke, a wave ofnausea surged through me. IthoughtIwasgoingtofaint.Igrabbedtheedgeofthetable.Diana’s words robbed themuscles in my legs of theirstrengthandIlurchedintothenearest chair. Up until thatpoint,I’dbeentoodazedwithshock to realise theconclusion everyone but me

hadcometo.Jane looked blankly at

Diana. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Dianasaid, the tears starting again,flowingdownhercheeks.‘I’m not,’ Jane said. ‘He

can’t stop my child growingupinAmberleynow.’Diana turned white. ‘You

bitch,’shesaidwonderingly.At least Iknew thenwhat I

hadtodo.Maggie Staniforth arrived

shortlyafter to interviewme.‘It’s just a formality,’ shesaid. ‘It’s obvious whathappened. He was walkinghome in the storm and wasstruck by lightning as hepassedunderthebirchtree.’I took a deep breath. ‘I’m

afraid not,’ I said. ‘Edmund

wasmurdered.’Hereyebrowsrose. ‘You’re

stillinshock.I’mafraidthereare no suspiciouscircumstances.’‘Maybe not to you. But I

knowdifferent.’Credit where it’s due, she

heard me out. But thesceptical look never left hereyes. ‘That’s all very well,’

she said eventually. ‘But ifwhat you’re saying is true,there’snowayofprovingit.’Ishrugged.‘Whydon’tyou

look for fingerprints? Eitherin the plug of the Christmastree lights, or on the mainfuse box. When he waselectrocuted, the lights fused.At the time, Diana and Ithought itwasaglitch in the

mains supply, but we knowbetter now. Jane would havehadtorewiretheplugandthesocket to cover her tracks.And she must have gonedown to the cellar to repairthe fuse or turn the circuitbreaker back on. Shewouldn’t have had occasiontotouchthoseintheusualrunof things. I doubt she’d even

have good reason to knowwherethefuseboxis.Tryit,’Iurged.And that’s how Evie came

tobechargedwiththemurderof her son. If I’d thoughtthings through, if I’d waitedtill my brain was out ofshock, I’d have realised thatJanewouldneverhaveriskedher baby by hauling

Edmund’s body over thecrossbarofhismountainbikeand wheeling him out to thecopse. Besides, she probablybelieved she could use hislove for her to persuade himto change his mind. Eviedidn’thavethathopetoclingto.IfI’drealiseditwasDiana’s

motherwhokilledEdmund,I

doubt very much if I’d haveshared my esotericknowledge with DIStaniforth. It’s a funnybusiness,NewAgemedicine.WhenIattendedaseminaronthe healing powers of plantsgiven by a Native Americanmedicine man, I neverthought his wisdom wouldhelpmeproveamurder.

Maybe Eviewill get lucky.Maybe she’ll get a juryreluctant to convict in a casethat rests on the inexplicablefact that lightning neverstrikesbirchtrees.

TheGirlWhoKilledSantaClaus

It was the night beforeChristmas, and notsurprisingly, Kelly JaneDavidsonwaswideawake.Itwasn’t thatshewantedtobe.Itwasn’tasifshebelievedinSanta and expected to catch

him coming down thechimney onto the coal-effectgas fire in the livingroom.Afterall,shewasnearlyeightnow.She felt scornful as she

thought back to lastChristmas when she’d stillbeenababy, amere sixyearold who still believed thattherereallywasanelffactory

in Lapland where they madethetoys;thattherereallywasa team of reindeer whomagically pulled a sleighacrosstheskiesandsomehowgot round all the world’schildren with sackloads ofgifts; that she could reallywrite a letter to Santa andhe’d personally choose anddeliverherpresents.

Of course, she’dknown forages before then that the fatmen in red suits and falsebeards who sat her on theirknees in an assortment ofgaudy grottoes weren’t thereal Santa. They were justmen who dressed up andacted as messengers for thereal Father Christmas,passing on her desires and

giving her a token of whatwould be waiting for her onChristmasmorning.She’d had her suspicions

abouttherestofthestory,sowhen Simon Sharp had toldher in the playground thatthere wasn’t really a SantaClaus, she hadn’t even feltshocked or shaken. Shehadn’ttriedtoargue,notlike

her best friend Sarah, whohad gone red in the face andlooked like shewas going toburst into tears. But it wasobvious when you thoughtabout it. Her mum wasalwayscomplainingwhensheordered things fromcatalogues and they sent thewrong thing. If the cataloguepeople couldn’t get a simple

orderright,howcouldonefatmanandabunchofelvesgetthe right toys to all thechildren in the world on onenight?So Kelly Jane had said

goodbye to Santa without amoment’s regret. She mighthave been more worried ifshe hadn’t discovered thesecretof theairingcupboard.

Her mum had beendownstairs making the tea,andKelly Janehadwantedapillowcasetomakeasleepingbag for her favourite doll.She’d opened the airingcupboard and there, on thetop shelf, she’d seen a stackof strangely shaped plasticbags.Theywere toohigh forhertoreach,butshe’dcraned

herneckandmanaged to seethecornerofsomepackaginginside one of the bags. Herheart had started to poundwith excitement, for she’dimmediately recognised thefamiliar box that she’d beenstaring at in longing in thetoyshopwindowforweeks.She’d closed the door

silentlyandcreptback toher

room. Her mum had said,‘Wait and see what Santabringsyou,’asifshewasstillasillybabywhenshe’daskedfor the new Barbie doll. Buthereitwasinthehouse.Later, when her mum and

dad were safely shut in theliving-room watching thetelly, she’d crept out of bedand used the chair from her

bedroom to climb up andexplorefurther.Ithadleftherfeeling very satisfied. SantaornoSanta,shewasgoingtohaveagreatChristmas.Which was why she

couldn’t sleep. The prospectofplayingwithhernewtoys,nottomentionshowingthemofftoSarah,wastooexcitingto let her drift off into

dreams.Restless, she got outofbedandpulledthecurtainsopen. It was a cold, clearnight,and inspiteof thecitylights, she could still see thestars twinkling, the thincrescent of the moon like aknife cut in the dark blue ofthe sky. No sleigh, orreindeers,though.She had no idea howmuch

time had passed when sheheard the footsteps. Heavy,uneven thuds on the stairs.Not the light-footed tread ofher mum, nor the measuredfootfalls of her dad. Thesewere stumbling steps,irregular and clumsy, as ifsomeone was negotiatingunfamiliarterritory.Kelly Jane was suddenly

aware how cold it hadbecome. Her arms and legsturnedtogooseflesh,theshorthair on the back of her neckpricklingwithunease.Who–or what – was out there, inher house, in the middle ofthenight?She heard a bump and a

muffled voice grunting, as ifin pain. It didn’t sound like

anyone she knew. It didn’tevensoundhuman.Morelikean animal. Or some sort ofmonster, like in the storiesthey’d read at school atHallowe’en. Trolls that atelittle children. She’dremembered the trolls, andfor weeks she’d taken thelong way home to avoidgoing over the ringroad

flyover.Sheknewitwasn’taproperbridgeliketrolls livedunder, but shedidn’twant totake any chances. Sarah hadagreed with her, thoughSimon Sharp had laughed atthe pair of them. It wouldhaveservedhimrighttohavea troll in his house onChristmasEve. Itwasn’t fairthatithadcometoherhouse,

Kelly Jane thought, trying tomake herself angry to drivethefearaway.Itdidn’twork.Herstomach

hurt. She’d never been thisscared, not even when shehad to have a filling at thedentist.Shewantedtohideinherwardrobe,butsheknewitwas silly to go somewhereshe could be trapped so

easily. Besides, she had toknowtheworst.On tiptoe, she crossed the

room, blinking back tears.Cautiously, she turned thedoor handle and inched thedoor open. The landing lightwas off, but she could justmake out a bulky shapestanding by the airingcupboard. As her eyes

adjusted to the deeperdarkness, she could see anarm stretching up to the topshelf.Itclutchedthepackagesand put them in a sack. Herpackages! Her Christmaspresents!With terrible clarity, Kelly

Janerealisedthat thiswasnomonster. It was a burglar,pure and simple. A badman

hadbrokenintoherhouseandwas stealing her Christmaspresents! Outrage floodedthroughher,banishingfearinthat instant. As the bulkyfigure put the last parcel inhis sack and turned back tothe stairs, she launchedherself through the door andraced down the landing,crashing into the burglar’s

legs just as he took the firststep. ‘Go away, you badburglar,’shescreamed.Caught off balance, he

crashedheadoverheelsdownthe stairs, a yell of surprisesplitting the silence of thenight like an axe slicingthroughalog.Kelly Jane cannoned into

the bannisters and rebounded

onto the top step, breathlessand exhilarated. She’dstopped theburglar!Shewasahero!But where were her mum

anddad?Surelytheycouldn’thavesleptthroughallofthis?She opened their bedroom

door and saw to her dismaythat theirbedwasempty, thecurtains still wide open.

Wherewere they?Whatwasgoing on? And why hadn’tanyonesoundedthealarm?Back on the landing, she

peered down the stairs andsaw a crumpled heap in thehallway. He wasn’t moving.Nervously,shedecidedshe’dbettercallthepoliceherself.She incheddown the stairs,

never taking her eyes off the

burglar in case he suddenlyjumped up and came afterher.Step by careful step, she

edgedcloser.Three stairs from the

bottom, enough light spilledinthroughtheglasspanelsinthe front door forKelly Janetoseewhatshe’dreallydone.There, in themiddle of the

hallway, lay the prone bodyof Santa Claus. Not moving.Notevenbreathing.She’dkilledSantaClaus.Simon Sharp was wrong.

Sarah was right. And nowKellyJanehadkilledhim.With a stifled scream, she

turned tail and raced back toher bedroom, slamming thedoor shut behind her. Now

shewas shivering in earnest,her whole body tremblingfromhead to foot. She divedinto bed, pulling the duvetoverherhead.Butitmadenodifference. She felt as if herbodyhadturnedtostone,herblood to ice. She couldn’tstop shaking, her teethchattering like popcorn in apan.

She’dkilledSantaClaus.Allovertheworld,children

would wake up to noChristmas presents becauseKelly Jane Davidson hadmurdered Santa. Andeveryonewould knowwhomto blame, because his deadbody was lying in herhallway. Until the day shedied, people would point at

her in the street and go,‘There’s Kelly JaneDavidson, the girl whomurderedChristmas.’Whimpering, she laycurled

under her duvet, terribleremorse flooding her heart.She’dneversleepagain.But somehow, she did.

When her mum threw openthe door and shouted ‘Merry

Christmas!’ Kelly Jane wassound asleep. For onewonderful moment, sheforgot what had happened.Thenitcamepouringbackinand she peered timidly overthe edge of the duvet at hermum. She didn’t seem upsetor worried. How could shehavemissedthedeadbodyinthehall?

‘Don’t you want yourpresents?’ hermumasked. ‘Ican’t believe you’re still inbed.It’snineo’clock.You’venever slept this late onChristmas morning before.Comeon,Santa’sbeen!’Nobody knew that better

than Kelly Jane. What hadhappened? Had the reindeersummoned the elves to take

Santa’s body away, leavingherpresentsbehind?Wasshegoing to be the only childwho had Christmas presentsthis year? Reluctantly, sheclimbed out of bed anddawdled downstairs behindher mum, gazing in worriedamazement at the emptyexpanseofthehallcarpet.She trailed into the living-

room, feet dragging withevery step. There, under thetree, was the usual pile ofbrightlywrapped gifts. KellyJane looked up at her mum,ananxiousfrownonherface.‘Are these all for me?’ sheasked. Somehow, it feltwrong to be rewarded forkillingSantaClaus.Her mum grinned. ‘All for

you.Oh,andtherewasanotewith them as well.’ Shehanded Kelly Jane aChristmascardwithapictureofareindeeronthefront.Kelly Jane took it gingerly

and opened it. Inside, inshaky capital letters, it read,‘Don’tworry.Youcanneverkill me. I’m magic. HappyChristmasfromSantaClaus.’

A slow smile spread acrossherface.Itwasallright!Shehadn’t murdered Santa afterall!Before she could say

anotherword, thedoorto thekitchen opened and her dadwalkedin.HehadthebiggestblackeyeKellyJanehadeverseen, even on the telly. Thewholeofonesideofhis face

was all bruised, and his leftarm was encased in plaster.‘What happened, Dad?’ sheasked, running tohughim inherdismay.Hewinced. ‘Careful,Kelly,

I’mallbruised.’‘But what happened to

you?’ she demanded,steppingback.‘Your dad had a bit too

much to drink at the officeparty last night,’ her mumsaidhastily.‘Hehadafall.’‘But I’m going to be just

fine. Why don’t you openyour presents?’ he said,gently pushing Kelly Janetowardsthetree.As she stripped the paper

fromthefirstofherpresents,her mum and dad stood

watching.‘That’llteachmetoleave you alone in the houseonChristmasEve,’ hermumsaidsoftly.Her dad tried to smile, but

gaveupwhenthepainkickedin. ‘Bloody Santa suit,’ hesaid. ‘How was I to knowshe’dtakemeforaburglar?’

SneezeforDanger

Ishiftedinmycanvaschair,trying to get uncomfortable.The hardest thing aboutlistening to somebodysleeping is staying awakeyourself. Mind you, therewasn’t much to hear. GregThomas was never going toget complaints from his

girlfriends about his snoring.I’d comeon stakeout duty atmidnight, and all I’d heardwasthetinnytailendofsomeAmerican sports commentaryon the TV, the flushing of atoilet and a fewgrunts that Itook to be him gettingcomfortable in the big bedthat dominated hisextravagantly stylish studio

penthouse.I knew about the bed and

the expensive style becausewe also had videosurveillance inside Thomas’sflat.Well,we’dhadittilltheprevious afternoon.According to Jimmy Lister,who shared the day shift,Thomashadstoppedinattheflorist’sonhiswaybackfrom

ameetwithoneofhisdealersand emerged with two bigbunchesof lilies.Backat theflat, he’d stuffed them into avaseandplacedthemrightinfront of the wee fibreopticcamera. Almost as if heknew.But of course, he couldn’t

have known. If he’d had anyinkling that we were

watching, it wouldn’t havebeenbusiness asusual in theGreg Thomas drugs empire.He wouldn’t have gone nearhis network of middlemen,and he certainly wouldn’thave been calling his partnerin crime to discuss herforthcoming trip to Curaçao.If he’d known we werewatching him, he’d have

assumed we were trying toclose him down and he’dhave been living theblamelesslife.He’dhavebeenwrong. I’m

not that sort of cop. That’snottosayIdon’tthinkpeoplelike Greg Thomas should beputawayforaverylongtime.They should. They areresponsible for a

disproportionate amount ofhumanmisery,andtheydon’tdeserve to be inhabiting thehigh life. Thomas’s cupidityplayed on others’ stupidity,butthatdidn’tmakeanyofitallright.Nevertheless, my interest

was not in making a caseagainst Thomas. Whatmattered to me was the

reason nobody else had beenable to do just that. Threetimes the Drugs Squad hadinitiated operations againstGreg Thomas’s multi-million-pound business, andthreetimesthey’dcomeawayempty-handed. There wasonlyonepossibleconclusion.Somebody on the inside wastakingThomas’sshilling.

Samuels, who runs thedrugs squad, had finallyconceded he wasn’t going toput Greg Thomas away untilhe’d put his own house inorder. And that’s where wecamein.Nobody loves us. Our

fellow cops call us theScaffies.That’sScots forbinmen. My brother, who

studied Scottish literature atuniversity, says it’s probablya corruption of scavengers.Me, Iprefer toknockoff thefirst two letters. Avengers,that’s what we are. We’rethere to avenge the punterswho pay our wages and getrobbed of justice becausesome cops see get-rich-quickopportunities where the rest

ofus see thechance tomakeacollar.It’seasytobecynicalinmy

line ofwork.When your jobis to sniff out corruption, it’shard to see past that. It’sdifficult to hang on to themissionary zeal when you’reconstantly exposed to thevenality of your fellowman.I’ve seen cops selling their

mates down the river for theprice of a package holiday.Sometimes I almost believethat some of them do it forthe same reason as criminalscommit crimes – becausethey can. And they’re theones who are most affrontedwhen we sit them down andconfront them with whatthey’vedone.

So. Nobody loves us. Butwhat’s worse is that doingthisjobforanylengthoftimeprovokesakindofemotionalreversal. It’s almostimpossible for us Scaffies tolove anybody. Mistrustbecomes a habit and nothingwill poison a relationshipfasterthanthat.Intheend,allyou’ve got is your team.

There’seightofus,andwe’recloser than most marriages.We’re a detective inspector,two sergeants and fiveconstables. But rank mattersless here than anywhere elsein the force. We need tobelieve in each other, andthat’sthebottomline.Movement in the street

belowcaughtmyattention.A

shambling figure, staggeringslightly, making his waydown the pavement oppositeour vantage point. I nudgedmy partner Dennis, whorolled his shoulders as heleaned forward, focused thecamera and snapped off acouple of shots. Not thatthey’d be any use. The threea.m. drunk was dressed for

theweather, the collar of hispuffa jacket close round hisneck and his baseball cappulleddownlow.Hestoppedoutside Thomas’s buildingandkeyedtheentrycodeintothe door. There were sixteenflats in the block and weknewmostoftheresidentsbysight. I didn’t recognise thisguy,though.

Through the glass frontageof the building opposite, wecould see him weaving hiswaytothelift.Hehitthecallbutton and practically fellinside when the doorsopened.Iwasfullyalertnow.Not because I thoughtanythinguntowardwasgoingdown, but because anythingthatgetstheadrenalinegoing

in the middle of nightsurveillance iswelcome.Thelift stopped on the secondfloor, and the drunk lurchedout into the lobby, turning tohisleftandheadingforoneofthe flats at the rear of thebuilding.Werelaxedandsettledback

into our chairs. Dennis, mypartner, snorted. ‘I wouldn’t

like to be inside his head inthemorning,’hesaid.Ireacheddownandpulleda

thermos of coffee out of mybag.‘Youwantsome?’Dennisshookhishead. ‘I’ll

stick to the Diet Coke,’ hesaid.Itwasaboutfifteenminutes

later that we heard it. Ourheadphonesexplodedintolife

with a volley of sneezing. Inearly fell out of my chair.Thevolumewasdeafening.Itseemed to go on forever. Achoking, spluttering, gaspingfitthatIthoughtwouldneverend. Then, as suddenly as ithadstarted,itended.IlookedatDennis.‘Whatthehellwasthat?’He shrugged. ‘Guy’s

comingdownwithacold?’‘Out of the blue? Just like

that?’‘Maybe he decided to have

a wee taste of his ownproduct.’‘Ohaye,right.Youwakeup

in the night, you can’t getbacktosleep,soyoudoalineofcoke?’Dennis laughed. ‘Right

enough,’hesaid.We left it at that. After all,

there’s nothing inherentlysuspicious about somebodyhaving a sneezing fit in themiddle of the night. Unless,of course, they never wakeup.Iwassparkoutmyselfwhen

Greg Thomas made hispresence felt again. Groggy

with tiredness, I reached forthe phone, registering thetime on my bedside clock.Just after one o’clock. I’dbeeninbedforlessthanfourhours. I’d barely grunted agreeting when a familiarvoicebatteredmyeardrum.‘What the hell were you

doing last night?’ DetectiveInspector Phil Barclay

demanded.‘Listening in, boss,’ I said.

‘With Dennis. Like I wassupposedtobe.Why?’‘Because while you were

listening in, somebody cutGregThomas’sthroat.’Onmyway to the scene, I

calledJimmyListerandtriedto piece together what hadhappened.When the dayshift

hadn’t heard a peep out ofThomas by noon, they’dgrown suspicious. Theybegan to wonder if he’dsomehow done a runner. Sothey’d got the managementcompany to let them intoThomas’s flat and they’dfound him sprawled acrosshis bed, throat gaping likesomemonstrousgrin.

BythetimeIgottotheflat,therewas ahuddleofpeopleon the landing.DrugsSquad,Serious Crime guys and ofcourse, the Scaffies. PhilBarclay was at the centre ofthe group. ‘There you are,Chrissie,’ he said. ‘So howthe hell did you miss amurder while you werestaking out the victim?’ For

Philtoturnononeofhisownin front of other cops wasunheard of. I knew I was inforaveryroughride.Before I could answer,

Dennis emerged from thestairwell.‘Listentothetapes,boss,’ he said. ‘Then you’llhear everything we did.Whichisnothing.’‘Except for the sneezing,’ I

saidslowly.All the eyes were on me

now. ‘About twenty pastthree. Somebody had asneezing fit. It must havelasted a couple ofminutes atleast.’ I looked at Dennis,whonoddedinconfirmation.‘We assumed it was

Thomas,’hesaid.‘Thatwould fit,’ oneof the

othercopssaid.Ididn’tknowhisname,but IknewhewasSerious Crime. ‘Thepathologist estimates time ofdeath between two and fivea.m.’Samuels from the Drugs

Squad stuck his head out oftheflat.‘Phil,doyouwanttotake a look inside, see ifanything’s out of place from

when you had the videorunning?’Barclaylookedmomentarily

uncomfortable.‘Chrissie,youand Dennis take a look. Ididn’t really pay muchattention to the videofootage.’‘Talk about distancing

yourself,’Dennismutteredaswe entered the flat,

sidestepping a SOCO whowas examining the lock onthe door through a jeweller’sloupe.I paused and said, ‘Key or

picks?’The SOCO looked up.

