There exists, at this moment, in good preservation a remarkable work of Schalken's. The curious management of its lights constitutes, as usual in his pieces, the chief apparent merit of the picture. I say apparent, for in its subject, and not in its handling, however exquisite, consists its real value. The picture represents the interior of what might be a chamber in some antique religious building; and its foreground is occupied by a female figure, in a species of white robe, part of which is arranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, is not that of any religious order. In her hand the figure bears a lamp, by which alone her figure and face are illuminated; and her features wear such an arch smile, as well becomes a pretty woman when practising some prankish roguery; in the background, and, excepting where the dim red light of an expiring fire serves to define the form, in total shadow, stands the figure of a man dressed in the old Flemish fashion, in an attitude of alarm, his hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword, which he appears to be in the act of drawing.

    There are some pictures, which impress one, I know not how, with a conviction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes and combinations which have floated through the imagination of the artist, but scenes, faces, and situations which have actually existed. There is in that strange picture, something that stamps it as the representation of a reality.

    And such in truth it is, for it faithfully records a remarkable and mysterious occurrence, and perpetuates, in the face of the female figure, which occupies the most prominent place in the design, an accurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, the first, and I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My great grandfather knew the painter well; and from Schalken himself he learned the fearful story of the painting, and from him too he ultimately received the picture itself as a bequest. The story and the picture have become heirlooms in my family, and having described the latter, I shall, if you please, attempt to relate the tradition which has descended with the canvas.

    There are few forms on which the mantle of romance hangs more ungracefully than upon that of the uncouth Schalken - the boorish but most cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight the critics of our day almost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yet this man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, in the midst of his celebrity, had in his obscure, but happier days, played the hero in a wild romance of mystery and passion.

    When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a very young man; and in spite of his phlegmatic temperament, he at once fell over head and ears in love with the beautiful niece of his wealthy master. Rose Velderkaust was still younger than he, having not yet attained her seventeenth year, and, if tradition speaks truth, possessed all the soft and dimpling charms of the fair, light-haired Flemish maidens. The young painter loved honestly and fervently. His frank adoration was rewarded. He declared his love, and extracted a faltering confession in return. He was the happiest and proudest painter in all Christendom. But there was somewhat to dash his elation; he was poor and undistinguished. He dared not ask old Gerard for the hand of his sweet ward. He must first win a reputation and a competence.

    There were, therefore, many dread uncertainties and cold days before him; he had to fight his way against sore odds. But he had won the heart of dear Rose Velderkaust, and that was half the battle. It is needless to say his exertions were redoubled, and his lasting celebrity proves that his industry was not unrewarded by success.

    These ardent labours, and worse still, the hopes that elevated and beguiled them, were however, destined to experience a sudden interruption - of a character so strange and mysterious as to baffle all inquiry and to throw over the events themselves a shadow of preternatural horror.

    Schalken had one evening outstayed all his fellow-pupils, and still pursued his work in the deserted room. As the daylight was fast falling, he laid aside his colours, and applied himself to the completion of a sketch on which he had expressed extraordinary pains. It was a religious composition, and represented the temptations of a pot-bellied Saint Anthony. The young artist, however destitute of elevation, had, nevertheless, discernment enough to be dissatisfied with his own work, and many were the patient erasures and improvements which saint and devil underwent, yet all in vain. The large, old-fashioned room was silent, and, with the exception of himself, quite emptied of its usual inmates. An hour had thus passed away, nearly two, without any improved result. Daylight had already declined, and twilight was deepening into the darkness of night. The patience of the young painter was exhausted, and he stood before his unfinished production, angry and mortified, one hand buried in the folds of his long hair, and the other holding the piece of charcoal which had so ill-performed its office, and which he now rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks it produced, with irritable pressure upon his ample Flemish inexpressibles. "Curse the subject!" said the young man aloud; "curse the picture, the devils, the saint - "

    At this moment a short, sudden sniff uttered close behind him made the artist turn sharply round, and he now, for the first time, became aware that his labours had been overlooked by a stranger. Within about a yard and half, and rather behind him, there stood the figure of an elderly man in a cloak and broad-brimmed, conical hat; in his hand, which was protected with a heavy gauntlet shaped glove, he carried a long ebony walking-stick, surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered dimly in the twilight, to be a massive head of gold, and upon his breast, through the folds of the cloak, there shone the links of a rich chain of the same metal. The room was so obscure that nothing further of the appearance of the figure could be ascertained, and his hat threw his features into profound shadow. It would not have been easy to conjecture the age of the intruder; but a quantity of dark hair escaping from beneath his sombre hat, as well as his firm and upright carriage served to indicate that his years could not yet exceed threescore, or thereabouts. There was an air of gravity and importance about the garb of the person, and something indescribably odd, I might say awful, in the perfect, stone like stillness of the figure, that effectually checked the testy comment which had at once risen to the lips of the irritated artist. He, therefore, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered his surprise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to know if he had any message to leave for his master.

    "Tell Gerard Douw," said the unknown, without altering his attitude in the smallest degree, "that Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desires to speak with him on tomorrow evening at this hour, and if he please, in this room, upon matters of weight; that is all."

    The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with a quick, but silent step quitted the room, before Schalken had time to say a word in reply. The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction the burgher of Rotterdam would turn, on quitting the studio, and for that purpose he went directly to the window which commanded the door. A lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of the painter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied the post of observation before the old man could possibly have reached the street. He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit. Had the queer old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of the lobby for some sinister purpose? This last suggestion filled the mind of Schalken with a vague uneasiness, which was so unaccountably intense as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone, and reluctant to pass through the lobby. However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned to the occasion, he summoned resolution to leave the room, and, having locked the door and thrust the key in his pocket, without looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the person of his mysterious visitant, scarcely venturing to breathe till he had arrived in the open street.

    "Minheer Vanderhausen!" said Gerard Douw within himself, as the appointed hour approached, "Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam! I never heard of the man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait, perhaps, to be painted; or a poor relation to be apprenticed; or a collection to be valued; or - pshaw! there's no one in Rotterdam to leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we shall soon know it all."

    It was now the close of day, and again every easel, except that of Schalken, was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless step of impatient expectation, sometimes pausing to glance over the work of one of his absent pupils, but more frequently placing himself at the window, from whence he might observe the passengers who threaded the obscure by-street in which his studio was placed.

    "Said you not, Godfrey," exclaimed Douw, after a long and fruitful gaze from his post of observation, and turning to Schalken, "that the hour he appointed was about seven by the clock of the Stadhouse?"

    "It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir," answered the student.

    "The hour is close at hand, then," said the master, consulting a horologe as large and as round as an orange. "Minheer Vanderhausen from Rotterdam - is it not so?

    "Such was the name."

    "And an elderly man, richly clad?" pursued Douw, musingly.

    "As well as I might see," replied his pupil; "he could not be young, nor yet very old, neither; and his dress was rich and grave, as might become a citizen of wealth and consideration."

    At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stadhouse clock told, stroke after stroke, the hour of seven; the eyes of both master and student were directed to the door; and it was not until the last peal of the bell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw exclaimed -

    "So, so; we shall have his worship presently, that is, if he means to keep his hour; if not, you may wait for him, Godfrey, if you court his acquaintance. But what, after all, if it should prove but a mummery got up by Vankarp, or some such wag? I wish you had run all risks, and cudgelled the old burgomaster soundly. I'd wager a dozen of Rhenish, his worship would have unmasked, and pleaded old acquaintance in a trice."

    "Here he comes, sir," said Schalken, in a low monitory tone; and instantly, upon turning towards the door, Gerard Douw observed the same figure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly greeted his pupil Schalken.

    There was something in the air of the figure which at once satisfied the painter that there was no masquerading in the case, and that he really stood in the presence of a man of worship; and so, without hesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously saluting the stranger, requested him to be seated. The visitor waved his hand slightly, as if in acknowledgment of the courtesy, but remained standing.

    "I have the honour to see Minheer Vanderhausen of Rotterdam?" said Gerard Douw.

    "The same," was the laconic reply of his visitor.

    "I understand your worship desires to speak with me," continued Douw, "and I am here by appointment to wait your commands."

    "Is that a man of trust?" said Vanderhausen, turning towards Schalken, who stood at a little distance behind his master.

    "Certainly," replied Gerard.

    "Then let him take this box, and get the nearest jeweller or goldsmith to value its contents, and let him return hither with a certificate of the valuation."

    At the same time, he placed a small case about nine inches square in the hands of Gerard Douw, who was as much amazed at its weight as at the strange abruptness with which it was handed to him. In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he delivered it into the hands of Schalken, and repeating his direction, despatched him upon the mission.

    Schalken disposed his precious charge securely beneath the folds of his cloak, and rapidly traversing two or three narrow streets, he stopped at a corner house, the lower part of which was then occupied by the shop of a Jewish goldsmith. He entered the shop, and calling the little Hebrew into the obscurity of its back recesses, he proceeded to lay before him Vanderhausen's casket. On being examined by the light of a lamp, it appeared entirely cased with lead, the outer surface of which was much scraped and soiled, and nearly white with age. This having been partially removed, there appeared beneath a box of some hard wood; which also they forced open and after the removal of two or three folds of linen, they discovered its contents to be a mass of golden ingots, closely packed, and, as the Jew declared, of the most perfect quality. Every ingot underwent the scrutiny of the little Jew, who seemed to feel an epicurean delight in touching and testing these morsels of the glorious metal; and each one of them was replaced in its berth with the exclamation: "Mein Gott, how very perfect! Not one grain of alloy - beautiful, beautiful!" The task was at length finished, and the Jew certified under his hand the value of the ingots submitted to his examination to amount to many thousand rix-dollars. With the desired document in his pocket, and the rich box of gold carefully pressed under his arm, and concealed by his cloak, he retraced his way, and entering the studio, found his master and the stranger in close conference. Schalken had no sooner left the room, in order to execute the commission he had taken in charge, than Vanderhausen addressed Gerard Douw in the following terms:-

    "I cannot tarry with you tonight more than a few minutes, and so I shall shortly tell you the matter upon which I come. You visited the town of Rotterdam some four months ago, and then I saw in the church of St Lawrence your niece, Rose Velderkaust. I desire to marry her; and if I satisfy you that I am wealthier than any husband you can dream of for her, I expect that you will forward my suit with your authority. If you approve my proposal, you must close with it here and now, for I cannot wait for calculations and delays."

    Gerard Douw was hugely astonished by the nature of Minheer Vanderhausen's communication, but he did not venture to express surprise; for besides the motives supplied by prudence and politeness, the painter experienced a kind of chill and oppression like that which is said to intervene when one is placed in unconscious proximity with the object of a natural antipathy - an undefined but overpowering sensation, while standing in the presence of the eccentric stranger, which made him very unwilling to say anything which might reasonably offend him.

    "I have no doubt," said Gerard, after two or three prefatory hems, "that the alliance which you propose would prove alike advantageous and honourable to my niece; but you must be aware that she has a will of her own, and may not acquiesce in what we may design for her advantage."

    "Do not seek to deceive me, sir painter," said Vanderhausen; "you are her guardian - she is your ward - she is mine if you like to make her so."

    The man of Rotterdam moved forward a little as he spoke, and Gerard Douw, he scarce knew why, inwardly prayed for the speedy return of Schalken.

    "I desire," said the mysterious gentleman, "to place in your hands at once an evidence of my wealth, and a security for my liberal dealing with your niece. The lad will return in a minute or two with a sum in value five times the fortune which she has a right to expect from her husband. This shall lie in your hands, together with her dowry, and you may apply the united sum as suits her interest best; it shall be all exclusively hers while she lives: is that liberal?"

    Douw assented, and inwardly acknowledged that fortune had been extraordinarily kind to his niece; the stranger, he thought, must be both wealthy and generous, and such an offer was not to be despised, though made by a humourist, and one of no very prepossessing presence. Rose had no very high pretensions for she had but a modest dowry, which she owed entirely to the generosity of her uncle; neither had she any right to raise exceptions on the score of birth, for her own origin was far from splendid, and as to the other objections, Gerard resolved, and indeed, by the usages of the time, was warranted in resolving, not to listen to them for a moment.

    "Sir," said he, addressing the stranger, "your offer is liberal, and whatever hesitation I may feel in closing with it immediately, arises solely from my not having the honour of knowing anything of your family or station. Upon these points you can, of course, satisfy me without difficulty?"

    "As to my respectability," said the stranger, drily, "you must take that for granted at present; pester me with no inquiries; you can discover nothing more about me than I choose to make known. You shall have sufficient security for my respectability - my word, if you are honourable: if you are sordid, my gold."

    "A testy old gentleman," thought Douw, "he must have his own way; but, all things considered, I am not justified to declining his offer. I will not pledge myself unnecessarily, however."

    "You will not pledge yourself unnecessarily," said Vanderhausen, strangely uttering the very words which had just floated through the mind of his companion; "but you will do so if it is necessary, I presume; and I will show you that I consider it indispensable. If the gold I mean to leave in your hands satisfy you, and if you don't wish my proposal to be at once withdrawn, you must, before I leave this room, write your name to this engagement."

    Having thus spoken, he placed a paper in the hands of the master, the contents of which expressed an engagement entered into by Gerard Douw, to give to Wilken Vanderhausen of Rotterdam, in marriage, Rose Velderkaust, and so forth, within one week of the date thereof. While the painter was employed in reading this covenant, by the light of a twinkling oil lamp in the far wall of the room, Schalken, as we have stated, entered the studio, and having delivered the box and the valuation of the Jew, into the hands of the stranger, he was about to retire, when Vanderhausen called to him to wait; and, presenting the case and the certificate to Gerard Douw, he paused in silence until he had satisfied himself, by an inspection of both, respecting the value of the pledge left in his hands. At length he said -

    "Are you content?"

    The painter said he would fain have another day to consider.

    "Not an hour," said the suitor, apathetically.

    "Well then," said Douw, with a sore effort, "I am content, it is a bargain."

    "Then sign at once," said Vanderhausen, "for I am weary."

    At the same time he produced a small case of writing materials, and Gerard signed the important document.

    "Let this youth witness the covenant," said the old man; and Godfrey Schalken unconsciously attested the instrument which forever bereft him of his dear Rose Velderkaust.

    The compact being thus completed, the strange visitor folded up the paper, and stowed it safely in an inner pocket.

    "I will visit you tomorrow night at nine o'clock, at your own house, Gerard Douw, and will see the object of our contract;" and so saying Wilken Vanderhausen moved stiffly, but rapidly, out of the room.

    Schalken, eager to resolve his doubts, had placed himself by the window, in order to watch the street entrance; but the experiment served only to support his suspicions, for the old man did not issue from the door. This was very strange, odd, nay fearful. He and his master returned together, and talked but little on the way, for each had his own subjects of reflection, of anxiety, and of hope. Schalken, however, did not know the ruin which menaced his dearest projects.

    Gerard Douw knew nothing of the attachment which had sprung up between his pupil and his niece; and even if he had, it is doubtful whether he would have regarded its existence as any serious obstruction to the wishes of Minheer Vanderhausen. Marriages were then and there matters of traffic and calculation; and it would have appeared as absurd in the eyes of the guardian to make a mutual attachment an essential element in a contract of the sort, as it would have been to draw up his bonds and receipts in the language of romance.

    The painter, however, did not communicate to his niece the important step which he had taken in her behalf, a forebearance caused not by any anticipated opposition on her part, but solely by a ludicrous consciousness that if she were to ask him for a description of her destined bridegroom, he would be forced to confess that he had not once seen his face, and if called upon, would find it absolutely impossible to identify him. Upon the next day, Gerard Douw, after dinner, called his niece to him and having scanned her person with an air of satisfaction, he took her hand, and looking upon her pretty innocent face with a smile of kindness, he said -

    "Rose, my girl, that face of yours will make your fortune." Rose blushed and smiled. "Such faces and such tempers seldom go together, and when they do, the compound is a love charm, few heads or hearts can resist; trust me, you will soon be a bride, girl. But this is trifling, and I am pressed for time, so make ready the large room by eight o'clock tonight, and give directions for supper at nine. I expect a friend; and observe me, child, do you trick yourself out handsomely. I will not have him think us poor or sluttish."

    With these words he left her, and took his way to the room in which his pupils worked.

    When the evening closed in, Gerard called Schalken, who was about to take his departure to his own obscure and comfortless lodgings, and asked him to come home and sup with Rose and Vanderhausen. The invitation was, of course, accepted and Gerard Douw and his pupil soon found themselves in the handsome and, even then, antique chamber, which had been prepared for the reception of the stranger. A cheerful wood fire blazed in the hearth, a little at one side of which an old-fashioned table, which shone in the fire-light like burnished gold, was awaiting the supper, for which preparations were going forward; and ranged with exact regularity, stood the tall-backed chairs, whose ungracefulness was more than compensated by their comfort. The little party, consisting of Rose, her uncle, and the artist, awaited the arrival of the expected visitor with considerable impatience. Nine o'clock at length came, and with it a summons at the street door, which being speedily answered, was followed by a slow and emphatic tread upon the staircase; the steps moved heavily across the lobby, the door of the room in which the party we have described were assembled slowly opened, and there entered a figure which startled, almost appalled, the phlegmatic Dutchmen, and nearly made Rose scream with terror. It was the form, and arrayed in the garb of Minheer Vanderhausen; the air, the gait, the height were the same, but the features had never been seen by any of the party before. The stranger stopped at the door of the room, and displayed his form and face completely. He wore a dark-coloured cloth cloak, which was short and full, not falling quite to his knees; his legs were cased in dark purple silk stockings, and his shoes were adorned with roses of the same colour. The opening of the cloak in front showed the under-suit to consist of some very dark, perhaps sable material, and his hands were enclosed in a pair of heavy leather gloves, which ran up considerably above the wrist, in the manner of a gauntlet. In one hand he carried his walking-stick and his hat, which he had removed, and the other hung heavily by his side. A quantity of grizzled hair descended in long tresses from his head, and rested upon the plaits of a stiff ruff, which effectually concealed his neck. So far all was well; but the face! - all the flesh of the face was coloured with the bluish leaden hue, which is sometimes produced by metallic medicines, administered in excessive quantities; the eyes showed an undue proportion of muddy white, and had a certain indefinable character of insanity; the hue of the lips bearing the usual relation to that of the face, was, consequently, nearly black; and the entire character of the face was sensual, malignant, and even satanic. It was remarkable that the worshipful stranger suffered as little as possible of his flesh to appear, and that during his visit he did not once remove his gloves. Having stood for some moments at the door, Gerard Douw at length found breath and collectedness to bid him welcome, and with a mute inclination of the head, the stranger stepped forward into the room. There was something indescribably odd, even horrible, about all his motions, something undefinable, that was unnatural, unhuman; it was as if the limbs were guided and directed by a spirit unused to the management of bodily machinery. The stranger spoke hardly at all during his visit, which did not exceed half an hour; and the host himself could scarcely muster courage enough to utter the few necessary salutations and courtesies; and, indeed, such was the nervous terror which the presence of Vanderhausen inspired, that very little would have made all his entertainers fly in downright panic from the room. They had not so far lost all self-possession, however, as to fail to observe two strange peculiarities of their visitor. During his stay his eyelids did not once close, or, indeed, move in the slightest degree; and farther, there was a deathlike stillness in his whole person, owing to the absence of the heaving motion of the chest, caused by the process of respiration. These two peculiarities, though when told they may appear trifling, produced a very striking and unpleasant effect when seen and observed. Vanderhausen at length relieved the painter of Leyden of his inauspicious presence; and with no trifling sense of relief the little party heard the street door close after him.

    "Dear uncle," said Rose, "what a frightful man! I would not see him again for the wealth of the States."

    "Sush, foolish girl," said Douw, whose sensations were anything but comfortable. "A man may be as ugly as the devil, and yet, if his heart and actions are good, he is worth all the pretty faced perfumed puppies that walk the Mall. Rose, my girl, it is very true he has not thy pretty face, but I know him to be wealthy and liberal; and were he ten times more ugly, these two virtues would be enough to counter balance all his deformity, and if not sufficient actually to alter the shape and hue of his features, at least enough to prevent one thinking them so much amiss."

    "Do you know, uncle," said Rose, "when I saw him standing at the door, I could not get it out of my head that I saw the old painted wooden figure that used to frighten me so much in the Church of St Laurence at Rotterdam."

    Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly acknowledging the justness of the comparison. He was resolved, however, as far as he could, to check his niece's disposition to dilate upon the ugliness of her intended bridegroom, although he was not a little pleased, as well as puzzled, to observe that she appeared totally exempt from that mysterious dread of the stranger which, he could not disguise it from himself, considerably affected him, as also his pupil Godfrey Schalken.

    Early on the next day there arrived, from various quarters of the town, rich presents of silks, velvets, jewellery, and so forth, for Rose; and also a packet directed to Gerard Douw, which on being opened, was found to contain a contract of marriage, formally drawn up, between Wilken Vanderhausen of the Boom-quay, in Rotterdam, and Rose Velderkaust of Leyden, niece to Gerard Douw, master in the art of painting, also of the same city; and containing engagements on the part of Vanderhausen to make settlements upon his bride, far more splendid than he had before led her guardian to believe likely, and which were to be secured to her use in the most unexceptionable manner possible - the money being placed in the hand of Gerard Douw himself.

    I have no sentimental scenes to describe, no cruelty of guardians, no magnanimity of wards, no agonies, or transport of lovers. The record I have to make is one of sordidness, levity, and heartlessness. In less than a week after the first interview which we have just described, the contract of marriage was fulfilled, and Schalken saw the prize which he would have risked existence to secure, carried off in solemn pomp by his repulsive rival. For two or three days he absented himself from the school; he then returned and worked, if with less cheerfulness, with far more dogged resolution than before; the stimulus of love had given place to that of ambition. Months passed away, and, contrary to his expectation, and, indeed, to the direct promise of the parties, Gerard Douw heard nothing of his niece or her worshipful spouse. The interest of the money, which was to have been demanded in quarterly sums, lay unclaimed in his hands.

    He began to grow extremely uneasy. Minheer Vanderhausen's direction in Rotterdam he was fully possessed of; after some irresolution he finally determined to journey thither - a trifling undertaking, and easily accomplished - and thus to satisfy himself of the safety and comfort of his ward, for whom he entertained an honest and strong affection. His search was in vain, however, no one in Rotterdam had ever heard of Minheer Vanderhausen. Gerard Douw left not a house in the Boom-quay untried, but all in vain. No one could give him any information whatever touching the object of his inquiry, and he was obliged to return to Leyden nothing wiser and far more anxious, than when he had left it.

    On his arrival he hastened to the establishment from which Vanderhausen had hired the lumbering, though, considering the times, most luxurious vehicle, which the bridal party had employed to convey them to Rotterdam. From the driver of this machine he learned, that having proceeded by slow stages, they had late in the evening approached Rotterdam; but that before they entered the city, and while yet nearly a mile from it, a small party of men, soberly clad, and after the old fashion, with peaked beards and moustaches, standing in the centre of the road, obstructed the further progress of the carriage. The driver reined in his horses, much fearing, from the obscurity of the hour, and the loneliness, of the road, that some mischief was intended. His fears were, however, somewhat allayed by his observing that these strange men carried a large litter, of an antique shape, and which they immediately set down upon the pavement, whereupon the bridegroom, having opened the coach-door from within, descended, and having assisted his bride to do likewise, led her, weeping bitterly, and wringing her hands, to the litter, which they both entered. It was then raised by the men who surrounded it, and speedily carried towards the city, and before it had proceeded very far, the darkness concealed it from the view of the Dutch coachman. In the inside of the vehicle he found a purse, whose contents more than thrice paid the hire of the carriage and man. He saw and could tell nothing more of Minheer Vanderhausen and his beautiful lady.

    This mystery was a source of profound anxiety and even grief to Gerard Douw. There was evidently fraud in the dealing of Vanderhausen with him, though for what purpose committed he could not imagine. He greatly doubted how far it was possible for a man possessing such a countenance to be anything but a villain, and every day that passed without his hearing from or of his niece, instead of inducing him to forget his fears, on the contrary tended more and more to aggravate them. The loss of her cheerful society tended also to depress his spirits; and in order to dispel the gloom, which often crept upon his mind after his daily occupations were over, he was wont frequently to ask Schalken to accompany him home, and share his otherwise solitary supper.

    One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the fire, having accomplished a comfortable meal, and had yielded to the silent and delicious melancholy of digestion, when their ruminations were disturbed by a loud sound at the street door, as if occasioned by some person rushing and scrambling vehemently against it. A domestic had run without delay to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and they heard him twice or thrice interrogate the applicant for admission, but without eliciting any other answer but a sustained reiteration of sounds. They heard him then open the hall-door, and immediately there followed a light and rapid tread on the staircase. Schalken advanced towards the door. It opened before he reached it, and Rose rushed into the room. She looked wild, fierce and haggard with terror and exhaustion, but her dress surprised them as much as even her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a kind of white woollen wrapper, made close about the neck, and descending to the very ground. It was much deranged and travel-soiled. The poor creature had hardly entered the chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With some difficulty they succeeded in reviving her, and on recovering her senses, she instantly exclaimed, in a tone of terror rather than mere impatience:-

    "Wine! wine! Quickly, or I'm lost!"

    Astonished and almost scared at the strange agitation in which the call was made, they at once administered to her wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and eagerness which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, when she exclaimed, with the same urgency:

    "Food, for God's sake, food, at once, or I perish."

    A considerable fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, and Schalken immediately began to cut some, but he was anticipated, for no sooner did she see it than she caught it, a more than mortal image of famine, and with her hands, and even with her teeth, she tore off the flesh, and swallowed it. When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little appeased, she appeared on a sudden overcome with shame, or it may have been that other more agitating thoughts overpowered and scared her, for she began to weep bitterly and to wring her hands.

    "Oh, send for a minister of God," said she; "I am not safe till he comes; send for him speedily."

    Gerard Douw despatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed on his niece to allow him to surrender his bed chamber to her use. He also persuaded her to retire to it at once to rest; her consent was extorted upon the condition that they would not leave her for a moment.

    "Oh that the holy man were here," she said; "he can deliver me: the dead and the living can never be one: God has forbidden it."

    With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to their guidance, and they proceeded to the chamber which Gerard Douw had assigned to her use.

    "Do not, do not leave me for a moment," said she; "I am lost forever if you do."

    Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious apartment, which they were now about to enter. He and Schalken each carried a candle, so that a sufficiency of light was cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now entering the large chamber, which as I have said, communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenly stopped, and, in a whisper which thrilled them both with horror, she said:-

    "Oh, God! He is here! He is here! See, see! There he goes!"

    She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill-defined form gliding into that apartment. He drew his sword, and, raising the candle so as to throw its light with increased distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered the chamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was there - nothing but the furniture which belonged to the room, and yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that something had moved before them into the chamber. A sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration broke out in heavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more composed, when he heard the increased urgency and agony of entreaty, with which Rose implored them not to leave her for a moment.

    "I saw him," said she; "he's here. I cannot be deceived; I know him; he's by me; he is with me; he's in the room. Then, for God's sake, as you would save me, do not stir from beside me."

    They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed, where she continued to urge them to stay by her. She frequently uttered incoherent sentences, repeating, again and again, "the dead and the living cannot be one: God has forbidden it." And then again, "Rest to the wakeful - sleep to the sleepwalkers." These and such mysterious and broken sentences, she continued to utter until the clergyman arrived. Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that terror or ill-treatment, had unsettled the poor girl's intellect, and he half suspected, by the suddenness of her appearance, the unseasonableness of the hour, and above all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, that she had made her escape from some place of confinement for lunatics, and was in imminent fear of pursuit. He resolved to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his niece had been in some measure set at rest by the offices of the clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestly desired; and until this object had been attained, he did not venture to put any questions to her, which might possibly, by reviving painful or horrible recollections, increase her agitation. The clergyman soon arrived - a man of ascetic countenance and venerable age - one whom Gerard Douw respected very much, forasmuch as he was a veteran polemic, though one perhaps more dreaded as a combatant than beloved as a Christian - of pure morality, subtle brain, and frozen heart. He entered the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose reclined and immediately on his arrival, she requested him to pray for her, as for one who lay in the hands of Satan, and who could hope for deliverance only from heaven.

    That you may distinctly understand all the circumstances of the event which I am going to describe, it is necessary to state the relative position of the parties who were engaged in it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom of which I have already spoken; Rose lay in the inner chamber, the door of which was open; and by the side of the bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; a candle burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the outer apartment. The old man now cleared his voice as if about to commence, but before he had time to begin, a sudden gust of air blew out the candle which served to illuminate the room in which the poor girl lay, and she, with hurried alarm, exclaimed:-

    "Godfrey, bring in another candle; the darkness is unsafe."

    Gerard Douw forgetting for the moment her repeated injunctions, in the immediate impulse, stepped from the bedchamber into the other, in order to supply what she desired.

    "Oh God! Do not go, dear uncle," shrieked the unhappy girl - and at the same time she sprung from the bed, and darted after him, in order, by her grasp, to detain him. But the warning came too late, for scarcely had he passed the threshold, and hardly had his niece had time to utter the startling exclamation, when the door which divided the two rooms closed violently after him, as if swung by a strong blast of wind. Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but their united and desperate efforts could not avail so much as to shake it. Shriek after shriek burst from the inner chamber, with all the piercing loudness of despairing terror. Schalken and Douw applied every nerve to force open the door; but all in vain. There was no sound of struggling from within, but the screams seemed to increase in loudness, and at the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill as if thrown open. One last shriek, so long and piercing and agonized as to be scarcely human, swelled from the room, and suddenly there followed a death-like silence. A light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed to the window; and almost at the same instant the door gave way, and, yielding to the pressure of the external applicants, nearly precipitated them into the room. It was empty. The window was open, and Schalken sprung to a chair and gazed out upon the street and canal below. He saw no form, but he saw, or thought he saw, the waters of the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring in heavy circles, as if a moment before disturbed by the submission of some ponderous body.

    No trace of Rose was ever after found, nor was anything certain respecting her mysterious wooer discovered or even suspected - no clue whereby to trace the intricacies of the labyrinth and to arrive at its solution, presented itself. But an incident occurred, which, though it will not be received by our rational readers in lieu of evidence, produced nevertheless a strong and a lasting impression upon the mind of Schalken. Many years after the events which we have detailed, Schalken, then residing far away received an intimation of his father's death, and of his intended burial upon a fixed day in the church of Rotterdam. It was necessary that a very considerable journey should be performed by the funeral procession, which as it will be readily believed, was not very numerously attended. Schalken with difficulty arrived in Rotterdam late in the day upon which the funeral was appointed to take place. It had not then arrived. Evening closed in, and still it did not appear.

    Schalken strolled down to the church; he found it open; notice of the arrival of the funeral had been given, and the vault in which the body was to be laid had been opened. The sexton, on seeing a well-dressed gentleman, whose object was to attend the expected obsequies, pacing the aisle of the church, hospitably invited him to share with him the comforts of a blazing fire, which, as was his custom in winter time upon such occasions, he had kindled in the hearth of a chamber in which he was accustomed to await the arrival of such grisly guests and which communicated, by a flight of steps, with the vault below. In this chamber, Schalken and his entertainer seated themselves; and the sexton, after some fruitless attempts to engage his guest in conversation, was obliged to apply himself to his tobacco-pipe and can, to solace his solitude. In spite of his grief and cares, the fatigues of a rapid journey of nearly forty hours gradually overcame the mind and body of Godfrey Schalken, and he sank into a deep sleep, from which he awakened by someone's shaking him gently by the shoulder. He first thought that the old sexton had called him, but he was no longer in the room. He roused himself, and as soon as he could clearly see what was around him, he perceived a female form, clothed in a kind of light robe of white, part of which was so disposed as to form a veil, and in her hand she carried a lamp. She was moving rather away from him, in the direction of the flight of steps which conducted towards the vaults. Schalken felt a vague alarm at the sight of this figure and at the same time an irresistible impulse to follow its guidance. He followed it towards the vaults, but when it reached the head of the stairs, he paused; the figure paused also, and, turning gently round, displayed, by the light of the lamp it carried, the face and features of his first love, Rose Velderkaust. There was nothing horrible, or even sad, in the countenance. On the contrary, it wore the same arch smile which used to enchant the artist long before in his happy days. A feeling of awe and interest, too intense to be resisted, prompted him to follow the spectre, if spectre it were. She descended the stairs - he followed - and turning to the left, through a narrow passage, she led him, to his infinite surprise, into what appeared to be an old-fashioned Dutch apartment, such as the pictures of Gerard Douw have served to immortalize. Abundance of costly antique furniture was disposed about the room, and in one corner stood a four-post bed, with heavy black cloth curtains around it; the figure frequently turned towards him with the same arch smile; and when she came to the side of the bed, she drew the curtains, and, by the light of the lamp, which she held towards its contents, she disclosed to the horror-stricken painter, sitting bolt upright in the bed, the livid and demoniac form of Vanderhausen. Schalken had hardly seen him, when he fell senseless upon the floor, where he lay until discovered, on the next morning, by persons employed in closing the passages into the vaults. He was lying in a cell of considerable size, which had not been disturbed for a long time, and he had fallen beside a large coffin, which was supported upon small pillars, a security against the attacks of vermin.

    To his dying day Schalken was satisfied of the reality of the vision which he had witnessed, and he has left behind him a curious evidence of the impression which it wrought upon his fancy, in a painting executed shortly after the event I have narrated, and which is valuable as exhibiting not only the peculiarities which have made Schalken's pictures sought after, but even more so as presenting a portrait of his early love, Rose Velderkaust, whose mysterious fate must always remain matter of speculation.

    

    

    

    Russell's mother was seriously ill in intensive care.

    The sneaking suspicion was that he should never have been away on holiday when she went in for her operation. At the back of his mind he'd known he was tempting fate, but who ever believed in that? Nevertheless, his one nagging thought, as he lay on hot, gritty beaches, dozing, was that something would inevitably go wrong if he took his vacation rather than cancelling. Because his mother's aneurysm operation was to be performed a mere twelve hours before the 757 deposited him back at the airport, it hardly seemed logical to miss out on two weeks in the sun. But guilt struck any form of rationality stone dead.

    He rushed to the hospital dazed, in shock, wondering if the situation could have been avoided by treating himself to a bit of healthy selflessness. To keep lady luck sweet.

    Before Russell was allowed in to see his mother, he was spoken to by the senior anaesthetist, having been required to sit for fifteen minutes in a small office adjacent to intensive care.

    "The operation went without a hitch," he said without preamble. "The procedure is well established and usually straightforward. In fact, your mother was coming out of surgery as we expected when there were complications." The face of the anaesthetist was alarmingly boyish; Russell thought he looked too young to be responsible for life and death in the operating theatre.

    Unable to maintain eye contact, Russell stared at the man's shoes. Unexpectedly, they were white leather mules with thick wooden soles, the sort of shoes which are supposed, somehow, to do your feet good. The leather was spotted with dried blood.

    "Is she -?" Russell could not finish what he wanted to ask. He'd never had to face precisely this situation before. His father had died ten years ago, at work. His death was a fait accompli. Having his mother halfway between this world and the next was proving to be altogether more difficult to handle. He wished that his mother and father had not had him so late, then he wouldn't have had to cope with aged parents whilst he was still relatively young.

    "Your mother is, what age?" the anaesthetist asked, as if deliberately trying to avoid answering the question he must have known Russell was trying to ask.

    "Sixty-six," Russell replied.

    "She smoked?" There was an indifferent callousness in his tone of voice that Russell could not comprehend the need for. Nobody's perfect, after all.

    Looking up, Russell nodded. "But not for the last few years," he qualified.

    "Well, her age and the state of her arteries are against her, you must understand that. However, we're hopeful she'll recover, I can say that."

    For a few seconds Russell's heart leaped. He could feel the beat in his chest stagger into another gear. Maybe taking his holiday and enjoying it had not, after all, destroyed his mother's life.

    

    "But don't get me wrong," the anaesthetist continued, "she is very poorly indeed. And we expect her to be in intensive therapy for some time."

    Only the next day would Russell be able to remember what else the man had told him in the little cluttered office that threatened to suffocate its visitants. All he could concern himself with now was the sight of his mother when he was finally allowed to briefly see her, his body trembling with the fear of death.

    She was unconscious, her long, grey hair in disarray, her face absent of colour. The bed seemed huge, swamping her diminutive body, and it was raised up as if she was being offered to some malignant god on a steel framed altar. The space around her was dimly illuminated. The continuous, quiet bleeping from a computer monitor was the only sound which accompanied her agonized, open-mouthed breathing, drawn in and exhaled with wheezing rapidity.

    Russell watched the monitor high on the wall behind the bed. Red, yellow, blue and purple lines zig-zagged across it. Numbers tripped higher and lower, instantaneous calculations, forever updated. To the side of the bed were the drips, the syringe pumps and the intravenous pumps which were filling her arteries with painkillers and blood, and her stomach with food. A clear plastic tube taped to her nose was draining from her lungs a filthy brown liquid that kept hesitating in the U-bend, before being pushed on by more of the same.

    A nurse appeared and emptied a urethral catheter bag, making a note of the quantity extracted. She smiled at Russell and the simple gesture reassured him more than had the anaesthetist. These people were dedicated. They were making sure his mother had every chance of survival, every chance for her own defences, her own will to live, to triumph. Her recovery was as much their concern as his.

    At work the next day, he finally recalled what had been explained to him about his mother's condition. Russell was lifting and tipping what felt like the thousandth sack of the day, a bulk mailing of magazines, when a nylon strap holding the pack together split, and the magazines separated, slithering into the sorting trolley, their slippery, clear plastic envelopes helping them on their way. The bright red logo of the periodical repeated itself as the pile cascaded out of the sack. Corpuscles was dripping printed blood down the cover of the horror film magazine, Sissy Spacek's eyes glaring out as if shocked that the logo could do what it was doing to her face.

    Russell looked away, towards the high ceiling. A haze of dust hung in the air of the sorting office, fluorescent lights glinting off specks in the middle distance. The faint sounds of radio muzak came from somewhere to his right, but the speaker could barely cope over the thump and rattle of conveyor belts and other machinery.

    Then he remembered. His mother had been coming round from the first operation, but had lapsed back into unconsciousness unexpectedly. The circulation to her legs had ceased. She was rushed back to theatre as it was deemed that blood clots were preventing the circulation to the lower parts of her limbs. In a second lengthy, five hour operation, the surgeon had inserted arterial lines into both her legs, down from inner thighs to ankles. However, no blood clotting had been discovered. Instead the problem was… What was it Russell had been told? He couldn't really understand it. A condition called trashing, where fine crystals of blood block the capillaries. It was hoped the second operation would solve the problem in any event.

    Time would tell.

    

    On Thursday Russell wondered what had happened to all his time. He pressed the intercom button at the entrance to ITU. He was allowed through right away; some nights he had been forced to wait for up to twenty minutes while they did things: washing, physiotherapy, blood tests. As he approached the bed he was led aside by one of the sisters.

    He could still see his mother wrapped in a sheet and trailed with twitching tubes. A mask covered her nose and mouth.

    "As you know," the sister was saying, "Mary has had difficulty breathing and the infection on her chest has worsened. Mr Hastone considered it necessary to do something to alleviate what's becoming a life threatening condition."

    Russell blinked at the sister. She was rather tall and beautiful, her lips wide, her blue eyes bright with life and intelligence. Her forehead wore a frown, as if to ensure he meekly accept the diagnosis and its necessary treatment. For a moment, with dread upon him, Russell could only see her as part of the machinery, a fleshy cog in the whirr of ITU's vast array of equipment and plastic piping.

    He hadn't said anything, but his expression must have been puzzled, because the sister continued without prompting.

    "Consequently we've had to perform a tracheotomy. It's actually what we call a mini-tracheotomy, a very simple procedure done under a local anaesthetic. And it'll help us to draw off the congestion." The sister was being very matter-of-fact about what she knew must have been a further shock to Russell.

    A few seconds later he was allowed to the bedside, his head like a balloon filled with scalding water, his legs trembling.

    His mother's neck was covered in a mass of untidy sticking plaster surrounding one inch of plastic tube with a little pull-off cap attached. Just like you'd see on an inflatable beach-ball. A slimy brown film was drying on it, as if the nurses hadn't cleaned off the latest extraction of sputum properly.

    Russell began to feel ill. Along with the new method, fluid was still being drawn off his mother's lungs from the nose tube, but it was now a dense black colour, as if her lungs were rotting away, turning into fecal slime.

    He grasped her hand, more to take his mind off how he was feeling than to offer comfort to the unconscious patient. Under her skin he imagined he could see withered fatty tissues, the membranes connecting internal organs stretched and atrophied. Her rapid breathing was unchanged, the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose steaming up with each raspy exhalation. The flesh on her face looked as if it was sloughing off, drawn down around her chin, leaving the skin surrounding her eyes and forehead taut and skeletal.

    She's dying, Russell whimpered to himself. The nursing staff must only have been telling him half-truths…

    On Saturday, as he stared at the large, framed wall-mounting holding the photographs and names of the intensive care staff, one of the consultants came into the corridor where he was sitting.

    "Ah, Mr Bray, isn't it?"

    "Yes." He stood up.

    "I'm Mr Hastone. I'd like to have a chat before you go through," he said, making Russell's heart plummet. He could not make eye contact, he was so frightened he would be unable to withhold his emotions if the news was bad.

    "Did Mr Chambers explain to you about the operation and the after-effects?" he asked.

    Russell nodded, trying to remember who Mr Chambers was. Numerous members of the staff had spoken to him over the last few days.

    "Then you'll be aware that your mother's kidneys more or less 'shut down' after surgery?"

    It had been explained to him that the shock of the operation to repair the aneurysm in her aorta, and the subsequent one following, had caused his mother's kidneys to stop functioning properly. That they'd ceased doing what they were supposed to do and it might take a few days for them to begin working again.

    Now he knew something else had gone wrong.

    "Mr Chambers has become very concerned that her kidneys aren't beginning to do their job sufficiently well to remove all the poisons in her system, and he decided she would need extra help. To give her kidneys time to recover without having the additional burden they have to contend with at the moment."

    "Help?"

    "So your mother has been put on a dialysis machine for the time being. We're not really equipped with the best here, but we do have a portable machine. We'll see how she progresses, but it may be that she'll need to be transferred to a hospital with a renal unit."

    "Dialysis." Russell rubbed his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. There appeared to be an intangible ball of cotton wool surrounding his head, suffocating hearing, cutting off his vision and choking him.

    The sight of the machine, with its aspirated sounds and the dark blood visibly pumping to and from it was a bad enough memory, but seeing his mother's feet was even worse. When he'd entered the ward, the blanket was loose at the bottom of the bed after being draped over a cage to keep her legs untouched. He peeped beneath and saw that the toes on both feet were a blotched and revolting grey-black.

    What with everything else, he had been too terrified to ask what was happening to them.

    On the way home rain was pummelling the pavements as if it wanted to indent the concrete. What it had succeeded in doing was soaking him so completely he knew it was foolish to have left home without an umbrella. After a few minutes walking, a cold wetness crept around his feet as if his shoes were filling up with chilled blood.

    A month must have passed because, as he sorted mail, amongst the business envelopes was the plastic wrapped cover of another issue of Corpuscles. "Where are the living dead?" a banner headline shouted across its cover. Behind the red lettering lurked a mummified face from a film he did not recognize.

    "In this place, Russ!"

    Russell turned around, confused. Derek, one of his friends, with whom he'd spent his holiday, was looking over his shoulder. Russell realized he had been staring at the magazine and Derek had responded to the rhetorical question on its cover. His idea of a joke.

    "Most of this lot," he nodded in general at his colleagues, "are more dead than alive."

    "Right." Russell was in no mood for laughs.

    "How's your mum?" Derek asked, changing tack and snatching the magazine from Russell's fingers and tossing it into a distant skip.

    "She's holding her own," he replied. In fact he was unaware of whether she was nearer this life or the one beyond. What was almost unbearable was that, each time he visited the hospital, the news always got worse. So he never knew whether to believe and trust the doctors or not. And he found he couldn't talk about it to anyone.

    "Bum deal," Derek said. "Watch out, here's the gaffer." He began to lift a sack and tip out piles of little boxes, groaning. "Why the fuck do they pack things up so small you can't even get a fucking label small enough to fit on 'em!"

    He began tossing them without looking, accurately dispensing boxes, magazines and other envelopes into their appropriate containers.

    Russell slid an elastic band off a pack of envelopes from the electricity board. The rubber smelled sickeningly familiar, the envelopes too, a sort of antiseptic tang.

    "Why don't you take some time off?" Derek said, returning to Russell's obvious depression. "You'd get special leave," he added.

    Russell knew he looked pretty washed out. He was existing merely to attend the hospital every evening, where he would remain for up to two hours mutely watching his mother fight for breath and for life..

    "I'm better off coming in," he said. "I'd brood at home."

    "Looks like you're doing that here," Derek stated. "Watch out, here's the gaffer."

    Russell smiled at Derek's oft-repeated epigram.

    At the end of his shift, the tips of Russell's fingers were numb from handling plastic envelopes that had begun to feel like living tissue. His fingers felt as dead as he knew his mother's feet to be.

    Outside, the city centre looked changed. The rain had decided to let up, but the surface of the street was wet and gutters had become little rivers. It was the rush hour and the pedestrian zones were choked with shop and office workers heading for the bus stops. Russell felt sure they were mobile only because something else drove them, not their own desires. They were fulfilling a role, playing, unconsciously, the parts destined for them. This was a conclusion that had been forced upon him by the events of the last few weeks.

    Hospital patients are like that too, Russell decided. They're unwitting actors, or movie stars, taking the stage for a day or two, swelling larger than life in the limelight of their disease, before vanishing into obscurity. And he knew them all in detail by now: the baby who'd swallowed a plastic top and nearly asphyxiated; the coronary patient on a ventilator; the car accident victim swathed in bandages; the vegetative sleeper for whom life may as well have already departed; and his mother, with a rolling panoply of complications, as if she played several parts in the drama.

    He was waiting at the bus stop for home when he realized he should have been going to the hospital. He moved off, made uneasy by his forgetfulness. A hot dog man was serving through a cloud of steam. His customer squeezed a bloody, watery line of red along his onion covered meat.

    Russell turned away in disgust, heading for the bus he needed. His stomach growled for food, but he knew he couldn't eat yet. Not if he wanted it to stay down long enough to digest. His whole body felt raw, abused. As if he was starving himself.

    He couldn't recall the details of his life over the past month. Memories faded in and out. He was dreaming his life, it being better than facing the truth, he could hear his mind telling him as if from far away.

    At eleven-thirty he was trying to forget that the consultant was worried that his mother's circulation remained a serious predicament, slowing her recovery. She was in a lot of pain, despite the cocktail of analgesics she was being administered, and the pain was further disabling her recuperation.

    Nevertheless, that evening his mother had briefly surfaced into consciousness.

    Nifedipine, hydrocortisone, atropine. The words he'd sneaked a look at on his mother's chart became a litany, until he realized she was gripping his hand.

    "Tell them to let me go," she hissed as he replaced the clipboard. Russell's heart swelled with hope, forcing tears into his eyes. He blinked them away as he stared at his mother. She was awake but, in spite of what she had said, did not appear to be aware of her surroundings or whose hand it was she held. At least the consciousness must mean she was beginning make progress.

    He could not face telling her that her feet might have to be amputated. Yet her words hinted that she already knew. When she closed her eyes again he was saved from the necessity.

    In his darkened living room, the picture on the blank television screen a reflection of his own vacant face, Russell convinced himself they were experimenting on his mother. The whole medical thing, from start to finish, was a sham. His mother was a guinea-pig. The intensive care unit was a laboratory. The doctors were testing drugs. The surgeons were performing vivisection for the gratification of their immoral souls. The machines that were keeping his mother alive were doing so only that more of the same grisly work might be accomplished.

    The long road to the hospital entrance was a patchwork of autumn leaves, flattened by rain, patterning the paving slabs with brown and black blotches like rampant melanomas. The streetlamps highlighted other pedestrians skidding on the slimy mucus each leaf hid beneath itself; runny sores under scabs.

    "Oh, hi! Russell Bray, isn't it?" The nearest skidder was a nurse Russell recognized as one of the ITU staff.

    He nodded, unable to speak for fear of showing his emotions, knowing she was part of the conspiracy he'd finally uncovered the previous night.

    "You might have to wait a bit this evening," she said, halting him with a hand on his arm.

    "Oh?" His questioning voice was betraying his fear, but he hoped she wouldn't notice. If they knew he was on to them things could become awkward.

    "There's a bit of a panic on in IT. Couple of emergencies came in. They're very busy," she added.

    So why wasn't she there, helping them, Russell speculated. "Thanks for telling me," he replied evenly, trying to avoid her spectacled eyes.

    "Watch the leaves!" the nurse stated as she stalked off, planting her flat-soled shoes firmly with each step. There was a sort of robotic motion to her walk, but it must have been the nurse's fear of falling over, and not some other vaguely mechanical workings of her body parts, that controlled her gait.

    Russell ventured down the long corridor, past the coffee shop, past the chapel, past various wards announcing their function with bright red and white signs, until he turned familiarly, but uncomfortably, into the ITU reception area and waiting room. There was always an atmosphere of calm here, but it never relaxed Russell and never would now he was aware what was going on.

    He lifted the phone and jabbed the button. In the earpiece he heard the echo of the distant buzzer. Seconds passed. The phone wasn't answered. He tried again, staring at the notice pinned to one of the double doors: "Absolutely No Admittance - Use Telephone". He looked from that to the photographic portraits of the staff. Some of the pictures had been removed, he saw, their names and occupations printed below blank rectangles, as if they'd suddenly been snuffed out of existence. Others continued to smile amiably, subtly concealing their real motives.

    Replacing the receiver, he moved into the waiting room and sat down, intending to give himself five or ten minutes before trying the intercom again. Whenever he'd had to wait before, he always imagined the worst, but all that was happening was that his mother was undergoing physiotherapy, or some other treatment which they thought it better not to allow him to witness.

    

    The magazines lying on top of an empty bookcase were so out of date they were thumbed to tatters, as if their covers were desiccated skin. Plastic flowers in vases looked as waxy as his mother's face. The notice board on the wall held the same information as always, advising visitors to wash their hands.

    Yet, something had changed. Russell was unsure yet what it was. The two framed prints on opposing walls, one of two cute puppies, the other a pair of cute kittens, were both still askew. An oval red stain on the carpet, that must have been ink rather than blood because it had never faded, lured Russell's eyes. Every time he'd had to wait he stared at the stain, trying to see a pattern, as if it were a Rorschach test. Somewhere deep within its colour and the green of the carpet was encoded the real reason why his mother was being kept alive.

    Above all he must remain controlled. He should act as subtly as the medical staff who were fooling him.

    Then he knew. He walked out of the room and looked at the intercom phone on the wall. Its normally green light was red. It had never been red before. There might simply be a fault, of course.

    Pressing the button again, he heard the familiar, distant buzzer hiss at the nurses' station. It sounded all right.

    Yet the call remained unanswered.

    Well damn the sign forbidding his entry. He looked the the blinking display on his watch and realized, dismayed, that he'd waited half an hour. That was plenty long enough.

    He barged through the double doors, rehearsing his script for ignoring the mandate of the notice.

    The corridor beyond was empty of life. The door to the office where he'd been informed about procedures was open. Russell peered in, ready with his explanation, but there was no one there.

    He leaned his head around the entrance to the storeroom/kitchen next and saw that it was dishevelled. A tap was running into a sink unchecked and packages of dressings were strewn about the floor. An instrument tray had toppled off a table, its gleaming contents scattered amongst the dressings in a distribution reminiscent of hieroglyphics.

    The emergency must be bigger than even the nurse had suggested, if the staff had found it necessary to treat the tools of their trade so carelessly.

    Returning to the corridor, Russell finally came to the darkened ward. The lights were always kept turned low, but nevertheless he could not help feeling suddenly anxious at the ballooning shadows that lurked beyond curtains. There was an absence of the usual sounds. Not the bleep of a monitor, nor the swish of a nurse's starched uniform interrupted the silence.

    At first this was all disorienting and unexpected. Additionally there appeared to have been some changes in the layout of the unit, particularly with regard to the whereabouts of his mother's bed. He was about to ask a member of the staff where they'd moved her to, when he realized there were no nurses, doctors, anaesthetists. ITU had become a medical Marie Celeste.

    Russell frowned, aware that he was hanging onto the door as if in doubt about entering. His thoughts raced through a litany of words that he knew he must somehow suppress: inflammation, allergies, shock, coronary vasodilator, hypertension, sputum, gangrene.

    Sweeping aside a curtain surrounding the nearest bed was both a reaction and an attempt to stem the tide of his thoughts, which he knew were turning themselves into an incantation. He knew what incantations were capable of, and how they led to unconscious acts, to a shackling of the will.

    On the bed in front of him, a tube, ripped from some anonymous limb, squirted colourless liquid onto the sheets from the syringe pump to which it was attached. The bed's occupant must have been removed in a great hurry, perhaps for emergency surgery, and the nurse had failed to switch off the equipment.

    A more sensible part of Russell told him they never worked like that. This place was so ordered. He was trying to work out what was happening, when a rustle of paper returned his attention to the vacant nurses' station.

    He could see no one standing behind the high-fronted desk dealing with the paperwork. Perhaps a nurse had dropped a patient's notes and was bending down to pick them up? He walked back towards the desk, blinking, moisture swelling behind his eyelids, desperately wanting to know what had become of his mother and hating not having someone to comfort him.

    A hand appeared, slapping against the telephone, bouncing the receiver off its cradle. The fingers looked odd and displaced and curiously transluscent before Russell realized why. The pudgy hand which appeared to be waving at him was that of a baby. Its partner rose into view, grasping the wooden ledge of the desk on its inner side. Russell was unable to see what was happening behind, in the rhombus of one of the ward's shadows.

    He ceased walking towards the desk, fright halting him. There was a wheezy intake of breath, not unlike his mother's hideous gurgle, and the child's face was hauled into view by the pale hands. Its features were familiar; it was baby William, who'd come into hospital after swallowing a bottle-top, nearly choking on it. His rotund face still displayed a blue tinge from his near asphyxia. For the first time Russell took notice of the infant's eyes, which were unblinking, staring, but unseeing.

    Shivering, Russell realized the baby was too young to have crawled, let alone walked, yet as this impossibility dawned, the child began to move along the desk, scattering papers and pens with its crab-like shuffle. In a moment it crashed noisily to the floor, but the fall did not appear to halt its forward momentum.

    Further sounds behind him made Russell spin around, gasping. A curtain was being drawn aside from another bed, the hand that grasped it straining the hooks to breaking point.

    The naked man who stepped into view trailed plastic tubing, held in place by plasters on his chest and arms. They dangled limply as if they were atrophied appendages sutured into his flesh by the vivisectionists who worked here. Blood ran sluggishly down the patient's belly, staining his pubic hair red. The face above the body tried to smile, but failed. But the expression was familiar. Russell had smiled and nodded to the man each day as he passed his bed on his way to his mother's, a gesture of support. He was the desperate coronary case who should, this very second, have been on a life-support unit.

    Russell slipped suddenly, landing on his behind. His palm slid in something wet and sticky on the floor tiles which he was too scared to look at. From this new angle he could see that the man had left someone behind him, lying on the floor by his bed. It took only a second to realize it was the senior anaesthetist, his torso twitching from some severe shock or unseen wound.

    Backing away, Russell dared himself to turn, wondering whether baby William had crawled near to him. He might trip over the child as he stood up, but he was no longer worried about hurting it.

    He moved rapidly to his left, realizing now that his mother's bed was tucked away in the corner. He was thinking that maybe they hadn't reached her yet, the experimenters had perhaps overlooked her. Hadn't they had enough with the baby and the man?

    Russell now knew for certain that it was the drugs that were causing the patients to rise up. There was too much unsupervised testing, too much willingness to inject and cut and excise. The painkillers and the narcotics were inside his mother, diluting her consciousness. No one would believe him, but he knew that, as with all the others, they had been slowly drawing off all her body fluids, in order to replace them with the secret substances which would animate her flesh once she was dead.

    His mother's bed was raised high, and he felt like a small boy as he approached the mattress. There was a high-pitched whine in his head. The monitor on its adjustable arm was stretched over the bed and displayed itself towards him. On its surface, there were now six steady lines with no oscillation to impair their symmetry or the message they conveyed without words. The squeal that he imagined was emitted from the monitor should have been loud enough to summon a nurse, except that it was coming from his own throat.

    The thin hollow of the bed sheet was empty, as if the occupant had been sucked from between it and the mattress. At the bottom the protective cage still hunched beneath the cover, inviting examination.

    Russell drove the knuckles of his hands into his temples, a roar starting low in his throat, deep down, so deep it hurt; so deep that it wouldn't come out, his larynx strangling him.

    He heard more shuffling sounds and turned. The baby and the man were moving towards him, along with other patients who had also fared for the worse. They moved with a slow synchronous grace that was none the less menacing for its lack of speed. Quickly, he looked back at the space where his mother should have been.

    The gap under the leg-cage loomed as he lifted the sheet from it. Two shrivelled, black fleshy objects lay side by side as if desperately in need of further medical treatment.

    Moving to one side, he dodged around the advancing figures, wrenching curtains as he went in a furious bid to find what remained of his mother. Behind one screen he discovered the bulk of the medical staff, some with hypodermics unremoved from the limbs and torsos where they had been implanted. It was plain that the experiments had taken their revenge.

    "1 wanted them to let me go," a voice spoke in Russell's head as he found her at last. The accusation was as barbed and venomous as the stainless instruments and the pharmacopoeia that had been used upon her.

    Russell's mother was trying to stand up and it seemed likely she'd been mutely attempting the same procedure for some time. Her hospital nightgown was hanging off her withered shoulders, and purple blood smeared the floor next to the stumps of her ankles.

    "Come on, mother," Russell said tenderly. "It's time to go home." He knew that he'd allowed her to remain in hospital far too long, but perhaps there was still time to help. He lifted her surprisingly light body in his arms and shouldered angrily past the RTA victim in his stained bandages, too fast to be cornered now.

    Outside, in the corridor, he recalled what he'd almost forgotten in his haste. He must retrieve those other parts of his mother, before they began to move by themselves. Before they started to shuffle with involuntarily life to the subcutaneous beat of the drugs.

    

    

    

    Mr Bliss came home from work early one Monday afternoon. It was a big mistake.

    He'd had a headache, and his secretary, after offering him various patent medicines, complete with their manufacturer's slogans, had said "Why don't you take the rest of the day off, Mr Bliss?"

    Everyone called him Mr Bliss. The others in the office were Dave or Dan or Charlie, but he was Mr Bliss. He liked it that way. Sometimes he thought that even his wife should call him Mr Bliss.

    

    Instead, she was calling on God.

    Her voice came from on high. From upstairs. In the bedroom. She didn't seem to be in pain, but Mr Bliss could remedy that.

    She wasn't alone; someone was grunting in harmony with her cries to the creator. Mr Bliss was bitter about this.

    Without even waiting to hang up his overcoat, he tiptoed into the kitchen, and plucked from its magnetic rack one of the Japanese knives his wife had ordered after watching a television commercial. They were designed for cutting things into small pieces, and they were guaranteed for life, however long that happened to be. Mr Bliss would see to it that his wife had no cause for complaint. He turned away from the rack, paused for a sigh, then went back and selected another knife. The first was for the one who wanted to meet God, and the second for the one who was making those animal noises.

    After a moment's reflection, he decided to use the back stairs. They were more secretive, somehow, and Mr Bliss intended to have a big secret just as soon as he could get organized.

    He had an erection for the first time in weeks, and his headache was gone.

    He moved as quickly and carefully as he could, sliding across the checkerboard linoleum and taking the back stairs two at a time in slow, painful, thigh-straining stretches. He knew there was a step which creaked, couldn't recall which one it was, and knew he would step on it anyway.

    That hardly mattered. The groans and wails were reaching a crescendo, and Mr Bliss suspected that not even a brass band behind him could have distracted the people above him from their business. They were about to achieve something, and he wanted very much to be there before they did.

    The bedroom took up the entire top floor of the house. It had been a whim of his to flatter his young bride with as spacious a spawning ground as his salary would allow; the tastefully carpeted stairs led up to it in front as inexorably as the shabby wooden stairs crept up the back.

    Mr Bliss creaked at the appointed spot, cursed quietly and opened the door.

    His wife's eyes, rolled back in her head, were like wet marble. Her lips fluttered as she blew damp hair from her face. The beautiful breasts that had persuaded him to marry her were covered with sweat, and not all of it was hers.

    Mr Bliss didn't even recognize the man; he was nobody. The milkman? A census taker? He was plump, and he needed a haircut.

    

    It was all very discouraging. Cuckolding by an Adonis would at least have been understandable, but this was a personal affront.

    Mr Bliss dropped one knife to the floor, grasped the other in both hands, and slammed its point into the pudgy interloper at the spot where spine meets skull.

    It worked at once. The man gave one more grunt and toppled over backwards, blade grinding against bone as head and handle hit the floor.

    Mrs Bliss was there, baffled and bedraggled, spreadeagled naked against sopping sheets.

    Mr Bliss picked up the other knife.

    He pulled her up by the hair and stabbed her in the face. She blubbered blood. Madly but methodically, he shoved the sharp steel into every place where he thought she'd like it least.

    Most of his experiments were successful.

    She died unhappily.

    The last expression she was able to muster was a mixture of pain, reproach, and resignation that thrilled him more than anything she'd shown him since their wedding night.

    He wasn't done with her yet. She had never been so submissive.