‘Picks, I’d say. Freshscratchesonthetumblers.’‘Hemust havebeenbloody

good,’ I said. ‘We never

heardathing.’Greg Thomas wasn’t a

pretty sight. I was supposedto be looking round the flat,but my eyes were constantlydrawnbacktothebed.‘Howcome we never heard it?You’d think he’d havemadesomesortofnoise.’One of the technicians

lookedupfromthesurfacehe

was dusting for prints. ‘Thedocsaiditmusthavebeenanincredibly sharp blade.Wentthrough right to the spine,knife through butter. Hemaybe would have made aweegurgle,butthat’sall.’At first glance, nothing in

the flat looked different. Istepped round the bedtowards the alcove where

Thomas had his workstation.‘His laptop’s gone,’ I said,pointing to the cable lyingdisconnectedonthedesk.‘Great. So now we know

we’relookingforakillerwitha laptop,’ Dennis said.‘That’llnarrowitdown.’Back on the landing, Phil

toldusabruptly toheadbacktobase.‘We’llhaveadebrief

in an hour,’ he said. ‘TheDrugsSquadguyscanrunusthrough Thomas’s knownassociates and enemies.Maybe they’ll recognisesomebody from oursurveillance.’I walked back to my car,

turningeverythingoverinmyhead.Thetimingstuckinmythroat. It felt like an

uncomfortable coincidencethat Greg Thomas had beenkilledtheverynightwe’dlostour video cover. I knewPhilBarclay and Samuels weretight from way back andwondered whether my bosshadmentionedtheproblemtoSamuels. If the mole knewwe were watching, he mighthavedecided thebestway to

avoiddetectionwastosilencehis paymaster for good.Thatwould also explain thesilence. None of Thomas’srivals could have knownabout the need to keep thenoiselevelsdown.Slowly, an idea began to

form in my head. We mighthave lost the direct route totheDrugsSquad’sbadapple,

but maybe there was still anindirectpassagetothetruth.Imade a wee detour on theway back to the office,wondering at my owntemerity for even daring tothinkthewayIwas.The debrief was the usual

mixture of knowledge andspeculation,butbecausetherewere three separate teams

involved,theatmospherewasedgy.TheDIfromtheCrimeSquad told us to assume ourunidentified drunk was thekiller. He hadn’t beenheading for a flat, he’d beenmaking for the back stairs.Apparently the lock on thedoorleadingtothepenthousefloor showedsignsofhavingbeen forced. He’d probably

left by the same route, usingthefiredoorattherearofthebuilding. He showed our pixonthebigscreenbutnoteventhe guy’s mother could haveidentified him from that.‘And that is all we know sofar,’hesaid.The silhouette I’d been

expecting finally showed upoutsidethefrostedglassdoor

ofthebriefingroom.Iputupmyhand.‘Notquiteall,sir,’Isaid. ‘We also know he’sallergictolilypollen.’AsIspoke,thedooropened

and the desk officer walkedin, lookingsheepishbehindabig bouquet of stargazerlilies. The fragrance spreadoutinanarcbeforehimashewalked towards Samuels. ‘I

was told these were urgent,’hesaidapologetically.I held my breath, my eyes

nailedtotheastonishedfacesofSamuels andhis cohort ofDrugsSquaddetectives.And that’s when Phil

Barclayshattered thestunnedsilence with a fusillade ofsneezes.

GuiltTrip

As neither of my parentswas too bothered aboutreligion, I managed to missout onCatholic guilt. Then Ifound myself working withShelley. A guilt trip on legs,our office manager. If shetreats her two teenagers likeshe treats me, those kids are

going to be in therapy foryears. ‘You play, you pay,’she said sweetly,pushing thenewcase file towardsme forthethirdtime.‘Just because I play

computer games doesn’tmean I’m qualified to dealwith the nerds who writethem,’Iprotested.Itwasonlya white lie; although my

business partner BillMortensendealswithmostofthe work we do involvingcomputers, I’m not exactly atechno-illiterate. Ipushed thefile back towards Shelley.‘It’soneforBill.’‘Bill’s too busy.You know

that,’ Shelley said. ‘Anyway,it’snot software as such. It’seither piracy or industrial

sabotage and that’s yourforte.’ The file slid back tome.‘Sealsoft are Bill’s clients.’

Brannigan’slaststand.‘All the more reason you

shouldgettoknowthem.’Igave inandpickedup the

file.Shelleygaveatightlittlesmile and turned back to hercomputer screen. One of

these days I’m going to getthe last word. Just wait tillhell freezes over, that’s all.Justwait.Onmywayout ofthedooranddown thestairs,I browsed the file. Sealsoftwas a local Manchestergames software house.They’dstartedoffbackinthedawn of computer gaming inthe mid-eighties, writing

programs for a whole rangeof hardware. Some of themachines they producedgames for had never beenintended as anything otherthan word processors, butSealsoft had grabbed thechallenge and come up withsome fun stuff. The firstplatform game I’d everplayed, on a word processor

thatnowlookedasantiqueasaModel-T Ford, had been aSealsoftgame.They’dnevergrowntorival

any of the big players in thefield, but somehow Sealsofthad always hung in there,coming up every now andagain with seemingly simplegames that became classics.Inthelastyearor twothey’d

managed towin theodd filmtie-in licence, and their latestacquisition was the newArnold Schwarzenegger andBruce Willis boys ’n’ toysepic. But now, two weeksbefore the game waslaunched,theyhadaproblem.And when people haveproblems, Mortensen andBrannigan iswhere they turn

if they’vegot senseandcashenough.I had a ten o’clock

appointment with Sealsoft’sboss. Luckily I could getthere on foot, since parkinground by Sealsoft is a gamefor the terminally reckless.The company had started offonthetopfloorofavirtuallyderelict canal-sidewarehouse

thathassincebeenguttedandturned into expansive andexpensive studio flats wherethe marginally criminal rubshoulderswiththemarginallylegitimate lads from thefinancial services industries.Sealsoft had moved intomodern premises a couple ofstreets away from the canal,but the towpath was still the

quickestway toget frommyofficeinOxfordRoadtotheirconcrete pillbox inCastlefield.Fintan O’Donohoe had

milkwhite skin and frecklessopaleitlookedlikehe’dlastseen daylight somewhere inthe nineteenth century. Helooked about seventeen,which was slightly worrying

since I knew he’d been withthe company since it startedup in 1983. Add that to thered-rimmed eyes and I feltlike I’d stumbled intoInterview with the Vampire.Wesettledinhischromeandblack-leather office, each ofus clutching our designercombinations of mineralwater,herbsandjuices.

‘CallmeFin,’hesaid,withno trace of any accent otherthanpureMancunian.I resisted the invitation. It

wasn’t the hardest thing I’ddone that day. ‘I’m told youhaveaproblem,’Isaid.‘That’s not the word I’d

use,’ he sighed. ‘A majordisaster waiting to happen iswhatwe’vegot.We’vegota

bossmoneyearnerabouttohitthe streets and suddenly ourwhole operation’s underthreat.’‘Fromwhat?’‘It started about six weeks

ago. There were just one ortwo at first, but we’ve hadgettingonforsixtyinthelasttwo days. It’s a nightmare,’O’Donohoe told me

earnestly, leaning forwardandfiddlinganxiouslywithapencil.‘What exactly are we

talkingabouthere?’Hemightnothaveanythingbettertodothan take a long tour roundthehouses,butIcertainlydid.Apart from anything else,therewasacappuccinoattheAtlas café with my name on

it.‘Copies of our games with

the right packaging, the rightmanuals, theguaranteecards,everything,arebeingreturnedtousbecausethepeoplewhobuy them are shoving thedisksintotheircomputersandfinding they’re completelyblank.Nothingonthematall.Just bogstandard highdensity

preformatted unbrandedthree-and-a-half-inch disks.’He threwhimselfback inhischair,poutinglikeafiveyearold.‘Soundslikepirates,’Isaid.

‘Bunch of schneidmerchantscopying your packaging andstuffinganyoldshitinthere.’Heshookhishead.‘Myfirst

thought. But that’s not how

the pirates work. They bustyour copy protection codes,make hundreds of copies ofthe program and stick itinside pretty crudely copiedpackaging. This is theopposite of that. There’s nogame, but the packaging isperfect.It’sours.’Heopeneda drawer in his desk andpulled out a box measuring

abouteightinchesbytenanda couple of inches deep.Thecover showed an orc and ahuman in mortal combatoutlined in embossed silverfoil. O’Donohoe opened thebox and tipped out a gamemanual, a story book, fourdiskswith labels reading1–4and guarantee card. ‘Rightdowntothehologramsealon

the guarantee, look,’ hepointedout.Ileanedforwardandpicked

up the card, turning it tocheck the hologram. He wasright; if this was piracy, I’dneverseenqualitylikeit.Andif they could producepackaging this good, I wasdamn sure they could havecopiedthegametoo.Sowhy

the combination of spotonpackaging and blank disks?‘Weird,’Isaid.‘You’renotkidding.’‘Is thishappening toanyof

yourcompetitors?’‘Not that I’ve heard.And I

wouldhaveheard,Ithink.’Sounded as if one of

Sealsoft’s rivals was payingoff an insider to screw

O’Donohoe’s operation intothe deck. ‘Where are thepuntersbuying them?Marketstalls?’Iasked.Head down, O’Donohoe

said, ‘Nope.’ For the firsttimeInotedthedarkshadowsunder his eyes. ‘They’remostlycomingbacktousviatheretailers,thoughsomearecomingdirect.’

‘Which retailers?Independents or chains?’ Iwassittingforwardinmyseatnow, intrigued. What hadsoundedlikeaboringpieceofroutine was getting moreinteresting by the minute.Call me shallow andsuperficial,but I likeabitofexcitementinmyday.‘Mostly smallish

independents, butincreasingly we’re gettingreturns from the big chainstores now. We’ve been intouchwithquitea fewof thecustomers as well, andthey’re all saying that thegames were shrink-wrappedwhentheyboughtthem.’Isatback,disappointed.The

shrink-wrapping was the

clincher.‘It’s an inside job,’ I said

flatly.‘Industrialsabotage.’‘Noway,’O’Donohoe said,

twopalepink spots suddenlyburningonhischeekbones.‘I’m sorry. I know it’s the

message no employer wantsto hear. But it’s clearly aninsidejob.’‘It can’t be,’ he insisted

bluntly. ‘Look, I’m not adummy. I’ve been in thisgame a while. I know thewrinkles. I know how piracyhappens.AndIguardagainstit. Our boxes are printed inone place, our booklets inanother, our guarantee cardsin a third. The disks getcopied in-house onto disksthat are overprinted with our

logo and the name of thegame, so you couldn’t justslip in a few blanks likethese,’ he saidcontemptuously,throwingthedisksacrossthedesk.‘Where does it all come

together?’Iasked.‘We’re a small company,’

he answered obliquely. ‘Butthat’snot theonly reasonwe

packbyhandratherthanonaproductionline.Iknowwherewe’revulnerable tosabotage,and I’ve covered the bases.The boxes are packed andsealed in shrinkwrap in aroom behind the despatchroom.’‘Then that’s where your

saboteuris.’Hislipcurled.‘Idon’tthink

so.I’veonlygottwoworkersinthere.We’vealwayshadapolicy of employing friendsand family at Sealsoft. Thepackersaremymumandhersister, my Auntie Geraldine.They’dkillanybodythatwastrying to sabotage thisbusiness,takemywordforit.When they’re not working,the door’s double-locked.

They wouldn’t even let theparishpriest in there, believeme.’‘So what exactly do you

wantmetodo?’Iasked.‘I don’t want you

questioningmystaff,’hesaidirritably.‘Otherthanthat,it’sup to you. You’re thedetective. Find out who’sputting the shaft in, then

comebackandtellme.’When I left Sealsoft ten

minutes later, all I had to goonwasalistofcustomersandcompaniesinvolvedinreturnsof Sealsoft’s games, anddetails of who’d sent backwhat. I was still pretty surethe villain was inside thewalls rather thanoutside, butthe client wasn’t letting me

anywhere near his goodCatholic mother and AuntieGeraldine.Can’tsayIblamedhim.I figured there wasn’t a lot

of point in starting with thechain stores. Even ifsomething hooky was goingon,theywerethelastpeopleIcould lean on to find out.With dole queues still well

into seven figures, the staffthereweren’tgoingtotellmeanythingthatmightcostthemtheir jobs. I sat in the Atlasover the coffee I’d promisedmyself and read through thenames. At first glance, Ididn’t recognise any of thecomputer-gamesuppliers.Webuy all our equipment andconsumables by mail order,

andtheonlyshopwe’veeverusedindireemergencieswasthe one that used to occupythe ground floor of ourbuilding before it became asupermarket.Timeforsomeexperthelp.I

pulled out my mobile andrang my tame darksidehacker, Gizmo. By day heworks for Telecom as a

systems manager. By night,he becomes the ScarletPimpernel of cyberspace. Orsohetellsme.‘Giz?Kate.’‘Not a secure line,’ he

grumbled. ‘Youshouldknowbetter.’‘Not a problem. This isn’t

top secret. Do you knowanybodywhoworksatanyofthese outlets?’ I started to

read out the list, Gizmogruntingnegativelyaftereachname.Abouthalfwaythroughthelist,hestoppedme.‘Wait a minute. That last

one,EpicPC?’‘Youknowsomeonethere?’‘I don’t but you do. It’s

wossname, the geezer thatusedtohavethatplaceunderyouroffice.’

‘Deke?Hewentbust,didn’the?’‘’S right. Bombed. Went

into liquidation, opened up anew place in PrestwichVillage a week later, didn’the?That’shisshop.EpicPC.IrememberbecauseIthoughtitwassuchacrapname.Thateverything?’‘That’ll do nicely, Giz.’ I

was speaking to empty air. Ilikeamanwhodoesn’twastemy time. I drained my cup,walked up the steps toDeansgatestationandjumpedonthenexttramtoPrestwich.Epic PC was a small shop

on the main drag. Irecognised the special offerstickers. It looked like DekeHarper didn’t have the kind

offreshideasthatwouldsaveEpic PC from itspredecessor’s fate. I pushedopen thedoorandanelectricbuzzer vibrated in the stuffyair. Deke himselfwas seatedbehindaPCin themiddleofa long room thatwas stuffedwith hardware and software,hisfingersclatteringoverthekeys. He’d trained himself

well in the art of lookingbusy; he let a whole fiveseconds pass between thebuzzersoundingandhiseyesleaving the screen in frontofhim.Whenheregisteredwhohis customer was, hiseyebrows climbed in hisnarrow face. ‘Hello,’ he saiduncertainly,pushinghischairback and getting to his feet.

‘Stranger.’‘Believeme,Deke,itgetsa

lotstrangerstill,’Isaiddrily.‘Ididn’tknowyoulivedout

this way,’ he said nervously,hitting a key to clear hisscreen as I drew level withhim.‘I don’t,’ I said.Sometimes

it’s justmore fun to let themcometoyou.

‘Youwerepassing?’‘No.’ I leaned against his

desk.Hiseyeskeptflickeringbetween me and hisuninformativescreen.‘You needed something for

thecomputer?Somedisks?’‘Threeinarow,Deke.You

lose.My turn now. I’m hereabout thesemoody computergames you’ve been selling.

Where are they comingfrom?’A thin blue vein in his

temple seemed to pup upfromnowhere. ‘Idon’tknowwhat you’re on about,’ hesaid, toononchalantly. ‘Whatmoodycomputergames?’I rattled off half a dozen

Sealsoft games. ‘I sell them,sure,’ he said defensively.

‘Butthey’renothooky.Look,I got invoices for them,’ headded, pushing past me andyanking a drawer open. Hepulled out a loose-leaf fileand flicked through fastenough to rip a couple ofpages before he arrived at aclutch of invoices fromSealsoft.Itookthefilefromhimand

walked over to the shelvesand counted. ‘According tothis, Deke, you bought sixcopies of Sheer Fire IIwhenitwasreleasedlastmonth.’‘That’s right. And there’s

only five there now, right? Isoldone.’‘Wrong. You sold at least

three. That’s how many ofyourcustomershavereturned

blank copies of SheerFire IIto Sealsoft. Care to explainthediscrepancy?OrdoIhaveto call your local friendlyTradingStandardsOfficer?’Iasked sweetly. ‘You can godown for this kind of thingthese days, can’t you?’ Iaddedconversationally.Half an hour later I was

sitting outside Epic PC

behind the wheel of Deke’ssix-year-old Mercedes,waiting for a lad he knewonly as Jazbo to turn up inresponse to a call on hismobile.Amazingwhatpeoplewilldowithalittleincentive.I spotted Jazbo right awayfrom Deke’s description. Ashade under six feet, jeans,trainers and a Chicago Cubs

bomber jacket. And TonyBlair complains aboutManchester United’smerchandising. At leastthey’relocal.Hegotoutofabatteredboy

racer’shatchback,clutchingacarrier bag with box-shapedoutlines pressing against it. Ibangedoff a coupleof snapswith the camera from my

backpack. Jazbo was in andout of Epic PC inside fiveminutes.Weheadedbackintotown downBuryNewRoad,me sitting snugly on his tailwithonlyonecarbetweenus.Weskirtedthecitycentreandheadedeast.Jazboeventuallyparked up in one of the fewremaining terraced streets inGorton and let himself into

one of the houses. I took anoteoftheaddressanddroveDeke’s Merc back toPrestwich before he startedgetting too twitchy about theideaofmewithhiswheels.Next morning, I was back

outside Jazbo’s house justbefore seven. Early risers,villains, in my experience.According to the electoral

roll, Gladys and AlbertConway lived there. Isuspected the information onthe listwaswell out of date.With names like that, theymight have been Jazbo’sgrandparents, but a morelikely scenario was that he’dtakenoverthehouseaftertheConwayshaddiedorsufferedthe fate worse than death of

an old people’s home. Theman himself emerged aboutfivepast thehour.Therewasless traffic around, but Imanaged to stay in contactwithhim into thecitycentre,whereheparked ina loadingbaybehindDeansgateandlethimself into the back of theshop.I tookachanceand leftmy

wheels on a single yellowwhile I walked round thefrontoftherowofshopsandcounted back towhere Jazbohad let himself in. JJ’sButtyBar. Another piece of thejigsawclickedintoplace.Through the window, I

caughttheoccasionalglimpseof Jazbo, white-coated,moving between tall fridges

and countertops. Once ortwice he emerged from therearof theshopwithtraysofbarm cakes neatly wrappedand labelled,depositing theminthechillcabinetsroundtheshop. I figured he was goodfor a few hours yet andheaded back to the officebefore the traffic wardenscameouttoplay.

Iwas back just after two. Ikeptcruisingroundtheblocktill someone finally left ameter clear that gave me aclear view of the exit fromthealleybehindthesandwichshop. Jazbo emerged in hishot hatch just after three,which was just as wellbecause Iwas runningoutofchange.Istayedclosetohim

through the city centre, thenlet a bit of distance growbetween us as he headed outpast Salford Quays and intothe industrial estate roundTrafford Park. He pulled upoutside a small unit withGingerbreadHousepaintedina rainbow of colours acrossthe front wall. Jazbodisappearedinside.

About fifteen minutes laterhe emerged with asupermarket trolley filled tothe top with computer-gameboxes. Iwas baffled. I’d hadmy own theory about wherethe packaging was comingfrom, and it had just beenblownoutofthewater.Ihatebeing wrong. I’d ratherunblockthetoilet.I letJazbo

driveoff,thenImarchedintoGingerbread House. Tenminutes later I had all theanswers.

Fintan O’Donohoe lookedimpressed as I laid out mydossier before him. Jazbo’saddress, photograph, phonenumber, car registration andplaceofworkwouldbemorethanenoughtohandhimover

to the police, gift-wrapped.‘So how’s this guy gettinghold of the gear?’ hedemanded.‘First thing I wondered

about was the shrink-wrapping. That made methink itwassomeone inyourdespatch unit. But you wereadamant it couldn’t be eitheryour mum or your auntie.

Then when I found out heworkedinasandwichshop,Irealised he must be usingtheir wrap-and-seal gear tocoverhisboxesin.Whichleftthe question of where theboxes were coming from.You ruled out an inside job,so I thoughthemight simplybe raiding your dustbins fordiscarded gear. But I was

wrong. You ever heard of acharity called GingerbreadHouse?’O’Donohoe frowned. ‘No.

ShouldIhave?’‘Yourmumhas,’Itoldhim.