    It was late that night before he put down the knife and put on his clothes.

    Mr Bliss had made a terrible mess. Cleaning up was always a chore, as she had so frequently reminded him, but he was equal to the task. The worst part was that he had stabbed the water bed, but at least the flood had diluted some of the blood.

    He buried them in separate sections of the flower garden and showed up late for work. This was an unprecedented event. The quizzical eyebrows of his colleagues got on his nerves.

    For some reason he didn't feel like going home that night. He went to a motel instead. He watched television. He saw a movie about someone killing several other people, but it didn't amuse him as much as he'd hoped. He felt that it was in bad taste.

    He left the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob of his room each day; he did not wish to be disturbed. Still, the unmade bed to which he returned each night began to bother him. It reminded him of home.

    After a few days, Mr Bliss was ashamed to go to the office. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd left home in, and he was convinced that his colleagues could smell him. No one had ever longed for the weekend as passionately as he did.

    Then he had two days of peace in his motel room, huddling under the covers in the dark and watching people kill each other in a phosphorescent glow, but on Sunday night he looked at his socks and knew he would have to go back to the house.

    He wasn't happy about this.

    When he opened the front door, it reminded him of his last entrance. He felt that the stage was set. Still, all he had to do was go upstairs and get some clothes. He could be gone in a matter of minutes. He knew where everything was.

    He used the front stairs. The carpeting made them quieter, and somehow he felt the need for stealth. Anyway, he didn't like the ones in the back anymore.

    Halfway up the stairs, he noticed two paintings of roses that his wife had put there. He took them down. This was his house now, and the pictures had always vaguely annoyed him. Unfortunately, the blank spaces he left on the wall bothered him too.

    He didn't know what to do with the paintings, so he carried them up into the bedroom. There seemed to be no way to get rid of them. He was afraid this might be an omen, and for a second considered the idea of burying them in the garden. This made him laugh, but he didn't like the sound of it. He decided not to do it again.

    Mr Bliss stood in the middle of the bedroom and looked around it critically. He'd made quite a neat job of it. He was just opening a dresser drawer when he heard a thump from below. He stared at his underwear.

    A scrape followed the thump, and then the sound of something bumping up the back stairs.

    He didn't wonder what it was, not even for an instant. He closed his underwear drawer and turned around. His left eyelid twitched; he could feel it. He was walking without thinking toward the front stairs when he heard the door below them open. Just a little sound, a bolt slipping a latch. Suddenly, the inside of his head felt as big as the bedroom.

    He knew they were coming for him, one from each side. What could he do? He ran around the room, slamming into each wall and finding it solid. Then he took up a post beside the bed and put a hand over his mouth. A giggle spilled between his fingers, and it made him angry, for this was a proud moment.

    They were coming for him.

    Whatever became of him (no more job, no more television), he had inspired a miracle. The dead had come back to life to punish him. How many men could say as much? Come clump, come thump, come slithering sounds! This was a triumph.

    He stepped back against the wall to get a better view. As both doors opened his eyes flicked back and forth. His tongue followed, licking his lips. He experienced an ecstasy of terror.

    The stranger, of course, had used the back stairs.

    He had tried to forget what a mess he had made of them, especially his wife. And now they were even worse.

    And yet, as she dragged herself across the floor, there was something in her pale flesh, spotted with purple where the blood had settled, and striped with rust where the blood had spilled, that called to him as it rarely had before. Her skin was clumped with rich brown earth. She needs a bath, he thought, and he began to snort with laughter that would soon be uncontrollable.

    Her lover, approaching from the other side, was hardly marked. There had been no wish to punish him, only to make him stop. Still, the single blow of the TV knife had severed his spine, and his head lurched unpleasantly. The odd disappointment Mr Bliss had felt in the man's flabbiness intensified. After six days in the ground, what crawled toward him was positively puffy.

    Mr Bliss tried to choke back his chuckles till his eyes watered and snot shot from his nose. Even as his end approached, he saw their impossible lust for vengeance as his ultimate vindication.

    Yet his feet were not as willing to die as he was; they backed over the carpet toward the closet door.

    His wife looked up at him, as well as she could. The eyes in her sockets seemed shrivelled, like inquisitive prunes. A part of her where he had cut too deeply and too often dropped quietly to the floor.

    Her lover shuffled forward on hands and knees, leaving some sort of a trail behind him.

    Mr Bliss pulled the gleaming brass bed around to make a barricade. He stepped back into the closet. The smell of her perfume and of her sex enveloped him. He was enveloped in her gowns.

    His wife reached the bed first, and grasped the fresh linen with the few fingers she had left. She hauled herself up. Stains smeared the sheets. This was certainly the time to slam the closet door, but he wanted to watch. He was positively fascinated.

    She squirmed on the pillows, arms flailing, then collapsed on her back. There were gurgles. Could she be really dead at last?

    No.

    It didn't really matter. Her lover crawled over the counterpane. Mr Bliss wanted to go to the bathroom, but the way was blocked.

    He cringed when his wife's lover (who was this creeping corpse, anyway?) stretched out fat fingers, but instead of clawing for revenge they fell on what had been the breasts of the body beneath him. They began to move gently.

    

    Mr Bliss blushed as the ritual began. He heard sounds that had embarrassed him even when the meat was live: liquid lurchings, ghastly groans, and supernatural screams.

    He shut himself in the closet. What was at work on the bed did not even deign to notice him. He was buried in silk and polyester.

    It was worse than he had feared. It was unbearable.

    They hadn't come for him at all.

    They had come for each other.

    

    

    

    "Oh-oh." Kay Gilbert jabbed her foot at the jeep's brake pedal. "Now what have we got, ti-fi?" She spoke in Creole, the language of the Haitian peasant.

    In the middle of the road stood a man with his arms outthrust to stop them. Beyond him, at the road's edge, was one of the big, gaudy buses the Haitians called camions. Crudely painted orange and red and resembling an outsized roller-coaster car, it was pointed north in the direction they were going. Disembarked passengers stood watching two men at work under it.

    The man who had stopped them strode forward as the jeep came to a halt. He was huge. "Bon soir, madame," he said with a slight bow. "May I ask if you going to Cap Hai'tien?"

    "Well…" The hesitation was caused by his ugliness. And, being responsible for the child, she must be extra careful.

    "I beg you a lift," the fellow said, one heavy hand gripping the edge of the windshield as though by sheer force he would prevent her from driving on without him. "I absolutely must get to Le Cap today!"

    She was afraid to say no. "Well… all right. Get in."

    Stepping to the rear, he climbed in over the tailgate and turned to the metal bench-seat on her side of the vehicle. "May I move this, madame?" He held up a brown leather shoulder-bag that she had put there.

    "Give it to me!" Turning quickly, Kay snatched it from his hand and placed it on the floor in front, at little Tina's feet.

    "Merci, madame." The man sat down.

    When the jeep had finished descending through hairpin turns to the Plaisance River valley, Kay was able to relax a little. Presently she heard their passenger saying, "And what is your name, little girl?"

    

    Evidently the child did not find him intimidating. Without hesitation she replied brightly, "My name is Tina, m'sieu."

    "Tina what, if I may ask?"

    "Anglade."

    A stretch of rough road demanded Kay's full attention again. When that ended, the child at her side was saying, "So you see, I have been at the hospital a long time because I couldn't remember anything. Not my name or where I lived or anything. But I'm all right now, so Miss Kay is taking me home."

    "I am glad for you, ti-fi."

    "Now tell me your name and where you live."

    "Well, little one, my name is Emile Polinard and I live in Cap Haitien, where I have a shop and make furniture. I was on my way back from Port-au-Prince when the camion broke down. And I'm certainly grateful to le Bon Dieu for causing you to come along when you did."

    Darkness had fallen. Kay cut her speed again so as not to be booby-trapped by potholes. Lamps began to glow in scattered peasant cailles. Now and then they passed a pedestrian holding a lantern or a bottle-torch to light his way. As the jeep entered the north coast city of Cap Haitien, rain began to fall.

    In the wet darkness, Kay was unsure of herself. "I have to go to the Catholic church," she said to their passenger. "Can you direct me?"

    He did so, remarking that he lived near there, himself. She stopped under a street lamp near the church entrance, the rain a silvery curtain now in the glare of the jeep's headlights. "For us, this is the end of the road, M'sieu Polinard. Tina and I will be staying here tonight with the sisters."

    Their passenger thanked her and got out. To the child Kay said, frowning, "Where do the sisters live, Tina?"

    "I don't know."

    "But you stayed here almost a month before you came to the hospital!"

    "I didn't know what was happening then."

    Kay gazed helplessly at the church, a massive dark pile in the rain, then saw that Emile Polinard had stopped and was looking back at them. He returned to the jeep.

    "Something is wrong, madame?"

    "Well, I - I thought Tina would know where to find the sisters, but she doesn't seem to."

    "Let me help. Is there a particular sister you wish to see?"

    She felt guilty, keeping him standing there in the downpour. But if she did not accept his help, what would she do? "It was a Sister Simone who brought Tina to the hospital. But if she isn't there, someone else will do, I suppose."

    "I know her. She should be here."

    He was back in five minutes holding aloft a large black umbrella under which moved a black-robed woman not much taller than Tina. Saying cheerfully, "Hello, you two! Tina, move over!" she climbed into the Jeep. Polinard handed her the umbrella and she thanked him. "Just drive on," she instructed Kay. "I'll show you where to go."

    Kay, too, thanked "ugly man" Polinard, who bowed in reply. Driving on, she turned a corner at the sister's direction, turned again between the back of the church and another stone building.

    "Come," the sister commanded, and they hurried into the building. But once inside, the sister was less brisk. Giving the umbrella a shake, she closed it and placed it in a stand near the door, then hunkered down in front of Tina and put out her arms. "And how are you, little one?" She was Haitian, Kay noticed for the first time. And remarkably pretty.

    "It's a good thing I phoned you yesterday," Kay said. Actually, she had phoned only to say that she and Tina would be passing through Le Cap on their way to the town of Trou and would stop for a few minutes. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to put us up for the night. Can you?"

    "Of course, Miss Gilbert. What happened? Did you have car trouble?"

    "We got off to a late start. Tina had one of her headaches."

    "Ah, those headaches." The sister reached for Tina's hand. "Come upstairs, both of you. First your room, then we'll see about something to eat."

    She put them both in the same room, one overlooking the yard where the jeep was, then disappeared. "We'll need our gear," Kay told the child. "I'll go for it while you wash up." The brown leather shoulder-bag she had brought with her, and before leaving the room she carefully slid it out of sight under a bed. Then on the stairs she met Sister Simone and a second nun coming up, each with a backpack from the jeep.

    They supped on soup and fish in a small dining room: Kay and Tina, Sister Simone, Sister Anne who had helped with the backpacks, and Sister Ginette who at sixty or so was the oldest. What little conversation there was concerned only the journey. "That road is not easy, is it?… It so badly needs repairing… And the Limbe bridge is closed, so you had to come through the river…"

    Why don't they ask about Tina - what we've been doing with her all this time at the hospital, and how she's coming along? They did talk to the youngster, but asked no personal questions. It almost seemed a conspiracy of silence.

    But when the meal ended and Kay took Tina by the hand to walk her back upstairs, little Sister Simone said quietly, "Do come down again when she is in bed, Miss Gilbert. We'll be in the front room."

    She found the three of them waiting there on uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs. It occurred to her that perhaps Polinard had built them. An empty chair was in place for her. On a small table in the centre of the circle lay a wooden tray on which were mugs, spoons, a pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar. A battered coffee pot that might have been silver was being kept warm over an alcohol flame.

    The nuns rose and waited for Kay to sit, managing somehow -all but Simone - to sit again precisely when she did. "Coffee, Miss Gilbert?" Simone asked.

    "Please."

    "Milk and sugar?"

    "Black, please." It was a crime to tamper with Haiti's marvellous coffee.

    Simone served the others as well - perhaps this was an aftersupper ritual - then seated herself. "Now, Miss Gilbert, please tell us how Tina regained her memory. If it won't tire you too much."

    She told them how Dr Robek had hit on the idea of reading map names to Tina and how, on hearing the name Bois Sauvage, the child had snapped out of her long lethargy. "Like Snow White waking up when the prince kissed her."

    They smiled.

    "Then she remembered her own name. If, of course, Tina Louise Christine Anglade really is her name. We can't be sure until I get her to Bois Sauvage, can we? Or even if that's really where she came from."

    The oldest sister, frowning deeply, said, "Bois Sauvage. Isn't that up in the mountains near the Dominican border?"

    "According to the map, yes."

    "How in the world will you get there?"

    "I've been promised a guide at Trou."

    "But you can't drive to such a place! There aren't any roads."

    "I suppose we'll walk, or ride mules. I really won't know until tomorrow." Kay waited for them to sip their coffee. "Now will you tell me something, please? How did Tina come into your care in the first place? All we've ever heard is that she was brought to you by a priest."

    "By Father Turnier," Simone said, nodding. "Father Louis Turnier. He was stationed at Valliere then and had a number of chapels even farther back in the mountains. We have a picture of him." She put her coffee mug down and went briskly, with robe swishing, to a glass-doored bookcase. Returning with a large photo album that smelled of mildew, she turned its pages, then reversed the book and held it out to Kay. "That's Father on the right, in front of the Valliere chapel. Those big cracks in the chapel were caused by an earthquake just a few days before this picture was taken. Can you imagine?"

    Kay saw a husky-looking white man with a cigarette dangling from his lips. French, she guessed. Most of the white priests in the remote areas were French. He wore no clerical garment; in fact, his shirt was neither buttoned nor tucked into his pants. The way he grinned at the camera made her instantly fond of him.

    "He was coming back from some far-off chapel one day," Simone said, "and stopped at this isolated native caille beside a little stream. He had never passed that way before, he said, but a landslide had carried away part of the usual trail and forced him to detour. He was on a mule, of course. And the animal was weary, so he thought he would just stop and talk with these people a while."

    Kay gazed at the photo while she listened.

    "Well, there was the child lying on a mat inside the caille, and the people asked Father to talk to her. She had wandered into their clearing a few days before and couldn't remember who she was or where she had come from."

    "I see."

    "That photo shows you the kind of man Father Turnier is. He ended up staying the night there and deciding the child must have been through some really traumatic experience and ought to have help. In any case, she couldn't remain there with those people. They didn't want her. So at daybreak he lifted her up on his mule and carried her out to Valliere, still not knowing her name or where she came from."

    "Then what happened?"

    "Well, he kept her there for about three weeks - he and young Father Duval who was stationed there with him - but she didn't respond as they hoped, so he brought her here to us." Sister Simone paused to finish her coffee, then leaned toward Kay with a frown puckering her pretty face. "You haven't found any reason for her lapse of memory?"

    "None."

    "On hearing the name of her village she just suddenly snapped out of it?"

    "That's what happened. We've always thought there was nothing much wrong with her physically. Of course, when you brought her to us she was underweight and malnourished - not your fault; you didn't have her long enough to change that," Kay hurriedly added. "But she seemed all right otherwise."

    "How strange."

    "I wonder if her people in Bois Sauvage have been looking for her all this time," Ginette said. "It's been how long? Father Turnier had her for three weeks. We had her a month. You've had her for nearly six months."

    Simone said, "It could be longer. We don't know that she went straight from her village to that caille where Father found her. Maybe that journey covered a long time." Life was full of puzzles, her shake of the head said. "Miss Gilbert, we can only bless you for taking her home. None of us here would be able to do it, I'm sure. But have you thought of leaving her here and having us send for the father in that district to come for her?"

    "Father Turnier, you mean?"

    "Well, no, it wouldn't be Father Turnier now. He's no longer there."

    "It would be someone Tina doesn't know, then?"

    "I'm afraid so. Yes."

    Kay shook her head. "I'd better take her myself."

    All the sisters nodded and looked at her expectantly. It was close to their bedtime, Kay guessed. She rose.

    "I'd better make sure Tina is all right, don't you think? She has nightmares sometimes."

    "And the headaches, poor thing," Simone said.

    "Like this morning. Well then - until tomorrow?"

    "Tomorrow," they responded in chorus, and little Simone added, "Sleep well, both of you."

    Kay climbed the stairs. As she went along the corridor to their room, she heard a drumming sound overhead that told her the rain was still falling. Please, God, let it stop soon or those mountain trails will be hell. The room itself was a steam bath. Tina slept with her face to the wall and her arms loosely clasping an extra pillow.

    In no time at all, Kay was asleep beside her.

    Wearing a much-patched carpenter's apron this morning, Emile Polinard stepped back to look at a table he was working on. It was a large one of Haitian mahogany, crafted to order for a wealthy Cap Haitian merchant. The time, Emile noted, was twenty past eight. The rain had stopped just before daybreak and now the sun shone brightly on the street outside the open door of his shop.

    

    His helper, 17-year-old Armand Cator, came from the back room and said, "I've finished the staining, M'sieu Polinard. Should I start on Madame Jourdan's chairs now?" Armand was a good boy, always respectful.

    "Do that, please."

    Glancing out the door at the welcome sunshine, Polinard saw a familiar vehicle coming down the street and voiced a small "Ha!" of satisfaction. He had been expecting it. To get from the church to the main north-coast highway, it would have to pass his shop. Hurrying out onto the cracked sidewalk, he waited.

    Just before the jeep reached him, he waved both arms vigorously and called out, "Bonjour, good friends! Be safe on your journey!"

    "Why, that must be Mr Polinard," said little Tina Anglade to Kay Gilbert. "That must be the furniture shop he told us about." She returned Polinard's wave.

    Kay waved, too, but did not stop. They had got off to a late start again. She had overslept, and then the sisters had insisted on giving them a big breakfast.

    The jeep sped on. Polinard stood on the sidewalk, hands on hips, smiling after it.

    "You know those people, sir?" Armand asked from the doorway.

    "Indeed, I do. They gave me a lift yesterday when the camion broke down. She's a charming woman. And the little girl… well, Armand, there's a curious story. You know what it means to lose your memory?"

    "Huh?"

    The jeep had disappeared from sight. Polinard re-entered the shop. "The little girl you just saw has been at that hospital in the Artibonite for a long time - months - because she could not remember her name or where she came from. She is such a bright child, too. But she has at last remembered and is going home."

    "That's good."

    "Yes. Provided, of course, that what she told them is not just her mind playing tricks again. By the way, don't you have a pal who came from a place called Bois Sauvage not long ago?" "Yes, sir, I do. Luc Etienne."

    "You see him often?"

    "Two or three times a week."

    "Ask him, then - because I am curious - if he knows of a girl about eight or nine years old who used to live there until, say, six or seven months ago. Her name is Tina Anglade."

    "I'd better write it down." Armand stepped to a bench and reached for paper and a carpenter's pencil. "I may see Luc tomorrow at the cockfights."

    "You spend your Saturdays at the fights, risking your hard-earned wages on chickens?"

    "Only a few cobs now and then. But Luc - now there's a fellow who bets big and almost never loses. Everybody wonders how he does it."

    "I don't approve of cockfights and wagering," Polinard said sternly. "But ask him about the little girl, please."

    The cockfights Armand attended were held near the coastal village of Petite Anse, just east of the city. A fight was in progress as Armand approached. A white bird and a black-and-red one made the grey sand of the enclosure fly like rain as they tried to kill each other. Spectators leaned over the wall of knee-high bamboo stakes, yelling encouragement.

    The white was getting the worst of it. Even as Armand located his friend across the pit, the battle suddenly ended in a spurt of blood. There was a rush to collect bets.

    Armand worked his way around to his friend and was not surprised to find Luc Etienne clutching a fistful of gourde notes. Luc must have a sixth sense, he so seldom lost a wager! "Hi," said Armand, grinning. "You've done it again, hey?"

    Chuckling, the tall young man stuffed the notes into a pocket of his expensive, multicoloured shirt. He offered Armand a cigarette - another expensive item these days - and the two stayed together through the remainder of the morning. With his friend's help, Armand tripled the money he had brought.

    When at last they boarded a tap-tap to the city, Armand remembered to inquire about the little girl and consulted the paper on which he had written her name. "Did you know her when you lived in Bois Sauvage?" he asked.

    The little bus clattered along the highway through shimmering waves of heat that rose from the blacktop. Luc gazed at Armand with an expression of incredulity.

    Puzzled, Armand said, "What's the matter? All I asked was if you knew - "

    "I didn't know her! No!"

    "Well, don't get sore with me. What's wrong with you, anyway? I only asked because my boss told me to."

    The look of incredulity faded. What took its place was the shrewd one that appeared on Luc's face when he was about to make a wager at the cockfights. "You say this girl is on her way to Bois Sauvage now?"

    

    "That's right. With a nurse from the hospital where her memory came back. That is, if it really did come back. You say you never knew her, so I guess it didn't."

    "When do they expect to get there?"

    "How would I know? They left here yesterday morning. All I want to know for M'sieu Polinard is, was there really a Tina Anglade in your' village or is she going there for nothing?"

    "She is going there for nothing," Luc said, and then was silent.

    Luc was the first to get off. For a moment he stood frowning after the bus as it went on down the street. Then he turned and walked slowly up a cobbled lane to a small house he shared with his latest girlfriend. The girl was not at home. Going into their bedroom, Luc climbed onto the bed and assumed a sitting position there with his back against the headboard and his arms looped about his knees. Then he closed his eyes and fixed his thoughts on a face.

    Only twice before had he attempted this, and on both occasions he had only partially succeeded. The second time had been better than the first, though, so maybe he was learning, as Margal had predicted. Aware that he was sweating, he peeled off his expensive shirt and tossed it to the foot of the bed, then resumed the position and closed his eyes again. After a while the sweat ran down his chest in rivers.

    The face was beginning to come, though, and there was a difference.

    Before, the image had appeared only inside his head, in his mind. But not this time. This time the face of the bocor was floating over the lower part of the bed, out of reach.

    "Margal, you've come!" Luc whispered.

    The eyes stared back at him. No one but Margal had eyes as terribly piercing as those.

    "I am not asking for your help at the fights," Luc said then. "This time I have something important to tell you."

    The head slowly moved up and down.

    "You remember that little girl, Tina Louise Anglade?"

    The reply - "Of course!" - seemed to come from a great distance.

    "Well, she is on her way back to Bois Sauvage right now. After she disappeared from Dijo Qualon's house she could not remember her name or where she came from, but now she has remembered. A nurse from the Schweitzer hospital is bringing her home!"

    The eyes returned his stare with such force that he felt they would stop his breathing. He heard a question and replied, "Yes, I am sure." Then another question and he said, wagging his head, "No, there is nothing I can do. It's too late. They left here yesterday morning."

    The floating image slowly faded and was gone. After a while Luc sank down on the bed and lay there shivering in his own sweat until he fell asleep.

    

    

    Standing alone in a clearing, the house was a small one of wattle and clay, roofed with banana-leaf thatch. Only moments before, Kay Gilbert had wondered if her guide, Joseph, really had a stopping place in mind or was merely hoping to chance on one. Glad to have reached any kind of destination after so many hours of sitting on a mule, she gratefully swung an aching leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.

    And stumbled. And sat down hard on her bottom. And then just sat there with her arms looped about her knees, embarrassed at having made herself look foolish in the eyes of the man and woman who had just emerged from the house.

    Joseph leaned from his mule to lower Tina to the ground, then leaped down himself and ran to help.

    Joseph. Thank God for Joseph. She had encountered enough Haitian young men at the hospital to know the good ones. Clean, intelligent, mild of speech and manner, he was exactly the sort of guide she had hoped for. The corporal at the police post in Trou had produced him.

    She had hoped to sleep in Valliere tonight. There was a church, and the priest would put them up. The late start from Cap Haitien had put that village out of reach, though. And the trail. The trail had been a roller-coaster that made every mile a misery.

    Steady climbing was not so bad; you got used to leaning forward and more or less wrapping your arms around your mule's neck. Descending was all right, too, after you accustomed yourself to leaning back, clinging for dear life to the pommel, and hoping to heaven the leather stirrups would not snap under the strain. But the constant shift from one to the other was pure hell, scaring the wits out of you while subjecting your poor tired body to torment. More than once she had envied little Tina, so confidently perched there in the crescent of Joseph's sturdy arms without a care in the world.

    As she sat on the ground now, gazing up at the man and woman from the house, Joseph reached her and began helping her to her feet. "M'selle, I know these people," he said. "They will put us up for the night."

    He introduced the couple as Edita and Antoine, no last names. She shook their hands. They were in their late sixties, she guessed.

    

    Both were barefoot and nearly toothless; both wore slight facial disfigurements indicating long-ago bouts with yaws.

    That curse was pretty well wiped out in Haiti now, thank God.

    "Please go into the house," Antoine said. "I will attend to your animals."

    "Wait." No stranger must handle the brown leather bag! Lifting it from' a saddle-bag, she slung it over her shoulder.

    There were two small rooms. The front one contained four homemade chairs and a table; the other, a homemade bed. No connecting door. No kitchen. Cooking was done under a thatch-roofed shelter outside.

    "You and the child will use the bed," Edita said in a manner that forbade any protest. "My man and I will sleep here in the front room, as will Joseph. Joseph is my sister's son."

    "Thank you." It would not be the first time she had slept in a peasant caille. Nurses at the Schweitzer often did things their sisters in more advanced countries might think extraordinary. The bed could harbour bedbugs, of course. More likely, the swept-earth floor was a breeding ground for the little beasties called chigres, which got under your toenails and laid eggs there.

    "Tina should rest before supper," she said. "I'll help you with the cooking, Edita."

    The woman seemed pleased. The child fell asleep as soon as she climbed onto the bed.

    Supper was to be a chicken stew, Kay saw when she joined the woman in the kitchen. First, kill the chicken. Edita attended to that with a machete, then cleaned the severed head and put it into the pot along with the rest of the bird. Kay prepared malangas, leeks, and carrots. While working, they talked.

    "Where are you going, M'selle, if I may ask?"

    "Bois Sauvage. Tina lives there."

    "Oh?"

    Kay explained, stressing the child's loss of memory.

    "Stranger things than that happen around Bois Sauvage," Edita said with a shake of her head. "Do you know the place?"

    "No. I don't know these mountains at all. What do you mean by 'stranger things'?"

    "Well… unnatural things."

    "Voodoo?" Any time a country person talked this way, the underlying theme was likely to be voodoo. Or associated mysteries.

    "I think not voodoo, M'selle. Rather, sorcery or witchcraft. Do you know about a man named Margal in that district?" More than yaws were responsible for the depth of Edita's frown.

    "Margal? No. Who is he?"

    "A bocor. You know what a bocor is?"

    "A witch doctor?" Admit you know something and you may learn more.

    Edita nodded. "Margal is a powerful one, it is said. Perhaps the most powerful one in all Haiti. Much to be feared."

    "And he lives in Bois Sauvage?" Kay was not happy at the prospect of taking Tina to a village dominated by such a man.

    "In Legrun, a few miles from there." The frown persisted. "Perhaps you will not encounter him. I hope not."

    "I hope not, too."

    Night fell while the stew was cooking. The woman used a bottle lamp in the outdoor kitchen but called on her man to bring a lantern when the food was ready to be carried to the house. Kay woke Tina and the five of them sat at the table in the front room where, with the door shut, there was a strong smell of kerosene from the lantern now hanging from a soot-blackened wall peg.

    After a few moments of eating in silence, Edita looked across the table at her man and said, "These people are going near to where the crippled bocor is, Antoine." The frown was back on her pocked face.

    "So Joseph has been telling me."

    The nurse in Kay was curious. "Crippled, you say?"

    They nodded. "He cannot walk," Antoine supplied. "Different tales are told about the cause of it. One is that he was hurt when a camion he was riding in overturned and crushed him. Another is that he became involved in politics and had his legs broken by enemies from the capital. Still another tale is that his mule fell from the cliff at Saut Diable."

    "You will be seeing Saut Diable tomorrow," Edita interjected, "and can judge for yourself whether one could survive a fall from there. At any rate, Margal cannot walk but is very much alive."

    "And very much to be feared," Antoine said.

    Sleep followed the supper. In these remote mountain districts no one stayed up much after nightfall. For one thing, kerosene for illumination had to be transported long distances and was expensive.

    But falling asleep on that peasant bed was not going to be easy, Kay discovered. At least, not with all her aches. The mattress was stuffed with some kind of coarse grass that had packed itself into humps and hollows. Each time she sought a more comfortable position, the stuff crackled as though on fire. Tina slept, thank heaven, but in the end Kay could only lie there.

    The caille was far from quiet, too. One of the three sleepers in the front room snored loudly. In the thatch overhead, geckos croaked and clicked and made rustling sounds. Outside, other lizards sounded like people with sore throats trying to cough, and tree frogs whistled like toy trains. But the outside noises were muffled; the room had no windows. At this altitude, the problem at night was to keep warm, not cool.

    A roach like fire beetle, the kind the peasants called a coucouye, came winging in from the front room, pulsing with green light as it flew. Landing on the wall, it climbed to the thatch and pulsed there like an advertising sign that kept winking on and off.

    In spite of it, Kay felt herself dozing off.

    Suddenly Tina, beside her, began to tremble.

    Was the child dreaming? If so, it must be another of her bad ones. She had been sleeping with her hands pressed palm to palm under one cheek, and now turned convulsively on her back and began moaning.

    Damn! I don't want to wake her but I'll have to if she doesn't stop. Propping herself on one elbow, Kay peered at the twitching face, glad now for the pulsing light of the beetle above them.

    Something dropped with a dull plop from the thatch onto the foot of the bed. A gecko, of course, but she glanced down to make sure. The gecko lizards were small and harmless. Kind of cute, in fact.

    The nightmare was causing Tina to thrash about in a frenzy that made the whole bed shake. Kay reached for her to wake her. There was a second plop at the foot of the bed. Kay turned her head again.

    The fire beetle had fallen from the thatch. Still glowing, it struggled on its back with its legs frantically beating the air, six inches from the gecko.

    The lizard's head swivelled in the bug's direction and its beady eyes contemplated the struggle. Its front feet, looking like tiny hands, gripped the blanket. Its slender brown body moved up and down as though doing pushups.

    Mouth agape, it suddenly lunged.

    Crunch!

    With the light gone, the room was suddenly dark as a pit. The child at Kay's side sat bolt upright and began screaming in a voice to shake the mountains.

    The rest of what happened was so terrifying that Kay felt a massive urge to scream along with the child.

    At the foot of the bed the beetle-devouring gecko had become larger. Was now, in fact, a great black shape half as big as the bed itself. Its feet spread out to grip the blanket, and its huge reptilian head turned toward Kay and the screaming child. Its enormous dragon body began to do push ups again.

    It was about to leap, to open its awful jaws and crunch again!

    Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Kay grabbed the child and rolled with her off the bed, onto the swept-earth floor near the doorless doorway. Not a second too soon. As she scrabbled for the doorway, pulling the shrieking youngster along with her, she heard the creature's awful jaws snap together. Then, still on hands and knees, still pulling the child after her, she reached the front room.

    The screaming had aroused the sleepers there. Antoine was lighting the lantern. His woman caught hold of Tina and hugged her, telling her to stop screaming, she would be all right. Joseph, helping Kay to her feet, peered strangely at her, then turned to look into the back room as Antoine stepped to the doorway and held the lantern high to put some light in there.

    Tina stopped screaming.

    Kay stepped to the doorway to look into the room she had just frantically crawled out of.

    Nothing.

    But I saw it! It was there! It was huge and leaped at us!

    After a while Antoine said, "M'selle, what frightened you?"

    "I don't know."

    There was nothing on the bed. Not even the small lizard that had eaten the fire beetle.

    You imagined it, Gilbert. But Tina had become frightened first. Tina, not she, had done the screaming.

    She looked at her watch. In an hour or so, daylight would replace the frightening dark. Backing away from the bed, she returned to the front room where Edita was now seated on a chair with Tina on her lap.

    "Are you all right, M'selle?"

    "I guess so. But I know I can't sleep anymore. Just let me sit here and wait for morning."

    The woman nodded.

    Kay sat. She had gone to bed in her clothes, expecting the night to be cold. She looked at Tina, then up at the woman's disfigured face. "Is she asleep?"

    "I believe so, yes."

    The silence returned.

    Joseph and Antoine came back into the room. Both glanced at the child first, then focused on Kay, no doubt awaiting an explanation.

    Don't, she warned herself. If you even try, Joseph might decide to go back.

    

    But they were not willing just to stand there staring at her. "M'selle, what happened, please?" Joseph said.

    He had to be answered somehow. "Well… I'm ashamed, but I believe I just had a bad dream and woke Tina up, poor thing, and she began screaming."

    "That is all?"

    "I'm afraid so."

    By the way they looked at her, she knew they had not bought it.

    

    

    In the village of Valliere the expedition was stalled for a time while Joseph talked with people he knew. But not for long. Beyond, the trail continued its slow, twisting climb and the stillness returned.

    The mountain stillness. No bird cry or leaf rustle could have much effect on a silence so profound, nor could the muffled thumping of the mules' hoofs over the layers of leaf mold. She felt as though she were riding through another world.

    Now at last the trail was levelling off and she saw Joseph ten yards ahead, looking back and waiting for her. As usual, Tina sat snugly in front of him, fenced in by his arms. Kay pulled up alongside.

    "For a little while it will be hard now, M'selle," Joseph said. "Should we stop a while?"

    "I'm not tired."

    "Well, all right. Perhaps we should get this place behind us, anyway."

    Remembering something the woman had said last night, Kay frowned. "Is this the place they call Saut Diable?" It meant, she knew, Devil's Leap.

    He nodded.

    She strained to see ahead. The track, mottled with tree shadows, sloped down into a kind of trench where seasonal rains had scored it to a depth of eight or ten feet. Riding through such a place, you had to remove your feet from the stirrups and lift them high. Otherwise, if the mule lurched sideways, you could end up with a crushed leg.

    "You must make your animal descend very slowly, M'selle," Joseph solemnly warned.

    She nodded, feeling apprehensive.

    "But don't even start to go down," he said, "until I call to you from below."

    "Until you call to me?"

    "At the bottom, the trail turns sharply to the right, like this."

    

    Dramatically he drew a right angle in the air. "I will be waiting there to help you."

    She was not sure she understood, but watched him ride on and noticed how carefully he put his mule to the trench. Waiting at the top, she saw him disappear around a curve. It seemed a long time before she heard him calling her, from below.

    Scared, she urged her own mule forward.

    It was the worst stretch they had encountered, not only steep but slippery. The red-earth walls were barely far enough apart to permit passage. Her mule took short, mincing steps, stumbling at times. At one twist of the trail he went to his knees, all but pitching her over his head, then was barely able to struggle up again. With her feet out of the stirrups, she marvelled that she was able to stay on the animal's back.

    Luckily, the walls were a little farther apart at the bottom of the trench, and her feet were back in place. Joseph waited for her with feet apart and hands upraised, clutching a dead stick as long as his arm. Behind him was only empty blue sky.

    "Come slowly and hang on!" he shouted at her.

    As she reached him, he swung the stick. Whap! It caught her mule across the left side of the neck and caused the animal to wheel abruptly to the right. As she clung to the pommel to keep from falling, she got the full picture and promptly wet herself.

    Joseph had been standing on the edge of a sheer drop, to make sure her mule didn't take one step too many before turning. Had the animal done so, both she and it - and Joseph, too, no doubt - would have gone hurtling down into a valley hundreds of feet below!

    Her mule stopped. A little distance ahead, Joseph's animal was waiting, with Tina aboard and looking back. The trail was a ribbon of rock no more than six feet wide, winding along a cliff face for a hundred yards or more with awesome heights above and those terrifying depths below. Joseph, still clutching his stick, caught up with her and gave her mule a pat on the shoulder, as if to apologize for clubbing it.

    "You are all right, M'selle?"

    "I'll never be all right again."

    He chuckled. "Actually, I was not worried. This grey beast of yours has been here before and is not stupid. I only wanted to be sure he would remember that place. Just give him his head now and let him follow my animal along here. Okay?"

    "Okay," she said, hoping he would not notice her wet pants.

    He walked on ahead and swung himself into the saddle, saying something to Tina that made the child look at him with adoring eyes. His mule started forward, and Kay's clop-clopped along behind it.

    

    Then the trail began to go dark.

    Kay looked up to see what had happened to the sun. It was there but fading, and the sky began to look like a thick sheet of overexposed photographic film, becoming blacker every second.

    She looked down. A dark mist rose from the valley which only a moment ago had been green. But was it a mist? Distinctly, she smelled smoke and saw flames. Then, like an exhalation from the earth itself, the darkness swirled up to engulf her.

    Suddenly she could see nothing in front of her, nothing above or below, nothing behind. All creation was black and boiling.

    Her mule stopped. Why? Because in her sudden terror she had jerked the reins, or because he, too, was now blind? What was happening was unreal. It was no more real than the harmless gecko that had become a ravenous dragon last night.

    Margal, she thought. The bocor who can't walk. We're getting closer and he doesn't want us to.

    The sky, the valley, the trail snaking along the cliff side - all had disappeared now. The darkness had engulfed them and was furiously alive, shot through with flames and reeking of smoke. The smoke made her cough and she had to cling to the saddle as she struggled to breathe.

    And now the thunder. Peal upon peal of thunder, filling the fiery darkness in the valley and bouncing off the cliff in front of and behind her. Only it wasn't thunder she was hearing, was it? It was a booming of drums, ever so many drums. The sound assaulted her head and she wanted to scream but knew she must not. A scream might frighten the grey mule.

    The animal wasn't easily frightened. More than once he had proved that. But he was still standing motionless, waiting for her to urge him forward again.

    Should she do that? Had his world, too, gone mad? Or did he still see the trail in front of him, Joseph and Tina on the mule ahead, and the green valley below?

    I can't stay here. Can't risk it. But there is no way to turn and go back.

    Should she try to dismount and walk back? No, no! The world was so dark, she might as well be blind. If she tried to slide from the saddle on the cliff side, the mule might step away to make room for her. Might take a step too many and go plunging over the edge. And if she tried to dismount on that side without knowing where the edge was, she might drop straight into space.

    She clucked to the grey as Joseph had taught her. Touched him, oh so gently, with her heels. "Go on, fella. But slow, go slow."

    He gave his head a shake and moved forward through the smoke and drum-thunder, while she prayed he could see the trail and would not walk off the edge or grind her into the wall.

    If he does grind me into the wall, I'll know he can't see any better than I. Then I can pull him up and at least wait. But if he goes wrong on the outside, God help me.

    The mule plodded on through the unreal darkness. The drums thundered. Tongues of scarlet leaped high from the valley - high enough to curl in over the trail and stab at her feet, as if to force her to lift them from the stirrups and lose her balance. Fighting back the panic, she clutched the saddle with both hands and ground her knees into the mule's sides for an added grip.

    What - oh God! - was happening to Joseph and Tina? She could not even see them now.

    Saut Diable. The Devil's Leap. Had the man named Margal been crippled in a fall from here? She didn't believe it. No one could survive such a fall.

    Dear God, how much longer?

    But the grey could see! She was convinced of it now. He trudged along as though this journey through the nightmare were all in the day's work. Not once did he brush her leg against the cliff, so she had to assume that not once did he venture too close to the drop on the other side. Was the darkness only in her mind, then? Was Margal responsible for it?

    Never mind that now, Gilbert. Just hang on. Pray.

    It almost seemed that the one creating the illusion knew his grisly scheme was not working. Knew she had not panicked and spooked the mule into plunging over the edge with her. The thunder of the drums grew louder. She thought her skull would crack under the pounding. The darkness became a gigantic whirlpool that seemed certain to suck her into its vortex. She tried shutting her eyes. It didn't help.

    I'm not seeing these things. I'm thinking them.

    The big grey walked on.

    The whirlpool slowed and paled. The flames diminished to flickerings. The sky lightened and let the sun blur through again. Slowly the image of the other mule took shape ahead, with Joseph and Tina on its back.

    She looked down and saw darkness leaving the valley, the smoke drifting away in wisps, the green returning. It was like the end of a storm.

    Ahead, Joseph had stopped where the cliff passage ended and the trail entered a forest again. Dismounting, he swung Tina down beside him. The child clung to his legs. On reaching them, Kay slid from the saddle, too.

    

    She and Joseph gazed at each other, the Haitian's handsome face the hue of wood ash, drained of all sparkle, all life. Trembling against him, the child, too, stared at Kay, with eyes that revealed the same kind of terror.

    The nightmare wasn't just for me. They rode through it, too.

    Kay felt she had to say something calming. "Well… we're here, aren't we? Saut Diable is behind us." Brilliant, she thought. Just what we didn’t need.

    "M'selle… what happened?"

    "What do you think happened?" Get him talking. Get that ghastly look off his face. Off Tina's, too.

    "Everything went dark, M'selle. The valley was on fire. The flames reached all the way up to the trail and the smoke made me cough."

    She only looked at him.

    "Drumming," he continued hoarsely. "I heard all three drums -the manman, the seconde, the bula. And I think even a fourth. Even the giant assotor."

    "It was all in our minds," Kay said. "It wasn't real."

    "M'selle, it happened." He turned his ashen face to look at Tina. "Didn't it, ti-fi?"

    Still too frightened to speak, the child could only nod.

    "No." Kay shook her head. "The drumming was only thunder, and there was no real fire. Walk back and look."

    He refused to budge. When she took him by the hand to lead him back, he froze.

    "Just to the cliff," she said. "So we can see."

    "No, M'selle!"

    "It didn't happen, Joseph. I'm telling you, it did not happen. We only imagined it. Now come."

    His head jerked again from side to side, and she could not budge him.

    At the hospital she was known to have a temper when one was called for. "Damn it, Joseph, don't be so stubborn! Come and see!" Her yank on his wrist all but pulled him off his feet.

    He allowed himself to be hauled far enough back along the trail so that he could peer into the valley. It was frighteningly far down but in no way marked by fire.

    "You see? If there had really been a fire raging down there, you would still see and smell smoke. Now will you believe me?"

    "I know what I saw!"

    "You know what you think you saw, that's all." Oh God, if only there were words in Creole for this kind of discussion, but there were not. It was a barebones language, scarcely adequate even for dealing with basics. So few words to think with.

    Well, then, stick to basics. Stop trying to explain things.

    "All right, Joseph. There was a fire, but it's out now. Let's go, hey?"

    He shook his head. "No, M'selle. Not me. I am turning back."

    "What?"

    "These things that have happened are a warning. Worse will happen if we go on."

    Guessing her face was telltale white, she confronted him with her hands on her hips. "You can't do this to me, Joseph. You agreed to guide me to Bois Sauvage. I've already paid you half the money!"

    "I will give it back. Every cob."

    "Joseph, stop this. Stop it right now! I have to take Tina home, and you have to help me. These crazy things that have happened don't concern us. They were meant for someone else. Who would want to stop Tina from returning home?"

    "I am going back, M'selle. I am afraid."

    "You can't be such a coward!"

    He only shrugged.

    She worked on him. For twenty minutes she pleaded, cajoled, begged him to consider Tina, threatened him with the wrath of the police who had hired him out to her. Long before she desisted, she knew it was hopeless. He liked her, he was fond of the child, but he was terrified.

    "All right. If you won't go any farther, you can at least tell me how to get there. Because I'm going on without you."

    "M'selle, you must not!"

    "Does this trail lead to Bois Sauvage, or can I get lost?"

    In a pathetic whisper, with his gaze downcast, he said, "It is the only road. You will not get lost."

    "Please rearrange our gear then, so Tina and I will have what we need." Extracting the brown leather shoulder-bag from her mule's saddle-bag, she stepped aside with it.

    He obeyed in silence, while she and Tina watched him. The child's eyes were enormous.

    "Now lift Tina onto my mule, please. I know I'll have to do it myself from now on because of your cowardice, but you can do it one more time."

    He picked the child up. Before placing her on the grey mule, he brushed his lips against her cheek. His own cheeks were wet.

    Kay carefully swung herself into the saddle, then turned and looked down at him. "You won't change your mind?"

    "M'selle, I will wait for you at my aunt's house, where we stayed last night."

    "Don't bother," she retorted bitterly. "A lizard might eat you." Tight-lipped and full of anger, she rode on.

    After the first hour, her fear began to subside. It had been real enough earlier, despite the bravado she had feigned for Joseph's benefit. But the trail was not so formidable now. At least, they had not encountered any more Devil's Leaps.

    Mile after mile produced only bird-song and leaf-rustle. She and the child talked to push back the stillness.

    "Will you be glad to see your mother and father, baby?"

    "Oh, yes!"

    "What are they like? Tell me about them."

    "Maman's pretty, like you."

    "Bless you. And your father?"

    "He works all the time."

    "Doing what?"

    "Growing things. Yams, mostly. We have goats and chickens, too."

    "What's his name?"

    "Metellus Anglade."

    "And your mother's?"

    "Fifine Bonhomme."

    Not married, of course. Few peasants married. But many living in placage were more faithful than "civilized" people in other countries who were married.

    "Will you be glad to see your sister and two brothers too?"

    "Yes, Miss Kay."

    "Are they older than you?"

    "Only Rosemarie. The twins are younger."

    "Your brothers are twins? I didn't know that. It must make your family very special." In voodoo, twins played important roles. There were even special services for the spirits of marassas.

    "Would you like to know about my village, Miss Kay?" Tina asked.

    "I certainly would. Tell me about it."

    "Well, it's not as big as the one we rode through this morning. Valliere, I mean. But it has a nice markeplace, and a spring for water…"

    Just talk, to pass the time. Then, as the afternoon neared its end, the trail ascended to a high plateau, levelled off, and began to widen. Wattle and mud cailles appeared on either side, and people stood behind bamboo fences gazing curiously at the strangers. Had they ever seen a white woman before?

    But she was not the main object of their attention, Kay presently realized. They were staring mostly at the child who sat in front of her.

    Tina stared back at them. This was her village.

    The road divided, and Kay reined the grey mule to a halt. "Which way, Tina?"

    "That way!" The child's voice was shrill with excitement.

    Kay reined the mule to the left, looked back, and saw the trailing crowd of villagers turn with her.

    What did they want? And if they recognized the child, why in heaven's name weren't they calling her name and waving to her? Could the hunch that had prompted her to bring along the brown shoulder-bag be valid, after all?

    The trail they followed now was only a downhill path through a lush but unkempt jungle of broad-leafed plantains and wild mangoes. More cailles lined its sides. More people stared from yards and doorways, then trooped out to join the silent and somehow sinister procession.

    Oh God, don't tell me things are going to go wrong now that I've finally got here\ What's the matter with these people?

    "There it is!" Bouncing up and down on the mule, Tina raised a trembling right arm to point.

    Standing by itself near a curve of the path, behind a respectable fence of hand-hewn pickets, the caille was a little larger than most of the others, with a roof of bright new zinc. "We're home! That's my house!" the child shrilled, all but out of her mind with excitement.

    End of the line, Kay thought with relief. We made it. Be proud, gal.

    She turned to look at the crowd behind them and was not proud. Only apprehensive. Worse than apprehensive. Downright scared.

    At the gate in the fence she reined in the mule, slid wearily from the saddle, and reached up for Tina. Out of the house came a slender, good-looking woman of thirty or so, wearing a dress made of feed bags. Staring at Kay, she walked to the gate. Then her gaze shifted from Kay to Tina, and she stopped as though she had walked into a stone wall. And began screaming.

    The sound tore the stillness to shreds and brought a man from the house, stumbling as he ran. He reached the woman in time to catch her under the arms as she sank to her knees. Standing there holding her, he too looked at the strangers and began to make noises. Nothing as loud as the woman's screaming but a guttural "huh huh huh huh" that seemed to burble, not from his mouth alone, but from his whole convulsed face.

    From the crowd came a response like a storm roar, with words flashing in and out like jabs of lightning. "Mort! Mort! Li Mort!"

    Clasping the youngster's hand, Kay pushed the gate open and walked to the kneeling woman. There was nothing she could do to stop the nightmare sounds. Don't listen to it, Gilbert. Just do what you have to.

    "Is this your mother, Tina?"

    For answer, the child threw her arms around the kneeling woman's neck and began sobbing, "Maman! Maman!"

    The woman wrenched herself free and staggered erect. She looked at her daughter in horror, then turned and ran like a blinded, wild animal across the bare-earth yard, past a cluster of graves at its edge, into a field where tall stalks of piti mi swallowed her from sight.

    The man continued to stand there, gazing at Tina as though his eyes would explode.

    The child looked up at him imploringly. "Papa…"

    "Huh huh huh…"

    "It's me, papa. Tina!"

    He lurched backward, throwing up his arms. "You're dead!"

    "No, Papa!"

    "Yes you are! You're dead!"

    "Papa, please…" Reaching for him, the child began to cry. And Kay's reliable temper surged up to take over.

    She strode to the man and confronted him, hands on hips and eyes blazing. "This is nonsense, M'sieu Anglade! Because the child has been missing for a while doesn't mean she's dead. You can see she isn't!"

    As he stared back at her, his heavy-lipped mouth kept working, though soundlessly now. His contorted face oozed sweat.

    "Do you hear what I'm saying, M'sieu? Your daughter is all right! I'm a nurse, and I know."

    "You - don't - understand."

    "What don't I understand?"

    As though his feet were deep in the red-brown earth and he could move them only with great difficulty, he turned in the direction the child's mother had fled. Lifting his right arm as though it weighed a ton, he pointed.

    "What do you mean?" Kay demanded, then looked down at the weeping child and said, "Don't cry, baby. I'll get to the bottom of this."

    

    Metellus Anglade reached out and touched her on the arm. "Come." He began walking slowly across the yard, his bare feet scraping the earth. Beyond the cluster of graves toward which he walked was the field of kaffir corn. What could there be in such a field that would make him afraid of his own daughter?

    Kay followed him, but looked back. Tina gazed after them with her hands at her face, obviously all but destroyed by what had happened. The crowd in the road was silent again. The whole length of the fence was lined with starers, the road packed solid, but no one had come into the yard even though the gate hung open. She had neglected to tie the grey mule, she realized. Should she go back and do so, to make sure the crowd wouldn't spook him? No. It could wait.

    Metellus Anglade reached the edge of the yard and trudged on through the gravestones - not stones, really, but crudely crafted concrete forms resembling small houses resting on coffin-shaped slabs of the same material. Nothing special. You saw such grave markers all over Haiti. Kay looked beyond to the corn field.

    Where was the woman?

    Suddenly the leaden feet of her guide stopped and, preoccupied as she was, Kay bumped into him. He caught her by the arm to steady her. With his other hand he pointed to the last of the graves, one that was either new or had been newly whitewashed.

    "Look."

    The name was not properly carved. Like those on the other markers, it had merely been scratched in with a sharpened stick before the concrete hardened. It was big and bold, though. Kay had no difficulty reading it.

    

    

    Kay's temper boiled to the surface again as she turned on him. "You shouldn’t have done this! Graves are for people you've buried, not for someone you only think might be dead!"

    He looked at her now without flinching, and she saw how much he resembled Tina. About thirty, he was taller than most mountain peasants and had good, clean features. "M'selle, you don't understand. My daughter is buried here."

    "What?"

    "She died. I myself made the coffin. Her own mother prepared her for burial. I put her into the coffin and nailed it shut, and when we put it into this grave and shovelled the earth over her, this yard was full of witnesses. All those people you see standing in the road were here. The whole village."

    

    Kay got a grip on herself. Watch it, Gilbert. Don't, for God's sake, say the wrong thing now. "M'sieu, I can only say you must have made a mistake."

    With dignity he moved his head slowly from side to side. "There was no mistake, M'selle. From the time she was placed in the coffin until the earth covered her, the coffin was never for one moment unguarded. Either my wife or I was with her every moment."

    We can't stand here talking, Kay thought desperately. Not with that mob in the road watching us. "M'sieu, can we go into the house?"

    He nodded.

    "And Tina? She is not dead, I assure you. All that happened was that she lost her memory for a time and could not recall who she was."

    He hesitated, but nodded again.

    They walked back across the yard to Tina, and Kay put a hand on the child's shoulder. "Come, baby. It's going to be all right." Metellus Anglade led the way to the house. Kay followed with Tina. The villagers by the fence still stared.

    If they actually think they buried this child, I don't blame them. I'd probably do the same.

    The house seemed larger than the one Tina and she had slept in the night before. But before attempting an appraisal or even sitting down, she said, "M'sieu Anglade, will you please see about my mule? He should be unsaddled and given some water, and tied were he can eat something."

    He did not seem eager to comply.

    "You'll have to put me up for the night or find someone nearby who will," she went on firmly. "So please bring in the saddle-bags, too." Especially the one with my shoulder-bag in it, she added mentally.

    He frowned at her. "You wish to spend the night here?"

    Kay made a production of peering at her watch, though she knew the time well enough. "I can't be expected to start back to Trou at this hour, can I? That's where my jeep is. I've brought your daughter all the way from the Schweitzer Hospital, M'sieu Anglade. Do you know how far that is?"

    "All that way?" He peered at her with new respect, then looked again at Tina. What was he thinking? That if the child had been at the Schweitzer, she must not be a ghost, after all?

    "The mule, please," Kay repeated. "Tina and I will just sit here until you return. Believe me, we're tired." As he turned to the door, she spoke again. "And try to find her mother, will you? I must talk to you both."

    

    While he was gone, she asked Tina to show her around. In addition to the big front room, which was crowded with crude but heavily varnished homemade furniture, there were three bedrooms. But despite the zinc roof, which indicated a measure of wealth in such a village, the floors were of earth, hard-packed and shiny from years of being rubbed by bare feet. At least there would be no lizards dropping from the thatch.

    As they waited for Metellus to return, Tina began to cry again. "Come here, baby," Kay said quietly.

    The child stepped into the waiting circle of her arm.

    "Listen to me, love. We don't know what's going on here, but we're not going to be afraid of it. You hear?"

    "I hear, Miss Kay."

    "You just concentrate on being brave and let me do the talking. For a while, at least. Can you do that?"

    Tina nodded.

    Kay patted her on the bottom. "Good girl. Now go sit down and try to relax. The big thing is, you're home."

    It took Metellus Anglade a long time to attend to the mule. Or perhaps he spent much of that time trying to locate his woman. Daylight was about finished when at last he came through the door, lugging the saddlebags and followed by Tina's mother.

    Having already decided how to handle the situation, Kay promptly rose and offered her hand. "Hello, Fifine Bonhomme, how are you? I'm Nurse Gilbert from the Schweitzer Hospital."

    Tina had said her mother was pretty, hadn't she? Well, she was, or might be if she could get over being terrified. A certain firmness was called for at this point, Kay decided.

    "Sit down, Fifine. I must talk to you."

    The woman looked fearfully at her daughter. She had not spoken to the girl, and obviously had no intention of embracing her. But then, she actually thought she was staring at a child who was buried in that grave outside, didn't she?

    Suddenly the door burst open and three children stormed into the room: a girl who resembled Tina but was a little older, and two peas-in-a-pod boys a year or so younger. Rosemarie and the twins, Kay thought. All three were out of breath but remarkably clean for country kids. Barefoot, of course, but decently dressed. And handsome.

    At sight of Tina, they stopped as though they had been clubbed. Their eyes grew bigger and bigger. The girl backed up a step. The twins, as if they were one person, took two steps forward and whispered Tina's name in unison.

    Tina lurched from her chair and stumbled to her knees in front of them. Wrapping her arms around their legs, she cried so hard she must have been blinded by her own tears.

    Reassured, Rosemarie dared to advance again. Dared to sink to her knees and press her face against her sister's.

    "Let the children go into another room," Kay said to their mother. "I would like to talk to you and Metellus alone."

    Fifine Bonhomme only gazed at her brood in a silence of apprehension. It was their father who told them what to do.

    "Now listen, both of you," Kay said. "I'm going to tell you what I know about your daughter, how she was found by Father Turnier and - " She paused. "Do you know Father Turnier?"

    "The priest who used to be in Valliere?" Metellus said. "We know of him."

    "All right. I'm going to tell you how he found her and what happened afterward. Then you are going to tell me why her name is on that grave out there. You understand?"

    They nodded.

    "After that," Kay said, "We'll decide what's to be done here."

    She took her time telling it. Had to, because her Creole was not that good. She even included a brief lecture on amnesia, because it was so terribly important for them to understand that the youngster was perfectly normal.

    In telling of her journey with Tina from the hospital to Bois Sauvage, though, she was very, very careful not to mention the dragon lizard or the strange occurrence at Devil's Leap.

    "Now then," she said firmly in conclusion, "you do the talking, please. Explain that grave to me."

    "Tina became ill and died," said Metellus.

    "What made her ill?"

    "We don't know. We asked her if she had eaten anything the rest of us had not. Only a mango, she said. A boy named Luc Etienne gave her two of them when she was passing his yard on her way home from a friend's house. One was for her, one for the twins. But nobody was at home when she got here, so she ate hers and when we returned an hour or so later, she was not well."

    "How do you mean, not well?"

    "Her stomach hurt and she had la fiev. A really high fever. I went at once for the houngan. He is a good man. He came and did things. Brewed a tea for her and used his hands on her - things like that. He stayed the whole night trying to make her well. But in the morning she died."

    "Who said she was dead? This houngan?"

    "All of us." Metellus returned her gaze without flinching. "It is not in dispute that she was dead when we buried her. When someone dies, the people we call in may not be as learned as your doctors at the hospital, but they know how to determine if life has ended. Tina was dead."

    "And you think this mango that was given her by - by whom? - "

    "Luc Etienne."

    "- might have caused her death? Poisoned her, you mean?"

    "Something made her ill. She had not been sick before."

    "There were two mangoes, you said."

    "Yes."

    "Did anyone eat the other?"

    He shook his head.

    "What became of it?"

    "After the funeral we opened it up, I and some others, to see if it had been tampered with. It seemed to be all right, but, of course, you can't always be sure. Some people are wickedly clever with poisons. Anyway, we buried it."

    "Did you talk to this Luc Etienne?"

    "Yes, M'selle."

    "What did he say?"

    "Only that the mangoes were from a tree in his yard, perfectly innocent, and he gave them to Tina for herself and the twins because he was fond of children. Especially of them."

    Speaking for the first time, Tina's mother said, "Our children liked him. He was a nice young man."

    "What do you mean, was?"

    "He is not here now."

    "Oh? When did he leave?"

    "Soon after the funeral, didn't he, Metellus?"

    Metellus nodded.

    "Where did he go?" Kay asked.

    Metellus shrugged. "We heard to Cap Hai'tien, where he makes a lot of money betting on cockfights."

    Feeling she had sat long enough, Kay rose stiffly and walked to the door. It was open, but would soon have to be closed because the yard was turning dark. There were still people at the fence. Turning back into the room, she frowned at Tina's father. "And there is no doubt in your mind that Tina was in the coffin when you buried it?"

    "None at all. No."

    "Are you saying, then, that the child I've brought back to you is not your daughter but someone else?"

    He looked at his woman and she at him. Turning to meet Kay's demanding gaze again, he shrugged. "M'selle, what can we say?"

    

    With her fists against her hips for perhaps the fourth time that day, Kay faced them in a resurgence of anger. "You can admit there's been a mistake, that's what you can say! Because, look. When the name Bois Sauvage was read to this child by a doctor reading a map, she clapped her hands and cried out, "That's where I live!" And then she remembered her name - her full name, just as you've got it inscribed on that grave out there. Tina Louise Christine Anglade. And she remembered your names and her sister's and the twins'. So if she isn't your Tina, who in the world do you think she is?"

    The woman whispered something.

    "What?" Kay said.

    "She is a zombie."

    "What did you say?"

    "Li se zombie," the woman stubbornly repeated, then rose and turned away, muttering that she had to begin preparing supper.

    Only because Kay insisted did the woman allow her "zombie" daughter to sit at the supper table with her other children. After the meal, Kay stubbornly tried again to break down her resistance, and again failed.

    She probably could have convinced Metellus had the child's mother been less afraid, she told herself. The father was strong and intelligent but unwilling, obviously, to make trouble for himself by challenging this woman he slept with. It was a tragic situation, with no solution in sight.

    Go to bed, Gilbert. Maybe during the night Metellus will find himself some guts.

    She lay with her right arm around Tina, the child's head on her breast. A lamp burned low on a chest of drawers made mostly of woven sisal.

    "Miss Kay?" Tina whispered.

    "What, baby?"

    "They think I'm dead. Did I die, Miss Kay?"

    "Of course not."

    "Why do they say I did, then? Even Rosemarie and the twins."

    "Because they…" Oh, Christ, baby, I don't know why! I'm way out of my depth here and don't know what to do about it.

    She was so tired, so very tired. All day long on a mule, most of the time scared because Joseph had left her alone with the child in an unknown wilderness. Her knees ached, her thighs burned, her arches must be permanently warped from the stupid stirrups, even her fingers were cramped from holding the reins. And now this impasse with the child's mother.

    

    She listened to Tina's breathing and it calmed her a little. After a while she dozed off.

    There was a tapping sound at the room's only window. The window had no glass in it, and she had decided not to close the shutters lest the smell of the kerosene lamp give her more of a headache than she already had. The tapping was on one of the open shutters, and she sat up in bed and turned her head in that direction, still half asleep. The voice of Metellus Anglade whispered to her from the opening.

    "M'selle… M'selle… I have to show you something!"

    She looked at the watch on her wrist. Why, on this crazy pilgrimage, was she always trying to find out the time in the middle of the night?

    Three-ten. Well, at least she'd been asleep for a while and would be rested tomorrow for whatever might happen.

    "What do you want?"

    "Come out here, please. Be careful not to wake anyone!"

    "All right. Just give me a minute."

    She had worn pyjamas to bed and was damned if she would get dressed at this idiot hour just to go into the yard to see what the man wanted. Pulling on her sneaks, she left the bedroom, walked silently across the dim front room with its clutter of chairs, stepped outside, and found him waiting.