‘And so, I suspect, hasJazbo’smum or girlfriend orsister. It’s an educationalcharity runbynuns.Theygoround businesses and ask

them for any surplusmaterials and they sell themofftoschoolsandplaygroupsfor next to nothing. Theycollect all sorts – materialscraps, bits of bungee rope,offcuts of specialist paper,wallpaper catalogues, tinsel,sheetsofplastic,scrappaper.Anything that could come inhandy for schoolsprojectsor

for costumes for plays,whatever.’Fintan O’Donohoe groaned

and put his hands over hisface.‘Don’ttellme...’‘They came round here a

few months ago, and yourmumexplainedthatyoudon’tmanufacture here, so there’snot much in the way ofleftover stuff.Butwhat there

was were the boxes fromgames that had been sentbackbecausetheywerefaultyinsomeway.Thediskswerescrapped, and so were theboxesandmanualsnormally.But if the nuns could makeanyuseoftheboxesandtheircontents . . . Your mum oryourAuntieGeraldine’sbeendropping stuff off once a

fortnighteversince.’Helookedupatme,aghost

ofanironicsmileonhislips.‘AndIwassosureitcouldn’tbe anything to do with mymum!’‘Don’t they say charity

beginsathome?’

Homecoming

Oblivious to any echoes,filmic or literary, MirandaBryant said that she wouldbuytheflowersherself.Peter had made the offer

sincerely, willing to take onpart of the burden oforganising their first dinnerpartyintheirnewcity.Buthe

was relieved tohaveavoidedany disruption to a day hewould spend with womenwho paid him large sums ofmoney to change what theysaw in the mirror. He knewhe did his best work whentherewasnothingexternal todistracthim.Mirandaknewthat too.She

liked the rewards his work

had brought them and soshe’d been content to set herown ambitions to one side.There was no room in theirmarriage for two highflyingmedical careers. Instead ofthe neurosurgery she’d oncedreamedofperforming,she’dspecialised in dermatology.Plenty of opportunity forparttime work and no call-

outs at night or weekends.PlentyofopportunitytomakesurePeter’sliferansmoothly.Shestoodinherimmaculate

kitchenandbegantoorganiseher purchases. Finest Italianartichokes, chargrilled andmarinated in olive oilspeckled with fragments ofherbs; dark red organicAberdeen Angus steaks with

porphyry marbling of fat;transparentslicesofpancetta;broad sage leaves with theircurious texture; plumpscallops, their vivid coralscurledlikecommasroundthesucculent white flesh.Beautiful, sensual, ready tofillanemptiness.She reached for a small,

sharp, strong knife and slit

open a plastic bag, spillingoysters over the graniteworktop. She picked one up,running her thumb over thelayered shell. So ugly on theoutside, so perfect on theinside, they reminded her ofwhatPetertriedtodowithhispatients.Thethoughtirritatedher and she reached for theradio. ‘And this afternoon on

Castaway, our guest is aninternational bestsellingthriller writer. She’spublished twenty-threenovels, translated into morethan thirty languages. She’swon awards for herwork onthreecontinents,and judgingby the quotes on her bookjackets, she is the thrillerwriter’s thriller writer. Jane

Carson, welcome to RadioDunedin.’‘Thanks, Simon. It’s apleasuretobehere.’Theknifeskiddedacrossthe

uneven ridges of the shell,slicing deep into the base ofMiranda’s thumb. For amoment, shock immobilisedher.Theslitofbloodswelledfatandspread, runningdown

theballofherthumbtowardsthe thin white scar on herwrist. ‘Damn it to hell,’ shesaid, turning on her heel andhurrying towards thecloakroom where the nearestfirst aid kit was stowed. Shecouldn’t believe herself. Justaswellshe’dturnedherbackon surgery if she couldn’tevenshuckanoysterwithout

bleedingalloverthekitchen.Mirandacleaned thewound

with an antiseptic wipe thenefficiently closed it withmicropore tape. She walkedback to the kitchen, rubbingthe tape down firmly. ‘Turnoff the radio,’ she said outloud. But her hand remainedpoised,halfwaytotheswitch.‘. . . goes back twenty-five

years to when I was anundergraduateatGirton.’‘And what’s so specialaboutthisrecord,Jane?’(a deep, warm chuckle) ‘Itremindsme of my first greatloveaffair.’‘Wasthatwhenyourealisedyouweregay?’‘I’d realised that quite awhile before, Simon. But it

wasthefirsttimeIfellinlovewith awomanwho lovedmein return. This recordreminds me of what that feltlike. The intensity, theexcitement, the sense ofpossibility.Andof course thedesperation and thedesolation when it all wenthorriblywrong.’‘You like tobe remindedof

howitallwentwrong?’‘I’m a writer, Simon.Everythingismaterial.’‘Well, I hate to think whatyou’re going to make ofme,Jane!’‘Probablyacorpse,Simon.’(nervous laugh) ‘Nowyou’re really worrying me.But let’s have your firstrecord. It’s Joan

Armatrading’s “Love andAffection”.’Theopeningnotesfilledthe

kitchen,transportingMirandaback to her own youth. Shetried to fight it, remindingherself of Noël Coward’ssardonic dictum about thepotency of cheapmusic. Butmemory was in commandnow, undeniable. She could

feelthethinwarmthofspringsunshine, the faint damp ofthe grass penetrating herclothes, the heat in her skinlike fever. Dark against theeggshell blue of the sky, aprofile leaning over her, lipsparted, jawlinetaut.Thenthesun blotted out by the firstkiss. She’d thought sheunderstood desire, but had

immediately comprehendedhermistake.Nothing had prepared her

for thatmoment, or forwhatfollowed.Everythingthathadgone before seemed small,quiet, colourless. Love hadhit her with an amplificationof the senses that left herfeeling unpeeled. Where herlover rejoiced in the

awakening, Miranda frettedoverwhatitmightmean.They never articulated it to

each other, but each wasconscious that they didn’twant to share whatever washappeningbetweenthemwiththe rest of the world. Itdemanded discretion. Theymet behind the closed doorsof their own rooms or else

privately in public places.Atprearrangedtimesinlibraries,apparently by chance onwalksbytheriver,seeminglyhappenstance attendances atthe same parties which theystudiously left separately.Their private names for eachother echoed their love ofsecrecy. Miranda wasOrlando – Virginia Woolf

had been iconic then – andher beloved, The Kid, forreasons more obvious toanyonetwentyorthirtyyearstheirsenior.Notonlydidthismake them feel they hadcreated each other afresh, italso meant that any curiousfriend picking up a card ornotewouldbenonethewiser.Miranda loved itwhen they

went to the cinema or thetheatre. Not that she wasparticularly interested in filmordrama; even then, shehadhadlittleinterestinthefictiveworld, preferring the hardedges of science andphilosophy. What she lovedwas the gradual descent intodarkness, when The Kid’shand would creep across her

thighandencloseherfingers.Even more, she loved theopportunity secretly to studyThe Kid, too absorbed inwhatever was unfolding tosense Miranda’s scrutiny.Even now, as the dyingstrains of Armatrading’svoice faded on the radio,Miranda could picture thatintent profile, lips slightly

partedasifreadyforthenextkiss.WatchingTheKidinthevariable dark, now therewasjoy.‘It’s a timemachine,musiclikethat.’‘You’re so right, Jane. Itrecreates the memories anycastawayswouldwanttotakewith them to a desert island.Now, after Cambridge, you

went to America to do apostgraduate degree increative writing, didn’t you?WhyAmerica?’‘Back then, there weren’tmanycreativewritingcourseshere in the UK. And I alsowanted to put as muchdistance between me andCambridgeasIcould.’Miranda too suddenly

wanted some distance. Shehurried across the kitchen tothe French doors that led toher courtyard garden. Freshherbs,that’swhatsheneeded.The sharp darkness ofrosemary, the brightfragrance of basil, thecreeping insistenceof thyme.Theherbsofhermarriedlife.For almost twenty years,

Miranda and Peter hadbasked in sunshine in CapeTown, their lives gildedwithsecurity and success. Butlatterly, they had both feltdrawn back to the coolerclimateoftheiryouth.Livinginexilewasallverywell,butthe soul eventually cravedmore familiar tastes andsmells. Miranda knew she

pined for something, andthought it was home.Edinburgh had seemed liketheanswer.Their first two months had

kept her too busy to test thehypothesis. Moving into anew home, buying furnitureand art, discovering the bestrestaurants, trying toassimilate twenty years of

missed cultural life,negotiating a life withoutservants; it had challengedMiranda and invigorated her.But there had been no spaceforreflection.And now it was upon her,

memory’s insistence couldnotbeeludedsoeasily.Therewas, there could have been,nothing predictable or

assumed about the pattern oftheir love. Itwas up to themto make it up as they wentalong,andTheKidwasnevershort of invention. The Kidloved to play games. Oneweek, they’d decided to eatnothing but white food. Thechallengehadbeentomakeitexciting. They’d started withthe obvious; white bread,

cottage cheese, naturalyoghurt.Mirandahadthoughtshe’d done well with vanillaicecreamtillTheKidpointedout that college kitchens hadnofreezersandthey’dhavetoeat it all at one sitting. Andthen, with a huge grin, hadproposed how they mightmakethatmoreinteresting. .. Miranda blushed at the

memory, her skin tingling.The Kid had also won thecontest,with ameal that hadseemed impossibly exotic in1978–prawncrackers,whiteasparagus and a Boursin. Somuch more exoticism thanMiranda’s tightly conformistbackground could ever haveaccommodated. No wonderhermotherhadhatedTheKid

onfirstsight.Miranda snipped the herbs,

lifting them to her face andinhaling deeply. She wantedto banish the distant past,replace it with more recentmemories, recollections thatwould anchor her to the lifeshe had now rather than thelifeshemighthavelived.Shedeliberately turned her

thoughts to her dinner partyandtheirguests.Anadvocateand her banker husband. Amedical insurance executiveand his girlfriend who didsomething with a charity fordisabled children. One ofPeter’s colleagues and hiswife. Who was, it appeared,nothing more than that.Unbidden and unwanted,

Miranda thought how TheKid would have jeered atsuch a lineup. ‘Cheap,’ shemuttered, walking back intothekitchen.‘So what made you turn tothe crime thriller instead ofthe literary novel you’dstudiedinAmerica?’(adarkchuckle)‘Thedesirefor revenge, Simon. There

were people I wanted tomurder but I knew I’d nevergetawaywithit.SoIdecidedto kill them on the pageinstead.’‘That’s pretty scary, Jane.Whyonearthdidyouwanttomurderthem?’‘Because Iblamed them forbreakingmyheart.’‘Youwantedtomurderyour

girlfriend?’‘No.Iwantedtomurderthepeople who broke us up andnearly destroyed her in theprocess. But in away, that’sirrelevant. What motivateswriters is almost alwaysirrelevant. It’s what we dowith it in the crucible ofimagination thatmatters.Wetransform our pain and our

frustration into somethingunrecognisable.’‘So if these people youwanted to murder were toread your books, theywouldn’t recognisethemselves?’‘Not only would they notrecognise themselves, Simon,they wouldn’t recognise thesituation. What appears on

the page seldom has anyvisible connection to theevent that triggered thewriter’sresponse.’‘That’samazing,Jane.Now,your next record is Bach’ssixth Brandenburg Concerto.Can you tell us why you’vechosenit?’‘Tworeasons, really. I firstdiscovered Bach when I was

at Cambridge, so like theJoan Armatrading, it alsotakes me back in time. Butperhaps more importantly,it’s a canon. It revolvesaround itself, it reinventsitself. It’s complex, and it’sperfectly structured. In itsbeginning is its end. Andthat’sexactlyhowtheplotofa thriller should be. You

couldsaythatby introducingme to Bach, my firstgirlfriendalsotaughtmehowtoplot.It’salesson...’This time, Miranda’s hand

reached the switch andclicked the radio off in mid-sentence.While thebeefwasmarinading,shecouldbuytheflowers. She walked up thehill,wonderingyetagainhow

Queen Street Gardens stayedgreen under the blanket oftraffic fumes that choked thecity centre. It was a relief toenter the fragrance of theflorist’s. She drank in theheady scents and theunderlying aroma of humusas she checked out the arrayof blooms. Among themundanedomesticchrysanths

and carnations were flowersthatwere exotic for Scotlandbut which provoked a sharpstab of nostalgia inMiranda.So many mornings she’d saton her verandah looking outatthoseveryflowersgrowingin her own African garden.Thingshadbeeneasierthere;there had been nothing toprovoke such ambushes of

memoryasshe’denduredthatafternoon.She made a mental list of

what she wanted then woveher way past the aluminiumbuckets to the counter at theback of the shop. As sheapproached, the lowbackground mutter resolveditselfintoRadioDunedinandMirandafaltered.

‘Jane, it’s been a pleasurehaving you here thisafternoon.’‘EvenifIdoturnyouintoacorpse?’‘Isupposethat’sbetterthanbeing ignored.My guest thisafternoon has been thrillerwriter Jane Carson, who’sappearing tonight at theAssembly Rooms here in

Edinburgh at seven o’clock.She’ll be reading from herlatest novel, The LastSiberian Tiger, and I canpromiseyouarealthrill.’ThefloristgaveMirandaan

inquiring look. ‘Can I helpyou?’Miranda cleared her throat

and pointed to a bucket ofyellowcalla lilies. ‘I’d like a

dozenofthose,’shesaid.Thefloristnoddedandmade

for the bucket. ‘They’relovely,aren’tthey?’‘Yes. I’ll have three of the

strelizia too.Andacoupleofbunchesofalstromeria.’Back home, Miranda

carefullyarrangedtheflowersin the elegant crystal vasesshe’d chosen for the dining-

room.Likeasleepwalker,sheprepared the food, everymovement precise andordered. She checked thewhite Burgundy wassufficiently chilled anddecantedtheredtoallowittobreathe. Everything wasperfect. Everything wasready.Thiswasherlife.Thiswaswhat theworldexpected

of her.Always had.And shehadalmostalwaysdelivered.Her fingers strayed to the

scar on the opposite wrist.She checked the clock. Halfpastsix.Peterwouldbehomeat any minute. Guests atseven for seven thirty. TheopeningmovementofBach’ssixth Brandenburg Concertocircled her brain like a

tighteningnoose.Miranda Bryant took a last

look round her perfectkitchen and reached for hercoat. She opened her frontdoor andwalkedout into theEdinburghevening.

Heartburn

Everybody remarked onhow calm I was on BonfireNight. ‘Considering herhusband’s just run off withanother woman, she’s verycalm,’ I overheard JoanWinstanley from the news-agent’s say as I persuadedpeople to buy the bonfire

toffee. But it seemed to methatDerek’sdeparturewasnoreason to miss the annualcricket-club firework party.Besides, I’ve been in chargeof the toffee-selling now formore years than I care toremember, and I’d bereluctant to hand it over tosomeoneelse.So I put a brave face on it

andturnedupasusualatMrsFletcher’s at half past five topick up the toffee, neatlybagged up in quarter-poundlots. I don’t know how shedoes it, given that the piecesare all such irregular shapesand sizes, but the bags allcontain the correct weight. Iknow, because the secondyear I was in charge of the

toffee, I surreptitiously tookthe bags home and weighedthem.Iwasn’tpreparedtoberesponsible for selling shortweight.Ofcourse, thejungledrums

had been beating.Oswaldtwistle is a smalltown, after all. Strange tothink that’swhatdrewDerekand me here all those years

ago,willingrefugeesfromtheinner-city problems ofManchester. Anyway, MrsFletcher greeted me with, ‘Ihearhe’sgoneoff.’Shamefaced, I nodded. ‘He

didfinishbuildingthebonfirebefore he left,’ I addedtimidly.‘She’salwaysbeennobetter

than she should be, that

JaniceDuckworth.Ofcourse,your Derek’s not the firstshe’sledastray.Thoughshe’snever actually gone off withanyofthembefore.Thatdoessurprise me. Always likedhavinghercakeandeatingit,hasJanice.’I tried to ignore Mrs

Fletcher’s remarks, but theyburned inside me like the

scarlet and yellow flames ofthe makeshift bonfire I’dalready passed on thechurned-upmudof therecatthe end of her street. Igrabbed the toffeeungraciously, and got out assoonasIcould.I drove through the narrow

terracedstreetsrathertoofast,something I’m not

particularly given to. Allaround me, the crump andflash of fireworks gave ashocking life to the evening.Rocket trails showered theirsparks across the sky like asudden rash of comets, allpredicting the end of theworld.Except that theendofmyworldhadcomethenightbefore.

Constructing the bonfire hadalwaystakenalotofDerek’stime in theweeks leadingupto the cricket-club fireworksparty.Asacivil engineer,heprided himself on itselaborate design andexecution.Thesecret,hetoldme so often I could recite itfrommemory,thesecretistobuild from the middle

outwards.To achieve the perfect

bonfire, according to Derek,it was necessary first toconstruct what looked like alittle hut at the heart of thefire.Derekusuallymade thisfrom planks the thickness offloorboards. The first coupleof years I accompanied him,so I speak from the

experience of having seen itas well as having heard thelecture on countlessoccasions. To me, Derek’scentral structure looked likenothing so much as aprimitiveoutsidelavatory.Round the ‘hut’, Derek

wouldthenbuildanelaborateconstruction of wood,cardboard, chipboard, old

furniture and anything elsethatseemedcombustible.Butthe key to his success wasthat he left a tunnel throughthe shell of the bonfire thatledtothehut.Thenightbeforethebonfire

was lit, late in the evening,after all the local hooliganscouldreasonablybeexpectedtobeabed,Derekwouldenter

the tunnel, crawl to the heartofhisconstructionandfillthehut with a mixture of oldnewspapersandpetrol-soakedragsinplasticbags.Then he would crawl out,

back-fillingthetunnelbehindhim with more highlyflammable materials. Thepoint at which the tunnelended,ontheperimeterofthe

bonfire, was where it had tobe lit for maximum effect,burning high and bright forhours.There are doubtless those

who think it highlyirresponsible to leave thebonfire in so vulnerable acondition overnight, but thecricket club is pretty secure,withahighfencethatnoone

would dream of trying toscale,sinceit’soverlookedbythe police station. Besides,because the bonfire was theresponsibility of adults, itneverbecameatargetfor thekind of childish gang rivalrythat leads to bonfires beingset alight in advance of thescheduledevent.Anyway, this year as usual,

Derek went off the nightbefore the fireworks party toput the finishing touches tohis monument, carrying theflaskofhotcoffeelacedwithbrandy which I alwaysprovided to help combat theraw November weather.When he hadn’t come homeby midnight, naturally I wasconcerned. My first thought

was that he’d had some sortof problem with the bonfire.Perhaps a heavy piece ofwood had fallen on him,pinning him to the ground. Idrove down to the cricketground, but it was deserted.The bonfire was finished,though.Ichecked.Iwent home and paced the

floor for awhile, then I rang

thepolice.SergeantMillswasvery sympathetic,understandingthatDerekwasnot aman to stay out till thesmall hours except whenattending one of thosemasculineeventsthatinvolveconsuming huge amounts ofalcoholandtellingthesortofstories we women aresupposed to be too sensitive

to hear. If he’d been invitedback to a fellow member ofthe fireworks partycommittee’s home for anightcap,hewouldhaverungmetoletmeknow.HeknowshowIworryifhe’smorethana fewminutes later thanhe’stold me he’d be. But ofcourse, therewasnothing thepolice could do. Derek is a

grownman,afterall, and thelawallowsgrownmentostayoutallnight,iftheysodesire.IcalledSergeantMillsagain

the following morning,explaining that there seemedto be no reason to worry, atleastnotforthepolice,since,on searching Derek’s officefor clues, I had uncoveredseveral notes from Janice

Duckworth, indicating thatthey were having an affairand that she wanted them torun away together. ItappearedthatDerekhadbeenusing the bonfire-building asanexcuse for seeingmoreofJanice. I had rung Janice’shome, and ascertained fromher husbandVic that she toohad not returned home from

an evening out, supposedlywiththegirls.The case seemed cut and

dried,asfarasSergeantMillswas concerned. It washumiliating and galling forme, of course, but thesethings do happen, especially,the sergeant seemed to hint,where middle-aged men andyounger blondes are

concerned.

I sold outmore quickly thanusual this year. I suspect thenosey parkers were seekingme out ‘to see how I wastaking it’ rather than waitingfor me to come round tothem. Seven o’clock rolledround, and the bonfire wasduly lit. It was a particularlyspectacular effort this year.

ThoughIgrudgeadmittingit,no one built a bonfire quitelikeDerek.I don’t suppose he thought

when he was building thisyear’s that it would be afuneral pyre for him andJanice Duckworth. He reallyshould have thought ofsomewheremoreromanticfortheir assignations than a

makeshift wooden hut in themiddleofabonfire.

FourCallingBirds

NOREEN

You want to know who toblameforwhathappenedlastWednesdaynightdownattheRoxette? Margaret Thatcher,that’s who. Never mind theonesthatactuallydidit.Ifthefinger points at anybody, it

should point straight at theIron Lady. Even though herown body’s turned againsther now and silenced her,nobody should let pity standin theway of holding her toaccount. She made wholecommunities despair, andwhentheweakaredesperate,sometimes crime seems theeasiestwayout.OurDickson

says that’s an argument thatwould never stand up in acourt of law. But given howuseless the police round hereare, it’snot likelytocometothat.You want to know why

what happened lastWednesday night at theRoxettehappenedatall?Youhavetogobacktwentyyears.