    "Come!" he whispered, taking her by the arm.

    He led her across the yard, through moonlight bright enough to paint the ground with dark shadows of house, fence, trees, and graves. He walked her to the graves. Next to the one with Tina's name on it was a hole now, with a spade thrust upright in the excavated dirt piled at its edge.

    "Look, M'selle!"

    Peering into the hole, she saw what he had done. Unable to move the concrete slab that covered the grave, he had dug down beside it, then tunnelled under. Far enough under, at least, to find out what he wanted to know.

    "You see? The coffin is gone!"

    She nodded. There was nothing to argue about. He hadn't dug enough dirt out to risk having the slab sag into the excavation, but had certainly proved there was no wooden box under it. She stood there hearing all the usual night sounds in the silence.

    "How could anyone have stolen it without moving the slab?" she asked, but knew the answer before finishing the question. Let him say it anyway.

    "M'selle, we don't do the tombing right away. Not until the earth has settled. In this case, more than six weeks passed before I could go to Trou for the cement."

    Which you brought back on a mule, she thought, walking the whole way back yourself so the mule could carry it. And then you built this elaborate concrete thing over the grave to show your love for a daughter whose body had already been stolen.

    "Metellus, I don't understand." Let him explain the whole thing, though she guessed how he would do that, too.

    "There can be only one answer, M'selle. I know I put my daughter into a coffin and buried her here. The coffin is not here now. So… she was stolen and made into a zombie."

    "Meaning she was not really dead."

    "Well, there are two kinds of zombies, as perhaps you know. Those who truly die and are restored to life by sorcery; that is one kind. Others are poisoned in various ways so they only seem to die, then are taken from their graves and restored."

    "You think Tina was poisoned?"

    "Now I do. Yes."

    "With the mango you told me about?"

    He reached for the spade and, holding it in both hands, turned to frown at her. "Luc Etienne gave her two mangoes, one for herself and one for the twins to share. Do you know what I think? I think that on the way home she got them mixed up, and when she found no one at home and ate her mango, the one she ate was the one she had been told to give to the twins."

    "I don't know what you mean." This time she really did not.

    "Twins are different from ordinary people," Metellus said. "He wanted them for some special purpose."

    "Who? This fellow Etienne?"

    "No, not Etienne." With a glance toward the house, he began quietly putting the earth back into the hole. "At least, not for himself. Luc was friendly with a much more important person at that time. With a bocor named Margal, who lives in Legrun. There are people here who say Luc Etienne was Margal's pupil."

    "The one who can't walk," Kay said.

    He stopped the spade in mid stroke. "You know of him?"

    "I think he tried to stop me from coming here."

    "Very likely. Because do you know what I believe happened after he stole the coffin from this grave? I think he brought Tina back to life the way they do - with leaves or herbs or whatever - and then sold her to someone in some distant place where she would not be known. He had hoped for the twins, but even Tina was worth something as a servant."

    

    "And she wandered away from whoever bought her."

    "Yes. And the priest found her."

    "How could Margal have known I was bringing her back here?"

    "Who can say, M'selle? But he probably knows we are standing here this very minute, discussing him." Metellus plied the spade faster now, obviously anxious to get the job finished. But again he stopped and faced her. "M'selle, Tina must not stay here. Margal will surely kill her!"

    "You think so?"

    "Yes, yes! To protect himself. To save his reputation!"

    She thought about it, and nodded.

    The hole refilled at last, he turned to her. "M'selle, I love my daughter. You must know that by now."

    "I'm sure you do."

    "Fifine, too, loves her. But things can never be the same here now."

    Kay gazed at him in silence.

    Thoughtfully he said, "I have a brother in Port-au-Prince, M'selle, who is two years younger than I and has only one child. He would give Tina a good home, even send her to school there. She must not stay here. Everyone here in Bois Sauvage knows she died and was buried in this yard and must now be a zombie. Even if Margal did not destroy her, she would forever be shunned."

    "You want me to take her to your brother? Is that what you're saying?"

    "Will you? I will ride out with you to where your jeep is."

    Kay thought about it while he stood before her, desperately awaiting her reply. A white owl flew across the yard from the road to the field of kaffir corn. Time passed.

    "I will do it on one condition," Kay said at last.

    On the verge of tears, he seemed to hold his breath. "And - that is?

    "That before we leave here you take me to Legrun, to visit this bocor who can't walk, this Margal. Will you do that?"

    Trembling, he stared at her with bulging eyes. But at last he nodded.

    

    

    The grey mule carried no saddle-bags this time, but Kay had slung the brown leather bag over her shoulder before leaving the Anglade house in Bois Sauvage. As her animal plodded along after the one ridden by Tina's father, she realized she would have had a difficult time attempting the trip by herself.

    It was only four miles to Legrun, Metellus had said, but the road was difficult. That had been his word: difficult. Just beyond the Bois Sauvage marketplace, which was deserted because today was not the weekly market day, a path to the right had been marked by a cross to Baron Samedi. When asked why he had stopped and dismounted there for a moment, her guide had replied with a shrug, "It is sometimes well to ask the baron for protection, M'selle."

    "You think this Margal is into voodoo, then?"

    "No, no, M'selle. He is an evil man, a bocorl"

    Not the same thing at all, of course. Voodoo was a religion. A bocor was a sorcerer, a witch-doctor, a loner. And the one they were about to confront was also a monster.

    For an eternity the mules toiled up a ladder of boulders, with the high-mountain forest walling them in on both sides. At times even the sky was hidden by massed tree limbs. Then the path straggled over a rocky plateau painted gold by the sun, and plunged down through a trench.

    The trench gradually widened into a grassy clearing dotted with thatch-roofed huts. Kay counted five of them. From a vertical cliff on the right tumbled a forty-foot waterfall that filled the vale with sound. Beyond the peasant huts stood a substantial, metal-roofed house painted bright red.

    Margal's, she supposed. And she was looking at the first painted house she had seen since leaving Valliere. Margal the Sorcerer apparently believed in being different, and was wealthy enough to indulge his whims.

    Red houses were not common in Haiti. This one brought to mind a poem, or part of a poem, she had read in a volume of verse by a Haitian writer known to be deeply interested in the occult.

    

    High in a mountain clearing

    In a red, red house

    In the wilds of Haiti,

    Black candles burn

    In a room of many colors.

    

    Had the poet visited this place? If so, he must be a brave man to have dared write about it. But the book was in French, and Margal, being a peasant, could probably not read French; Or even any of the versions of written Creole.

    In front of her, Metellus had reined his mule to a halt. As she caught up to him, he lifted an arm to point. "Margal lives there in the red house, M'selle," he said without looking at her. "I will take the mules and wait for you by the waterfall."

    She drew in a breath to slow the beating of her heart. "You mean you're not going to confront him with me?"

    "M'selle, no." He shook his head. "I do not have your courage."

    "Very well." Disappointed but not angry, she dismounted and walked her mule the few steps to where Metellus could lean from the saddle and grasp its reins. Then, with her head high, she strode the last hundred yards alone.

    On reaching the door, she lifted a hand to the brown leather bag to make sure it was still in place. Throughout the journey it had been a nuisance; now it was a comfort. She knocked. In a moment the door swung open. A boy about twelve years old, wearing only ragged khaki pants, stood gazing up at her.

    She went through the usual peasant formalities. "Honneur, ti-moun."

    "Respect, M'selle."

    "I would like to speak with M'sieu Margal, if you please. I have come a long way to see him."

    Motioning her to enter, the boy silently stepped back from the doorway.

    The room in which she found herself surprised her, and not only for its large size. Its floor was of tavernon, the close-grained cabinet wood that was now even rarer and more expensive than Haitian mahogany. Tables and chairs, one of the latter strangely shaped, were of the same wood. Did it grow here? Probably, but Margal must have paid a small fortune to have the trees felled and cut up. The walls of the room were of clay, but each was a different colour - aquamarine, rose, black, green - and intricately decorated. The effect was startling.

    "Please be seated," the boy said. "I will ask my master if he wishes to see you. Not there!" he added quickly when Kay, out of curiosity, moved toward the oddly shaped chair. "That is my master's!"

    "Sorry." She veered away, but not before noticing what a really remarkable chair it was. Its back was vertical, its extra-wide seat littered with varicolored cushions. It had wide, flat, slotted arms. Fit a board across those arms, using the slots to anchor it, and the chair could be a desk, a work table, even a dining table.

    She remained standing. The boy disappeared into a connecting room, leaving the door open.

    In a moment the youth reappeared pushing a kind of wheeled platform on which was seated a man. Wearing a bright red nightshirt - if that was the word for it - the man weighed perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds, and would have been about five foot six had he been able to stand erect.

    Apparently he could not do that. His legs, crossed in front of him, looked to Kay as though they had been broken and allowed to heal without benefit of medical attention.

    The boy pushed the wheeled platform to the odd-shaped chair. Reaching behind him, the man placed both hands on the chair's arms, hoisted himself up, and worked his crippled body backward into position. After squirming to make himself as comfortable as possible, he lifted his head. It was awrithe with a thick, stringy mass that resembled the dreadlocks of Jamaican Rastafarians.

    His stare was totally innocent. "I bid you welcome, M'selle. My name is Margal. Please tell me who you are and why you have come here."

    It was the moment of truth. Kay took in a breath to steady herself.

    "M'sieu Margal, my name is Kay Gilbert, and I am a nurse. A hospital nurse. I came here - as I think you already know - to return a lost child to her home in Bois Sauvage. A child whom you, M'sieu, turned into a zombie but whom we at the hospital were able to restore to health. And I have a proposition for you."

    The man who could not walk only stared at her with unblinking eyes, saying nothing.

    "I know what you are," Kay continued, using words she had silently rehearsed on the way to this place. "I also know you cannot walk. So I have come to make you an offer."

    Those eyes! She could not even decide what colour they were, they were so frightening. And they were doing things to her mind. She was losing her power of concentration.

    "As I say - M'sieu Margal - I am from the hospital. That hospital - in the Artibonite - which everyone in Haiti, including you, I am sure - knows about and respects. And I promise you this - that if you - if you will stop doing to people what you - what you did to Tina Anglade - if you will give me your word of honour never to -never to do such a thing again - we at the hospital will do our best to - to repair your legs so that you will be able to - to walk again."

    She paused, struggling desperately to maintain control. Dear God, those eyes were making it so hard for her to think straight! Then when he did not answer her, except for a downward, ugly twist of his mouth, she added weakly, "I - I am not fluent in your - your language, M'sieu. Do you understand what - what - I -just - said?"

    Something like a laugh issued from that ugly mouth, and the stare intensified. Suddenly Kay was back in the caille where the harmless gecko had become a giant dragon intent on devouring her and the child. And then she was sitting on a grey mule, clutching its saddle, while an unreal darkness full of smoke and flames swirled up from a far-below valley to engulf her. And she knew what Margal was doing.

    Her offer of help meant nothing to him. He was bent on controlling her, perhaps destroying her. Perhaps the prospect of creating a white female zombie intrigued him. With only one move left to her, she grabbed at the brown leather bag dangling from her shoulder.

    Tearing it open, she thrust her hand in and snatched out the one thing it contained - the shiny black automatic her boyfriend, a doctor at the hospital, had insisted she keep with her for safety's sake on this mad mission to the realm of Margal.

    But before she could even level the weapon, that room with its multicoloured walls became something else. No longer was she standing there in a house, struggling to point a deadly weapon at another human being. All at once she was in an outdoor place of idyllic beauty where any thought of killing seemed a kind of blasphemy.

    There were no weirdly painted walls here. No man with twisted legs sat on a chair in front of her, gazing at her with hypnotic eyes that merely mirrored the awful powers of his incredible mind.

    What she saw was a broad valley shimmering in sunlight - a lovely, dreamlike valley carpeted with green grass and colourful wild flowers. And where Margal's chair had been was a young tulip tree with a soft, wide-eyed dove perched on one of its branches, gazing at her with pretty head atilt.

    But this isn't Eden and that isn't a dove, Gilbert! You know it isn't! For God's sake, don't let him do this to you!

    She still had the gun in her hand. With every ounce of will power she possessed, she forced the hand to lift it, made her eyes and mind take aim, and commanded her finger to squeeze the trigger.

    In that idyllic setting there was but one living thing to aim at. The dove.

    The sound of the shot shattered the illusion and jolted her out of the hypnotic spell the man on the chair had not quite finished weaving about her. She came out of it just in time to see the bullet pierce his forehead and slam his head against the back of the chair. Still in a partial daze, she pushed herself erect and stumbled forward to look at him.

    He was dead. Not even Margal the Sorcerer could still be alive with such a hole in his head and most of his brains splattered over the back of the chair. Never again would be do what he had done to little Tina Anglade - and probably more than a few others.

    

    Probably it had been a foolish notion, anyway, to think he might change his ways if given the ability to walk again.

    Her trembling had subsided. In full control of herself again, she looked for the boy, who perhaps, like Luc Etienne, had hoped by serving the master to absorb some of Margal's evil knowledge. When she called to him, there was no answer. Apparently he had fled.

    With a last glance at the dead man on the chair, she put the gun back into the brown leather bag and walked out of the house. At the waterfall, the father of little Tina Anglade was waiting for her, as promised. He stepped forward, frowning.

    "I heard a noise like a gunshot," he said, his frown asking the unspoken question.

    She shrugged. "That man made a noise to frighten me, the way he made the thunder at Saut Diable that I told you about." With his help, she climbed onto the grey mule. "I'm finished," she added. "I've done what I was sent here for. Now we can go home."

    

    

    

    I remember standing in the bedroom before we went out, fiddling with my tie and fretting mildly about the time. As yet we had plenty, but that was nothing to be complacent about. The minutes had a way of disappearing when Rachel was getting ready, early starts culminating in a breathless search for a taxi.

    

    It was a party we were going to, so it didn't really matter what time we left, but I tend to be a little dull about time. I used to, anyway.

    When I had the tie as close to a tidy knot as I was going to be able to get it, I turned away from the mirror, and opened my mouth to call out to Rachel. But then I caught sight of what was on the bed, and closed it again. For a moment I just stood and looked, and then walked over towards the bed.

    It wasn't anything very spectacular, just a dress made of sheeny white material. A few years ago, when we started going out together, Rachel used to make a lot of her clothes. She didn't do it because she had to, but because she enjoyed it. She used to trail me endlessly round dress-making shops, browsing patterns and asking my opinion on a million different fabrics, while I half-heartedly protested and moaned.

    On impulse I leant down and felt the material, and found I could remember touching it for the first time in the shop on Mill Road, could remember surfacing up through contented boredom to say that yes, I liked this one. On that recommendation she'd bought it, and made this dress, and as a reward for traipsing around after her she'd bought me dinner too. We were poorer then, so the meal was cheap, but there was lots and it was good.

    The strange thing was, I didn't even really mind the dress shops. You know how sometimes, when you're just walking around, living your life, you'll see someone on the street and fall hopelessly in love with them? How something in the way they look, the way they are, makes you stop dead in your tracks and stare? How for that instant you're convinced that if you could just meet them, you'd be able to love them forever?

    Wild schemes and unlikely meetings pass through your head, and yet as they stand on the other side of the street or the room, talking to someone else, they haven't the faintest idea of what's going through your mind. Something has clicked, but only inside your head. You know you'll never speak to them, that they'll never know what you're feeling, and that they'll never want to. But something about them forces you to keep looking, until you wish they'd leave so you could be free.

    The first time I saw Rachel was like that, and now she was in my bath. I didn't call out to hurry her along. I decided it didn't really matter.

    A few minutes later a protracted squawking noise announced the letting out of the bath water, and Rachel wafted into the bedroom swaddled in thick towels and glowing high spirits. Suddenly I lost all interest in going to the party, punctually or otherwise. She marched up to me, set her head at a silly angle to kiss me on the lips and jerked my tie vigorously in about three different directions. When I looked in the mirror I saw that somehow, as always, she'd turned it into a perfect knot.

    Half an hour later we left the flat, still in plenty of time. If anything, I'd held her up.

    "Later," she said, smiling in the way that showed she meant it, "Later, and for a long time, my man."

    I remember turning from locking the door to see her standing on the pavement outside the house, looking perfect in her white dress, looking happy and looking at me. As I walked smiling down the steps towards her she skipped backwards into the road, laughing for no reason, laughing because she was with me.

    "Come on," she said, holding out her hand like a dancer, and a yellow van came round the corner and smashed into her. She spun backwards as if tugged on a rope, rebounded off a parked car and toppled into the road. As I stood cold on the bottom step she half sat up and looked at me, an expression of wordless surprise on her face, and then she fell back again.

    When I reached her blood was already pulsing up into the white of her dress and welling out of her mouth. It ran out over her makeup and I saw she'd been right: she hadn't quite blended the colours above her eyes. I'd told her it didn't matter, that she still looked beautiful. She had.

    She tried to move her head again and there was a sticky sound as it almost left the tarmac and then slumped back. Her hair fell back from around her face, but not as it usually did. There was a faint flicker in her eyelids, and then she died.

    I knelt there in the road beside her, holding her hand as the blood dried a little. It was as if everything had come to a halt, and hadn't started up again. I heard every word the small crowd muttered, but I didn't know what they were muttering about. All I could think was that there wasn't going to be a later, not to kiss her some more, not for anything. Later was gone.

    When I got back from the hospital I phoned her mother. I did it as soon as I got back, though I didn't want to. I didn't want to tell anyone, didn't want to make it official. It was a bad phone call, very, very bad. Then I sat in the flat, looking at the drawers she'd left open, at the towels on the floor, at the party invitation on the dressing table, feeling my stomach crawl. I was back at the flat, as if we'd come back home from the party. I should have been making coffee while Rachel had yet another bath, coffee we'd drink on the sofa in front of the fire. But the fire was off and the bath was empty. So what was I supposed to do?

    I sat for an hour, feeling as if somehow I'd slipped too far forward in time and left Rachel behind, as if I could turn and see her desperately running to try to catch me up. When it felt as if my throat was going to burst I called my parents and they came and took me home. My mother gently made me change my clothes, but she didn't wash them. Not until I was asleep, anyway. When I came down and saw them clean I hated her, but I knew she was right and the hate went away. There wouldn't have been much point in just keeping them in a drawer.

    The funeral was short. I guess they all are, really, but there's no point in them being any longer. Nothing more would be said. I was a little better by then, and not crying so much, though I did before we went to the church because I couldn't get my tie to sit right.

    Rachel was buried near her grandparents, which she would have liked. Her parents gave me her dress afterwards, because I'd asked for it. It had been thoroughly cleaned and large patches had lost their sheen and died, looking as much unlike Rachel's dress as the cloth had on the roll. I'd almost have preferred the bloodstains still to have been there: at least that way I could had believed that the cloth still sparkled beneath them. But they were right in their way, as my mother was. Some people seem to have pragmatic, accepting souls, an ability to deal with death. I don't, I'm afraid. I don't understand it at all.

    Afterwards I stood at the graveside for a while, but not for long because I knew that my parents were waiting at the car. As I stood by the mound of earth that lay on top of her I tried to concentrate, to send some final thought to her, some final love, but the world kept pressing in on me through the sound of cars on the road and some bird that was cawing in a tree. I couldn't shut it out. I couldn't believe that I was noticing how cold it was, that somewhere lives were being led and televisions being watched, that the inside of my parents' car would smell the same as it always had. I wanted to feel something, wanted to sense her presence, but I couldn't. All I could feel was the world round me, the same old world. But it wasn't a world that had been there a week ago, and I couldn't understand how it could look so much the same.

    It was the same because nothing had changed, and I turned and walked to the car. The wake was worse than the funeral, much worse, and I stood with a sandwich feeling something very cold building up inside. Rachel's oldest friend Lisa held court with her old school friends, swiftly running the range of emotions from stoic resilience to trembling incoherence.

    

    "I've just realized," she sobbed to me, "Rachel's not going to be at my wedding."

    "Yes, well she's not going to be at mine either," I said numbly, and immediately hated myself for it. I went and stood by the window, out of harm's way. I couldn't react properly. I knew why everyone was standing here, that in some ways it was like a wedding. Instead of gathering together to bear witness to a bond, they were here to prove she was dead. In the weeks to come they'd know they'd stood together in a room, and would be able to accept she was gone. I couldn't.

    I said goodbye to Rachel's parents before I left. We looked at each other oddly, and shook hands, as if we were just strangers again. Then I went back to the flat and changed into some old clothes. My "Someday" clothes, Rachel used to call them, as in "someday you must throw them away". Then I made a cup of tea and stared out of the window for a while. I knew damn well what I was going to do, and it was a relief to give in to it.

    That night I went back to the cemetery and I dug her up. What can I say? It was hard work, and it took a lot longer than I expected, but in another way it was surprisingly easy. I mean yes, it was creepy, and yes, I felt like a lunatic, but after the shovel had gone in once the second time seemed less strange. It was like waking up in the mornings after the accident. The first time I clutched at myself and couldn't understand, but after that I knew what to expect. There were no cracks of thunder, there was no web of lightening and I actually felt very calm. There was just me and, beneath the earth, my friend. I just wanted to find her.

    When I did I laid her down by the side of the grave and then filled it back up again, being careful to make it look undisturbed. Then I carried her to the car in my arms and brought her home.

    The flat seemed very quiet as I sat her on the sofa, and the cushion rustled and creaked as it took her weight again. When she was settled I knelt and looked up at her face. It looked much the same as it always had, though the colour of the skin was different, didn't have the glow she always had. That's where life is, you know, not in the heart but in the little things, like the way hair falls around a face. Her nose looked the same and her forehead was smooth. It was the same face, exactly the same.

    I knew the dress she was wearing was hiding a lot of things I would rather not see, but I took it off anyway. It was her going away dress, bought by her family specially for the occasion, and it didn't mean anything to me or to her. I knew what the damage would be and what it meant. As it turned out the patchers and menders had done a good job, not glossing because it wouldn't be seen. It wasn't so bad.

    

    When she was sitting up again in her white dress I walked over and turned the light down, and I cried a little then, because she looked so much the same. She could have fallen asleep, warmed by the fire and dozy with wine, as if we'd just come back from the party.

    I went and had a bath then. We both used to when we came back in from an evening, to feel clean and fresh for when we slipped between the sheets. It wouldn't be like that this evening, of course, but I had dirt all over me, and I wanted to feel normal. For one night at least I just wanted things to be as they had.

    I sat in the bath for a while, knowing she was in the living room, and slowly washed myself clean. I really wasn't thinking much. It felt nice to know that I wouldn't be alone when I walked back in there. That was better than nothing, was part of what had made her alive. I dropped my Someday clothes in the bin and put on the ones from the evening of the accident. They didn't mean as much as her dress, but at least they were from before.

    When I returned to the living room her head had lolled slightly, but it would have done if she'd been asleep. I made us both a cup of coffee. The only time she ever took sugar was in this cup, so I put one in. Then I sat down next to her on the sofa and I was glad that the cushions had her dent in them, that as always they drew me slightly towards her, didn't leave me perched there by myself.

    The first time I saw Rachel was at a party. I saw her across the room and simply stared at her, but we didn't speak. We didn't meet properly for a month or two, and first kissed a few weeks after that. As I sat there on the sofa next to her body I reached out tentatively and took her hand, as I had done on that night. It was cooler than it should have been, but not too bad because of the fire, and I held it, feeling the lines on her palm, lines I knew better than my own.

    I let myself feel calm and I held her hand in the half light, not looking at her, as also on that first night, when I'd been too happy to push my luck. She's letting you hold her hand, I'd thought, don't expect to be able to look at her too. Holding her hand is more than enough: don't look, you'll break the spell. My face creased then, not knowing whether to smile or cry, but it felt alright. It really did.

    I sat there for a long time, watching the flames, still not thinking, just holding her hand and letting the minutes run. The longer I sat the more normal it felt, and finally I turned slowly to look at her. She looked tired and asleep, so deeply asleep, but still there with me and still mine.

    When her eyelid first moved I thought it was a trick of the light, a flicker cast by the fire. But then it stirred again, and for the smallest of moments I thought I was going to die. The other eyelid moved and the feeling just disappeared, and that made the difference, I think. She had a long way to come, and if I'd felt frightened, or rejected her, I think that would have finished it then. I didn't question it. A few minutes later both her eyes were open, and it wasn't long before she was able to slowly turn her head.

    I still go to work, and put in the occasional appearance at social events, but my tie never looks quite as it did. She can't move her fingers precisely enough to help me with that any more. She can't come with me, and nobody can come here, but that doesn't matter. We always spent a lot of time by ourselves. We wanted to.

    I have to do a lot of things for her, but I can live with that. Lots of people have accidents, bad ones: if Rachel had survived she could have been disabled or brain-damaged so that her movements were as they are now, so slow and clumsy. I wish she could talk, but there's no air in her lungs, so I'm learning to read her lips. Her mouth moves slowly, but I know she's trying to speak, and I want to hear what she's saying.

    But she gets round the flat, and she holds my hand, and she smiles as best she can. If she'd just been injured I would have loved her still. It's not so very different.

    

    

    

    It was dark when I reached the old cottage. The journey had been far from easy. I suppose a city-bred person such as myself would find most rural journeys difficult. I had certainly assumed too much. As the crow flies, I had been told that the cottage was only some twenty-one miles from the centre of Cork City. But in Ireland the miles are deceptive. I know there is a standard joke about "the Irish mile" but there is a grain of truth in it. For the Boggeragh Mountains, in whose shadows the cottage lay, are a brooding, windswept area where nothing grows but bleak heather, a dirty stubble which clings tenaciously to the grey granite thrusts of the hills, where the wind whistles and sings over a moonscape of rocks pricking upwards to the heavens. To walk a mile in such terrain, among the heights and terrible grandeur of the wild, rocky slopes and gorse you have to allow two hours. A mile on a well-kept road is not like a mile on a forgotten track amidst these sullen peaks.

    What was I doing in such an inhospitable area in the first place? That is the question which you will undoubtedly ask.

    Well, it was not through any desire on my part. But one must live and my livelihood depended on my job with RTE. I am a researcher with Telefis Eireann, the Irish state television. Initially it was the idea of some bright producer that we make a programme on Irish folk customs. So that was the initial impetus which found me searching among dusty tomes in an old occult bookstore, in a little alley off Sheares Street on the nameless island in the River Lee which constitutes the centre of the city of Cork. The area is often mentioned in the literature of Cork as the place where once the fashionable world came to see and be seen. That era of glory has departed and now small artisans' houses and shops crowd upon it claustrophobically.

    I had been told to research the superstitions connected with the dead and I was browsing through some volumes when I became aware of an old woman standing next to me. She was peering at the book that I was examining with more than a degree of interest.

    "So you are interested in the Irish customs and superstitions relating to the dead, young man?" she observed in an imperious tone, her voice slightly shrill and sharp.

    I looked at her. She was of small stature, the shoulders bent, but she wore a long black dress, with matching large hat and veil, almost like a figure out of a Victorian drama. From such a guise it was hard to see her features but she gave the air of a world long gone, of a time almost forgotten.

    "I am," I replied courteously.

    "An interesting subject. There are many stories of the dead who come to life again in West Cork. If you travel round the rural communities you will hear some quite incredible stories."

    "Really?" I inquired politely. "You mean zombies?"

    She sniffed disparagingly.

    "Zombies! That is a voodoo superstition originating in Africa. You are in Ireland, young man. No, I mean the marbh bheo."

    She pronounced this as "ma'rof vo".

    "What's that?" I demanded.

    "A corpse that lives," she replied. "You will find many a tale about the marbh bheo in rural Ireland."

    She sniffed again. It seemed a habit.

    "Yes, really, young man. There are many stories that will make your hair curl. Stories that are fantastic and terrible. Tales of being buried alive. The tale of Tadhg O Cathain who, in punishment for his wicked life, was condemned to be ridden every night by a hideous living corpse, a marbh bheo, who demanded burial and drove him from churchyard to churchyard as the dead rose up in each one to refuse the corpse burial. There are the corpses who wait in haunted lakes to devour the drowned ones, and the unholy undead creatures who haunt the raths. Oh yes, young man, there are many fantastic tales to be heard and some not a mile or so from this very spot."

    An idea crossed my mind as she spoke.

    "Do you know any local people who are experts in such tales?" I inquired. "You see, I am working on a television programme and want to speak to someone…"

    She sniffed yet again.

    "You wish to speak to someone who has knowledge about the marbh bheo?"

    I smiled. She made it sound so natural as if I were merely asking to speak to someone who could advise me on bee-keeping. I nodded eagerly.

    "Go to Musheramore Mountain and ask for 'Teach Droch-Chlu'. At 'Teach Droch-Chlu' you will find Father Nessan Doheny. He will speak with you."

    I put down the book that I had been examining, turned to reach for my attache case and took out my notebook. I turned back to the old lady but much to my amazement she had gone. I looked round the bookstore. The owner was upstairs and I asked him if he had seen or knew her but he had not. With a shrug, I jotted down the names that she had given me. After all, in an occult bookstore you are apt to meet the weirdest people. But I was pleased with the meeting. Here was a more interesting lead than spending days browsing through books. A good television programme relies on personalities, raconteurs, and not the recitation of dry and dusty facts by a narrator.

    Musheramore is the largest peak in the Boggeragh Mountains, not far from Cork. I checked the phone book and found no listing for Father Nessan Doheny nor for "Teach Droch-Chlu". But the place was so near, and city dweller that I am, I thought I would be able to ride the twenty-one miles to Musheramore and back in one evening. I should explain that I am the proud possessor of a vintage Triumph motorcycle. Motorbikes are a hobby of mine. I thought that I could have a chat with the priest and then be back in Cork long before midnight.

    I rode out of Cork on the Macroom road, which is a good straight and wide highway, and then turned north on a small track towards the village of Ballynagree with Musheramore a black dominating peak in the distance. That was easy. I stopped at a local garage, just north of Ballynagree, filled up with petrol and asked the way to "Teach Droch-Chlu". The garage man, whose name-badge on his overalls pronounced him to be "Manus", gave me an old fashioned glance, as though I had said something which secretly amused him. His face assumed a sort of knowing grin as he gave me some directions.

    That was when the real journey began.

    It took me an hour to negotiate the directions and reach the place. Though it shames me to say it, my Irish is not particularly good. In a country which is reputedly bilingual, but where English is more widely spoken than Irish, one can get by with little use of the language. Therefore, while I knew that "Teach" meant a house, I had no idea of the full meaning of the name. And the cottage, for such it proved to be, was harder to find than I would ever have thought.

    It lay in a scooped out hollow of the mountain, surrounded by dark trees and shrubs which formed a hedgerow. It looked old, dank and depressing. And when I eventually found the place, darkness had spread its enveloping cloak all around.

    I parked my motorbike and walked along a winding path, with the sharp barbs of pyracantha bushes scratching my hands and snagging my jacket. I finally reached the low lintelled door.

    When I knocked on its paint peeling panels, a reedy voice bade me enter.