To the miners’ strike. Theyteach it to the bairns now ashistory,but I lived through itand it’s as sharp in mymemory as yesterday. Aftershe beat the Argies in theFalklands, Thatcher fell inlovewiththetasteofvictory,and the miners were hernumber-one target. She wasdetermined to break us, and

she didn’t care what it took.Arthur Scargill, the miners’leader,wasasbloody-mindedas she was, and when hecalled hismen out on strike,my Alan walked out alongwitheveryotherminer inhispit.We all thought it would be

over in amatter of weeks atthe most. But no bugger

would give an inch. Weeksturned into months, theseasons slipped from springthrough summer and autumninto winter. We had fourbairnstofeedandnotapennycomingin.Oursavingswent;then our insurance policies;and finally, my jewellery.We’d go to bed hungry andwake up the same way, our

belliesrumblingliketheslowgrumble of the armouredpolice vans that regularlyrolledroundthestreetsofourtown to remind us who wewere fighting. Sometimesthey’d taunt us by sitting intheir vans flaunting theirtakeaways, even throwinghalfeaten fish suppers out onthe pavements as they drove

by.Anythingtorubournosesin the overtime they werecoining by keeping us in ourplaces.Wewere desperate. I heard

tell that some of the wiveseven went on the game,taking a busdown to thebigcitiesfortheday.Butnobodyfromroundourwaysankthatlow. Or not that I know of.

But lives changed foreverduring that long hellish year,mineamongthem.It’s a measure of how low

weallsankthatwhenIheardMattie Barnard had taken aheartattackanddied,myfirstthoughtwasn’tforhiswidow.Itwasforhisjob.IthinkIgotdown theRoxette faster thantheCo-opFuneralServicegot

to Mattie’s. Tyson Herbert,the manager, hadn’t evenheard the news. But I didn’tlet that stop me. ‘I wantMattie’s job,’ I told himstraightoutwhilehewasstillreelingfromtheshock.‘Now hang on a minute,

Noreen,’ he said warily. Hewas always cautious, wasTyson Herbert. You could

lose the will to live waitingfor him to turn right at ajunction. ‘You know as wellasIdothatbingocallingisaman’s job. It’s always beenthat way. A touch ofauthority. Dickie bow anddinnerjacket.TheBBCmighthave let their standards slip,buthereattheRoxette,wedothings the right way.’

Ponderous as a bloodyelephant.‘That’s against the law

nowadays, Tyson,’ I said.‘You cannot have rules likethatanymore.Onlyifyou’rea lavatory cleaner orsomething.AndasfarasI’maware, cleaning the gentswasn’tpartofMattie’sjob.’Well, we had a bit of a to

andfro,butintheend,TysonHerbert gave in. He didn’thavealotofchoice.Thefirstsessionofthedaywasduetostart in half an hour, and heneeded somebody up theredoing two fat ladies andMaggie’s den. Even if theperson in question waswearing a blue nylon overallinsteadofatuxedo.

And thatwas the start of itall. Now, nobody’s everaccusedme of being greedy,and besides, I still had ahousetorunaswellasdoingmy share on the picket linewith theotherminers’wives.Sowithinacoupleofweeks,I’d persuaded Tyson Herbertthat he needed tomovewiththe times and make mine a

jobshare. By the end of themonth, I was splitting myshifts with Kathy, Liz andJackie.Thefourcallingbirds,my Alan christened us.Morning, afternoon andevening, one or other of uswould be up on the stage,mike in one hand, pluckingballs out of the air with theotherandkeepingtheflowof

patter going. Moreimportantly,wekeptourfourfamilies going. We kept ourkids on the straight andnarrow.It made a bit of a splash

locally.Therehadneverbeenwomen bingo callers in theNorth-East before. It hadbeenasmuchaman’s jobascutting coal. The local paper

wroteanarticleaboutus,thentheBBCturnedupanddidaninterview with us forWoman’s Hour. I supposethey were desperate for astory from up our way thatwasn’t all doom, gloom andpicketlines.Youshouldhaveseen Tyson Herbert preeninghimself, like he’d single-handedlyburnedeverybrain

theNorth-East.The fuss soon died down,

though the novelty value didbring in a lot of business.Womenwouldcomeinmini-busesfromallaroundtheareajust to see the four callingbirds.Andwecarriedonwithtwolittleducksandthekeytothe door like it was secondnature. The years trickled

past.Thebairnsgrewupandfound jobs, which was hardon Alan’s pride. He’s neverworked since they closed thepit the year after the strike.There’s nowords forwhat itdoes to a man when he’sdependent on his wife andbairns for the roof over hishead and the food on histable.

TotellyoutheGod’shonesttruth,thereweredayswhenitwas a relief to get down theRoxette andget towork.Wealways had a laugh, even inthe hardest of times. Andtherewere hard times.Whenthe doctors told Kathy thelumpinherbreastwasgoingto kill her, we all felt theblow.Butwhenshegottooill

towork,weofferedhershiftsto her Julie. Tyson Herbertmade some crack abouthereditarypeerages,butItoldhim tokeephisnoseoutandcountthetakings.All in all, nobody had any

reasonforcomplaint.Thatis,untilTysonHerbertdecideditwastimetoretire.Thebossesat head office didn’t consult

us about his replacement.Come to that, they didn’tconsult Tyson either. If theyhad, we’d never have endedupwithKeith Corbett. KeithCobra, as Julie rechristenedhimtwodaysintohisreignatthe Roxette after he tried togrope her at the end of herevening shift. The nicknamesuited him. He was a

poisonousreptile.Heevenlookedlikeasnake,

with his narrow wedge of aface and his little dark eyesglittering. When his tongueflicked out to lick his thinlips,youexpectedittohaveafork at the end. On the thirdmorning, he summoned thefourofustohisofficelikehewas God and it was

JudgementDay. ‘You’vehadagoodrun,ladies,’hebegan,without somuch as a cup oftea and a digestive biscuit.‘But things are going to bechanging round here. TheRoxette is going to be thepremier bingo outlet in thearea,andthatwillbereflectedin our public image. I’mgiving you formal notice of

redundancy.’We were gobsmacked. It

wasLizwhofoundhervoicefirst. ‘You cannot do that,’she said. ‘We’ve given nogroundsforcomplaint.’‘And how can we be

redundant?’ I chipped in.‘Somebody has to call thenumbers.’Cobragaveaslylittlesmile.

‘You’re being replaced bynew technology. A fullyautomated system. Like onthe national lottery. Thenumberswill go up on a bigscreen and the computerwillannouncethem.’We couldn’t believe our

ears. Replacing us with amachine? ‘The customerswon’tlikeit,’Juliesaid.

The Cobra shook his head.‘As long as they get theirprizes,theywouldn’tcareifatalking monkey did thecalling. Enjoy your lastcouple of weeks, ladies.’ Heturned away from us andstarted fiddling with hiscomputer.‘You’llregretthis,’Lizsaid

defiantly.

‘Idon’tthinkso,’hesaid,asneer on his face. ‘Oh, andanother thing. This ChildreninNeednightyou’replanningon Friday? Forget it. TheRoxette is a business, not acharity. Friday night will bejustlikeeveryothernight.’Well, that did it. We were

even more outraged than wewere on our own behalf.

We’d been doing theChildren in Need benefitnight for nine years. All thewinners donated their prizes,andTysonHerbertdonatedathirdofthenight’stakings.Itwas abig sacrifice all round,but we knew what hardshipwas,andweallwantedtodoourbit.‘Youbastard,’Juliesaid.

TheCobraswungroundandglared at her. ‘Would yourather be fired for grossmisconduct, Julie? Walk outthe door with no money andno reference? Because that’sexactlywhat’llhappenifyoudon’t keep a civil tongue inyourhead.’Wehustled Julie out before

shecouldmakethingsworse.

Wewereallfittobetied,butwe couldn’t see any way ofstopping the Cobra. I brokethenewstoAlanthatteatime.Our Dickson had dropped intoo–he’sanactornow,he’sgotapartinoneofthesoaps,and they’d been doing somelocation filming locally. Idon’t know who was moreangry,AlanorDickson.After

their tea, the two of themwentdowntotheclubfulloffighting talk. But I knew itwas just talk. There wasnothing we could do againstthelikesoftheCobra.I was as surprised as

anybody when I heard aboutthearmedrobbery.

Idon’tknowwhy I took thisjob. Everybody knows theRoxette’snothingbuttrouble.It’s never turned the profit itshould. And those bloodywomen. They made TysonHerbertalaughingstock.Butmanagers’ jobs don’t comeup that often. Plus HeadOffice said they wanted theRoxette to become one of

their flagship venues. Andthey wanted me to turn itaround. PlusMargo’s alwayson at me about Darrenneeding new this, new that,new the next thing. So howcouldIsayno?Iknewas soonas Iwalked

throughthedooritwasgoingtobeanuphillstruggle.Therewasnosignofthenewpromo

displaysthatHeadOfficewaspushingthroughoutthechain.I eventually found them, stillin their wrappers, in acupboard in that pillockHerbert’s office. I ask you,howcanyoudrag abusinessintothetwentyfirstcenturyifyou’re dealing withdinosaurs?And the women.

Everywhere,thewomen.Youhave to wonder what wasgoingoninHerbert’shead.Itcan’t have been that he wasdipping his wick, becausethey were all dogs. ApartfromJulie.Shewasabouttheonly one in the joint whodidn’t need surgicalstockings. Not to mentionplastic surgery. I might have

consideredkeepingheronfora bit of light relief betweenhouses.Butshemadeitclearfrom the off that she had nofucking idea which side herbread was buttered. So shewasfor thechopliketherestofthem.I didn’t hang about. I was

rightinthere,makingitclearwhowas in charge. I got the

promo displays up on dayone. Then I organised thedelivery of the newcomputerised calling system.And that meant I could givethe four calling birds thebulletsoonerratherthanlater.That and knock their stupidcharity stunt on the head. Iask you, who throws theirprofits down the drain like

thatinthisdayandage?Bytheendofthefirstweek,

Iwasconfident thatIwasallset. I had the decoratorsbooked to bring the Roxettein line with the rest of thechain. Margo was pleasedwith the extra money in mywagepacket,andevenDarrenhadstoppedwhingeing.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.

I should have known it wasall going too sweet. But noteven in my wildest fuckingnightmares could I haveimagined how bad it couldget.By week two, I had my

routines worked out. Whilethe last house was in fullswing, I’d do a cashcollection from the front of

house, the bar and the café.I’d bag it up in the office,ready for the bank in themorning, then put it in thesafe overnight. And that’swhat I was doing onWednesday night when theofficedoorslammedopen.I looked up sharpish. I

admit,Ithoughtitwasoneofthosebloodywomencometo

domyheadin.Butitwasn’t.At first, all I could take inwas the barrel of a sawnoffshotgun, pointing straight atme. I nearly pissed myself.InstinctivelyIreachedforthephone but the big fuckerbehind the gun just growled,‘Fucking leave it.’ Then hekickedthedoorshut.I dragged my eyes away

from thegunand tried togeta look at him. But therewasn’tmuchtosee.Bigblackpuffa jacket, jeans, blackwork boots. Baseball cappulled down over his eyes,and a skimask over the restof his face. ‘Keep yourfuckingmouthshut,’hesaid.He threw a black sportsholdalltowardsme.‘Fillitup

withthecash,’hesaid.‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘It’s in the

safe.It’sgotatimelock.’‘Bollocks,’ he said. He

wavedthegunatme,makingme back up against thewall.What happened nextwas notwhat I expected.He grabbedthe computer keyboard andpulled it across the desk.Then he turned the monitor

round so it was facing him.With the hand that wasn’tholdingthegun,hedidafewmouseclicksandthenabitoftyping. I tried to edge out ofhis lineoffire,buthewasn’thaving any. ‘Fucking standstill,’hegrunted.Then he turned the screen

backtofacemeandthistimeI nearly crapped myself. It

was a live camera feed frommy livingroom. Margo andDarrenwerehuddledtogetheron the sofa, eyes wide.Opposite them, his back tothe camera, was another bigfucker with a shotgun. Thepicture was a bit fuzzy andwobbly, but there was nomistake about it. Along thebottom of the picture, the

secondstickedaway.‘My oppo’s only a phone

callaway.Nowareyougoingtofillthefuckingholdall?’hedemanded.Well, I wasn’t going to

argue, was I? Not with mywifeandkidfacingashooter.SoIwenttothesafe.Ithasn’tgot a time lock.HeadOfficewouldn’t spend that kind of

money.We’rejusttoldtosaythat to tryandputoffnutterslike the big fucker who wasfacing me down in my ownoffice. I was sweating somuch my fingers wereslippingoffthekeypad.ButImanaged it at the second go,and a shovelled the bags ofcash into his bag as fast as Icould.

‘Good boy,’ he said whenI’dfinished.I thought it was all over

then. How wrong can youget?‘Onyourknees,’heordered

me. I didn’t know what wasgoingon.Part ofme thoughthe was going to blow meaway anyway. I was sofucking scared I could feel

thetearsinmyeyes.IknewIwas on the edge of losing it.Of begging him for my life.Onlyonethingstoppedme.Ijust couldn’t believe he wasgoing to kill me. I mean, Iknow it happens. I knowpeople get topped duringrobberies. But surely only ifthey put up a fight? Andsurely only when the robber

isoutofcontrol?Butthisguywas totally calm. He couldaffordtobe–hisoppo’sgunwas still pointing straight atMargoandDarren.SoIfelltomyknees.Just thinking about what

came next makes me retch.He dropped the gun to hisside,atananglesothebarreldug right into my gut. Then

he unzipped his trousers andpulledouthiscock.‘Suckmydick,’hesaid.My head jerked back and I

stared at him. I couldn’tbelieve what I’d just heard.‘Youwhat?’‘Suck my dick,’ he said

again, thrusting his hipstowards me. His half-hardcock dangled in front of my

face. It was the sickest thingI’d ever heard. It wasn’tenough for this fuckingpervert to terrorise my wifeand kid and robmy safe.Hewanted me to give him ablowjob.Thegunjammedharderinto

me. ‘Just fucking do it,’ hesaid.SoIdid.

He grabbed my hair andstopped me pulling backwhen I gagged. ‘That’s it.You know you want to,’ hesaid softly, like this wassomething normal. Which itwasn’t, not in any bloodysense.It felt like it tooka lifetime

for him to come, but Isuppose it was only a few

minutes.When I felt his hotload hitting the back of mythroat, I nearly bit his cockoff in revulsion. But the gunin my chest and the thoughtof what might happen toMargo and Darren kept meinsidethelimits.He stepped back, tucking

himselfawayandzippingup.‘Ienjoyedthat,’hesaid.

Icouldn’tliftmyheadup.Ifelt sick tomystomach.Andnot just from what I’dswallowedeither.‘Wait half an hour before

you call the cops. We’ll bewatching, and if there’s anyfunnybusiness,yourwifeandkid get it. OK?’ I nodded. Icouldn’tspeak.Thelast thinghedidbefore

heleftwastohelphimselftothe tape from the videosurveillancesystemthatisfedbythecamerainmyoffice.Ina funny kind of way, I wasalmostrelieved.Ididn’twanttothinkaboutthattapebeingplayed in the police station.Or in a courtroom, if it evercametoit.So I didwhat I was told. I

gave it thirty-fiveminutes, tobe on the safe side. Thepolice arrived like greasedlightning. I thought thingswouldgetmorenormal then.Like The Bill or something.Butitwasmynightforbeingwell in the wrong. Becausethat’s when things started togetseriouslyweird.They’dsentacrewroundto

the house to check therobbers had kept their wordand released Margo andDarren. They radioed backsounding pretty baffled.Turned out Margo waswatchingthetellyandDarrenwas in his room playingcomputer games. Accordingto them, that’s what they’dbeendoingallevening.Apart

from when Margo had beenon the phone to her mateCheryl.Whichhadbeenmoreor less exactly when I’dsupposedly been watchingthembeingheldhostage.That’swhenthecopsstarted

givingmesomeveryfuckingfunny looks. The boss, a DIGolightly, definitely wasn’tliving up to his name. ‘So

howdid chummyget in?’hedemanded. ‘There’s no signof forced entry at the back.And even though they werealleyesdowninsidethehall,I doubt they would havemissed a six foot gunmanwalking through from thefoyer.’‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It

should all have been locked

up.Thelastpersonoutwouldhave been Liz Kirby. Shecalled the session before thelastone.’By that time, they had the

CCTV tapes of the car park.You could see the robberemerge from the shadows onthe edge of the car park andwalk up to the door. Youcouldn’t see thegun, just the

holdall. He opened the doorwithout a moment’shesitation. So that fuckingdoozy Liz had left itunlocked.‘Looks like he walked

straight in,’ Golightly said.‘That was lucky for him,wasn’tit?’‘I told you. It should have

been locked. Look, I’m the

victimhere.’Helookedmeupanddown.

‘So you say,’ he said,sounding like he didn’tbelieveawordof it.Thenhewound the tape further backsowe could see Liz leaving.And buggerme if she didn’tturn round and lock the doorbehind her. ‘How do youexplainthat?’hesaid.

All I could do was shrughelplessly.He kept the digs and

insinuations up for a while.He obviously thought therewasachanceIwasinituptomy eyeballs. But there wasfuckallproofsohehadtoletmegointheend.Itwasgonefour in the morning by thetime I got home.Margowas

well pissed off. Apparentlyhalf the crescent had beenglued to their windows afterthe flashing blue lights hadalerted them that there wassomething more interestingthan Big Brother going onoutsidetheirownfrontdoors.‘I was black affronted,’Margo kept repeating. ‘Myfamily’sneverhad thepolice

attheirdoor.’Likeminewerea bunch of hardenedcriminals.I didn’t sleep much. Every

time I got near to droppingoff, I got flashbacks of thatsick bastard’s cock. I’venever so much as touchedanotherman’s dick, not evenwhen I was a kid. I almostwishedI’dletthesadsackof

shiteshootme.

DICKSON

EverythingIam,Iowetomymam. She taught me that Iwasasgoodasanybodyelse,that there was nothing Icouldn’t do if I wanted to.She also taught me themeaning of solidarity. Kickone, and we all limp. They

shouldhave thaton thesignsthat tell drivers they’reentering our town, rightbelow the name of thatWestphalian town we’retwinnedwith.So when she told me and

my da what that prize prickKeithCorbetthadplannedforher and the other women attheRoxette, Iwas livid.And

I was determined to dowhatever I could to stop ithappening. My mam and dahave endured too bloodymuch already; they deservenottohavetherugpulledoutfrom under them one moretime.Afterwe’d had our tea,Da

and Iwentdown to theclub.ButIonlystayedlongenough

to do some basic research. Ihadotherfishtofry.Igotonthe mobile and arranged tomeetupwithLiz’sdaughters,Lauren andShayla. Likeme,they found a way out of thepovertytrapthathasourtownbetween its teeth. Theywerealways into computers, evenat school. They bothwent tocollegeandgotqualifications

in IT and now they run theirowncomputerconsultancyupinNewcastle. I had thegermofanidea,andIknewthey’dhelpmemakeitareality.We met up in a nice little

country pub over by BishopAuckland. I told them whatCorbetthadinmind,andtheywere as angry as me. AndwhenIlaidoutthebarebones

of my plan, they were onboard before I was half adozensentencesintoit.Rightfrom the off, they were onside, coming up with theirownideasformakingitevenstrongerandmorefoolproof.ItwasShaylawhocameup

with the idea of gettingCorbett to suck me off. Atfirst,Iwasrevolted.Ithought

it was grotesque. Over thetop.Toocruel.I’llbehonest.I’ve swung bothways inmytime.Working in theatre andtelly, there’s plenty ofopportunities to explore thewilder shores of experience.But having a bit of funwithsomebody you fancy is a farcry from letting some sleazelike Corbett anywhere near

yourtackle.‘I’d never be able to get it

up,’Iprotested.Theyboth laughed. ‘You’re

a bloke,’ Lauren saiddismissively. ‘And you’re anactor. Just imagine he’sJenniferAniston.’‘Or Brad Pitt,’ Shayla

giggled.‘I think even Olivier might

havehadproblemswiththat,’I sighed, knowing I wasoutgunned and outnumbered.It was clear to me that nowI’d brought them aboard, thetwo women were going tofigure out a battle plan inwhich I was to be the footsoldier, the cannon fodderand the SAS, all rolled intoone.

The first – and the mostdifficult–thingwehadtodowas to plant a fibre-opticcamera in Corbett’s lounge.We tossed around variousideas,allofwhichwerebothcomplicated and risky.Finally, Lauren hit on theanswer. ‘His lad’s abouttwelve,thirteen,isn’the?’sheasked.

Inodded. ‘So Ihearddowntheclub.’‘That’s sorted then,’ she

said. ‘I cangetholdof somegames that are at the beta-testing stage. We can knockupalettertellingDarrenhe’sbeen chosen to test thegames.Offerhimafee.ThenIpickmymoment, rollupatthe house before he gets

home. She’s bound to inviteme inandmakemeacupoftea. I’ll find somewhere toplant the camera and we’rerolling.’And that’s exactly how it

played out. Lauren got intothe house, and while MargoCorbettwasoffmakingherabrew,shestuckthecamerainthe middle of a dried flower

arrangement.Perfect.The next phase was the

most frustrating. We had towait till we had the right setofpictures tomake the scamwork. For three nights, wefilmedCorbett’s living-room,biting our nails, wonderinghow long it would take formother and son to sit downtogetherandwatchsomething

with enough dramatictension.WecrackeditontheMondaynight,whenChannelFive was showing a horrormovie.DarrenandMargosatnext to each other, huddlingcloser as the climaxes piledup.Then it was Shayla’s turn.

ShespenttherestofMondaynight and most of Tuesday

putting together the shortdigitalfilmthatwewouldusetomakesureCorbettdidwhathe was told. Lauren hadalready filmed me against ablue background wavingaround the replica sawnoffshotgunwe’d used as a proplastseries.Ithadn’tbeenhardto liberate it from the propsstore. They’re incredibly

sloppy, those guys. Shaylacuttheimagesinsoitlookedlike I was standing in theCorbett’s living-roomthreatening his nearest anddearest.Ihavetosay,theendresult was impressive and,more importantly,convincing.Now we were ready. We

chose Wednesday night to

strike. Lauren had managedtogetholdofhermam’skeysand copied the one for theRoxette’s back door. Whilethelastsessionoftheeveningwas in full swing, she’dslipped out and unlocked thedoor so I couldwalk straightin.It all went better than I

feared. You’d have thought

Corbettwasworkingfromthesamescript,thewayhecavedin and didwhat hewas told.And in spiteofmy fears, thegirlshadbeenright.Mybodydidn’tbetrayus.Imademygetawaywithout

a problem and drove straightto Newcastle. Shayla got towork on the video,transferringittodigital,doing

the edit and transferring itback to VHS tape again. Ipacked themoney intoaboxand addressed it to Childrenin Need, ready to go in thepost in the morning, thensettled down to wait forShayla.The finished video was a

masterpiece.We’dallbeeninTyson Herbert’s office for a

drink at one time or another,sowe knewwhere the videocamerawas. I’d been carefultokeepmybodybetweenthecamera and the gun for asmuchtimeaspossible,whichmeant Shayla had been ableto incorporate quite a lot ofthe original video. We hadfootage of Corbett packingthe money into the holdall.

Even better, we had the fullblow job on tape without asingle frame that showed thegun.The final challenge was to

deliver the video to Corbettwithout either the police orhiswifeknowingabout it. Inthe end, we went forsomething we’d done on astupidTVspyseriesI’dhada

smallpartinacoupleofyearspreviously. We waited tillhe’d set off in the car,headingdowntheA1towardsourtown.IfollowedhimatadiscreetdistancethenIcalledhimonhismobile.‘Hello, Keith. This is your

friendfromlastnight.’‘Youfuckingcunt.’‘That’snowaytospeaktoa

man whose dick you’ve hadinyourmouth,’ I said, goingas menacing as I couldmanage.‘Listentome.Threepointfourmilespastthenextexit, there’s a lay-by. Pullover and take a look in therubbish bin. You’ll findsomething there that mightinterest you.’ I cut the calland dialled Lauren. ‘He’s on

hisway,’Itoldher.‘OK,I’llmakethedrop.’I came off the dual

carriagewayattheexitbeforethe lay-by. I waited threeminutes,thengotbackontheroad.When I passed the lay-by, Corbett was standing bythe bin, the padded envelopeinhishand.I spedpast, thencalledhim

again a few minutes later.‘These are the editedhighlights,’ I told him. ‘I’llcall you in an hour whenyou’vehadachancetocheckitout.’Hewasn’tanyhappierwhen

I made the call. ‘Youbastard,’ he exploded. ‘Youtotal fuckingbastard.You’vemade it look likewewere in

ittogether.’‘So we are, Keith,’ I said

calmly. ‘You do somethingfor me, and I won’t sendcopiesofthetapetothecopsandyourwife.’‘You blackmailing piece of

shit,’heshouted.‘I’ll takethatasayes,shall

NOREEN

You could have knockedmedownwith a feather. I didn’tknowwhat to expect when Iturned up that Thursday forwork, but it wasn’t whathappened. I knew about therobbery by then – the wholetownwasagog.I thought theCobrawouldbeprettyshakenup, but I didn’t expect a

completepersonalitychange.BeforeI’devengotmycoat

off,hewasinthestaff-room,all smiles and gritted teeth.‘Noreen,’ he said. ‘A word,please?’‘How are you feeling, Mr

Corbett?’Iasked.‘Thatmusthave been a terribleexperience.’He looked away, almost as

if he was ashamed. ‘I don’twanttodiscussit.’Heclearedhis throat. ‘Noreen, I mighthave been a bit hasty theother day. I’ve come torealise how much of theatmosphere at the Roxettedependsonyouandthegirls.’Icouldn’tbelievemyears.I

couldn’t think of a singlewordtosay.Ijuststoodthere

withmymouthopen.‘So, if you’d be willing to

stay on, I’d like to offer youyourjobback.’‘Whatabouttheothergirls?

Liz and Jackie and Julie?’ Icouldn’thaveacceptediftheyweren’tinthedeal.He nodded, although it

looked as if the movementgave him pain. ‘All four of

you.Fullreinstatement.’‘That’s very generous of

you,’ I managed to say.Thoughwhat I reallywantedwastoaskhimifhe’dtakenablow to the head during therobbery.Hegrimaced, his tight little

faceclosedasapithead.‘Andif you still want to do theChildren in Need night, we

couldmakeitnextFriday,’headded, each word soundinglikeitwaschokedoutofhim.‘Thankyou,’Isaid.Itooka

quicklookoutofthewindowto see if therewere any pigsflyingpast,butno.Whateverhad happened inside theCobra’s head, the rest of theworldseemed tobegoingonasnormal.

And hewas as good as hisword. I don’t know whatchanged his mind, but thefour calling birds are backbehind the balls at theRoxette. I still can’t quitebelieveit,butasourDicksonreminded me, I’ve alwayssaid there’s good ineverybody. Sometimes, youjust have to dig deep to find

TheConsolationBlonde

Awards are meaningless,right? They’re alwayspolitical, they’re forgottentwo days later and theyalwaysgotothewrongbook,right? Well, that’s what weall say when the prize goes

somewhere else. Of course,it’sadifferentstorywhenit’sour turn to stand at thepodiumandthankouragents,our partners and our pets.Then, naturally enough, it’sanhonorandathrill.That’s what I was hoping

I’d be doing that Octobernight in New York. I hadbeen nominated for Best

Novel in the SpeculativeFiction category of the USBook Awards, the nationalliterary prizes that carry notonly prestige but also a fiftythousanddollarcheckfor thewinners.TermagantFire, theconcluding novel in myKing’s Infidel trilogy, hadbroken all records for afantasynovel.Moreweeksin

theNewYorkTimesbestsellerlist than King, Grisham andCornwell put together. Andthe reviews had beenbreathtaking, referring toTermagant Fire as ‘the firstnovel since Tolkien to makefantasyrespectable’.Fansandbooksellersalikehadvotedittheir book of the year.Serious literary critics had

examined the parallelsbetweenmy fantasy universeand America in the definingepochof theSixties.NowallI was waiting for was theimprimatur of the judges inthe nation’s foremost literaryprize.Not that Iwas taking it for

granted. I know how ficklejudges can be, how much

they hate being told what tothinkbytherestoftheworld.I understood only too wellthat the succes d’estime thebook had enjoyed could bethe very factor that wouldsnatch my moment of gloryfrommygrasp.Ihadalreadygivenmyselfastifftalking-toinmyhotelbathroommirror,reminding myself of the

dangersofhubris.Ineededtokeepmy feet on the ground,andmaybe failing towin thegolden prize would be thebest thing that could happento me. At least it would beone less thing tohave to liveuptowiththenextbook.Butonthenight,Itookitas

a good sign that mypublisher’s table at the

awardsdinnerwasrightdownat the front of the room,smack bang up against thepodium. They never like thewinners being seated too farfromthestagejustincasetheapplause doesn’t last longenough for them to make itupthereaheadofthesilence.My award was third from

last in the litany of winners.

Thatmeantalongtimesittingstill and looking interested.But I could only cling ontothe fragile conviction that itwasallgoingtobeworthitinthe end. Eventually, theknowing Virginia drawl ofthe MC, a middle-rankingnews anchorman, got usthere.Iarrangedmyfaceinasuitably bland expression,

which I was glad of secondslater when the name heannounced was not mine.There followed a short,stunned silence, then, withmoreeyesonmethanonher,thevictorweavedherway tothe front of the room to ashadow of the applauseprevious winners hadgarnered.

Ihavenoideawhatgracefulacceptance speech she cameout with. I couldn’t tell youwho won the remaining twocategories. All my energywas channeled into notshowing the rage and painchurning inside me. Nomatter how much I toldmyself I had prepared forthis,therealitywashorrible.

Attheendoftheapparentlyinterminable ceremony, I gottomyfeetlikeanautomaton.My team formed a sort offlying wedge around me;editor ahead ofme, publicistto one side, publisher to theother. ‘Let’s get you out ofhere.Wedon’tneedpity,’mypublisher growled, headdown, broad shoulders a

challenge to anyone whowantedtooffercondolences.By the time we made it to

thebar,we’dacquiredasmallsupport crew, ones I hadindicated were acceptable bya nod or a word. There wasRobert, my first mentor andoldest buddy in thebusiness;Shula, an English sf writerwho had become a close

friend; Shula’s girlfriendCaroline; and Cassie, themanagerofthecity’spremiersf and fantasy bookstore.That’s what you need at atime like this, people aroundwho won’t ever hold itagainst you that you ventedyour spleen in an unseemlyway at the moment whenyour dream turned to ashes.

Fuck nobility. I wanted tobreaksomething.But I didn’t have the

appetite for serious drinking,especially when myvanquisher arrived in thesamebarwithhercelebrationin tow. I finished my JackDaniels and pushed off fromtheenveloping sofa. ‘I’mnotmuch in themood,’ I said. ‘I

thinkI’lljustheadbacktomyhotel.’‘You’re at the InterCon,

right?’Cassieasked.‘Yeah.’‘I’ll walk with you, I’m

goingthatway.’‘Don’tyouwant to join the

winning team?’ I asked,jerking my head towards thebarksoflaughterbythebar.

Cassie put her hand onmyarm. ‘You wrote the bestbook, John. That’s victoryenoughforme.’Imademy excuses andwe

walked into a ridiculouslybalmy New York evening. Iwantedsnowandicetomatchmy mood, and said as muchtoCassie.Her laugh was low. ‘The

pathetic fallacy,’ she said.‘You writers just never gotover that, did you? Well,John,ifyou’regoingtoclingto that notion, you betterchange your mood to matchtheweather.’I snorted. ‘Easier said than

done.’‘Not really,’ said Cassie.

‘Look, we’re almost at the

Inter-Con. Let’s have adrink.’‘OK.’‘On one condition. We

don’t talk about the award,we don’t talk about theassholewhowonit,wedon’ttalk about how wonderfulyour book is and how itshould have been recognisedtonight.’

I grinned. ‘Cassie, I’m awriter. If I can’t talk aboutme, what the hell else doesthatleave?’She shrugged and steered

me into the lobby.‘Gardening? Gourmet food?Favorite sexual positions?Music?’Wesettledinacornerofthe

bar, me with Jack on the

rocks, she with aCosmopolitan. We ended uptalking about movies, pastand present, finding to oursurprise that in spite of ouraffiliation to the sf andfantasy world, what we bothactually lovedmost was filmnoir.ListeningtoCassietalk,watchingherpushherblondehair back from her eyes,

enjoying the sly smiles thatcrept out when she saidsomethingwittyorsardonic,Iforgot the slings and arrowsandenjoyedmyself.When they announced last

callatmidnight,Ididn’twantit to end. It seemed naturalenoughtoinviteheruptomyroom to continue theconversation. Sure, at the

back of my mind was thepossibility that it might endwiththoselonglegswrappedaround mine, but that reallywasn’t the most importantthing.WhatmatteredwasthatCassiehadtakenmymindoffwhat ailed me. She hadalready provided consolationenough,andIwantedittogoon. I didn’t want to be left

alone with my rancor andselfpity or any of the otheruglinesses that were fightingforspaceinsideme.She sprawledon thebed. It

was that or an armchair,which offered little prospectof comfort. I mixed drinks,findingithardnottoimaginesliding those tight blacktrousers over her hips or

runningmy hands under thatblack silk tee, orpushing thelong shimmering overblouseoff her shoulders so I couldcoverthemwithkisses.I took the drinks over and

she sat up, crossing her legsin a full lotus andstraightening her spine. ‘Ithought you were reallydignifiedtonight,’shesaid.

‘Didn’t we have a deal?Thattonightwasofflimits?’Ilay onmy side, carefully nottouchingheratanypoint.‘That was in the bar. You

didwell,stickingtoit.Thinkyouearnedareward?’‘Whatkindofreward?’‘Igiveameanbackrub,’she

said, looking at me over therimsofherglasses.‘Andyou

looktense.’‘A backrub would be . . .

veryacceptable,’Isaid.Cassieunfoldedherlegsand

stoodup.‘OK.I’llgointothebathroomandgiveyousomeprivacytogetundressed.Oh,andJohn–striprightdowntotheskin.Ican’tdoyourlowerback properly if I have tofuck about with waistbands

andstuff.’Icouldn’tquitebelievehow

fast thingsweremoving.Wehadn’t been in the room tenminutes,andherewasCassieinstructingmetostripforher.OK, it wasn’t quite like thatsounds, but it was equally aperfectly legitimatedescription of events. Thesortofthingyoucouldsayto

the guys and they wouldmake a set of assumptionsfrom. If, of course, youwerethe sort of sad asshole whofelt the need to validatehimselflikethat.I took my clothes off,

draping them over thearmchair without actuallyfolding them, then lay facedownonthebed.IwishedI’d

spent more of the springworking out than I hadwriting. But I knew myshoulders were stillrespectable, my legs strongand hard, even if I wascarrying a few more poundsaroundthewaistthanIwouldhaveliked.I heard the bathroom door

open and Cassie say, ‘You

ready,John?’I was very, very ready.

Somehow,itwasn’tentirelyasurprisethatitwasn’tjusttheskin of her hands that I feltagainstmine.

Howdid I know it had tobeher? I dreamed her hands.Nothing slushy orsentimental; just her honesthandswiththeirstrongsquare

fingers, the palms slightlycallused from the dailyshunting of books fromcarton to shelf, the play ofmuscle and skin over bloodand bone. I dreamed herhandsandwokewithtearsonmy face. That was the day Icalled Cassie and said I hadtoseeheragain.‘Idon’tthinkso.’Hervoice

was cautious, and not, Ibelieved, simply because shewas standing behind thecounterinthebookstore.‘Why not? I thought you

enjoyed it,’ I said. ‘Did youthink it was just a one-nightstand?’‘Why would I imagine it

could be more? You’re amarried man, you live in

Denver, you’re good lookingandsuccessful.Whyonearthwould I set myself up for alet-down by expecting arepeat performance? John, Iam so not in the business ofbeing the Other Woman. Aone-night stand is just fine,butIdon’tdoaffairs.’‘I’mnotmarried.’Itwasthe

first thing I could thinkof to

say.Thatitwasthetruthwassimplyabonus.‘Whatdoyoumean,you’re

not married? It says so onyour book jackets. Youmention her in interviews.’Now there was an edge ofanger,a‘don’tfuckwithme’noteinhervoice.‘I’ve never been married. I

liedaboutit.’

A long pause. ‘Whywouldyoulieaboutbeingmarried?’shedemanded.‘Cassie, you’re in the store,

right? Look around you.Scope out the women inthere. Now, I hate to hurtpeople’sfeelings.Doyouseewhy I might lie about mymaritalstatus?’I could hear the gurgle of

laughter swelling andbursting down the telephoneline.‘John,youareabastard,you know that? A charmingbastard, but a bastardnevertheless.Youmean that?About never having beenmarried?’‘There is no moral

impediment to you and mefucking each other’s brains

outasoftenaswechoose to.Unless, of course, there’ssomeone lurking at homewaiting for you?’ I tried tokeepmyvoicelight.I’dbeentorturing myself with thatidea every since our nighttogether. She’d woken mewithsoftkissesjustafterfive,saying shehad to go.By thetimewe’d saidour farewells,

it had been nearer six andshe’d finally scrambledawayfrom me, saying she had toget home and change beforeshewent into open the store.Ithadmadesense,butsotoodid the possibility of hersneaking back into the coldside of a double bedsomewhere down in ChelseaorSoHo.

Now, she calmed mytwittering heart. ‘There’snobody.Hasn’tbeenforovera year now. I’m free as you,bythesoundsofit.’‘IcanbeinNewYorkatthe

weekend,’ I said. ‘Can Istay?’‘Sure,’ Cassie said, her

voice somehow promisingmuch more than a simple

That was the start ofsomething unique in myexperience. With Cassie, Ifound a sense ofcompleteness I’d neverknown before. I’d alwaysscoffed at terms like ‘soulmate’, but Cassie forced meto eat the words baked in ahumble pie. We matched. It

was as simple as that. Shecompensated for my lacks,she allowed me space todemonstrate my strengths.She made me feel like thefinestloverwhohadeverlaidhands on her. She was alsothefirstwomanI’deverhadarelationship with whomiraculously nevercomplained that the writing

got in the way.With Cassie,everything was possible andlife seemed remarkablystraightforward.Shegavemeall thespaceI

needed, never minding thatmy fantasy world sometimesseemedmore real tome thanwhat was for dinner. And Idid the same for her, Ithought.Ididn’tdoghersteps

at the store, turning up foreveryeventlikeanautographhunter. I only came along toseewritersIwouldhavegoneto see anyway; old friends,new kids on the block whowere doing interesting work,visiting foreign names. Iencouragedhertokeepuphergirls’ nights out, barelyregistering when she rolled

home in the small hourssmellingofsmokeandtastingofTripleSec.She didn’t mind that I

refused to attempt her otherlove, rock climbing; forty-year-old knees can’t learnthat sort of new trick. Butequally, I never expectedhertogiveitupforme,andeventhough sheusually scheduled

her overnight climbing tripsforwhenIwasoutoftownonbook business, that was herchoice rather than mydemand.Blessher,shenevertried taking advantage of ourrelationship to nail downbetterdiscountdealswithmypublishers, and I respectedherevenmoreforthat.Commuting between

DenverandNewYork lastedalloftwomonths.Theninthesameweek, I soldmy houseandmyagentsoldtheKing’sInfidel trilogy to OliverStone’s company for enoughmoney for me actually to beable to buy a Manhattanapartment that was bigenoughforbothofusandourseveral thousand books. I

loved, and felt loved inreturn. It was as if I wasleadingacharmedlife.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.

Iam,afterall,anadherentofthe genre of fiction wherepride always, always, alwayscomes before a very nastyfall.

We’d been living together inthe kind of bliss that makes

one’s friends gag and one’senemies weep for almost ayear when the accidenthappened. I know thatFreudiansclaimthereisneverany such thing as accident,but it’s hard to see howanyone’s subconscious couldhavefelttheworldwouldendup a better or more moralplace because of this

particularmishap.Myagentwasinthemiddle

of a very tricky negotiationwith my publisher over mynext deal. They were horse-trading and haggling hardover themoney on the table,and my agent was naturallycopyingmeinonthee-mails.Onemorning, I logged on tofind that day’s update had a

file attachment with it. ‘Hi,John,’thee-mailread.

You might be interested tosee that they’re getting sonitty-gritty about this dealthat they’re actuallydiscussing your last year’stouring and miscellaneousexpenses. Of course, Iwasn’t supposed to seethis attachment, but we allknow what an idiot Tom is

when it comes toelectronics. Great editor;cyber-idiot. Anyway, Ithought you might find itamusing to see how muchthey reckon they spent onyou. See how it tallies withyour recollections . . .

Iwasn’tmuchdrawnto theidea,butsincetheattachmentwas there, I thought I mightas well take a look. It never

hurts to get a little righteousindignation going about howmuchhotelsendupbillingfora one-night stay. It’s thesupplementaries that are thekillers. Fifteen dollars for abottleofwaterwasthebestIcame across on last year’stour.Needless to say, I stucka glass under the tap. Evenwhen it’s someone else’s

dime,Ihatetoencouragetherobber barons whomasqueradeashoteliers.Iwasdriftingdownthrough

the list when I ran intosomething out of the basicrhythm of hotels, taxis,airfares, author escorts.‘ConsolationBlonde,$500’,Iread.I knew what the words

meant,butIdidn’tunderstandtheir linkage. Especially noton my expense list. If I’dspentit,you’dthinkI’dknowwhatitwas.ThenIsawthedate.Mystomachdidabackflip.