    Father Nessan Doheny, or so I presumed the gaunt figure to be, sat in a high-backed chair by a smouldering turf fire; his hair was white, the eyes colourless and pale, seeming without animation, and his skin was like yellow parchment. His thin, claw-like hands were folded on his lap. I would have placed his age more towards ninety than younger. He was clad in a dark, shining suit with only his white Roman collar to throw it into relief. There was a chilly atmosphere in the room in spite of the smouldering fire.

    "The dead?" he piped shrilly, after I had explained my purpose. His thin bloodless lips cracked upwards. It might have been a smile. "Have the living so little to interest them that they need to know of the dead?"

    "It's for a television programme on folklore, Father," I humoured him.

    "Folklore, is it?" he cackled. "Now the dead are reduced to folklore."

    He fell silent for such a long while that I thought maybe the ancient priest had grown senile in his ageing and had fallen asleep, but he eventually raised his face to mine and shook his head.

    "I could tell you many tales about the dead. They are as real as the living. Why, not far from here is a farmstead. It is the custom in these parts that when throwing away water at night, for you will find many a house that has still to draw its water from wells, that the person casting out the water should cry: "Tog ort as uisce! Meaning - away with yourself from the water."

    I knew this to be a rural expression better rendered into English as "look out for the water".

    "Why would they say this, Father?"

    "Because the belief is that water falling on a corpse burns it, for water is purity. Well, there came a night when a woman of a farm not far from here, threw out a jug of water and forgot the warning cry. Instantly, she heard a shriek of a person in pain. No one was seen in the darkness. Around midnight, the door came open and a black lamb entered the house, having its back scalded. It lay down moaning by the hearth and died before the farmer and his wife knew what to do.

    "The farmer buried the lamb the next morning. At midnight that night the door came open again and the lamb entered. Its back was scalded as before. It lay down and died. The farmer buried it again. When this happened a third time, the farmer sent for me. I was then a young priest but I knew what had happened immediately and laid the dead spirit to rest by the solemnity of exorcism. The black lamb appeared no more."

    I was hastily scribbling notes. I had to put down one of my notebooks on a side table as I bent to my task.

    "Absolutely great, Father. That will make a nice tale. First class."

    He gazed at me sourly.

    "It is no game we are talking about. The dead have equal powers to the living and you should be warned not to mock them, young man."

    I smiled indulgently.

    "Don't worry, Father. I'll not mock them. I just want to get this programme together…"

    Father Doheny winced as if in pain but I prattled on obliviously.

    "Are there such things as zombies in Ireland?"

    He sniffed. It suddenly reminded me of the old woman and the answer she had given me.

    "You mean a corpse reanimated by sorcery?"

    "Yes. Don't we have any stories about the walking dead in Ireland? I mean, what do you call it, a marbh bheo?"

    His pale eyes seemed to gaze right through me.

    "Of course the dead walk. There is only the faintest veil between this land of the living and the land of the dead. At the right time and with the right stimulus the dead can enter into our world with the same ease as we can enter into their world."

    I could not help smirking.

    "That's hardly the official Church line from Rome."

    His thin lips compressed in annoyance.

    "The ancients knew these things long before the coming of Christianity. It would be better not to take them lightly."

    Father Nessan Doheny was a delight. I was scribbling away as fast as I could, imagining a whole series of programmes devoted to the ageing priest sitting recounting his bizarre tales.

    "Go on, Father," I prompted. "How easy is it to cross through this veil, you speak of, into the land of the dead?"

    "Easy enough, boy. Over at Caherbarnagh, when I was a young priest, there was living a woman. One day she was returning to her cottage when she stopped to drink by a small stream. As she rose to her feet she suddenly heard the sound of low music. A group of people were coming down the path, singing a strange, soothing song. It puzzled her and she felt a shiver of apprehension. Then she realised that close by her a tall, young man was standing watching her, his face strange and pale, the eyes wide and blank.

    "She demanded to know who he was. He shook his head and warned her that she was in great danger and unless she fled with him, evil would befall her. She began to trot off with him and the people, coming down the path with their music, cried out: 'Come back!' Yet fear lent her wings and she ran and ran with the young man until they reached the edge of a small wood. The young man halted and pronounced them safe. Then he asked her to look upon his face.

    "When she did so, she recognized him as her elder brother who had been drowned the year before. He was drowned while swimming in the dark waters of Loch Dalua and his body had never been recovered. What was she to do? She felt evil near and ran home to send for me, the local priest, confessing all. There was fear and trembling on her when she told me her tale and after she had made that final confession, she died."

    "That's a terrific tale," I said, entering it enthusiastically in my notebook.

    "There are tales of the dead in every corner of the land," nodded the old priest.

    

    I became aware of an old clock chiming in the corner. I could not believe it. It was ten o'clock already. I sighed. Well, I was getting so much good material that it was a shame to break off now to make sure I was back in Cork at a reasonable hour.

    "But what about this marbh bheo, Father," I asked. "These stories you have told me are more of ghosts than the walking dead. Are there stories of reanimated corpses?"

    The priest's expression did not change.

    "Ghosts, walking dead, the dead are dead in whatever form they come."

    "But reanimated corpses?" I pressed. "What of them?"

    "If I must speak, then I must," the old priest said almost half to himself, half as if speaking to some third party. "Must I speak?"

    Naturally, I thought the question was addressed to me and answered in the affirmative.

    "I will speak then. I will tell you a tale; a tale of a great English lord who used to own these mountains in the days before Ireland won her independence from England."

    I glanced at the clock and said: "Is it a tale about the walking dead, the marbh bheo?"

    The priest ignored me.

    "The lord was called the Earl of Musheramore, Baron of Lyre and Lisnaraha. He had a great castle and estate which covered most of the Boggeragh Mountains. He and his family before him since the days of the English conquests and the flight of our noble families to Europe. The estate was a prosperous one and the Earl of Musheramore was rich and powerful."

    His voice assumed a droning tone, hypnotic and soporific.

    The real point of his story had taken place in the days of the "Great Hunger". During the mid nineteenth century, the potato crops failed. Because the peasants of Ireland had been so reduced in poverty by the absentee English landlords, the potato had become the staple diet, mixed with a little poaching on the estate, game from the land and fish from the rivers and lochs. The lords of the land severely punished any people caught taking the game or the fish. One young man who had dared to poach a couple of rabbits from Lord Musheramore, to help feed his large family, was transported to Van Diemen's Land in Australia for seven years. That was the type of fate that awaited any peasant who poached on their lord's land. The law was vigorously imposed by landlord's agents, usually impoverished former officers of the British army, who were employed to run things in the absence of the owners.

    So, of course, when the potato crop failed, the people began to starve. In a space of three years the population of the country had been reduced by two-and-a-half million. Yet the landlords and their agents still demanded the rent on the tiny peasant hovels, evicted people into the winter snows and frosts; men, women, children and babes in arms, if they could not pay, were evicted, their cabins torn down to prevent reoccupation. Under such straits they perished from exposure, malnutrition and other attendant diseases. Cholera struck everywhere.

    Yet the landlords prospered. Great shiploads of the landlords' produce - grain, wheat, flax, cattle, sheep, poultry - were being loaded aboard the ships in Irish harbours and sent to England for sale. For every charity relief ship, raised by the Irish communities abroad, sailing into an Irish port, six ships loaded with grain and livestock were sailing out of the ports to England.

    A great bitterness spread over the land. An attempt to rise up against the rulers was severely crushed by the military.

    On the estate of Lord Musheramore, the peasants gathered in a body, kneeling on the well-kept green lawns outside Musheramore Castle, holding up their hands in supplication to his lordship, pleading for his help to keep them alive for the forthcoming winter, a winter that many were already doomed not to see, so wracked by malnutrition had they become.

    Lord Musheramore was a vain young man. He was about thirty years old, with a dark, aquiline face and sneering mouth. Since his inheritance he had only visited his estate once. He preferred to live in a house in London where he could visit the playhouses, taverns, and the gaming houses where he loved to win or lose moderate fortunes on the throw of the dice or the fall of cards. But he had come to visit during that summer to ensure that the produce of his estate was not being squandered on any "famine relief".

    He was somewhat alarmed at the concourse of people that gathered on the castle lawns. There were hundreds of people from the cottages and the villages which his estate encompassed. He sent his overseer straightaway to the military at Mallow and three companies of English hussars soon arrived and surrounded the castle to protect it from attack. The captain in charge, acting on Lord Musheramore's orders, told the people to disperse. When they hesitated, he charged his troops into them. The hussars went berserk, swinging their sabres and shouting like banshees. The result was that many died, including the local priest who had come to add his authority to the pleas of the peasants.

    Now among the people gathered that day was an old woman named Brid Cappeen. She had been shunned by the people in better days for she had the reputation of being something of a witch. She was, indeed, a wise woman. She had escaped the soldiers with no more than a sabre's cut across her thin, angular face. But the scar on her heart was deeper than that. Old Brid Cappeen knew the ways of the ancients, the old ways that were practised from time immemorial, whose origins were forgotten even by the time of the coming of Christianity. She could search the entrails of a dead chicken and find the answer to the future in its bloodied remains.

    Brid Cappeen had fled to the gorse covered mountainside when the soldiers attacked and had hidden all day there. That night she crept down the mountain to the lawn where the corpses of the peasants had been laid out ready for disposal. She searched the pile of corpses, wild and demented, until she found the one she wanted. The body of a man whose wounds had not caused any limbs to be severed. Then with the strength derived from God alone knows where, or maybe from the Devil, Brid Cappeen hauled that corpse away into the night. She hauled it up to her lonely cave in the mountain.

    There, in the cave, she practised the old rituals, conjuring words that no scholar of the ancient Gaelic tongue would recognize. She sought and found herbs and threw them into a steam kettle on a small fire and bathed the body of the man and, finally, as the moon reached the point in the night sky which signified the hour of midnight, the limbs of the man began to tremble, to pulsate and the eyes came open.

    Old Brid Cappeen let out a growl of satisfaction.

    She had created the marbh bheo; she had conjured the "living corpse" to her bidding.

    In the ancient times it was told that vengeance could be visited on a wrongdoer by a druid or druidess who could reanimate the body of a person wrongly slain. Old Brid Cappeen began to enact that vengeance.

    She sent out the reanimated body of the corpse on its dreadful quest. Lord Musheramore, Baron of Lyre and Lisnaraha, was about to board the ship for England in Cork harbour one evening when he was attacked and literally torn apart by a man whom no one could identify. The police and soldiers swore that they opened fire and hit the attacker several times. The local magistrate took this with cynical humour, for the attacker escaped clean away and there was no blood on the cobbles of the quay except the aristocratic blood of Lord Musheramore.

    The captain of the hussars was attacked next in his own quarters, safe in the barracks at Mallow. He, too, was torn apart. The attacker was evidently a man of amazing strength and iron purpose for he had broken through the stone and iron walls of the barracks to get into the captain's quarters. When they found what was left of the captain, many soldiers, veterans who had served in campaigns in India and Africa, were sick and broke down in terror.

    Then, Major Farran, the overseer of Lord Musheramore's estate, was set on one evening while out with his two great hounds. Farran was a stocky man, afraid of nothing in this world nor the next, or so he boasted. He carried two hand pistols and the hounds that bounded at his side were not just for company. They had been known to tear a person to pieces at his command. Major Farran was hated amongst Musheramore's peasants. He knew it and, curious man that he was, thrived on it. He liked the aura of fear that he was able to spread around him. But he was wise enough to take precautions against any attack those who hated him might make.

    But pistols and hounds did not protect him that evening.

    It was three full days before all his remains were found along the bloodstrewn pathway. And the doctor confessed that he had no way of knowing the flesh of Major Farran from the flesh of the mutilated hounds.

    And all the while Brid Cappeen crooned away in her cave on the slopes of the mountain.

    She was not satisfied with immediate vengeance on those who had wronged the people of Musheramore's estate. She became determined to make all who were connected with the Musheramore family pay for the deaths of her relatives and fellow villagers. Vengeance became her creed, her passion, her overwhelming desire. And the marbh bheo was the instrument of her vengeance.

    For years, thereafter, there were reports of the demented Brid Cappeen scouring the night shrouded country of the Boggeragh Mountains in search of vengeance with her living corpse at her side.

    Father Doheny stopped talking abruptly, leaving me forward, open mouthed, on the edge of the seat.

    "That's a fantastic tale, Father," I stammered at last, realising that he had come to an end of it. "Was there really such a person as Lord Musheramore?"

    He made no reply, sitting gazing down at the smouldering turf.

    I shivered slightly for the turf was not sending out any warmth into the tiny cottage room.

    "Would you be prepared to come to our studios in Cork and talk on the programme about the marbh bheo? We could pay you something, of course."

    I suddenly felt a draught on the back of my neck.

    I turned and saw the cottage door had opened. To my surprise, because of the lateness of the hour, I saw the old woman I had met in the occult bookstore. Her black shrouded figure was framed in the gloom of its opening. Her Victorian dress seemed to be flapping around her in the wind that had risen across the mountains; flapping like the wings of a dark raven.

    "Your business here is finished," she said imperiously, in a voice that cracked with age.

    "I am here to see Father Doheny." I smarted at her lack of manners and turned to the old priest seeking support. "At your suggestion, too," I added, perhaps defensively.

    The old man seemed to have nodded off in his high-backed wooden chair, for his jaw was lowered to his chest and his eyes were closed.

    "Well, you have seen him. He has spoken to you. Begone now!"

    I stared incredulously at the effrontery of the old woman.

    "I rather think that it is none of your business to instruct me in another's house, madam," I said sternly.

    Behind the blackness of her veil, she opened her mouth and an hysterical cackle caused the hairs on the nape of my neck to prickle with apprehension.

    "I am in charge here," she wheezed, once she had recovered from her mirth, if that horrific sound was mirth.

    "You mean, you are Father Doheny's housekeeper?" I could hardly keep the astonishment from my voice for the old woman looked incapable of carrying a teapot from the hearth to the table, let alone performing any of the chores expected of a housekeeper.

    She cackled again.

    "It is late, boy," she finally replied. "I would be about your business. There is an evil across this mountain at night. I would have a care of it."

    She threw out a gnarled claw in a dismissive gesture.

    I glanced again at Father Doheny but he showed no sign of stirring and so I gathered my notes, rose and put on my coat with all the dignity I could muster.

    She ignored me as I bade her a "goodnight" but simply stood aside from the door.

    Outside the cottage the moon was up in a sky across which fretful clouds moved hurriedly as the wind blew and wailed over the crevices of rocks. A frost lay forming its white veins over the ground. The temperature must have dropped considerably since I had arrived. In the distance I could hear the howling of dogs. The sound seemed ethereal and unreal in the night air.

    I went to my motorcycle and, trusting that I was not disturbing the old priest's slumber, I kicked the starter. It took a while to get the Triumph's engine warmed and ready enough for me to begin to wind my way down the mountain track.

    I had not gone more than a mile when I realised that I had left one of my notebooks on the small table in Father Doheny's cottage. With a sigh I halted and turned the Triumph gently on the muddy track and pushed back towards "Teach Droch-Chlu".

    I halted my bike and made my way along the track to the dark outline of the cottage.

    Something caused me not to knock but to halt outside.

    A shrill chanting came to my ears.

    It was the voice of the old woman. It was some time before I could actually make out the sound of the words and then they meant little to me for they were in an ancient form of Irish.

    Something prompted me to peer in through the small panes of the window.

    I could make out the old priest, now standing still in the middle of the room. The old woman was before him, huddled with bent shoulders, crooning away. I was surprised to see that in her hands she held one of those old fashioned cavalry sabres, with a curved blade. There was something peculiarly disturbing about the way she was carrying on, chanting and crooning in that shrill voice.

    Abruptly she stopped.

    "Remember, Doheny," she commanded.

    The old priest stood stiff and upright, his colourless eyes staring straight above her.

    "You must remember. This is what they did."

    Before I could cry out a warning, the old woman had raised the sabre and, with the full force of her seemingly frail frame, she thrust the point of the weapon through the old priest just about the level of his heart. I saw the end of the blade emerge through the back of his jacket. Yet he had not even staggered under the impact of the blow.

    My jaw hung open. There are no words to express the shock and terror that scene gave me.

    Worse was to come.

    The old woman let go of the sabre and stepped away from him.

    "Remember, Doheny!"

    The old priest's claw-like hands came to the handle of the sabre and then, with a mighty tug, he pulled the great blade out of his body with a slow, deliberate motion. It was bright and shining and without a speck of blood upon its blade.

    I stood at the small window transfixed with terror.

    I could not believe what I had seen. It was impossible. She had thrust a sharp sword through a frail old priest and the priest had not batted an eye. He had merely withdrawn it. And it had made no wound!

    "Remember, Doheny!"

    I suppressed a cry of fear, turned and ran back to my bike. Panic seemed to impede my every move. I tried to start the motor but everything I did seemed wrong. I heard a cry from the old woman, became aware of a shadow on the path. I could feel fetid breath on my neck. Then the bike started with a roar and I was speeding away.

    The track was twisting, the mud on the road slowed the machine. I felt as if I was in some cross-country bike race, swerving, twisting, leaping down the mountain pathway in the direction of the nearest village which was Ballynagree. I had never ridden so hard in all my life, ridden as if a thousand devils from hell were at my heels.

    Just as I was beginning to relax, I saw a small hump-back bridge over a winding mountain torrent. I knew it to be an old granite stone bridge which was scarcely the width of three people walking. I eased back the throttle on my machine to negotiate it in safety and then…

    Then, by the light of my front lamp, I saw the pale figure of the priest standing in the centre of the bridge; standing waiting for me.

    In fright, I tugged at the handlebars of my machine, wrenching them, as I made a silly and futile attempt to ride through the gushing stream rather than run over the bridge.

    My front wheel hit a stone and the next thing I knew was that I was cart wheeling over and over in the air before smashing down on a soft muddy surface of the bank. The impact still drove the breath out of my body and I lost consciousness.

    It was only a momentary loss. I remember coming to with a swimming, nauseous sensation. I blinked.

    A foot away from my face was the pale, parchment features of the priest. The colourless eyes seemed to be staring through me. His breath was stale, fetid and there was a terrible stench of death on him. I felt his hands at my throat. Large, powerful claws, squeezing.

    "Stop, Doheny!"

    It was the old woman's shrill tones. Beyond the priest's shoulder I caught a glimpse of her, the veil thrown back, while the skull-like face was staring in triumph with a livid weal of a scar showing diagonally from forehead to cheek.

    The pressure eased a little.

    "He is not one of them, Doheny. Leave him be. He is to be witness to what we have done. Leave him be. What we have done will live in him and he will pass it on so that it will be known. Leave him be."

    

    The old priest, with incredible strength, shook me as if I were no more than a rag doll.

    "Leave him be," commanded the old woman again.

    And then I must have fainted.

    When I came to, there was no one about. I pressed my hand against my throbbing temples and rose unsteadily to my feet. For a moment or two I could not remember how I had wound up in the mud of the mountain stream. Then I did remember. I gave a startled glance about me but could see no sign of the old priest and woman. The mountainside was in darkness. The only movement was that of the trees whispering, swaying and rustling in the winds that moaned softly over the mountain.

    I stood a moment or two attempting to get my bearings. Then I saw the black heap of my Triumph motorbike lying in the shallows of the stream. I tried to move it out of the water but saw immediately, by the buckled wheel and splintered spokes, that even if I could start the machine it would be useless. Nevertheless, I attempted to start it. The starter gave a weak "phutt" and remained lifeless. It was obviously waterlogged.

    I manoeuvred it to the bank of the stream and then waded up to the humpback bridge. There was nothing for it but to start walking down the mountain to Ballynagree. My head was throbbing and my mind was a whirl of conflicting thoughts. Was someone playing some terrible joke, a joke which was in bad taste? But no one would go to that extreme? Surely?

    It took three hours of trekking down the muddy pathway before I saw the first signs of habitation.

    I finally saw the dark outline of the garage where I had stopped for petrol. I stumbled towards it numb and frozen and hammered on the door. It was a while before I heard a window go up in the room above the garage front. A light shone down and a voice cried: "Who's there?"

    "My motorbike has broken down and I'm stranded," I yelled. "Can I get a taxi from here or stay the rest of the night?"

    "Man, do you realize that it is three o'clock in the morning?" came the stern reply.

    "I was stranded on the mountain, on Musheramore Mountain," I replied.

    A woman's voice came softly to my ears although I could not hear what was said.

    The window came down with an abrupt bang. I waited hopefully. A light eventually shone in the downstairs window. Then the door was opened.

    

    "Come away in," said the male voice.

    I entered, feeling ice cold and drained from my experience.

    As the light fell on me, the garage man recognized me.

    "You're the young man who asked me the way to 'Teach Droch-Chlu' earlier this evening, aren't you?"

    I nodded. It was the man whose overalls had proclaimed his name to be "Manus".

    "That's right. My motorbike has broken down. I need a cab."

    The man shook his head, nonplussed.

    "You look all in." He turned and drew up a bottle of Jameson from a cupboard and a glass. "This will warm you up," he said pouring the whiskey and pushing the glass into my hands.

    "What were you doing up at 'Teach Droch-Chlu' at this time of night? Are you a ghost hunter? Is that it?" And without waiting for a reply he continued: "I can telephone Macroom for a car to collect you, if you like. Where do you want to get to?"

    "To Cork City."

    "And where did your bike break down?"

    "Up the mountain track somewhere, near a river crossing. By a humpbacked bridge."

    "Ah, the spot is known to me. I'll go and pick your bike up tomorrow. Give me a number where I can contact you and I'll let you know what repairs need to be done."

    I nodded, frowning at him as I sipped my whiskey.

    "Why did you ask if I was a ghost-hunter?"

    "You asked for 'Teach Droch-Chlu'. That's what the locals call it hereabouts, the house of evil reputation. We call it that on account that it has a reputation of being haunted. You know, it is one of the old 'famine' cottages which have survived in these parts."

    I gave a diffident shake of the head and pressed the whiskey to my lips, enjoying its fiery warmth through my chill body.

    "I was looking for Father Nessan Doheny," I explained.

    The burly man stared at me a moment as if in surprise and then gave a low chuckle.

    "So I was right then? Well now, I hope that you didn't find him."

    I stopped rubbing my hands together and gazed at him in astonishment.

    "Why do you say that?"

    "Because Father Nessan Doheny has been dead these last one hundred and sixty years."

    A chill, like ice, shot down my spine.

    "Dead one hundred and sixty years?"

    "Surely. Didn't you know the story? He led his flock to Musheramore Castle during the time of the 'Great Hunger' to plead with Lord Musheramore to help the surviving peasants and stop the evictions. The soldiers were called in from Mallow and given orders to charge the people who were kneeling on the lawn of the castle in prayer. Father Nessan Doheny was sabred to death with many of his flock."

    I swallowed hard.

    "And… and what happened to Brid Cappeen?"

    He roared with laughter.

    "Then you do know the old legend! Of course you did. It is local knowledge that 'Teach Droch-Chlu' was her old cabin. All part of the old legend. Well frankly, I think it is simply that. No more than a legend. Poor Father Doheny and the demented Brid Cappeen are long since dead. To think on it, the idea of an old woman reanimating the corpse of a priest to enact vengeance on Lord Musheramore and his ilk! God save us!" He genuflected piously. "It is a legend and nothing else."

    

    

    

    She had told herself that it might never get this far, all the while hoping against hope that it would. Now she could no longer be sure which was the delusion and which the reality. It was out of her control.

    "Chris? You still here?" It was Rip, the messenger boy who had hung around long enough to become Executive in Charge of Special Projects. Whatever, exactly, that denoted. He caught the door as he passed her office, pivoting on one foot and swinging the other up to cross his knee with his ankle, the graceful pose of a dancer at rest or the arch manoeuvre of a runner pretending that he was so far ahead he no longer had to hurry. She couldn't decide. She studied him abstractedly and feigned amusement as he asked, "Aren't you going to the party tonight?"

    "Do you care whether I go to the party tonight?"

    "Sure." He grinned boyishly, as though forgetting for the moment that he was thirty-five years old. "The network's going to be there, you know." He glanced up and down the hall, ducked inside and lowered his voice to make a joke of his naked ambition. "You hear what we're getting for Milo?"

    "Let me guess," she said. "A belly dancer? No, that was for his birthday. A go-go boy from Chippendale's?"

    Rip imploded a laugh. "You've got to be kidding. He can't come out of the closet till the third season."

    "You never know." You wish, she thought. Closet, my ass. I could tell you some things about Milo, if you really want to know. But you probably wouldn't believe me; it wouldn't fit your game plan, would it? Milo the Trouser Pilot. Dream on. "I give up," she said, "what?"

    Rip closed the door behind him. "We hired this bimbo from Central Casting. She's going to come in - rush in at five minutes of twelve, all crying that she just totalled Milo's car out front. You know, the white 450 SL? She's so sorry, she's going to pay for everything, if her insurance hasn't expired. Milo's freaking, right? So she gets him up to the bedroom where the phone is, she's looking for the number, she starts to break down, she whips off her dress and offers herself- when all of a sudden, surprise! It's a strip-o-gram! Happy Valentine's Day! We're all coming. You got a camera, Chrissie?"

    "I'll bring my 3-D."

    "What?"

    "See you there, R. Right now I've got to retype my outline." What time's it getting to be? she wondered.

    "You mean 'Zombies'? I thought it was all set."

    "It is. But Milo had some last-minute suggestions. Nothing major. He wants it on his desk tomorrow morning."

    "Great," said Rip, no longer listening. "Well, don't work too hard."

    If I don't, she thought, who will?

    "And Chrissie?"

    "Yeah?"

    "Have yourself a fabulous evening, stag or drag. Remember, Don't Open the Door's headed straight for Number One - we've got it made! Uh, thanks to your episode, of course. 'Queen of the Zombies' is going to put us over the top!"

    "Thanks for telling me that, R."

    And don't call me Chrissie, she thought, as he let himself out.

    I have it made, you have it made, they have it made, we have it made… I'd like to see them, Milo or anybody else in this production company, do the real work for once: interviewing writers, extracting stories, rewriting all night so there's something more than high concept to give the network… I should have stayed a secretary. At least I'd sleep better.

    But then where would they be? And where would / be? Back in Fresno, she thought. At my parents'. Instead of here, scuttling around behind the scenes to hold this surrogate family together. If I had a dollar for every time I've saved Milo's tight little ass the night before a pitch…

    With stories like this one, she thought, shuffling papers.

    I finally found the right one. Oh, didn't I. This time, miraculously, it was all there when it came in over the transom; the only real work I had to do was to punch it up a bit and hand it to M for the presentation. The perfect episode to launch the second season. That's what they called it. I wanted them to think it was mine, let's be honest. And it worked. Am I really supposed to give back this office for the sake of an abstraction? Who is Roger Ryman? With the specifics changed it will be all but unrecognizable by the time it shoots - I'll see to that; they'll let me do the script. Who else? And with it will come a full credit at last, Guild membership… Who will be the wiser? Ryman is probably earning an honest living somewhere, and better off in the long run. He'll never see it. I'll bet he doesn't even have cable.

    But what if one of his friends sees it?

    Forget it, Chrissie. Chris. You're psyching yourself out.

    You wanted in this way, admit it. You did.

    She removed the last sheet of her latest revision from the typewriter, the one incorporating the changes from today's meeting with Milo, and began proofreading from page one:

    

    

    

    Three o'clock in the morning. The market is under siege - by the walking dead.

    Zombie shoppers converge on the produce department, where the night manager and a checker, his girlfriend, are hiding behind the lettuce. He's got to get her out of there before they spot her. They want something more than fruit and vegetables.

    He makes it to the p. a. system, grabs the microphone, announces a special on liver as a diversion. The zombies shamble off to die meat department.

    He sends the checker crawling to the front door - but now zombie reinforcements are pouring in from outside. She changes course, sidles between the aisles, is pressed back to the meat department, where the zombies are busy feasting on liver.

    One lone zombie arrives at the end of the cold case. All the meat is gone. Rings the bell with thick, jerky movements. No answer. So he climbs up over the counter, grabs the butcher hiding there, lifts him, sticks a hand into the butcher's abdomen and takes his liver.

    As the feeding frenzy continues, the checker is splattered with blood and guts. She screams.

    "CUT!"

    We see that a movie is being shot in the market. But the girl, who plays the checker won't stop screaming. As the zombies take off their masks she runs from the set, hysterical.

    "Great!" the director says to his fx man. "Only next time more blood, okay, Marty?"

    He goes off to find the girl.

    

    

    

    In the parking lot, the director comforts her. She wants to please, knows she's not giving him what he needs, but it's too much for her. She's cracking. She's about ready to get on the bus back to Indiana.

    The director needs her. She's going to be the Queen of the Zombies. He sends her back to the Holiday Inn. A hot bath, rest - what else can he do for her? He'll even rehearse her later, in private, if that's what it takes.

    She put down the pages. Perfect, and so was the rest of it. Now it really moved. Screw the outline, she thought; I could go to script right now, while I've got the momentum, if Milo didn't need to send this version to the network for approval first. A formality. I could keep working - I didn't want to go to that god-awful party, anyway. I can have it done ahead of schedule… They'll finally realize how important I am to this operation. It might even occur to Milo that he needs an Associate Producer. Why not?

    Was he still in his office? She could pay her respects now, beg off for the evening, explain that she's going home to work. That would impress the hell out of him. Wouldn't it?

    She clipped her pages together and reached for her purse.

    The hallway smelled faintly of disinfectant, and in the distance she heard already the bump and rattle of waste baskets as the cleaning woman moved from room to room in the building, wiping up other people's messes for them and making things right again. As Chris passed the reception area she saw the cart of brooms and cleansers behind a half-closed door, and beyond, through the window in Rip's office, the skyline darkening under a band of air made filthy by another day in the city. It was later than she had thought.

    "Good night," she called out.

    The cleaning woman straightened and wiped her heavy hands on her uniform, then let her arms hang limp with palms open, as if afraid to be accused of stealing. Her face was flat and expressionless.

    "Have a nice - nice holiday," Chris added. Well, it wasn't really a holiday. Did the woman even understand English?

    Before she went on they exchanged a last glance. The other's gaze was steady and all-accepting, beyond hope and yet strangely at peace. There was a hint of disapproval in the deadpan face; it left Chris vaguely uneasy, as if she were a teenager spotted sneaking in or out of her bedroom. In fact the look was almost pitying. Why? She lowered her eyes and moved away.

    

    She rapped on Milo's door, then entered without waiting for permission.

    The room was empty. Of course he hadn't bothered to say good night. Why should he? He never had before. That would change, of course. She had had her office for three days, but it would take awhile for that to sink in for all of them. Things would be different around here soon enough.

    She saw the usual signs of a hasty departure. A row of empty Coke cans, a drawer still pulled out for Milo's feet, a flurry of message slips like unfilled prescriptions curling next to the phone, a rat's nest of papers teetering at the edge of the desk.

    In spite of herself she found the sight more touching than appalling. He needed someone to bring order to his life, to tidy up after hours each night. He couldn't do it alone. It wasn't his fault, she reasoned; it was his nature… She felt like the sister who corrected his homework for him while he slept, the girlfriend who slipped him answers to the big test, the mother who saw to it that his hair was combed before he left for school. She was none of these things, she knew, but soon he would recognize her worth. The days of being taken for granted were over.

    She smiled as she crossed the office and set her corrected outline triumphantly on the glass desktop, where it would be waiting for him in the morning. He couldn't miss it.

    She stacked the message slips, centering her pages between the overflowing ashtray and the rings left by his coffee cup. She positioned his paperweight to hold the pages in place, aligned a pencil on either side to frame them, and started to leave.

    The cart was clattering out of Rip's office, heading this way.

    What if the cleaning woman rearranged things further, slid the pages to the bottom of the wrong pile?

    Chris would have to tell her not to touch the desk.

    But what if she could not make the woman understand?

    She sighed and emptied the ashtray herself, dumped the cans into the waste basket, wiped the glass top and lined up the rest of his artefacts so that nothing on the desk would have to be touched. As she pushed his notepad under the phone and made ready to leave before being caught in the act, the bell within the phone mechanism tolled once, disturbed by the impact. She blinked.

    And saw what was written on the top page of the pad.

    She blinked again, reread it, her mind racing to understand.

    It was in Milo's familiar scrawl, his last memo of the day. She had no trouble making it out. It read:

    

    BILL S. TO WRITE QUEEN OF THE Z'S. WHO'S HIS AGENT?

    

    She stared at it.

    She put her hands on her hips, shifted her weight to one foot, then the other, looked out the window and saw nothing but blackness, and read it one more time before her eyes began to sting. The meaning was unmistakable.

    Milo had already assigned someone else to do the full script.

    She was not even in the running.

    She never had been.

    She would be lucky to receive a split credit. No, probably not even that much.

    Suddenly the scales lifted from her eyes.

    She could already envision another writer's name on the screen. Perhaps Milo's alone. It had happened before.

    It follows, she thought. God, does it ever.

    And I didn't even see it coming.

    Of course she wouldn't be able to file a protest, because that could lead to an arbitration that might reveal the true author whose work she herself had appropriated.

    I have, she thought, been had. Again.

    But this time I'm not going to settle for the bone they've tossed me. Not now.

    This time it stops here.

    She picked up the ashtray and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the framed LeRoy Nieman print hanging on the wall. Then she took back the pages and walked out of the office, bits of broken glass sticking to the soles of her shoes and grinding underfoot.

    Startled, the cleaning woman stepped aside.

    "Not this time," Chris told her through tears of rage. "Comprende? I - I'm sorry. Excuse me…"

    I've made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

    Or someone has.

    In her office, she riffled through the file until she found the original draft synopsis, submitted without an agent by an unknown whom she had never met, Roger R. Ryman. He had included both his home and work phone numbers on the title page.

    She throttled the receiver, breaking a fingernail as she dialled.

    At first he didn't recognize her name. But when she said the magic words, Don't Open the Door, he remembered the series and his submission and almost squeezed through the phone to lick her face.

    Yes, he would meet her anywhere, anytime.

    She gave him Milo's address.

    He didn't think it at all odd that she asked him to meet her at a Valentine's party.

    

    

    She calls home tearfully. She's getting ready for that bath, when the director walks in.

    Everything's going to be all right. You can do it, he tells her. He'll work with her personally. He takes the part of a zombie during their run-through, touches her, grabs her, enfolding her. She responds desperately, forgetting the script. She needs him. And she thinks he needs her.

    

    

    She calls home again - but with a different story this time. Yes, she's doing okay. She's going to make it out here, after all.

    "And Mama? I met a man. Not just any man. He's wonderful, so kind. He really cares what happens to me…"

    Great, she thought. Now the only question is, Which one is he?

    Bodies of all sizes and shapes streamed past her, arrayed in costumes of one sort or another - heart-shaped hats, dresses with arrows, shoes with cuddly designs, kitschy T-shirts, enamelled pins, patterned headbands, pastel jogging suits from the Beverly Centre, ersatz camp from Melrose Avenue. Teddy bears lurked in corners with billets-doux pinned to their bibs; mylar balloons drubbed at the ceiling like air bubbles at the surface of an aquarium. She gasped for breath as unidentifiable people bobbed around her, all luminous collars and teeth under the ultraviolet lights, and searched for an opening before the pressure of the music closed in on her again. As she swam against the flow for the nearest door, something like a pincer tried to grasp her thigh, while in the shadows the bears with their shiny black sharks' eyes seemed to move their heads, following her progress.

    Another record began to pound, "Waiting Out the Eighties" by the Coupe de Villes, as long-necked men with trimmed moustaches collected around a garish buffet in the kitchen. She had almost passed through when she noticed a huge dyed pate, its top cleaved to resemble the wings of a gull in flight. The centre collapsed to reveal a dull, livery interior as the men dipped hors d'oeuvres into the mould and made jokes, a thin film of workout sweat glazing their receding hairlines. She recognized the most animated of the conversationalists.

    "Rip…"

    He grasped her shoulder and drew her to arm's length, holding her until he finished his joke, as though she had intruded on an audition. When he finished he threw his head back and laughed too loudly, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down in a vigorous swallowing motion. Finally he turned to her.

    "Chrissie, love!" He pulled her closer. "Mark, I'd like you to meet our new Story Editor."

    "Rip, have you seen…?"

    "No, I don't know where Milo's scampered off to. But I'll bet he's up to no good." He hooked a thumb at the ceiling. "Try topside."

    "Rip, if anyone asks for me…"

    "If I were you, love - " Rip winked. "I wouldn't disturb him just yet."

    I'm on my own, she thought. I always have been. The rest was an illusion.

    "Never mind." She hoisted a fresh champagne glass, emptied it. "See you at midnight," she said, slipping through to the stairs.

    There were a lot of voices up there. Perhaps that was where she would find what she was looking for. It was getting late, and she had to have everything in place before the fireworks started.

    

    

    She's in the chair, getting the coddling she needs from her new family. The makeup man is kind, sensitive. She may have left her real family back home, but at last she feels that she belongs somewhere.

    When she leaves the chair, the makeup man and crew change their tune. The poor kid's getting to be a pain. She's too nervous, high-strung, dangerously unstable. But it's too late to replace her. Time is running out.

    

    

    She breaks down again. The director tries to coach her but it's still not enough. She's too insecure. After take twelve, she pleads with him for the chance to do it again.

    

    "Tell me the way you told me last night. I only want it to be good."

    "That's all I want, too," he tells her.

    The dim stairway was tricky. A blur of zippy, ironic faces as she ascended: young men without sideburns and casually elegant young women dragged along like camp followers, their made-up smiles fixed and grimly determined. Her wrist brushed something cold and slick. It was a heart-shaped satin pillow, carried as an offering by someone of indeterminate gender. She drew away and hugged the wall as she stepped over sodden paper plates; she made out an imprint of two lovebirds billing and cooing beneath half-eaten potato salad and drooping chicken wings.

    "Excuse me," she said.

    "Excuse me," said the person with the pillow. "Are you the one?"

    "I hope so," she said, averting her eyes and hurrying on. Then the words and the masculine timbre of the voice registered. She stopped, looking back.

    "I beg your pardon," she said, "but…"

    Below, a nostalgic sixties strobe light flickered over dancing heads, rendering them all as anonymous as a second-unit crew.

    She felt as if she were still trapped in a pattern that had been set decades ago. It would never change unless she did something about it. This was no time to falter. She remembered something her father had said to her before he went away. When you sit, sit. When you stand, stand. But don't wobble. The last few hours had brought his words home to her; now she understood.

    Where was he? Time was running out.

    She scanned the tops of the heads below, but the man with the heart was gone.

    She started back down the stairs, panicking. He must not get away.

    From the other side of the stairwell, something shiny thrust out to touch her.

    "You are," said the man with the satin pillow. "I can tell."

    "Thank God."

    She pressed him up the stairs to the second landing. A dimmer hallway stretched ahead, cut across by shafts of subdued light from the several bedrooms. She did not remember which was Milo's but knew she must find it before the appointed hour. From below she heard a rush of excitement. Was the girl Rip had hired here already?

    "Come with me," she said. "We have to talk."

    

    

    The director is having dinner with his producer. The pressure is on to finish in time. But the director can do it. He's done it before. The last scene is going to be a killer.

    In the scene the girl's boyfriend, the night manager from the supermarket, will lead soldiers to a graveyard to rescue her. There will be lots of pyrotechnics.

    Now the girl appears in the dining room. She sits down without being invited, expecting to be warmly received. She assumes that she is part of the director's life now. She waits for his greeting. But he only looks at her. He takes her aside and tells her impatiently to grow up. This is real life.

    

    

    The director goes to his fx man for help. The girl is hanging everybody up. He can't let it go on this way. Nothing is more important than the picture.

    What scenes does she have left? They go over the storyboards: only the Burning of the Zombies. The night manager will lead the attack on the graveyard, shot gunning dummies of zombies behind the gravestones. Then the National Guard lobs grenades in - the boyfriend will have to run a careful path around the explosive charges. Once the dummies are blown, he'll torch them with a flamethrower.

    All they need from the girl is a close-up of her as she receives a blood squib from the shotgun, her shocked expression as she comes to her senses and recognizes her lover at the instant he kills her. Then cut to an exploding dummy.

    Is there a way to shoot around her? Long shots, a better dummy, more bloody and effects to cover? The other zombies will be blown away using dummy substitutes, but they need her for the reaction shots - she's the Queen of the Zombies.

    Marty is always one step ahead. He's saved the director's ass time and again. This time he's already made an alginate cast of the girl. He's got a full latex body mould of her ready as a back-up. It is lifelike to the tiniest detail. It's more than a dummy - it can be worn by a double, if necessary. Now they can finish with or without the girl.

    

    You're a genius, the director tells him. This is going to be a bloody masterpiece regardless of actors. They’re nothing but trouble, anyway.

    She led him on down the hall. There was a lilting peal of laughter from the first bedroom; from the second she heard boisterous chatter, and through the unlatched door glimpsed a pale hand with razor blade describing furiously in the air above a horizontal mirror. The third was closed, with a crude sign attached to the doorknob: private - off limits. That, she guessed, was Rip's doing.

    She pulled the man with the heart into the adjoining bathroom. The connecting door was ajar; in the bedroom, the soft, filtered glow of a small lamp. It was enough. "Here, we can be alone…"

    He stood uncertainly in the middle of the bathroom floor. "I've been waiting for you," he said.

    "I know. I've been waiting for you, too," she told him, and heard giggles and footsteps approaching in the hall.

    "Busted," he said.

    "No." She backed up to secure the door. "Not us."

    Leaning against it, she allowed her eyes to flutter shut. She waited for the room to stop spinning so that she could make the speech she had rehearsed. When she opened her eyes, he had moved closer.

    He stood before her and tilted his head quizzically.

    "But you don't know what I've got planned, do you?" she said. "I should explain."

    "You don't have to," he said. "I think I understand."

    "How could you?"

    "I told you. I've been waiting a long time."

    "Forgive me. I'm being rude. I don't mean to be. It's just that it's all happened so fast…"

    "Take it easy," he said. He withdrew to give her breathing space and sat on the edge of the tub. "I don't mind waiting a little longer." A reflection from the tiles glinted playfully in his eyes.

    Good, she thought. He's game.

    "As long as it's not too long," he said.

    In the hall, the footsteps and the giggling drew nearer.

    

    

    The girl arrives with notes in hand, more eager than ever to please her director.

    But he's not in his chair. Somebody else is - a woman.

    

    The director's wife. The crew is gathered around, laughing and reminiscing. The wife is now the centre of attention. The girl is displaced.

    She finds the director and tells him off. He uses people. He doesn't care about anything but blood, blood and more blood. Why did he lead her on? Shell tell the world, starting with his wife.

    He tells her the facts of life. "She already knows." He doesn't need the girl anymore. The relationship is a wrap.

    As she runs from the set, the wife observes. How sweet and innocent the girl looks. "I hope she doesn't take it too seriously. I used to - but now we lead separate lives. I learned a long time ago that this is his only real world -making movies. It's all he lives for. Real flesh and blood can't compete. The only thing he's truly married to is his capacity for illusion…"

    

    

    The crew is working feverishly to rig everything for the climax.

    The director lingers after the rest of the crew have gone home. At 4 a.m. he finishes checking every detail. The zombie dummies are propped up on armatures behind the tombstones, the oil-smoke pots are ready, the crosses are tilted just so. Nothing left but to call "action" at dawn. For now, he'll catch an hour's shuteye in his trailer.

    "It won't be long," she said when the footsteps passed.

    He shook his head sadly. "It's been such a long, long time," he said at last. "I'd almost given up hope. But you are the one, aren't you? Yes. You are."

    "I'm the one," she said. "Now listen…"

    He waved the stuffed heart. "I've been carrying this around, trying to find the right person to give it to." He made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a shudder. "But no one would take it."

    "You didn't need to do that," she said. Something to recognize him by? She could not remember any mention of it on the phone. It was a good idea, of course; it would have made him easier to spot. Or was it a gift? "What is it?"

    

    He stood and came closer, holding it out. "What does it look like? I wanted to give it away, but there were never any takers. I wonder why that is? But now you're - "

    "Yes, of course. There isn't much time. I don't know where to begin. You must be wondering why I brought you here."

    "It doesn't matter."

    "It does! That's what I'm trying to tell you. I see a lot of people…"

    "So do I," he said. "Or I did. That's all over now."

    Somehow he had gotten across the floor and was now only inches from her. She couldn't see his face; in the shadows he could have been anyone. She recalled a brief flash on the stairs: kind features, pained eyes, a hangdog expression. That only made her feel worse. She forced herself to go on. She could make things right. It was not too late.

    Before she could speak, he braced his hands on either side of her head and leaned in to kiss her.

    At first she was too dumbfounded to resist. Then she thought, Oh Christ, not at a time like this. Then she thought, What did he imagine when I called him, led him here…?

    My God.

    "Wait," she said, breaking and turning aside.

    But he pressed her and enfolded her mouth again.

    At that moment someone pushed on the other side of the door at her back, trying to gain entry. Her front teeth struck his with a grinding like fingernails on a blackboard.

    "Sorry," mumbled a voice from the hall.

    She spread her hands against his chest. "No," she said, "please, you don't understand. That's not what this is about."

    "What is this about, then?"

    "Will you hurry up in there?" said the voice from the hall.

    She was shaken, confused. But there was no time for that. The clock was ticking.

    Now there was a pounding on the door.

    "This way," she said, and dragged him through the connecting door to the bedroom.

    "I wish you'd make up your mind."

    "Listen," she said, "my name's - "

    "I don't care."

    "You sent me a story, right? I showed it to my producer. He liked it. So much that he wants it for next season. But not to buy it. Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not making myself clear. It's my fault, too. I'll tell you about that later. But you'd better get down to WGA Manuscript Registry first thing in the morning. File whatever you've got - preliminary drafts, notes, anything."

    "Why should I do that?"

    "I'm trying to help you! They're going to steal your story. When Milo comes up here, I want you to tell him who you are."

    She took the pages of the original version from her purse.

    "I had to warn you. Whatever he says, don't back down. We're in this together. Now any minute all hell's going to break loose. Regardless of anything, know that I'll stand up for you. I want to make it up somehow. Maybe you'll end up hating me, I don't know. But I've got to try. I'm truly sorry. Believe that."

    She inhaled, exhaled, wishing her heart would slow down. In the bathroom a few feet away, someone locked the doors.

    The bedroom was quiet, the lighting cool. On the nightstand the contents of a lava lamp flowed together, heated up and broke apart again into separate bodies, endlessly. Her mouth hurt; it was warm and wet. There was a sound of water running.

    "What, may I ask," the man said, "are you talking about?"

    "I'm trying to tell you that I'm all for you," she said, "no matter what."

    Impatience flared in his eyes.

    "Make up your mind," he said.

    

    

    The graveyard is spooky - he almost feels that he's being followed. He's about to enter the trailer when a ghoul appears. It's the girl, in full ghastly makeup.

    He tries to get rid of her, knowing she's not really needed. But this time she's coming on differently. Not whining and needful, but happy as a puppy dog and all set to please. See? She's ready, and she's going to be perfect. She's even worked out a little something extra for her moment of death. It's her own idea and she's sure he's going to like it. If she can just try it out on him first.

    She seems to have accepted reality. She really wants more than anything else for the picture to be good, after all. The same thing he wants. It's all that matters. She realizes that now.

    "You've taught me a lot. More than you know. Now let me give you something back - what you really want. I want it now, too."

    

    

    She runs through her expressions as he stands in for her lover. She screams on cue. Almost perfect. She needs to try it with the shotgun. She's brought it with her, already loaded with wax blood bullets. She's thought of everything.

    "You want it to be real, don't you?" She presses him to take the prop gun. "We have to do it right. I want you to see how much I'm willing to give you. Let's do it all the way. And this time you're going to get everything you want. I promise."

    He's reluctant, but he plays it out. When she starts screaming, he fires the shotgun. The look in her eyes is one of peace at last, as blood explodes and she sinks down the wall to the floor.

    "Jesus, that was great! What a take! If we'd had a camera…" He leans down, shakes her. "Cut. That's it. You've finally got it. Hey, what's the…?"

    He touches the wound. It's real. When she handed him the gun, it had a live round in the chamber. She had planned it that way.

    He cleans up frantically to get rid of the evidence - no one will believe what really happened.

    What about the body?

    A desperate plan. Hell replace her dummy on the set with the real thing, propping her up behind the tombstone like all the other dummies. The evidence will be blown to hell, then burned to a cinder. When the flamethrower hits her, the rubber makeup will bum like napalm. There won't be anything left.

    He'll put her into position himself. No one will notice.

    "I'm doing you a favour," she told him. "At least that's what I'm trying to do. If you'll let me."

    "Are you the one?" he repeated more forcefully.

    "Yes. I mean no." She evaded his grasp once again. "I mean…"

    "But you said you're the one." He waved the heart-shaped pillow.

    "Not like that," she said. "This is about something more important. Don't you see?"

    "I should have known. You're not who I thought you were."

    "Yes!"

    "Which is it?" he said, angry now.

    "Just - not the way you mean it!"

    He was about to leave.

    "This is very important to me," she said.

    "To you," he said. "It always gets down to that."

    "And to you! What's the matter with you? Haven't you heard a word I've been saying? Can't you…?"

    He glared down at her. He tapped the pillow into her chest. "It never changes. You're just like all the rest." He tapped her again more aggressively. "It's always me, isn't it? Isn't it."

    "What do you mean?"

    "What do you mean?" he said fiercely, directly into her face.

    Her scalp began to crawl. Who is this man? she thought. I've made another mistake, the biggest one of all.

    "Wh-who are you?" she said.

    "Who are you" he said, "to ask that? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

    She tried to dodge him as he lunged for her, a lifetime of disappointment igniting his rage. He grabbed her and flung her against the hall door before she could get it open, pushed himself in front of her. The pillow thrust up under her chin, forcing her head back. It wasn't soft, after all. It had something dangerously hard inside it. In fact it wasn't a pillow. It was an elaborate, padded Valentine gift box.

    He raised it high. She saw the red heart poised to strike her, the satin covering worn, tattered, stained but still a deep crimson, like his face and the roadmap of years there, like the blood that ran from his cut lip. She didn't know who he was. He could have been anyone.

    He was a madman.

    Suddenly the door rattled. It rammed into her spine as someone tried to open it. She was driven into his arms.

    "Huh? Oh. Sorry." Milo's voice through the crack, and behind him the sound of hysterical, theatrical weeping. "Come on. There's another phone down the hall."

    "Wait!"

    "Have fun…"

    The man in front of her hesitated. In that moment she made her move and sprang for the doorknob. But he was on her. She twisted around and snatched the heart, heavier than she had imagined, and hit him with it. When he would not let go of her she swung it at his face again and again. She heard a dull breaking sound as she struck bone. The box broke and lumps of candy went flying, shriveled and hard as rocks. He dropped to his knees, a mystified look in his eyes, and toppled forward.

    Then other people were in the room, Rip leading the way. Cheerful whispers turned to gasps.

    "What have you done?" someone said.

    "I didn't do anything! He - he was - "

    "He was what? What did he do?" A tall woman moved to comfort her. She smoothed Chris's hair, saw the bruised lips, the torn buttons, the wild look. "It's all right now. He tried to assault you, didn't he? I've seen his kind before. The bastard."

    "Who is that guy?" someone else said. "Who invited him?"

    "I'll call a doctor."

    "It was self-defence," said the woman, holding Chris too tightly. "Don't say a word to anybody. Do you understand? You had no choice. Who knows what he would have done to you if he'd had the chance? Something much worse. You know that, don't you?"

    Chris had never seen her before. Now she could not remember any of the other faces, either.

    She tore free and rushed to the stairs.

    Below, in the empty living room, the music had stopped. One solitary young man remained. He stood up self-consciously.

    "Excuse me," he said, "but do you know a Christine Cross?"

    She stared at him dumbly. She could not think of an answer.

    "Well, if you see her, would you mind telling her that I've been looking for her? My name's Roger. I'm supposed to meet her here. Hey, is something wrong? Is that blood on your…?"

    Without breaking stride she ran outside, the taste of blood, her own or someone else's, drying to salt on her lips.

    

    

    All is ready: backlight through fog, tilted crosses. Zombies propped up like shooting gallery targets.

    The director tells Marty to use extra-strength charges. He doesn't want to see anything left when the smoke clears, not even the animal blood and guts inside the dummies.

    "ACTION!"

    The boyfriend, the night manager, runs like a soldier through a mine field. Dummies are shot gunned one by one, then blown up, then torched. All except the girl. She will be the last shot. Where is she for her close-up?

    We don't need her, says the director, winking at Marty.

    

    She's not on the set? Who knows where she is - probably on the bus back to Indiana. Who cares? This is my picture and I say we don't need her. We've got a perfect dummy. Just blow it up - now.

    "ACTION!"

    The night manager advances on her, shotgun ready. But before he can fire, her head lolls to one side.

    "Wait," calls the script girl. "Her head's out of position -it won't match."

    "I'll fix it," says Marty.

    "No!" The director can't let anyone handle her - they'll discover it's a real body. He'll have to do it himself.

    "Watch your step!" yells Marty.

    The director threads a careful path to her tombstone. Tries not to look at her face as he adjusts the head. There. He stands back.

    Ready?

    "Hold it," says Marty. Now there's blood running out of her mouth. The shot still won't match.

    "Just get it, will you?" says the director. He grabs the shotgun and prepares to fire the blood pellet into her himself. But before he can pull the trigger, her head lolls again as she starts to come to. She's not dead!

    He pumps a shot into her, another. But the bullets aren't real this time. Her eyes open and look at him, seeing him there in her moment of triumph. She smiles.

    "Die," he mutters, "die…!"

    She raises her arms, zombie like, as if to embrace him.

    He lunges at her, his hands going for her throat to make it right for the last time. Her arms go around him, pressing him to her in a final paroxysm - and the wires attached to her body make contact, setting off the charge. They are blown up together, married in blood for all eternity.

    It's the last shot, the best effect of the film.

    

    END

    

    

    

    The best thing about the dead is you can't get pregnant from sitting on a chair they've just been sitting on, like you can with live people. When live people warm up the seat (especially the toilet seat - that's where AIDS comes from) and you sit on it after them and it's still warm, the heat activates the hormones in your body and fertilizes the eggs, and nine months later you have a baby. But the dead don't leave warm seats because their body temperature is about the same as winter tap water.

    The worst thing about the dead is they don't sleep, so if you go downstairs for a glass of water in the middle of the night you're liable to find my grandpa sitting at the kitchen table staring off into the dark, and this frankly gives me the creeps. We have the Night Of The Living Dead to thank for all of this. The most interesting thing about that occasion (apart from the fact that it happened in the middle of the afternoon) is that such a cataclysmic event didn't seem to bother many people at the time. Personally speaking I find that weird because I was only eleven when it happened and it fucked me up considerably, I can tell you.

    You probably know all about it - I mean you'd have to have been living in a monastery on the Orkney Islands for the last three years to avoid knowing - but I'll tell you anyway, because (a) it will give like a personal perspective on the whole thing and (b) I'm doing this as my mid-term English essay.

    For a start, it was nothing like the movie.

    If you saw that particular classic, you'll remember how the dead came out of the ground and stumped about in waist-high mist with their arms stretched out like sleepwalkers. This was not exactly accurate. Think about it; when they bury someone the coffin is sealed and put in a hole that's packed with earth and tamped down, so we're talking about several hundred pounds of wet dirt to push up, assuming that you can get the lid of the box open in the first place -which you wouldn't be able to do because there's not enough depth in most coffins to give your arms the necessary leverage. The simple fact is, nobody came out of the ground. When the dead came back to life it was only the ones in the morgues and hospitals that reawoke, and if any others were lying around above ground for any reason, they would have risen too.

    They didn't walk with their arms raised either; their hands hung limply at their sides and they didn't really move about much, although they did fall over a lot. But the main difference with the film is that they didn't kill people and try to eat their brains. If you think it through logically, how could they? They were dead, and that means brain-dead, and wanting to eat someone else's brains suggests conscious thought, which they don't have. Eating a brain isn't going to restore your own. That's like saying if you eat part of a cow you'll grow four stomachs. Also, if you wanted to eat someone's brains you'd have to get their head open, which I shouldn't think is as easy as it looks on the screen. It's like the vampire thing in movies. You know, the biting part, when Dracula makes two holes in someone's neck and sucks the blood out. Excuse me, but did someone just cancel the laws of physics or something? When you open a tin of condensed milk you have to make a hole on either side of the can to allow the milk to escape. So a vampire would have to make sure that his mouth only went over one of the holes, otherwise he wouldn't be able to suck any blood out - unless he could really suck, in which case the person he was sucking would sort of dent inwards like a punctured football.

    So. No coming out of the ground, no eating brains. That's the trouble with the living dead, they're nothing like their movie counterparts. In fact, they're really boring. These days some of them can do rudimentary root-memory things like read The Sun or hum songs from Cats, but you can't train them any more than you can train really stupid insects or our biology teacher's dog. You can point up in the air and they'll follow your finger but then they'll stay like that for hours, like chickens expecting rain. And it's because they're dead, end of story. I mean, dead is it, finito, after you're dead you don't understand the punchlines to jokes or remember to set the video, it's all over, baby. I don't specifically remember much about the night it happened except that it was a Wednesday, it was raining hard and I was late home from school. I'd been caught unravelling the elastic inside a golf ball during Social Studies and had been made to stay behind for Detention. I remember walking home and seeing one of the dead shuffling ahead, a man of about fifty. My first sighting. It was a weird experience, as though I'd been waiting all of my admittedly short life to see something like this, and now that I had it made sense of everything else.

    The figure before me was drifting more than walking, his feet barely rising from the ground. As far as I could see in the fading light he was dressed in normal street clothes, although they were dirty, as though he'd been in a fight. His head was lowered a little but he was staring forward and seemed to know where he was going. As I drew abreast of him I caught an overpowering stench of chemicals, formaldehyde I suppose, as though he had just heaved himself up from the mortuary slab. His face was grey and speckled, the texture of my Dad's IBM slipcase, but his eyes were the real giveaway. They had this fixed dry look, like doll's eyes, I guess because there was no fluid to lubricate •them and they were stuck in one position. I kept pace with him as I passed, and it was then that I realized I wasn't really scared.

    When someone is dangerous they give off warning signals, and if you're receptive to the signals you back away. But this guy was just dead and there weren't any signals, good or bad, and I instinctively knew that the worst thing that could happen was he could fall over and land on top of me. The street was pretty empty, and the few people who passed us didn't seem to see anything wrong. I guess in the rain-hazed dimness there was nothing unusual to see beyond the fact that the old man didn't have a raincoat on and was getting pretty soaked. Finally I arrived at my turning, and the dead guy just shuffled onwards into the gloom. I watched him go for a while, then headed home.

    I missed the early evening TV news but asked my mother if there had been anything about the dead coming back to life and she made a face and said no. I remembered noticing that her eyes were puffy and red, as if she'd been crying about something and was trying not to let me see. Later, on the portable in my room, the footage appeared. There right in front of me, live on cable, the anchorwoman was awkwardly reading a report that several cadavers in a hospital morgue in Leeds had been found walking along the corridors of the building. She said similar phenomena were being reported all over the world, although I don't think she believed a word of it. Then some ecosystems guy who looked like he'd just got out of bed kept patting down his hair and saying it was all to do with the ozone layer, and I thought As If. I mean, you don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that there's no link between the depletion of the ozone layer and the reanimation of dead tissue. That's like saying Nintendo games give you rabies or something, get a grip.

    

    I tuned the TV to CNN because they repeat the same stories over and over, and there it was, actual footage of ZOMBIES lumbering along roads and bumping into walls and generally looking thick. I rang my friend Joey "Boner" Mahoney to tell him to turn on the TV but his dog stepmother answered and told me it was too late to talk to him.

    The next day I attempted to discuss what was happening with my friends at school, but no one was that interested except Simon Waters. Unfortunately Simon believes that crop circles are made by Venusians, not by a couple of sad guys with a piece of rope and a plank, and is desperate to believe in any scenario that's more interesting than his own miserable existence, which consists of getting lousy marks at school and going home to a father who is having an affair with a foot specialist. That was when I began my Deadwatch, which is a notebook marked out so that I can record each dead sighting as it happens.

    With each passing day there were more and more sightings as the walking dead took to the streets. Soon I was recording as many as ten or fifteen on a single Saturday morning (the women are particularly fond of milling around the Trolley Collection Point outside Sainsbury's), and I stopped bothering with the book because there were too many to keep up with. To begin with, most of these ambulatory cadavers were in pretty good condition. I mean their jaws and ears weren't hanging off or anything, but once in a while you'd see one in a really bad state. There was a guy on the bus in a hospital gown, and the stitches down the front of his chest had burst open so that his intestines were hanging out and rolling from side to side as the bus turned corners. That was pretty gross. But in the early days most of the corpses seemed to stay in one piece.

    You see, it wasn't just a Night Of The Living Dead, as we had thought at first. It was a Night After Night. The effects of whatever had revived them were sticking around, so the authorities had to come up with some kind of legislation to cope with the problem. They simply arranged for bodies to be buried at a new standard depth and for mortuary doors to be kept locked. Still, an awful lot of Deadies seemed to be walking around, more every day, so either someone was letting them out (which I'd seen a Right-To-Life group doing on the news) or they were finding ways to escape prior to burial.