Somedatesyounever forget.Like the US Book Awardsdinner.I didn’t want to believe it,

but I had to be certain. Icalled Shula’s girlfriendCaroline, herself an editor ofmystery fiction in one of thebig London houses. Oncewe’dgotthesmalltalkoutofthe way, I cut to the chase.‘Caroline, have you everheard the term “consolationblonde” in publishingcircles?’

‘Where did you hear that,John?’ she asked, answeringthequestioninadvertently.‘I overheard it in one of

those chi-chi midtown barswhere literary publishershang out. I was waiting tomeet my agent, and I heardoneguysaytotheother,“HewasOKafter theconsolationblonde.”Iwasn’tsurewhatit

meant but I thought itsoundedlikeagreattitleforashortstory.’Carolinegavethatwell-bred

middle-classEnglishwoman’sgiggle. ‘I suppose you couldberight.WhatcanIsayhere,John? This really is one ofpublishing’s tackier areas.Basically, it’s what you layonforanauthorwho’shaving

abadtime.Maybetheydidn’twin an award they thoughtwas in the bag, maybe theirbook has bombed, maybethey’re having a really badtour. So you lay on a girl, anice girl.A fan, a groupie, apublicity girlie, bookseller,whatever. Somebody on thefringes,notahookerassuch.Tell them how nice it would

be for poor old what’s-his-nametohaveagoodtime.Sothe sad boy gets theconsolation blonde and theconsolationblondegetsaniceboost to her bank accountplus the bonus of being ableto boast about shagging aname.Evenifit’sanamethatnobody else in the pub haseverheardbefore.’

I felt I’d lost the power ofspeech.Imumbledsomethingand managed to end the callwithout screaming myanguish at Caroline. In thebackground,IcouldhearBobDylan singing ‘Idiot Wind’.CassiehadsettheCDplayingonrepeatbeforeshe’dleftforwork and now the wordsmocked me for the idiot I

was.Cassie was my consolation

blonde.Iwonderedhowmanyother

disappointed men had beenliftedupby thepowerofherfingers and made to feelstrong again? I wonderedwhether she’d have stuckaround for more than thatone-night stand if I’d been a

poor man. I wondered howmany times she’d slid intobedwithmeafteranightout,notwiththegirls,butwearingthemantleof theconsolationblonde. I wondered whetherpity was still the primaryemotionthatmovedherwhenshe moaned and arched herspineforme.I wanted to break

something. And this time, Iwasn’tgoingtobediverted.

I’vemadea lotofmoneyformy publisher over the years.SowhenIshowuptoseemyeditor, Tom, without anappointment,hemakes spaceandtimeforme.Thatday, Icould tell inside

a minute that he wished foroncehe’dmadeanexception.

Helookedlikehewasn’tsurewhetherheshouldjustcutoutthe middle-man and throwhimself out of the twenty-third-floor window. ‘I don’tknow what you’re talkingabout,’heyelped in responsetomysinglephrase.‘Bullshit,’ I yelled. ‘You

hired Cassie to be myconsolation blonde. There’s

no point in denying it, I’veseenthepaperwork.’‘You’re mistaken, John,’

Tom said desperately, hisalarmed chipmunk eyeswideningindilemma.‘No. Cassie was my

consolationblondefortheUSBook Awards. You didn’tknowIwasgoing to lose, soyou must have set her up in

advance, as a stand-by.Whichmeans youmust haveusedherbefore.’‘I swear, John, I swear to

God, I don’t know . . .’Whatever Tom was going tosay got cut off by megrabbing his stupid preppietieandyankinghimoutofhischair.‘Tell me the truth,’ I

growled, dragging himtowardsthewindow.‘It’snotlikeitcanbeworsethanI’veimagined. How many of myfriends has she fucked?Howmanyfive-hundred-buckone-nightstandshaveyoupimpedformygirlfriendsincewegottogether? How many timeshave you and your buddieslaughed behind my back

because the woman I love isplayingconsolationblondetosomebody else? Tell me,Tom.TellmethetruthbeforeI throw you out of thisfucking window. Because Idon’thaveanymoretolose.’‘It’s not like that,’ he

gibbered. I smelled piss andfeltawarmdampnessagainstmyknee.Hishumiliationwas

sweet, though it was a poorsecond to what he’d done tome.‘Stoplying,’Iscreamed.He

flinched as my spittlespattered his face. I shookhimlikeaterrierwitharat.‘OK,OK,’hesobbed.‘Yes,

Cassie was a consolationblonde. Yes, I hired her lastyear for you at the awards

banquet.ButIswear,thatwasthelasttime.Shewrotemealetter, said after shemet youshe couldn’t do this again.John, the letter’s inmy files.She never cashed the checkforbeingwithyou.Youhavetobelieveme.Shefellinlovewith you that first night andsheneverdiditagain.’Theworstofitwas,Icould

tellhewasn’t lying.Butstill,Ihauledhimovertothefilingcabinets and made himproduce his evidence. Theletter was everything he’dpromised. It was dated theday after our first encounter,two whole days before IcalledhertoaskifIcouldseeheragain.

DearTom,

I’m returning your $500cheque. It’s not appropriateformetoacceptitthistime.Iwon’tbeavailabletodocloseauthor escort work in future.Meeting John Treadgold haschangedthingsforme.Ican’tthank you enough forintroducingus.Goodluck.CassieWhite

I stood there, reading her

words, every one cutting melike the wounds I’d carvedinto her body the nightbefore.I guess they don’t have

awards ceremonies in prison.Which is probably just aswell,givenwhatabadloserIturnedouttobe.

Metamorphosis

Fingers rippling down myspine.Lipsnuzzlingmyneck.Trimmed fingernails leavingtheir marks on my skin likevapour trails in a clear bluesky. Teeth nibbling myshoulder blades, sinking intothelongmusclesofmyback.Handsfierceonmybuttocks,

clawing and spreading them.A tongue rimming me,unimagined waves ofpleasure spreading deepinside me from the tightscrunch of my anus. A fistforcing its way into me, sodeepIthinkI’mgoingtosplitopen.LikewhenIgavebirth.The smell of sex and sweatand something more earthy.

ThesoundofavoiceIbarelyrecognise as mine, moaning,‘I’m your bitch, fuck meharder.’ Themoans that turnto cries as my body givesitselfuptoher.HowthehelldidIgethere?I’m a stranger in my own

skin.Nobodywhoknowsmewould recognise this wantonsprawled on a hotel-room

bed, possessed by a desire Inevereventhoughttoconjurebefore. I never fantasisedabout having sex with awoman. I never fantasisedabout dirty, nasty sex. I’vealwaysbeena soft-focus sortof girl. Candles meantromantic flicker to me, nothotwaxonnipples.Yet now this strange

addictionhasmeinitsgrip.I tell myself the story of

howitcametothis,andIamnonethewiser.Ilistthechainof circumstances, as I amtrained to do, and it stillsounds entirely alien,something so far outside mylife that it can have noconnectiontome.Causeandeffect,actionand

reaction, the steady buildingofacase.That’swhatIdoforaliving,andthatiswherethestory begins. I am JaneSullivan, barrister at law,called at Middle Templetwelve years ago. I am acriminal barrister on theNorthern Circuit. I am ahappilymarried woman withtwo daughters aged nine and

seven.MyhusbandDavidisalecturer in philosophy atManchester University. Welive in a three-storeyVictorian house in a quietcul-de-sac in the part ofDidsbury that hasn’t beencolonised by students andyoung graduates taking thefirststepsintheircareers.Wehave two Volvos and a

LabradorcalledSam.We are embarrassingly

middle-class. And I like mylife.So how the hell did I get

here, groaning with animaldelight at the hands of awoman with six bodypiercingsandthreetattoos?Stevie walked into my life

andmychamberssixmonths

ago. The client was accusedof attempted murder, thesolicitornotoneofmyusualproviders of briefs. They’dcomeoverfromLeedsontherecommendation of a localclientwhothoughtI’ddoneagood job in a similar caseearlierintheyear.Steviewasthere at the con to give theclient moral support. The

story was broadly familiar,though not one I hear nearlyoftenenough.Theclienthadbeenlivingin

a women’s refuge after herboyfriend had put her intohospital once too often. Inspite of a restraining order,theboyfriendhadtrackedherdown and burst into therefuge.He’dfoundherinthe

kitchen, and in his haste toattack her, he’d slipped andfallen. Simultaneously, she’dhad the presence of mind tosmash the milk bottle she’dbeenholdingagainsttheedgeofthesink.Ashestumbledtohisfeet,she’dstabbedhiminthe neck with the jaggededge. And now she was theone facing the fullweight of

the law.Stevie, it turnedout,workedparttimeattherefugewhilecompletinghermastersdegree in psychology. Theclient trusted her, whichwasn’t something she couldsayaboutmanypeople she’dmetinhertwenty-threeyears.To be honest, I didn’t pay

much attention to Stevie thatday. I registered the black

hair,thedarkbrows,theblueeyesandthecreamypaleskinthatsignalsaparticularsetofIrish genes, but I felt not aflickerofattraction.Myfocuswas on the client, my mindalready racing through thepossibilities of having thecharge reduced to a SectionEighteenwounding.I took instructions, gave as

much reassurance as I could,then went home to read mychildren a bedtime story andeatsupperwithmyhusband.Ididn’t give Stevie anotherthought until the case wascalledatLeedsCrownCourt.The client was shivering

with fear and Stevie wasrubbing her hands when wemet outside the robing room.

The client was beyondsensible discussion, so IdirectedmypointsatStevie.Iexplained that I’d alreadyseen the prosecution counseland he wasn’t inclined toreducethecharges.However,I thought that mightparadoxically work in ourfavour;ajurywouldbemorereluctant to convict on the

greater charge once they hadheard the evidence of whatthe victim had done to myclientinthepast.Iwasintenton running the selfdefenceline. Anyone who hadsuffered what my client hadsuffered at this man’s handswould have reasonablegrounds to be in fear of herlife.

Thetrialdidn’tgowell.Myclient was the worst kind ofwitness; defensive,contradictory, inarticulate.The victim cleaned up welland managed a good stab atthe heartbroken remorsefullover role. But I wasdetermined not to lose thisone, and even if I say somyself, I delivered the kind

ofclosingaddress to the jurythat barristers have wetdreams about. The judgesummeduplateonthesecondday, and I fully expected thejury to be out overnight.That’s why I’d kept on myhotelroom.But to my delight, they

came back inside half anhour, and with a not-guilty

verdict. I congratulated theclient, who was a soggybundleoftearsbythen,shookhandswithStevieandheadedbackformyhoteltopackmybagsandcatchatrainbacktoManchester.I’d barely thrown off my

suit jacket when there was aknock on the door. I openedit,expectinghousekeeping,or

the man who recharges theminibar. Instead, Stevie waslounging casually against thedoorjamb, a bottle ofchampagnedanglingfromherhand. ‘I thought you mightfancyalittlecelebration,’shesaid.‘I was just about to check

out.’One corner of Stevie’s

mouthliftedinahalf-smile,adimple creasing her cheek.‘Go on, you know you wantto,’ she said. ‘That was ahelluvaperformance in there.You deserve the chance torerun it with somebody whoknows you’re notbullshitting.’‘Ireallyshould...’‘Besides, nobody’s

expecting you back inManchester,are they?Weallthoughtthiswasgoingtoruninto tomorrow.’ She raisedthe bottle and waggled itgently.Itwas,Icouldn’thelpnoticing, rather a goodmarque.In spite of myself, I was

smilingbackather.Iopenedthedoor.‘Whynot?’Isaid.If

I’dknown the answer to thatquestion, I’d have slammedthedoorinherface.Igotacoupleofglassesout

of theminibar andwe sat inthe armchairs on either sideofthelittleroundtableinthewindow.The lastof the lightglinted on the tiny fragmentsof diamond that crusted theouter rim of her eyebrow

ring.Stevieopenedthebottlewith remarkably little fussand poured the champagneintothetiltedglasses.‘Here’sto crime,’ she said. Weclinked and sipped. ‘Youwere fantastic in there, youknow. I thought we weregoners, but you turned thewholethinground.’I shrugged. ‘It’s what they

paymefor.’Sheshookherhead.‘Itwas

alotmorethanthat.I’veseenenoughbarristers inaction toknow the difference. Youwereveryspecialtoday.’I felt mildly flustered; I

could sense an edge offlirtation in her voice and Iwasn’t sure whether I wasimagining it. ‘I’m supposed

always to be special,’ Iblurtedout.Shegavehercrookedsmile

again. ‘I don’t doubt youmanage it.’ She nudged theashtray on the table with along, slim finger. ‘Do youmindifIsmoke?’‘Feel free. It’snotas if I’m

going to be spending thenighthere.’

She opened her shoulderbag and took out a tobaccotin. Tomy astonishment, shestarted rolling a joint.‘You’vebeenwalkingaroundin the court with a pocketfulof dope?’ I knew I probablysoundedlikehermother,butIcouldn’thelpmyself.Stevie grinned. ‘Hardly a

pocketful. About a caution’s

worth, I’d say. Jane, nobodywas interested inme today. Icould have been shooting upsmack in the ladies’ loo andthey’d never have noticed.’She must have caught mylook of horror, because sheadded hastily, ‘Not that Itouch the hard stuff. Onlyjoking.’She lit the joint and took a

deep drag on it, holding thesmoke for a good fifteenseconds, her eyes closed inpleasure.Thenshehelditouttome,hereyebrowsraisedinanamusedquestion.Idon’tknowwhy I took it.

PerhapsIwantedtoshowherI wasn’t as straight as sheassumed.PerhapsIwantedtorevisitthecarefreestudentI’d

once been, before ambitionand its satisfactionhadgivenmetoomuchtobewillingtolose. Or perhaps I had thefirstsubconsciousinklingthatthere might be somethinglurking beneath the surfacehere that I’d require anexcuseforafterwards.Whatever the reason, I

shared that joint. And the

next one. The champagneslipped down, and we beganto unwind, our public facesunravelling as we sharedsomething of our stories. Itseemed to make sense toorder another bottle ofchampagne from roomservice. We were halfwaythrough the second bottlewhenSteviesaid,‘Ishouldbe

going.Ifyou’reheadingbacktoManchester,you’llneedtothinkaboutgettingatrain.’My dismay startled me. I

didn’twanthertogo,andthatshook me. But I couldn’tremember the last time I’dfeltsorelaxed.Shegottoherfeet and moved towards thedoor. I couldn’t think of away to stop her, so I

followed. She opened thedoor and turned towardsme.‘I’llsaygoodnight,then.’Shestepped forward and kissedme.My mouth was open under

hers. I felt the flicker of hertongue inside my lower lip.Then my hand was in herhair, pulling her intome, theblood pounding in my ears.

Suddenly we separated. Icouldn’t read her eyes. I hadno idea if she could see thedarkness of the desire inmine.‘I don’t think it’s a very

good idea to stand snoggingin ahotel doorway,’ she saidcoolly. ‘Don’t you thinkyou’dbetterclosethedoor?’A wave of mortification

brought a red flush to myneck. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said,every inch the stiff ladybarristeragain.Isteppedbacktoshut thedoor,butbefore Icould, she was inside theroom.‘You do want me on this

sideof it,don’tyou?’Itwas,we both knew, an entirelyrhetoricalquestion.

A tangle of clothes andlimbs, a stumble of legs andhands, a mumble of wordsand lips, andwewere nakedon the bed. There wasnothing seductive or sensualin it; we’d performed theforeplay with our earlierwords. This was simply atotal carnality I’d neverknownbefore.Itwasappetite

fed, satisfied, then freshhunger aroused purely to beappeased.Timeslidpastusina chaos of glutted lust. Shedid things tome I had neverknownIdesired.Andwithoutgiving it a second thought, Iacquiesced.More than that, I gave as

good as I got. I discoveredinstincts I didn’t know I

possessed. My mouth, myhands performed with asureness of touch I couldn’thave believed possible.Language was reduced to aprimal state. ‘There . . . ohyes.Harder...Please...OhGod...’Somewhere around dawn, I

think,weslept.Iwoketofindher sprawled face down next

tome, the tail endof a sheetacrossthehollowofherback.Theroomreekedofsex,witha sweet base note ofmarijuana. The clock read7:34, and I remembered mylife. David would be gettingthe girls up, ready for theschoolrun.He’dwonderwhyI hadn’t called the nightbefore, but not in an anxious

way. He knew that when Iwas absorbed in a case, Ididn’t always want to bedragged into a different,distractingmentalspace.I knew I should be

consumed with guilt, but itwasentirelyabsent.AllIfeltwas a kind of gratefulwonder, anastonishment thattherewasroominmylifefor

somethingsoremarkable.Stevie stirred and lifted her

head. Her eyes opened acrackandshe laughedsoftly.‘I thought you’d be longgone, beating yourself up allthe way to Manchester,’ shedrawled.‘I want to see you again.’

The words tumbled outbefore I could consider their

wisdom.‘I know you do. And you

will.’Sheproppedherselfupandkissedme.‘Likethesongsays,we’veonlyjustbegun.’Itravelledbackonthetrain,

understanding for the firsttime the notion of the bodyelectric. I was tingling inevery limb, invigorated andexhilarated. I’d thought I

understood thepowerof sex,butI’dbeenseeingacolouredworldinmonochrome.Of course, I had already

convinced myself that thiswas an entirely physicalthing. It belonged in thedomain of the senses, not inthe heart. As such, therewouldbeno realandpresentdangerinseeingStevieagain.

We would be occasionallovers, it would graduallylose its glamour and wewould drift apart. My onlyreal concern was whetherSteviewouldfallinlovewithme.If thatweretohappen, itmightposeathreattomylife.But somehow, I didn’t thinkthatwas probable. I couldn’tsee Stevie picturing a future

withsomeoneasconventionalasme.What never occurred tome

was that I would be the onewhowould becomebesotted.Isawheragaintheweekafterthe Leeds trial, down inLondon. This time, the sexwas more extreme, morerooted in the exploration ofoutrageousfantasy.Thistime,

therewas cocaine to sharpentheedgeofdesireandloosenmy non-existent inhibitions.It enraptured me. I washookedonher.I found myself seeking out

briefs that would take meaway from home so I couldspend the nightswith Stevie.Icouldn’tgetthroughthedaywithout talking to her on the

phone, conversations thatalways revolved around sexandusuallyended inorgasm.I knew my advocacy wassuffering, because I wasspendingmore timemooningafter Stevie than I wasabsorbing my briefs. I wastaking the kind of risks thatcouldhavedestroyedmy lifeand the lives of the people I

had, until Stevie, lovedmorethananythingintheworld.That, then, is the chain of

circumstancethathasbroughtme here, brought me to myknees again before a womanwho is clearly tiring of me.She makes excuses nowwherebeforeshemadeplans.Sometimes,whenIcall,thereissomeoneelsethereandshe

won’ttalk.AndIcannotbearthe thought of her lying insomeone else’s arms, thiswoman who has stolen mycomfort and ripped a hole inthe fabric of my life. A daywithout the sound of hervoice leaves me hollow,pickingatmyfood,snappingatmychildren.I fear what I will do when

she leaves me. I know nowwhat it is to be driven by anobsession that is beyondcontrol. I understand thementalityofstalkers,becausethat is what I am becoming.Herleavingmewillbringmyhousedowninruinsaboutmebecause Iwill not be able tolet her walk away. The needinmeistoofierce.

IfearwhatIambecoming.Ilook in the mirror in themorning and see an edge ofmadness in my own gaze. Ihave run too many defencesnot to know the damage thatthis could wreak if I let itspiral further out of control.The only thing I can do tosavemyself, to savemy life,istoactnow,whileIamstill

capableoforganised,rationalthought. If I wait till sheleaves me, as sheundoubtedly will, I shall bebeyondsuchniceties.And so I have made my

plans. This will be our lastnight together. The room isbooked in Stevie’s name.Whatshedoesn’tknowisthatI have already ostentatiously

checkedintoanotherroomina motel on the far side oftown;thesortofplacewherenobodyseesyoucomeorgo.Imadesureshegotherefirsttonight, and I will sit it outuntil I can losemyself in theearlymorningdepartures andgostraighttocourt.I’vebeenvery careful not to touchanything that would take a

fingerprint; I know betterthan to wipe down thesurfaces, because that wouldbe a sure sign that someoneelsehadbeenherewithher.We’re going to play

bondage games tonight. Iasked her to bring her toyswithher,andshehas,becauseshestillcaresenoughtowanttogivemepleasure.I’vebeen

reading up on cases ofautoerotic asphyxiation. It’smostlyamalething,buttherehave been cases wherewomenhavediedplayingthesort of games that aresupposed to enhance sexualpleasure. I’ve worked it allout. Her feet bound to thefootoftheironbedstead.Herhandstiedinfrontofher.The

orangespikedwithpoppersinher mouth. Then the nooseround her neck, fastened tothebedhead.Thetragicaccident.The hardest part will be

avoidinghereyes.

WhenLarryMetAllie

We’d done virtuallyeverything before we evenmet.Letme rephrase that.We’d

done, virtually, everythingbefore we even met. Orperhaps, we’d done virtuallyeverything, virtually, beforewe met. Amazing what a

difference a couple ofcommascanmake.The difference between life

anddeath,sometimes.Ichoseherverycarefully.I

knewwhatIwaslookingfor.Distance was a key factor; Ididn’t want there to be anypossibilityofherappearinginmyworld.Nowitnesses,yousee. That she already had a

lover was also important;therehadtobeagoodreasonfor her to keep meclandestine. Ididn’twantherbeautiful, either; beautifulwomen are accustomed tohavingmencomeontothem.They know how to brush usoffandtheydon’tthinktwiceabout it. As every teenageboyknows, theuglygirlsare

alwaysgratefulforattention.The other vital element in

the selection process camefromherwork.Iwaslookingfor a writer who revelled insensuality, whose workdisplayed a hunger for thewilder shores of sexualexperiment,whose prose hadthepowertoinflameaflickerofdesire.There’snoshortage

of sex in crime fiction thesedays, but most of it is aboutas erotic as theEncyclopaedia Britannica. Ihadtoploughthroughalotofdepressinglygrimattemptsatarousing the reader before Ifoundher.Allie James.Authorof four

psychological thrillersfeaturing FBI profiler Susan

Sondheim.Noneofthemhadbeen New York Timesbestsellers, but she hadrespectable sales and agrowingfanbase,ifhersalesranking and reviews onAmazon.com were to betrusted. I read the books andfelt a prickle of excitementrun up the back ofmy neck.On the face of it, she was a

primecandidate.Her protagonist had two

lovers during the course ofthe four novels. Allie’sdescriptions of theirencounters managed to walkthetightropebetweengraphicmechanics and sentimentaleuphemism. There was agenuineeroticchargeinwhatshe wrote, a sly, knowing

sensuousness that tightenedmystomach,driedmymouthandmademewantmore.Thebriefauthorbiogonthe

back flap was encouragingtoo. ‘Allie James was bornand raised in rural NorthCarolina. She trained ingraphic design and workedfortenyearsinadvertisinginChicago. She now lives in

Virginia with her partner.’There was no photograph,which made me think thatAllie James didn’t have ahigh opinion of her looks.Andwithherbackground,sheprobably wasn’t assophisticated as a big-citygirl.She’dbeeasiertoflatter,toconvinceandtocapture.I needed more information,

however. Next stop, thesearch engine. Google.comgavemeacoupleofhundredhits, and I worked my waythrough reviews, throughonline booksellers, throughnewsgroupdiscussionstrandsonherworkuntilIeventuallyfound a couple of lengthyinterviews that coloured inthe picture more fully. Allie

was thirtyseven, a Geminionlychildwhoprofessedtobefascinatedbytheextremesofhuman psychology. Herpartner taught EnglishliteratureinasmallcollegeinVirginia. They’d beentogetherforeightyears.Theyhadnochildren,butdotedontheir Weimeraner bitch. Andstillnophotographanywhere.

I headed off to a site I’ddiscoveredwhereit’spossibleto track down who ownsdomain names. I typed‘alliejames. com’ into theirsearch engine. As I’dexpected, I was told that thesitewas already owned.Anywriter with any sense hasfiguredouttheimportanceofowning their domain name,

even if they’re not doinganything with it yet. If theydon’t register it themselves,theyruntheriskofbeingheldto ransom by some nerdwho’s seen the potential ofselling it back to them. Orworse, having their namebought by their publisher, todo with as the parentcompanywishes.

I chose the option thatallowed me to find out thesite’s owner. Most peopledon’t realise this informationis readily available, so theydon’t bother to hide behindtheir agent or a box number.Allie was one of those whohadn’t.Withinseconds,Iwasstaringatheraddressandthephone number I’d already

discovered was unlisted. Iprinted out the details forfuture reference, then wenton-linetosetmybait.

From: Lawrence Ryan,Lr25478@hotmail.comTo:Allie James,ajva@alliejames.comRe:Your booksDear Allie,I wanted to write and tellyou how much pleasure

your books have given me.Few writers achieve theinsight into the humancondition that you seem tomanage so effortlessly. Ilove the depth ofcharacterisation in yourwork, and the way youconvey the passion of thehunter for her goal. SusanSondheim is one of thebest-rounded protagonists

in the genre, a woman witha heart and soul as well asa brain. As one who toils inthe same part of thegarden as you, I know howdifficult it is to createsomething genuinely freshin the genre. I just wantedto tell you how much Irespect what you do.Best wishes,Larry Ryan

I had few doubts that myapproach would provoke aresponse. And I was right.Within twelve hours, I hadherreplysittinginmyin-box.

Dear Larry,Wow! What an honor to getfan mail from a fellowwriter of your achievement!I’ve been a huge – albeitsilent – fan of your worksince The Lazarus Angel

was first published overhere. Since when, I’ve hadto break the bank to importthe UK editions, because Ijust don’t want to wait foryour US publisher to catchup :-)I’m so thrilled that youenjoy my adventures withSusan. All fan mail is great,of course, but it means somuch more to hear it from

someone I admire.So, where are you up to?When can I expect my nextfix?Yours, in awe,Allie

Of course, I was straightback on to her. There wouldbeatimetokeepherhangingon,butnotyet.

Allie,

What a charming reply.Youcertainly know how toflatter! I didn’t expect youeven to have heard of me,never mind to have readmy books, given thecomplete lack of promotionmy US publishers throwmy way. So it goes . . .< So, where are you up to?When can I expect my nextfix?> I’ve just finished the

proofs for my new book,Night Sweats, whichmeans I have a blessedperiod of about threeweeks before I begin thenext book. I’m afraid NSwon’t be out for anotherfive months, so you’ll haveto possess your soul inpatience.Unless, of course, you’dlike me to e-mail it to you?

I know there’s nothingmore tedious than to reada book in typescript, but ifyou can bear it, I’d behappy to let you see it. Youcan be the first person toread it cold, knowingnothing at all about it . . .BestLarry

It was, of course, an offershe couldn’t refuse. I’d

known that when I made it.This hadn’t been part of myoriginalplan,butthefactthatshe’d read my work short-circuited the long game I’dinitiallyhadinmind.Itwasagambit that accelerated thepace enormously, and withindays we were deep intoexchanges about the craft ofwriting, the business of

publishing, the process ofgetting a book together, andall the other things thatoutsidersimaginewriterstalkabout all the time.Although,in fact,we seldomdo.But itbuilt bridges between us,principally because I let herdomost of the running, thenmade sure I agreed withalmostallshesaid.

Inevitably, the small detailsofher lifebegantoslideintothe e-mails. I discovered theloverwas called Jeffrey, thathe was a self-obsessedAquarius who resentedAllie’s success. Not that shetold me this directly. But itwasn’t hard to read betweenthelines.IavoidedcriticisingJeffrey, concentrating rather

on making myself seem theconsiderate and supportivetype. I let slip that my loverhad died a couple of yearsbefore and that I hadn’t feltable to open up to anyonesince.From there, it was a short

step to gentle flirting. Giventhat we were by thenexchanging between twenty

and fifty e-mails a day,ranging in length froma fewsentences to twenty-kmessages, it didn’t take longto escalate into somethingmuchmore intense.Weevenswapped our favourite pornsites.Which, of course, bothof us only ever accessed intheinterestsofresearch.One of usmight have been

telling the truth, but itcertainlywasn’tme.When I had to leave town

for a couple of days, I toldher I wouldn’t have mylaptop with me. She sentseventeen messages,regardless.Of course, we got to the

inevitable point where AlliesaidJeffreywasbeginningto

wonder if shewas having anon-line affair, she wasspendingsomuchtimeonhercomputer.:-}

So what constitutes an on-line affair?I think cyber fucking.Phew. Well, that’s all right,then, we’ve never been ina private chatroomtogether . . .I certainly don’t feel as if

we’ve crossed a line. I’mvery open with you and Ishare my feelings, butthat’s what friends do,right? Do you feel like aline has been crossed?No, I don’t feel we’vecrossed a line. I thinkwe’ve both danced kind ofclose to it, but we usehumour to bounce backfrom the danger zone.

This is not an easy thing todiscuss in e-mail. Face toface or on the phone, youget the verbal and non-verbal cues from the otherperson as to whetherthey’re thinking <Yes, Iwant to hear more aboutwhat you feel about this>or <DON’T GO THERE>.In e-mail, if you get intothese complex zones,

somebody has to put theirtoe in the water first thenbite their nails till the otherparty has the time to dealwith it. So, here goes . ..We are very open witheach other and we goplaces we would neither ofus go with anyone else.Wemiss each other whenwe’re not in touch. We’vegot a lot in common and

we connect on manydifferent levels. We’ve gotmutual respect and welaugh a lot together. Itwould be disingenuous todeny there is some sort ofattraction between us. Butwe’re neither of us up fortaking chances with yourrelationship with the manyou live with. So we’vefound a way to relate that

walks that tightrope.I think.What do you think/feel?I think/feel the same asyou. I’m glad this is clearedup. I really do enjoy ourfriendship. It’s becomevery, very important to me.I can’t imagine what lifewas like before. Or what itwould be like without youand your crazy humor that

gets me through the days.You are the best thing thathas happened to me for avery long time, Larry. Andthat’s not to say anythingagainst Jeffrey. Though Idon’t think he’d becomfortable with the waywe’re so open about sex.;)I mean, it’s kind of like withporn, isn’t it? It’s hard toexplain it to someone who

doesn’t like it. What aboutyou?I think I’m in more or lessthe same place as you onthis. I don’t want there tobe barriers between us,though.That’s reallyimportant to me in terms ofmy relationship with you.Same here.

Consciously or not, it washerwayofseeingwhetherthe

antewasabouttobeupped.Inearly danced round theroom.Hook,lineandsinker.Ilet a couple ofweeks go by,then, when I knew Jeffreywasoutof townforacoupleof nights at some post-modernist seminar, I startedto reelher in.First, Iplanteda couple of lures in thatmorning’s e-mail. Then I

calledhernumber.‘Hello?’ She soundedmore

assertivethanI’dexpected.‘I bet you can’t guess who

thisis,’Isaid.‘Larry?’ Her voice rose an

octave.‘Rightfirsttime.’Ilaughed.

‘Amazing.’‘How did you get my

number?’ She sounded

bewildered.‘It’sunlisted.’‘Whatkindofstalkerwould

answeraquestionlikethat?’Iteased.Now it was her turn to

laugh.‘No,butreally,tellmehowyoutrackedmedown.’So I did. I could hear the

mixtureofdelightanduneaseinhervoice.Shedidn’tmindmefindingout,butitworried

herthatother,weirderpeoplemight be able to find her soeasily.‘Ineedtochangethat,’shesaid.‘You really should. After

all, the only person whoneeds to be able to find youalreadyhas.’The ice was broken. We

started talking about thingswe’d been discussing in our

recent posts, and I let theconversation glide round tothe fresh bait I’d laid thatmorning.‘LikeIsaid,IwishIhad your ability to writecredible sex scenes,’ Icomplained. ‘I really need toshow the interaction betweenGuyandZoe,but themore Iworkon it, themorewoodenitgets.’

Shebit.Withinseconds,wewere talking each otherthrough what I needed towrite. Within minutes, wewere practising methodwriting. ‘I can’t believeyou’remakingmesohorny,’shesighed.‘OhGod.Me too . . .’ I let

thepausehangforamomentwhile our breathing crossed

thousandsofmiles. ‘Itwouldbeverybadmannersofmetoleaveyouinthatstate,’Isaid,aimingforthatironicEnglishpoliteness that Americanslovesomuch.Andofcourse,she didn’t demur when Imoved the conversation upanother gear. I told herexactly what I knew shewanted to hear. The

deliciouslydirty things Iwasdoing to her. The forbiddenfantasies she was unleashingon me. At first, she saidalmost nothing, but thatdidn’t last. When the dambroke, it was as if we wereplayinganewOlympic sportofcompetitivearousal.The thing about phone sex

and cybersex is that anyone

can be the perfect lover. I’dstudied everything Allie hadever said to me about sex,pondered carefully the pornthat turnedheron.Because Iwas interested only inimpressing her with howperfectafitwewere,Icouldgive her everything she hadever wanted without havingto consider for a moment

whetherornot it arousedmeorturnedmeoff.Womencanfakeitanywhere;menneedtobe invisible to achieve thesameresult.Thatfirsttimeonthephone,Ireallydidn’tcarewhetherIcameornot.WhatIwas concerned with waskeepingAllieonthehook.That I did come with such

intensity only confirmed for

me how right I’d been tochooseher.We made the most of

Jeffrey’sabsence.WhatIhadn’tbargainedfor

was that term was almostover.Jeffreywasspendinganincreasing amount of time athome, marking exam papers,writing up his latest researchpapers.Butinafunnykindof

way, that worked to myadvantage too. It meant wecouldn’t call each other asmuch as Allie wanted to.There’s nothing like scarcityto push up the value of acommodity.After three weeks of this,

shewasgoingcrazy.I didn’t plan to feel thisway, Larry. But all I can

think about is being withyou, in cyberspace or onthe phone. I don’tunderstand this; it’s not likeI suddenly stopped lovingJeffrey or anything. It’s notthat I want to leave himand run away with you. Weboth know that two writersunder the same roof is arecipe for disaster. Butwhatever it is that’s

glowing between us needsresolution, and I don’t seehow we can have thisunless we spend sometime together. I know I’llsee you in October inWashington at theconvention, but that’s notthe right environment forus to find out what’s reallygoing on here.A xxx

Darling Allie,<that’s not the rightenvironment for us to findout what’s really going onhere.>You’re right. So here’swhat we do. You tellJeffrey you’ve been invitedto a conference in Europeto talk about your books.Make it somewhere hewon’t be desperate to visit,

and make it on dates whenhe’d got something in hisdiary it would beimpossible to cancel. I’llsend you the air ticketsand the hotel reservation,and you come over here.We’ll have five days or sotogether. One way oranother, we’ll know wherewe’re going.I know I shouldn’t say this,

Allie. But I love you.Larry

Of course, she couldn’tresist.Wesettledonfivedaysin Brussels. Now I had tostartbeingvery,verycareful.There must never be anygrounds for suspicion. I tookthecaroverontheferryfromHarwich to the Hook ofHolland and drove down to

Brussels. I bought an airticket in Allie’s name in abusytravelagency,payingincash. I made a hotelreservation,alsoinhername,and paid a deposit in cash. IFedExed the ticket and thehotel reservation to her fromBrussels along with a letterI’dfakeduponthecomputer,so that her storywould hang

togetherforJeffrey’sbenefit.The intervening two weeks

weretorture.ItwaseasierforAllie;she’dalreadyhada lotmore than a taste of what itfeltliketohaveyourfantasiesbecome reality. But theburning desire that hadpushed me into thisconspiracy was growingstronger in me day by day.

She’d had satisfaction; minewas still to come, and theneed ate at me like anincessant heartburn of thesoul.The night before she was

due to fly out, I composed averycarefule-mail.

Dearest Allie,I know you’re going to thinkthis is paranoid, but I’m

thinking here of the futurefor you and Jeffrey. I knowyou’re not certain what thatfuture is going to be, butit’s entirely possible youwill want your relationshipto continue.So it’s important that hedoesn’t find anything whileyou’re gone that mightindicate to him that there isany reason for him to

doubt your feelings.I know from what you’vetold me that you keep ourexchange of e-mails in aseparate folder in yourcomms program’s filingcabinet.What you need to do isdelete the whole folder. Iknow you don’t want todestroy ourcorrespondence, but I’ve

got everything on file here,and I’ll send you a copy ofit all as soon as you gethome. I just don’t think weshould tempt fate. It has ahorrible way of biting back.What do you think?Love, always,Larry

Oh God, babe, you don’tknow what you’re asking. Iknow deep down you’re so

right, but it feels like cuttingout my heart to delete allthe beautiful things you’vesaid to me. (not to mentionthe down and dirty ones,heh heh heh)I’m going to doit,though.Last thing before Ileave.What I never told youis that I printed out all youre-mails to me. WhileJeffrey’s out at the gym

this afternoon, I’m going toshred them.I hate to do it, but I know itmakes sense.Like the song says, I can’twait to meetchu . . .Love, love, love,A xxx

I only realised I’d beenholdingmybreathwhenIgotto the end of the e-mail. Icouldn’t help smiling. Good

girl, Allie, I thought. Nowthere would be no obvioustraceofmeonhercomputer.Nothing for nosy Jeffery tofind if he started looking forreasons why Allie had goneoffsexwithhim.That night, I made the

crossing to Holland again. Ibooked myself into a hotelnear the ferryport. Iplugged

my laptop into the phonesocketandset itupso that itwould make a <send andreceive mail> call everyseventy-three minutes untilmidnight. That way, therewould be a record of memaking phone calls from theroom throughout the day,should I ever need toconvinceJeffreythatI’dbeen

nowhere near his belovedAllie. I took the stairs downand slipped out while thefoyerwasbusywithacoach-load of pensioners fromIpswich.I took my time driving

down to Brussels. I wasconsciousofhowedgyIwasand I knew that could easilytranslate into thekindofbad

driving that picks up a ticketfrom the traffic police. Iarrivedatthehotelaroundthesame time Allie’s flight wasdue to land. I found a legalparking slot about fifteenminutes’ walk away and leftthecarthere,carryingnothingwith me but the laptop casecontaining a lightweightraincoat I’d bought in

Holland. With cash, ofcourse.There was a busy bar on a

corneroppositethehotel,andI wedged myself into a spotbythewindowwhereIcouldwatch the entrance. I knewwhat she looked like now;although she’d alwaysrefused to send me aphotograph,claimingI’donly

bedisappointedandwouldn’twant to meet her, I’d finallytrackeddownanarticleontheinternet fromher localpaper.They’d published aphotograph of her at a booksigning. As I’d thought, shewasn’t beautiful. She wasn’tuglyeither;butyoucouldseeshe’d have gone through herteensasawallflower.Thefat

kid that nobody wants todancewith.I’dbeenthereaboutanhour

whensheclimbedoutofoneoftheregularstreamoftaxis.Iwatchedasthebellboytookher suitcase, catching aglimpseofhernervousfrown.I left it about ten minutes,then I called the hotel fromthe bar and asked for Ms

James in my best Americanaccent.When I heard the familiar

‘Hello?’ my heart rate shotup. I was so close now. I’dbeen rehearsing this scenarioin my head for so long, thethought of it coming tofruition was enough tomakemehard.‘It’sme,’ I said. ‘I’mabout

twentyminutesaway.’‘Oh God,’ she said, her

voicecracking.‘Larry,I’msoscared. I’m going to be amajordisappointment.’‘No way,’ I said. ‘I know

thewoman inside.And she’sbeautiful. I’m so glad youmadeit.’‘Me too. Twenty minutes,

yousaid?’

‘Less,ifIcanmakeit.’Shechuckled.‘No.Ineedto

shower and get intosomething a little morealluring.’‘Twenty minutes,’ I said

firmly.‘You’re so masterful,’ she

teased.‘Believeit,’Isaid.

She opened the door so

swiftly I wondered if she’dbeen standing behind it. IsupposeifI’dbeeninlove,itwould have been abreathtaking sight. She waswearing a black lace basquewith push-up cups. Herstockings were sheer andblack, her heels high andspindly. She stood with oneleg cocked at what’s

generally assumed to be acoquettishangle,onehandonhip, the other on the door.She’ddoneherbest.Itwasasgood as itwas ever going toget, given what genetics hadhandedouttoher.Believeme,itwasn’twhatI

saw that was reviving myerection.Itwastherealisationthat all my careful planning

had worked out in fact aspreciselyasiteverhadinmyfantasies.Hersmilewastentative, the

ultimate oxymoron in thelight of the brazen nature ofher pose. I stepped forwardand gently closed the doorbehindme.‘Wow,’Isaid.‘Youmeanit?’I nodded, droppingmy bag

andmovingintoher.‘Imeanit.’ I buried my face in herhair. She hadn’t had time toshower, and it had thatmusky, animal smell thatwomen spend fortunes tryingto erase. I wrapped one armaround her, easing her backtowardsthekingsizedbedI’dspecifically asked forwhen Ibooked the room. Her lips

were all overmy face asweinched backwards. I nibbledher ear,moaning softly. Thistime, there was nocalculation.Myresponsewasforreal.She fell back on to the bed

andIletmyselffallwithher,mykneebetweenherthighs.Icould feel her wetnessthrough the fine wool of my

trousers. Her hand wasgropingformycock,pushingmy jacket aside. With onehand, I reached for her face,pushing her hair back so Icouldlookintohereyes.With my free hand, I

reachedbehindmeandpulledthe knife from thewaistbandofmy trousers.As I plungedit into her side again and

again, her hand closedconvulsivelyagainstme.I thinkIwascomingasshe

died.As I said, we’d done

virtually everything beforewemet.Butnotquite.

TheRoadandtheMilestoDundee

I hate this dress. It’s lemonyellowwithblue rosesand itmakes my skin look likesemolinapudding,mycheekslike dauds of strawberry jamin the middle of the plate.This dress, it’s Brinylon and

it cuts inundermyarmsanditmakesmesweat.Ihatethecrackly white petticoat that’ssewn in. It’s like plastic,scratchy and rustly. You canhear me coming halfwayacross the town. Mostly,though,Ihateitbecauseit’sahand-me-down. It belongedto my cousin Morag whomI’msupposed to likebecause

she’s my cousin and she’sonlyayearolderthanme,butI hate her too. She’s a clipe,always telling tales. She’s aMoaning Minnie. And she’sboring.AndIgetthehorribleclothes Auntie Betty makesfor her after she’s outgrownthem. And they never fitbecauseshe’sabeanpoleandI’m not. But I have to wear

them.Accordingtomymum,they’re too good to throwaway.Me,I’dbuildabonfireand set light to the lot ofthem.It’s my big cousin Senga’s

twenty-first, which is whyI’m wearing the party dress.We’re all crammed into myAuntie Jean’s livingroom,and the adults are all red in

the face and cheery with thedrink.Thisismyfirstgrown-upparty,andI’msupposedtobe pleased that I’ve beenallowed to come and stay uppastmy bedtime.But there’snothing to do and nobody totalk to. I can’t even tormentMorag because she’s nothere. Auntie Betty made herstayathomebecause it’s too

late for a big jessie likeMorag tobeup,even thoughshe’selevenandI’monlyten.Next time I see her, I’ll tellher how great it was. Shewillnaeknowit’salie.I’m that fed up I’ve made

myself a den. I’m sittingunderthetablewithatumblerof lemonade and a bowl ofcrisps I sneaked away when

nobody was looking. I’venever had crisps like thisbefore.They’resortofsquareand very yellow and if youlook at them really close up,they’ve got lots of tiny weebubbles under the surface.They don’t even taste likecrisps. When I suck them,they sort of burst on mytongue and taste of cheese

and salt, not potatoes. Thebagtheycameinsaid,‘Marks& Spencer Savoury Crisps’,so I thought they’d be allright. I’m not really sure if Ilike them or not. But I’mbored,soI’meatingthemjustthesame.Somebody turns off the

record player and now it’stime for people to do their

party pieces. Auntie Jeanfirst, just as soon as she’sfinished telling off UncleTomfornotrefillingherrumandcokequickenough.She’salwaystellingUncleTomoffforsomething.Ifeelsorryforhim. I thought it was onlybairnsthatgotpickedonlikeshe picks on him. I thoughtwhen you were a grown-up,

folkstoppedbotheringyou.Anyway, Auntie Jean’s got

her rum and coke and she’saway. Eyes shut, swaying aweebitwiththeemotion.Shealways used to sing‘Grannie’s Hielan’ Hame’,but lately she’s taken to thatJulie Rogers song, ‘TheWedding’. Maybe she’strying to tell Senga

something.Hervoiceisrustywithfags,butshebelts itoutall thesame.‘AndIcanhearsweet voices singing, AveMar-ee-hee-haa.’ Dad sayswhen God was handing outvoices, Auntie Jean was inthelavvy.Whenshefinishes,everybody whoops andcheers. I don’t know why,unless it’s relief because it’s

over.Then it’smy dad. I squirm

around under the table so Icanseehimbetter.Heplantshis feet a wee bit apart andsquares his shoulders in hisgoodgreysuit.Iknowwhat’scoming. ‘The Road and theMilestoDundee’ishissong.Nobodyelsewoulddaresingit. Apart from anything else,

itwouldjustmakethemlookstupid, becausemydad’s gotagreatvoice.He’sasgoodasKenneth McKellar.Everybodysaysso.Heclearshis throatandoutcomes thatsweet voice that makes mefeel like I’m snuggled upsomeplacesafeandwarm.

Cauld winter was howlin’o’ermoorando’ermountain

Andwildwasthesurgeofthedarkrollingsea,WhenImetaboutdaybreakabonnieyounglassie,Wha asked me the road andthemilestoDundee.

He’sonthelastversewheneverything goes wrong.Without thinking about it,I’veeasedoutfromunderthetable to hear better. Andthat’s when that evil witch

Auntie Betty spots me. Mydad’s just coming to the endofthesongwhenshebellowslikeabullock.‘MyGod,haveyou ett that whole bowl ofcrisps yoursel’? Nae wonderyou’ve got all that puppy fatonyou.’I want to die. Instead of

looking at my dad,everybody’s looking at me.

The last note dies away, andthough a few folk areclapping, mostly they’reeyeing up the yellow lemondressstrainingattheseams.Ican see them thinking,‘Greedyweeshite’,asclearlyasiftheyhadcartoonthoughtbubbles over their heads. Iwant to shout out and tellthem I just look fat because

it’snotmydress.There’s a horrible moment

of hush. Then suddenly mydad’s feet appear in front ofmy face. ‘Leave the bairnalone, Betty,’ he says in adifferent voice from the onewe’ve all been listening to.Thisone’shardandquiet,theone I know never to arguewith.

ButAuntieBetty’sstupidaswell as evil. ‘Jim, I’m onlyspeaking for her own good,’she says, and I can hearexactlywhereMoraggetsherslimywaysfi’.‘Betty,’ my dad says,

‘You’ve always been aninterfering bitch. Now leavemybairnalone.’AuntieBetty flushes scarlet

and retreats, mutteringsomethingnobody’s listeningto. There’s a flurry ofmovement and Uncle Donlaunches into ‘The Muckingo’ Geordie’s Byre’. My daddrops to the floor besideme,says nothing, puts his handovermine.Myhero.

Says I, ‘My young lassie, I

canna’weeltellyeThe road and the distance Icanna’weelgie.But if you’ll permit me taegangaweebittie,I’llshowye theroadand themilestoDundee.’

At once she consented andgavemeherarm,Ne’eraworddidIspeirwhathelassiemichtbe,Sheappearedlikeanangelin

featureandform,As shewalkedbymy sideontheroadtoDundee.

I’m off to university in acouple of days. I’m reallyexcited, but I’m a bit scaredtoo. I’m off toEngland. I’veonly ever been there twicebefore – the first time, aholiday in Blackpool when Iwas eleven, the second my

university interview. Bothtimes, I felt like I’d beentransported to anotherplanet.Now my life as an alien isabout to begin, and I can’twaittogetawayanddiveintothis new world. I can beanybody I want to be. I canmakemyselfupfromscratch.But for now, I’m still

trapped in who I’ve always

been. This time next week,I’ll be in the shadow ofOxford’s dreaming spires,drinking coffee withintellectuals, talking aboutpolitics and ideas andliterature. Tonight, though,I’m at Dysart Miners’Welfare for my cousinSenga’s spree. She’smarrying an Englishman. ‘I

don’t suppose they havesprees in England,’ I say tohim.‘No,’ he says. There’s

something about the way hesays it that makes me thinkhe’s another one who’sfeelinglikehislifeasanalienisonlyjustbeginning.The show of presents is at

the farendof thehall, a row

of trestle tables covered inwhite paper, groaning underthe weight of china, linen,glassware and the strangeassortment of things peoplethink newlyweds need for aproper start in life.There’s awhole subsection entirelydevoted to Pyrex casseroles.MycousinDerrywhispers tome that Hutt’s department

store had a special offer onPyrex lastmonth, that’swhytherearetwenty-threeofthemon display. ‘Do you thinkthey’llbeabletoswapthem?’Iask.‘Christ, Ihopeso,’he says.

‘Otherwise we’ll all begettingPyrexforChristmas.’The demarcation lines are

clearlydrawn.Thewomensit

at tables round the perimeterofthehall,leavingaspaceinthe middle for the dancing.The men congregate roundthe long bar that occupiesmostofonesideoftheroom.I’m already getting the hardstare from Auntie Betty andher cronies for standingwiththe men at the bar, drinkingunderage pints and smoking.

Morag is staring wistfullyacross atme, like shewishesshe had the nerve to comeand join me and Derry andSenga’sfiancé.Butshewon’tbudge. She hasn’t got arebellious molecule in herbody.The band’s been playing a

wee while now, and a fewfolk have been dancing, but

nothing much is happening.‘Isitno’timeforaweesong,Jim?’ one of the other menasksmydad.‘Aye,you’reprobablyright.

I’llawayupandhaveawordwith the bandleader.’ It’s agrandiose term for the leaderof the trio of accordion,drums and guitar that havebeen serenading us with a

competent if uninspiredselection of Scottishstandardsandpopsongsfromthe previous decade. Butmydad walks up to the stageanyway and leans over theaccordionist, hismouth closetotheweebaldman’sear.When they finish their

rendition of ‘The BluebellPolka’,mydadstepsuptothe

microphone. ‘Ladies andgentlemen, the band haskindly agreed that they’llaccompany anybody whowantstogiveusasong.Soifyou don’tmind, I’ll start offthe proceedings.’ And he’soff. The familiar words floatabove the band and he treatsus to his usual gracefulrendition.

But tonight, I’m not in themood. I’m not daddy’s weelassieanymore.I’mayoungwoman on the threshold ofher life, and I don’t want toacquiescequietlytoanything.He finishes the song and, bypopular demand, gives us anencoreof‘AeFondKiss’.By the timehegetsback to

the bar, Auntie Jean is up

there, belting out ‘TheWedding’ with all the smugcomplacency of a womanwho has got the difficultdaughter boxed off on theroad to the aisle. My dadtakes a welcome swallow ofhislagerandsmilesatme.I scowl in return. ‘Does it

not strike you as a wee bithypocritical, you singing that

song?’Isay.Helooksbaffled.‘What?’‘It’s all about a man who

takes pity on a lassie who’strying to get to Dundee.Right?Hehelpsher.Withnothoughtofanythinginreturn.Right?’Idemand.‘Aye,’ he says cautiously.

The last year or two havetaught him caution is a good

policy when it comes tocrossing verbal swords withme. I’ve learned a lot fromthe school debating society,and even more from thestudents inEdinburgh I hangoutwithatweekends.‘And you don’t find

anythinghypocriticalinthat?’‘No,’he says. ‘Hedoes the

right thing, the fellow in the

song.’‘So how come you won’t

pick up hitchhikers, then?’ Isay.Game,setandmatch.

At length wi’ the Howe o’Strathmartinebehindus,The spireso’ the toon in fullviewwecouldsee,She said ‘Gentle Sir, I canneverforgetyeFor showing me far on the

roadtoDundee’.

I took the gowdpin from thescarfonmybosomAnd said ‘Keep ye this inremembranceo’me’Then bravely I kissed thesweetlipso’thelassie,E’er I parted wi’ her on theroadtoDundee.

I’m staying with my friendAntonia and her husband,

who have a house on theshores of LakeChamplain, along finger of water thatforms part of the borderbetween Vermont and NewYork State. Antonia and Ibecame friends atOxford, inspite of the difference in ourbackgrounds. She was adiplomat’sdaughter,educatedat public school, born to

privilegeandposition.Anditdidn’tmatteradamnbecausewewere equals in the thingsthatmattered.We’re having a good time.

This feels like the life I’vealwayswanted.Myfirstbookis due to be published in aweek’s time, I’m travellingthe world, young, free andsingle, and I have

appropriated Antonia’s senseof entitlement with not apremonition of what mightchangethat.I’mswimminginthechillydarkwatersofLakeChamplain when it happens,thoughI’moblivioustoitthetime. We come out of thewaterandrunuptothehouse,our only thought how soonwecangetdriedoffandsettle

infrontof the logfirewithaglassofgoodmaltwhisky.It’s themiddle of the night

when I find out my life haschanged irrevocably. I driftout of sleep, woken by adistant phone ringing. I turnover and setmycompass forunconsciousness whenAntonia is suddenly standingin front of me, her face

crumpledanddistressed.‘Thephone...it’sforyou.’Ican’tmake sense of this but I rolloutofbedandgodownstairsanyway. Her husband isstanding mute, the receiverheldouttome.The voice on the other end

is familiar. ‘I’m awful sorry,lassie,’saysUncleTom.‘It’syour dad. He was playing

bowls.Hewalked out on thegreen to play the final of thetournament. And he justdropped down dead.’ Hisvoicekeepsgoing,butIcan’tmakeoutthewords.Later that day, I’mwalking

in the rain in Central Park.Antonia has organisedeverything; a flight fromBurlingtontoNewYork,then

anightflightbacktoScotlandvia Paris. I’ve packed mybags, but I’ve still got fourhours to kill. So I buy myfirst packet of cigarettes inyears and walk. Smoke andrain, good excuses for a wetfaceandredeyes.Thedyeinmy passport runs as I getsoakedtotheskin;foryears,Ican’t escape remembrance of

this day every time I travelabroad.It’s taken them a couple of

days to track me down, so Idon’t get back till the dayofthe funeral.Thecrematoriumispacked,standingroomonlyfor a man so many peopleloved.Theminister’sdoingagood job–heknewmydad,soheunderstandstheneedto

celebrate a life as well asmourn a death. He actuallymakesuslaugh,andIthinkofmydadwatchingallthisfromsomewhere else and mayberealising how much his lifemeant.Backat thehouse, after the

formal funeral purvey, it’sfamily only. I’m in thekitchen with our Senga

making potted meatsandwiches.Ifeeldazed.I’mnot surewhether it’s grief orjetlagorwhat.I’mtakingthebread knife to a tall stack ofsandwiches,cuttingthemintoneat triangles, when AuntieBettybargesintothekitchen.She puts a hand on myshoulder and says, ‘Are youawful upset about your dad,

then?’It’s a question so crass I

can’t believe she’s uttered it.I feel Senga’s hand gentlyeasing the bread knife frommine. Just as well, really. Istaremutely atAuntieBetty,wishingwithmywholeheartthat itwas her burned to ashinsteadofmydad.Senga says, ‘If you don’t

mind, Auntie Betty, there’snot really room for threepeopleinhereandweneedtogetthesandwichesdone.’Auntie Betty edges

backwards. ‘Right enough,’she says. ‘I just thought I’dcome and tell you Simon’sgoingtogiveusaweesong.’Simonisthelatebaby,born

when Morag was twelve.

Therehasneverbeena childmore beautiful, moreintelligent,moregifted.Well,that’s what Auntie Bettythinks. Personally, I preferanother set of adjectives –spoilt, arrogant, average. Histhin, reedy tenor makes meyearnforAuntieJeansinging‘TheWedding’.‘Aye,’ Betty continues.

‘He’s going to give us “TheRoad and the Miles toDundee”.’I feel the blood draining

from my face and the roomlosesfocus.Ipushheroutofthewayandheadforthefrontdoor,grabbingmyjacketasIrun.Itearfromthehouseandjump into the car, not caringthat I’ve had more whisky

than the law allows drivers.At first, I’m not thinkingabout where I’m going, butmy heart knows what itneeds,andit’snotmycousinSimonmurderingmyfather’sfavourite song. I driveoutoftown and up into the hills.These days, you can drivealmost all the way upFalkland Hill. But it didn’t

use to be like that. The firsttime I climbed it was thenight before my sixthbirthday. My mum wantedme out of the way so shecould ice the cake, and mydadtookmeupthehill.Itfeltlikeamountaintomychild’slegs; it felt like achievement.Westoodonthetop, lookingdown at Fife, my world,

spreadbeneathourfeetlikeamagiccarpet.Now,twenty-sixyearslater,

I’mhereagain.Iwantmusic.I finger the tape of my dadsingingthatoneofhisfriendsfrom the Bowhill People’sBurns Club’s concert partypressedintomyhandasIleftthe crematorium. ‘I made awee compilation for you,’ he

said, his eyes damp withsorrow.But I’m not ready for this.

Instead, I slam the MozartRequiemintothetapeplayer,roll down the windows, turnthe volumeup full and standon the hillside, staring out atthe blurry view. I know theworldisstillatmyfeet.Thedifferenceisthattoday,

Idon’twantit.

Sohere’stothelassie,Ine’ercanforgether,And ilka young laddie that’slisteningtome,OneverbesweertoconvoyayounglassieThough it’s only to showhertheroadtoDundee.

I’m thirty thousand feetabove somewhere. I don’t

much care where. I’m flyingtoa festival to read frommywork in a country I can’tpointtoonamap.I’mflyingaway from the ending of therelationship I never expectedto die. My life feels raggedand wrecked, my heart tornand trampled. It’s as if thelast dozen years have beenfolded up tight like tissue

paper, turning into a hardlump that could stick in mythroatandchokeme.I take out the book I’ve

brought as a bulwark againstthe strangling gyre of mythoughts. Ali Smith’s TheWhole Story and OtherStories.Ichoseitdeliberatelyin preference to a novelbecause I can’t actually

concentrate for long enoughto manage more than bite-sizedchunks.A few stories in, I start

reading one called ‘ScottishLoveSongs’.It’smagicalandstrange, tragicandfunny,butmostofall,it’sanaffirmationof the power and enduranceof love. A bitter irony thatI’m far from immune to. I’m

bearing up well until thepipers in the story startplaying ‘The Road and theMiles to Dundee’. Then Ibecome that person thatnobodywantstositnexttoontheplane,theonewiththefattearsrollingdownhercheeksand the trumpeting nose-blowing that shockseven thescreaming toddler in thenext

rowintosilence.Two nights later, I’m lying

in a bed in a city in themiddle of Europe, limbsentangled with a virtualstranger. We’re in thatcharmed place betweensatisfactory sex and therecognition that we probablydon’t have much to say toeachother.Idon’tknowwhy,

butIstarttotellherabouttheincidenton theplane,andalltheothermemoriesassociatedwith‘TheRoadandtheMilesto Dundee’. I don’t expectmuch response; I recall oncewriting that casual lovers arelike domestic pets – you canalmost believe theyunderstand every word yousay.

But I’m pleasantlysurprised.She shiftsher longlegs so she canmore readilyface me, pushes her tawnyhair out of her eyes andfrowns in concentration. Atone point, when I pause,searchingforthenextpointinthenarrative,herhandmovestomy hip and she says, ‘Goon.Thisisinteresting.’

Icome to theendofwhat Ihavetosayandshetracesmymouthwithafingertip.‘Sad,’she says. Then shakes herhead. ‘No, strike that. Sad’stoo small a word. Toosimple.’But simplification iswhat I

need. I suddenly understandthat I want to strip awayevery association from this

damn song except thesweetness of my father’svoice. I don’t know how toexpress this, but somehow,this woman grasps theessence without being told.‘It’s a love song,’ she says.‘You need to remember that.You need to replace the badconnectionswithgoodones.’‘Easier said than done,’ I

sigh. I want to change thesubject, so I choosesomethingelsetooccupyourmouths. It’s sweet, thisencounter. It doesn’t touchthe core of my pain, but itreminds me that sooner orlater,therewillbemitigation.Threedays later,wedetach

from each other in thedeparturelounge,headingfor

different provincial airports.We’vemadenoplanstomeetagain, mostly because I’veheaded her off at the passeverytime.I’m only home an hour

when there’s a ring at thedoorbell. I’m not expectinganyone, but of all the peopleI’m not expecting, the floristwould come high on the list.

But she’s there, presentingme with a dozen yellowroses. Puzzled, I checkthey’re really formeandnotthe woman next door. Theflorist smiles at my distrust.‘No, they’re really for you,’she says. ‘There’s a card. IhopeIgotthespellingright.’I close the door and walk

slowlythroughtothekitchen.

I wriggle the card free fromthe cellophane wrapping andtearopentheenvelope.Ireadthe words, and I can’t keepthe big silly smile from myface. ‘O never be sweer toconvoy a young lassie,Though it’s only to showhertheroadtoDundee.’The phone’s ringing, and I

have a funny feeling it’s

goingtobeavoiceaskingfordirections.

stranded - droppdf1.droppdf.com/files/ifqjo/stranded-val-mcdermid.pdf · 2015. 8. 31. · val...

Documents

frank mcdermid during his 55-yr aerospace career with united...

bad sydney crime writers festival – bad sydney crime...

northanger abbey sampler - val mcdermid

pinus albicaulis) in waterton lakes national park using...

1 gatwick procurement overview alastair mcdermid raymond a....

whitework with colour embroidery · thread diagram thread...

avalanche – stranded

thierry leblanc 1 , stuart mcdermid 1 holger vömel 2

adult fiction - pirie.sa.gov.au · the pool house (tasmina...

northanger abbey, by val mcdermid - extract

stranded assets and subcritical coal...stranded assets and...

next generation sequencing analysis, 2021 · 11. januar...

stranded on ice

42771 devil in a blue dress · walter mosley devil in a...

december make t i & take t i programsby linda byler the ice...

role and visualization of the single-stranded and double-...

phelan-mcdermid syndrome. things to go over: history -the...

stranded power point

på en brennende bro av val mcdermid

recognising stranded harbour seal pups - pinniped€¦ ·...