    The government couldn't settle on a reason for what was happening, and still haven't come up with a satisfactory cause to this day. They set up an independent enquiry to investigate what was going on - i.e. cut open some corpses and have a poke around - but found nothing conclusive. The corpses were just inert organisms that wouldn't lay still. They had no heartbeats and coagulated blood and hardened veins and leathery skin and dry staring eyes. At first the scientists thought it was radiation in the atmosphere, then Rogue Viral DNA, but I knew they really didn't have a clue when everyone started to blame the French. Anyway, none of this really touched my family or our lives. We continued to see the dead sitting in bus-shelters looking neither happy nor sad (looking like they were waiting for a bus really). We saw them in gents outfitters staring vaguely at the shelves, we saw them standing shell shocked outside cinemas and pizza parlours (they weren't allowed near food but they seemed to enjoy being in queues) and we saw them sunbathing in park deckchairs with newspapers over their faces, and the only way you could tell they were dead was because it was raining.

    I guess this was about a month after the actual NOTLD, and now that everyone could see the dead weren't going to hurt anybody, all kinds of trouble started. For one thing, no matter how harmless they were, the dead tended to creep people out. It was only natural; the way they looked and smelled was depressing to say the least. The police wanted special powers to round them up because they were always falling onto railway lines and wandering into busy traffic, but all kinds of groups began protesting, arguing that because they were still walking around the dead had souls and therefore had human rights.

    Then doctors began worrying that the bodies would decompose and put everyone at risk from germs, but the corpses didn't really rot. Because the newly dead leaked so much they slowly got drier and more leathery, and this was helped by the fact that it was winter and a lot of them had taken to sitting in libraries where the central heating caused an arid atmosphere.

    They got damaged and tatty-looking from constantly bumping into things, and some of them lost fingers and clumps of hair, which made them even creepier looking. (Oddly enough, they managed to keep a natural sense of propriety. If one of them tore his trousers he would tug the hole around so that people wouldn't have to sit on the tube facing his willy.) While television shows and newspaper articles preached respect for the dead, teenage gangs began going out and tampering with the bodies, cutting bits off or dressing them in inappropriate clothes to make them look silly. My friend Joey once saw an old man in the high street wearing a glitter wig and a ballet tutu. Also, some unscrupulous entrepreneurs hung advertising on them, but most people disapproved of this.

    The dead weren't supposed to travel on the tubes because they never bought tickets, but one or two always managed to get through the barriers, only to spend the entire day trying to open the drawers on the platform's chocolate machines. They never made much noise, I think their vocal chords sort of dried out over time, but God, the older ones started to look awful. The problem was, even if they fell into the river and floated about for a few days being run over by motorboats, they would eventually drift to the shore, to climb out and begin aimlessly walking around again. Hospital crews collected the most disgusting ones and took them away somewhere.

    Around this time I remember seeing an old woman fall off a Routemaster bus and get dragged around the block on her face. I followed her just to see what would happen if her coat-strap managed to disentangle itself from the pole. When the poor old love finally hauled herself to her feet (nobody was willing to help her - the dead are kind of ignored now, like the homeless) the remaining part of her face fell off like torched wallpaper, leaving her with tarmac-scraped bone and a surprised expression. It was not a pleasant sight.

    A few weeks after this, one wet Saturday afternoon, my grandpa died. He had lived in the house with us for years even though my mother had never liked him, and at first nobody realized that he had died. He just stayed in his armchair all day staring at the television, but I knew something was wrong because he would normally start shouting at the screen when the wrestling came on and today he didn't. He did make himself a cup of tea, but he left the teabag in the mug, drank it scalding and immediately peed it back out. My father wouldn't let my mother call the hospital and they had a huge row, after which it was decided that grandpa could stay for a while so long as he didn't get in anyone's way. My mother refused to change his clothes, but Dad argued that they wouldn't need changing very often as he no longer had operative sweat glands. Still, it was difficult to break the old geezer of his tea making habit. I guess when you've been making 10 cups of Brooke Bond a day for 60 years you don't need motor-neurons.

    Grandpa wasn't allowed out by himself because he had a tendency not to come back and we would have to go looking for him. Once I was allowed to go on a grandpa-hunt with my Dad, and we had to search the park just as it was starting to get dark. There were dozens of them - Deadies - sitting motionless beneath the rustling elm trees. They were seated in deckchairs around the bandstand with their hands in their laps, quietly waiting for the music to start. It was a strange sight. I stopped going to the park after that.

    A few days later I took grandpa to the cinema. I guess it was an odd thing to do, but I was supposed to be looking after him and there was a film I really wanted to see, one of those slasher films with music that creeps up on you, and I managed to pass grandpa off as alive, although the usherette looked suspiciously at us. Halfway through the film, just when the heroine had gone to the cellar to look for her cat even though she knew there was a homicidal maniac loose, I turned to find the old man staring at me with wide, flat eyes. He wasn't breathing of course, and his mouth hung open to reveal a thick dry tongue that looked as if it had been carved out of Spam. What bothered me most was the way he repeated one of his living mannerisms, tilting his head slightly to look at me, so that for a moment I couldn't tell if he was really dead. It was just the illusion of life, of course, but an unsettling one.

    A few weeks later, grandpa took it upon himself to revive another root-memory and peel some potatoes. He remembered the peeler but unfortunately forgot to use it in conjunction with a vegetable, and succeeded in removing most of the skin from his fingers before I came home from school and found him staring at a set of bony protrusions that looked like badly sharpened pencils. The very next day he sat down on the stove while the burners were lit and seared himself badly. My mother threatened to leave us if my father didn't arrange for him to be put somewhere, so the following morning found me standing on the doorstep waving goodbye to grandpa as he stared sightlessly back and stumbled off across the flowerbeds, led by a disinterested hospital porter smoking a joint.

    I rarely leave my bedroom now. I don't go to school anymore. There are just too many dead people about, and it bothers me. They blunder into the garden at night and follow you to the shops and fall down the steps of public lavatories and float past you on the ferry, and it's undignified. My mother seems to understand how I feel, and lets me have most of my meals in my room. She's become overfriendly with the cocktail cabinet these days, anyway. The extraordinary thing is, the living dead don't seem to count anymore. It doesn't matter that the stench of corruption is all around us. We've grown used to the smell. The government continues to chair pointless debates and issue toothless white papers. The general public has ceased to care or even notice. The fabric of society is gently rotting through, even if the dead aren't. So I'm formulating a plan, because someone has to do something. Somebody has to care. Somebody has to take affirmatve action before it's too late.

    Kevin Grady, Upper 4B

    

    "It makes you wonder what he thinks about," whispered Mrs Grady, pulling the tablecloth in by the corners and removing it. "He'll sit like that for hours on end, just staring down into the street, watching the people come and go."

    

    "You should be thankful," said her neighbour, helping her clear away the cups and saucers. "My Joey's a holy terror these days, out every night mixing with heaven knows what kind of riff-raff."

    She looked across at the chalk-faced child seated before the window, and a cloud of doubt momentarily formed in her mind. It was unnatural for a teenaged boy to sit so still. When you spoke to him he stared back in accusing silence. And the terrible way he looked at you, with murder in those deep-set eyes. "Joey tells me he's doing his homework," she continued, "but I know damned well he's running with that gang of his. I have no control over him, and his father's absolutely no help at all. But your Kevin…" She furrowed her brow and uneasily turned aside as the boy glanced at her in suspicion. No wonder his mother was bashing the Bristol Cream these days, with her son wandering about the house dressed in black, narrowing his eyes at every passing adult. He'd probably grow up to be a serial killer.

    "Kevin's a good boy," said his mother firmly. "He's terribly bright. And sensitive. He and his granddad were very close. He's been a lot quieter since the old man died. Wouldn't even come with us to the funeral. I hope it doesn't have any lasting effect on him."

    "I shouldn't think so," the neighbour whispered back. "Children are resilient. He's very quiet, though. He should go outside more and get some fresh air. Mix with the others. Swim. Play football." She threw the torpid child a look of desperation. "Anything."

    Mrs Grady unfolded her arms from her ample chest and looked about for the sherry bottle. "I wish he would, but he prefers to stay in his room watching horror films all the time." She poured overgenerous measures into a pair of amber glasses. "It gives him such an overactive imagination. I think Kevin sees the world differently to most children. He has some very odd ideas. I'm sure it's just a phase, but right now, well…" She turned to her friend and brought her face closer, confiding.

    "It's… the way he looks at us sometimes. Almost as if he wishes we were dead."

    

    

    

    This is a story that never ends.

    This is a story that never ends, but I know when it started. Thursday, May 24th, was the date. That night was the beginning of everything for me.

    For Cono Colluri it was the end.

    Cono and I were sitting there, playing two-handed stud poker. It was quiet in his cell, and we played slowly, meditatively. Everything would have been all right except for one thing. We had a kibitzer.

    No matter how calmly we played, no matter how unemotional we appeared to be, we both were aware of another presence. The other, the kibitzer, stayed with us all night long.

    His name was Death.

    He grinned over Cono's shoulder, tapped him on the arm with a bony finger, selected the cards for every shuffle. He tugged at my hands, poked me in the back when I dealt.

    We couldn't see him, of course. But we knew he was there, all right. Watching, watching and waiting; those big blind holes in the skull sneaking a look at the clock and counting the minutes, those skeleton fingers tapping away the seconds until dawn.

    Because in the morning, no matter what cards turned up and no matter how much money changed hands, Death would win the game. The game, and Cono Colluri.

    It's funny, looking back on it now, to figure out how the three of us happened to get together that particular evening - Cono, myself, and Death.

    My story's straight enough. About six months beforehand I'd taken a Civil Service exam and ended up for a probationary period as a guard at State Pen. I wasn't too excited about the job when I got it, but I felt it might give me routine, a small but steady income, and a chance to turn out a book on the side. By the time a few months had passed, I knew I was wrong. The idea of turning out a novel in a background of security sounded fine when I started, but there was no security in a guard's life. I found I couldn't write. The bars and the concrete penned me in just as much as any of my charges. And I began to develop my own sense of guilt.

    I guess my trouble was too much empathy. That's a big word -meaning the ability to put yourself in the other fellow's place. "There but for the grace of God go I" - you know that feeling. I had it, but double. Instead of writing at night, I tossed around on my bunk and suffered the torments of the thousand men under my charge.

    That's how I got friendly with Cono, I guess - through empathy.

    Cono came to the death cell in an awful hurry. His had been a short trial and a merry one - the kind of thing the newspapers like to play up as an example of "quick justice". He'd been a professional strong man with a carnival - the James T. Armstrong Shows. The story was that he got too jealous of his wife and one of the other performers. At any rate, one morning they found Cono lying dead drunk in his trailer. His wife was with him, but she wasn't drunk - merely dead. Somebody had pressed two thumbs against the base of her neck, and something had snapped.

    It was an ideal setup for "quick justice" and that's just what Cono Colluri got. Within three weeks he was on his way to the death-house, and for the past two weeks he'd been a guest of the state. A temporary guest. And he was moving out tomorrow morning - for good.

    That, of course, explains why Death showed up at our little card party. He belonged there.

    Oh, perhaps not for the entire night. He undoubtedly had rattled down the short - oh so terribly short! - corridor to the little room with the big chair. He'd probably peered and eaves-dropped on the electricians who tested the switches. He'd certainly have stopped in at the warden's office to make sure that the mythical pardon from the Governor wasn't on its way.

    Yes, Death must have checked all those things to make certain that this was really a farewell card party. And now the uninvited guest was kibitzing as Cono and I dealt our hands.

    I knew he was there, and Cono knew it too, but I have to hand it to the big man. He was cool. He'd always been cool; on the stand, swearing his innocence, he'd never lost his temper. Here in the cell, talking to the warden, to the other guards, to me, he'd never broken down. Just told his story over and over again. Somebody had slipped a Mickey in his drink and when he woke up, Flo was dead. He'd never harmed her.

    Of course, nobody believed him at the trial. Nobody believed him in the prison, either; the warden, the guards, even the other convicts knew that he was guilty and ready to fry.

    That's why I had the honour of spending the last night with him - he'd made a special request for my presence. Because, believe it or not, I believed him.

    Blame it on empathy again, or on the very fact that I noticed he never lost his temper. The way he talked about the case, the way he talked about his wife, the way he talked about the execution -everything was out of character for a "crime of passion" murderer. Oh, he was a big brute, and a rough looking one, but he never acted on impulse.

    I guess he took to me right away. We used to talk, nights, after I drew guard assignment on his bloc. He was the only prisoner awaiting execution, and it was natural that we'd get to talking.

    "You know I didn't do it, Bob," he'd tell me - over and over again, but there was nothing else to talk about, for him - "It must have been Louie. He lied at the trial, you know. He had been drinking with me, no matter what he says, and he offered me a slug out of the bottle behind the cookhouse, after the last show. That's the last thing I remember. So I figure he must have done it. He was always hanging around Flo anyway, the little crumb. The Great Ahmed warned me, said he saw it in the crystal. But of course, he came into court with this alibi and - oh what's the use?"

    There was no use at all, and he knew it. But he told me over and over again. And I believed him.

    Now, this last night, he wasn't talking. Maybe it was because Death was there, listening to every word. Maybe it was because they'd shaved his head and slit his trouser legs and left him to wait out these last few hours.

    Cono wasn't talking, but he could still grin. He could and he did - smiling at me and looking like a great big overgrown college boy with a crew haircut. Come to think of it, he wasn't much more than just that; only Cono had never gone to college. He went with his first carney at fifteen; married Flo when he was twenty-three, and now he was going to the chair two days before his twenty-fifth birthday. But he smiled. Smiled, and played poker.

    "My king is high," he said. "Bet a quarter." "See you," I answered. "Let's have another card."

    "King still high. Check. Funny thing, aces aren't coming up much tonight."

    I didn't answer him. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I was cheating. I'd taken the Ace of Spades out of the pack and put it in my pocket before the game started. I didn't want him to get that particular card on the table tonight of all nights.

    "Fifty cents on the king," said Cono.

    "See you," I said. "I've got a pair of nines."

    "Pair of kings." He turned up his cards. "I win."

    "You're just naturally lucky," I told him - and wished I hadn't.

    But he smiled. I couldn't face that smile, so I looked at my watch. That was another mistake, and I realized it as soon as I made the gesture.

    His smile didn't alter. "Not much time left, is there?" he said. "Seems to be getting light."

    "Another hand?" I suggested.

    "No." Cono stood up. Shaved head, slit trousers and all, he was still an impressive sight. Six feet four, two hundred and ten pounds, in the prime of life. And in just an hour or so they would strap him into the chair, turn on the juice, twist that smile into a grimace of agony. I couldn't look at him, thinking those thoughts. But I could feel Death looking; gazing and gloating.

    "Bob, I want to talk to you."

    "Shall we order breakfast? You know what the warden said - anything you want, the works."

    "No breakfast." Cono put his hand on my shoulder. The fingers that were supposed to have broken a woman's neck barely pressed my skin. "Let's fool 'em all and skip the meal. That'll give the nosey reporters something to talk about."

    "What's up?"

    "Nothing much. But I got things to tell you."

    "Why me in particular?"

    "Who else is there left? I got no friends. Got no family I know of. And Flo's gone…"

    For the first time I saw a look of anger flicker across the big man's face. I knew then that whoever had killed Flo was lucky when Cono got the chair.

    "So it has to be you. Besides, you believe me."

    "Go on," I said.

    "It's about the dough, see? Flo and me, we were saving for a house. Got better'n eight grand stashed away. Somebody's gonna, get it, so why not you? I wrote this here letter, and I want you to have it."

    He pulled the envelope out from under his bunk. It was sealed, and scrawled across its face in the sprawling handwriting of a schoolboy was the name, "The Great Ahmed".

    "Who's he?"

    "I told you, he's the mitt reader with the carney. A nice guy, Bob. You'll like him. He stuck up for me at the trial, remember? Told about Louie hanging around Flo. Didn't do any good because he couldn't prove nothing, but he was - what did the lawyer say? - a character witness. Yeah. Anyhow, he banks for all us carneys with the show.

    "Take the letter. It says to give you the money. He'll do it, too. All you got to do is look him up."

    I hesitated. "Wait a minute, Cono. You'd better think this over. Eight thousand dollars is a lot of money to pass out to a virtual stranger - "

    "Take it, pal." Again he smiled. "There's a string tied to the bundle, of course."

    "What do you want?"

    "I want you to use some of that dough to try and clear me. Oh, I know you haven't got much of a chance, and nothing to work on. But maybe, with the dough, you'll get an angle, turn something up. You're leaving this joint anyway."

    I jerked my head at that. "How did you know?" I asked. "Why, I only told the warden yesterday afternoon - "

    "Word goes around." Cono smiled. "They give me the office that you're springing yourself out of here this Saturday. That you aren't satisfied to be a screw the rest of your life. So I says to myself, why not give him the eight grand as a kind of going-away present? Seeing as how we're both going away."

    I balanced the envelope on my palm. "The Great Ahmed, eh? And you say he's with the show?"

    "Sure. You'll find their route in Billboard" Cono smiled. "They must be somewhere around Louisville right now. Heading north as it gets warmer. I'd sort of like to see the old outfit again, but…"

    The smile faded. "One more favour, Bob."

    "Name it."

    "Scram out of here."

    "But - "

    "You heard me. Scram. I expect visitors pretty soon, and I don't want you to stick around."

    

    I nodded, nodded gratefully. Cono was sparing me that final ordeal - the warden, the priest, the mumbling farewell, the shuffling down the corridor.

    "Goodbye, Bob. Remember, I'm depending on you."

    "I'll do what I can. Goodbye, Cono."

    The big hand enveloped mine. "I'll be seeing you around," he said.

    "Sure."

    "I mean it, Bob. You don't believe this is the end, do you?"

    "Maybe you're right. I hope so." I had no intention of getting into a discussion about the after-life with Cono, in his situation. Personally, I had a pretty good idea that once the juice was turned on, Cono would be turned off- forever. But I couldn't tell him that. So I just shook hands, put the letter in my pocket, unlocked the cell, and walked out.

    At the end of the corridor I turned around and looked back. Cono stood against the bars, his body outlined against the yellow light but blending into the shadows that come with dawn. There was another shadow behind him - a big, black shadow outlining a ghost of a figure.

    I recognized the shadow. Old Man Death.

    That was the last I saw -just the two of them, waiting together. Cono and Old Man Death.

    I went downstairs, then, to my bunk. The night shift came off and the day shift went on. They were all talking about the execution. They tried to pump me, but I didn't say anything. I sat there on the edge of the bunk, looking at my watch and waiting.

    Upstairs they must have gone through the whole routine, just the way you always see it in the B movies. Opening the door. Handcuffing him to a guard on either side. Marching down the corridor. Yes, just about now it would be happening. The night shift went outside to get the news, leaving me alone on my bunk. I looked at my watch again. Now was the time.

    They'd be strapping him down now, putting that damned black cloth over his eyes. I could see him sitting there; a big, gentle hulk of a man with a tired smile on his face.

    Maybe he was guilty, maybe he was innocent - I didn't know. But the whole stupid business of execution, of "justice" and "punishment" and "the full penalty of the law" hit me in the pit of the stomach. It was cruel, it was senseless, it was wrong.

    The seconds ticked away. I watched the little hand crawl around the face of the watch and tried to figure it out. One minute Cono would be alive. A jolt of electric current and he'd be dead. Trite idea. But it's the eternal mystery all of us live with. And die with.

    What was the answer? I didn't know. Nobody knew. Nobody except the kibitzer. Old Man Death knew the answer. I wondered if he had a watch. No, why should he? What's Time to Death?

    Thirty seconds.

    Sure, I'd quit my job. I'd try to clear Cono. But what good would it do him? He'd never know. He'd be dead.

    Twenty seconds.

    The hand crawled around, and the thoughts crawled around. What's it like to be dead? Is it a sleep? Is it a sleep with dreams? Is it just dreams but no rest, no peace?

    Ten seconds.

    One moment you're alive, you can feel and hear and smell and see and move. And the next - nothing. Or - something. What's the change like? Like suddenly turning out the lights?

    Now.

    The lights went out.

    First they dimmed, then they flickered, then they went out. Only for a second, mind you. But that was long enough.

    Long enough for Cono to die.

    Long enough for me to shudder.

    Long enough for Death to reach out, grinning, and claim his prey in the dark…

    I was still in a daze when I hit the railroad station on Saturday morning. So much had happened in the last two days I still couldn't figure it out.

    First of all, there was that business about Cono's body. I'd gone to the warden, of course, with the story about the money, and I more or less expected to handle funeral expenses from Cono's funds when I got them.

    "His cousin will bury him," the warden told me. "Got a call this morning."

    "But I thought he had no relatives."

    "Turns out he has, all right. Fellow named Varek. Oh, it's legitimate, we always check. The Doc insists - makes him mad every time somebody shows up and cheats him out of an autopsy."

    The warden had chuckled, but I didn't laugh.

    And the warden hadn't chuckled long. Because the next day, Louie had confessed.

    Louie the contortionist, that is - the man Cono claimed had given him the knockout drops in his drink. The warden got a wire, of course, but the whole story hit the papers that afternoon. It seems he'd just walked into the station-house in Louisville and confessed. Came out with the entire statement without a sign of emotion. Said he just wanted to clear his conscience once he knew Cono was dead. He'd hated Cono, wanted Flo, and when she repulsed him he rigged up the murder to get revenge on both of them.

    The story was lurid enough, but it had gaps in it. The report I read claimed Louie was a hophead. He was too calm, too unemotional. "Glassy-eyed" was the way they put it. They were going to give him a psychiatric test.

    Well, I wished them luck, the whole lot of them - psychiatrists and district attorneys and smart coppers and penologists. All I knew was that Cono was innocent. And he was dead.

    By this time I'd already checked on the Armstrong Shows through Billboard. They were playing Louisville this week, all right. I sent through my wire Friday afternoon. Saturday morning I got a telegram signed by the advance agent in Paducah.

    GREAT AHMED LEFT SHOW THREE WEEKS AGO STOP OPENING OWN MITT CAMP IN CHICAGO STOP WILL CHECK FORWARDING ADDRESS AND NOTIFY LATER

    So I was on my way to Chicago and eight thousand dollars. I'd hole up in some hotel and wait for news on the Great Ahmed. And after that - well, with the money, my writing problems would be solved.

    Actually, I should have been happy enough at the way it had all turned out. Cono's name was cleared, I was out of the whole sordid grind forever, and I had eight grand coming, in cash.

    But something bothered me. It wasn't just the irony of Cono Colluri's innocence. It was the inexplicable feeling that things weren't settled, that they were only beginning. That I had somehow been caught up in something that would sweep me along to -

    "Chicago!" bawled the conductor.

    And there I was, in the Windy City at 5 p.m. on Saturday, May 25th. It wasn't windy today. As I lugged my grip out of the LaSalle Street Station I walked straight into a pouring rain.

    There's something about a storm in Chicago. It seems to melt all the taxicabs away. I stood there, contemplating the downpour, watching the cars inch along under the El tracks. The sky was dark and dirty. The water dribbled ink stains along the sides of the buildings. I couldn't stand watching it in my present mood.

    So I walked. I turned corners several times. Pretty soon there was a hotel. It wasn't a good hotel. It was located too far south to be even a decent hotel. But that didn't matter. I needed a place to stay in for a couple of days until the money was located. And right now, I had to get out of the rain. My suit was soaked, and the cardboard in the luggage had taken a beating.

    I went in, registered. A bellboy took me up to my room on the third floor. Apparently he hadn't expected me. At least, he didn't know about my coming in time to shave. But he opened my door, deposited my luggage and asked if there'd be anything else now. Then he held out his hand. It would have taken me all day to give him a decent manicure, so I put a quarter in his palm instead. He was just as happy with that.

    Then he left, I opened my grip, changed clothes, and went out to eat. The rain had moderated to a drizzle. I stopped in the lobby long enough to get eyed by the night clerk, the house dick, and a woman with improbable red hair.

    During the pause I managed to send off a telegram to the advance man of the carney, giving him my new address and requesting action on locating the Great Ahmed. That concluded my business for the day.

    At least, I thought it did at the time.

    Nothing happened to change my mind during supper. I ate at a fish joint and contemplated the delightful prospect of returning to my crummy room and holing up for the weekend.

    I don't know if you've ever spent a Sunday alone in downtown Chicago, but if you haven't, I offer you one word of advice.

    Don't.

    There's something about the deserted canyons on a Sunday that tears the heart out of a man. Something about the grey sunlight reflected from grimy roofs. Something about the crumpled bits of soiled paper flopping listlessly along empty streets. Something about the mournful rattle of the half-empty elevated trains. Something about the barred shop-windows and chained doors. It gets to you, does things to your insides. You start wondering whether or not, in the midst of all this death and decay, you're really alive.

    The prospect didn't please me at all. I finished my meal, put another quarter in another palm, and wandered out down the street.

    After all, it was still Saturday night. And Saturday night was different. The rain had definitely stopped now, and the street was black and gleaming. Neon light reflections wriggled like crimson and gold serpents across my path.

    You know what serpents do, of course. They tempt you. These particular neon serpents were saying, "Come in. Have a drink. You've got nothing to do tonight anyway, and nobody to do it with. Sit down. Place your order. Relax. You're due for a little relaxation after six months in prison. It's a long sentence. You know what a con does after he's sprung. You're entitled to a little fun."

    There were serpents all around me. Serpents spelling out the names of taverns, night-clubs, come-on joints, clips, dives. All I had to do was take my choice.

    Instead, I walked back to the hotel, went in the lobby, and checked with the night clerk to make sure my telegram was really on the way to the carney. Then I went up to my room and rid myself of all money except for a ten-dollar bill. I wasn't taking any chances on getting rolled.

    The night was still young. I'd probably feel young myself with a few drinks in me. I went back down to the lobby and toyed with the notion of the hotel bar.

    The improbable redhead had disappeared, and so had the house dick. The place was almost deserted now. Almost, but not quite. There was a blonde sitting in a chair near the elevator. I'd looked at her once when I'd come downstairs and now I looked at her again.

    She was worth a second look.

    Genuine. That's the only word to describe her. Genuine. To begin with, she was a real blonde. No peroxide glint, no unnatural accent in makeup. The fur she wore was real, and so were the diamonds.

    Those diamonds really stopped me. The ring was too big to be phoney. Even if the stone were flawed, it must have set her (or somebody) back a pretty penny. And the same went for the big choker that clung to her neck in a glittering caress.

    Her smile seemed genuine, too.

    And that was the phoney part.

    Why should she smile at me? Me, with my forty-dollar suit and my ten-dollar bill tucked away in its watch pocket?

    I didn't get it. And I didn't want it. I walked towards the lobby entrance to the hotel bar. She stood up and followed.

    I walked into the dimly-lit bar, around it, and out the front door to the street. I'd do my drinking somewhere else, thank you.

    There was a little place across the street down the block. I ran into it, crossing in mid-traffic. Before I opened the door I glanced back to make sure that she wasn't following. Then I went in.

    The joint was small - an oval bar and five or six booths grouped on either side of a juke-box. The bartender on duty was lonesome.

    "What'll it be, Mac?"

    "Rye. Top shelf."

    He poured. I drank. Just like that. Fast. The stuff was bonded, like a bank messenger.

    "Refill, please."

    He poured. I watched his black bowtie. It was beginning to wobble in anticipation of the conversation forming in his larynx. Abruptly it stopped wobbling.

    Because the door opened and she came in. Big as life, and even blonder. The neon on the juke-box did things to her diamond choker.

    There was no place to hide. No real reason for me to hide, for that matter. She came right over, sat down, motioned to the bartender. "The same," she said. Nice, rich, husky voice.

    She watched the man pour, then transferred her gaze to me. Her eyes matched the diamonds she was wearing.

    "Let's sit in a booth," she suggested.

    "Why?"

    "We can talk there."

    "What's wrong with right here?"

    "If you prefer."

    "What's the proposition?"

    "I want you to come with me, to meet somebody."

    "You'll have to talk plainer than that, lady."

    "I said we should take a booth."

    "Nothing wrong with mentioning names right here in the open."

    "No." She shook her head. Those diamonds shed enough light to blind a pedestrian walking across the street. "I am not permitted to mention names yet. But it will be to your advantage to come with me."

    "Sorry, lady. I'd have to know more about it." I looked down at my glass. "For example, who sent you to me. How you found me. Little details like that. Maybe they're nothing to you. Me, I find them fascinating."

    "This is no time to make jokes."

    "I'm serious. And I say I'm not playing unless you tell me the name of the team."

    "All right, Bob. But - "

    That did it. The name. Of course, she could have picked it up off the hotel register easily enough. But it jarred me more than anything else up to that point. It jarred me right on down to my feet.

    "Good-night," I said.

    She didn't answer. As I walked out, she was still staring at me. Blue diamond eyes winked me out of the tavern.

    I walked out. I didn't go back to my room and I didn't go to another tavern. I headed north, crossed under the El tracks into the Loop. There was a burlesque show. I bought a ticket and sat through a dreary performance of which I remember nothing except the old blackout skit about the photographer in the park who complained that the squirrels were nibbling his equipment.

    I spent my time trying to fit the pieces together. Who was this girl? A friend of Cono's? A friend of Flo's? A friend of the Great Ahmed's? A friend of the carney advance man? Or just a friend?

    Cono was dead and Flo was dead. They couldn't tell her where to find me. Ahmed didn't know I existed, let alone where I was. The carney advance man wouldn't know my address until the telegram arrived.

    Could it be that she had a line into the prison and had learned I was about to receive eight thousand dollars?

    Was she simply working the hotel, picking my name from the register at random?

    But if so, what was this story about a proposition, and meeting somebody?

    It didn't make sense. I sat there a while and tried to figure the deal out, then I left.

    Eleven o'clock. I headed back to the hotel. This time I peeked into the lobby before entering. She wasn't around. I slid unobtrusively past the entrance so the night clerk wouldn't pay attention. He was reading a science fiction magazine and didn't look up.

    The elevator operator took me to the fifth floor without removing his eyes from the Racing Form. Quite a bunch of students in this hotel. Probably working their way through mortician's school.

    I walked down to the door of my room very quietly. I listened at the keyhole before I unlocked the door. Then I opened it fast and switched on the light.

    No blonde.

    I examined the closet, the washroom. Still no blonde. Then and only then I went to the phone, called room service, and ordered a pint of rye and some ice.

    It was still Saturday night and I was still entitled to a drink, without strange blondes butting in.

    

    But when the drinks came, I found the blonde was still with me. Prancing around inside my skull, making propositions, winking her diamonds at me.

    It didn't take me long to finish the bottle and it didn't take the bottle long to finish me.

    Somewhere along the line I managed to undress, don pyjamas, and slump across the bed. Somewhere along the line I drifted off to sleep.

    And that's when it started.

    I was back in the burlesque house, sitting in the crummy seat, watching the stage. This time the performance was more interesting. There was a new comic in the cast - a tall fellow with a shaved head. He looked something like Cono. In fact, he was Cono. Big as life. A chorus line danced out behind him; eight, count 'em, eight nifty little numbers. They danced, kicked, whirled. Cono noticed them. He did a little shuffling dance of his own, gyrating to the end of the line. Then he reached out - in the old familiar gesture used by the late Ted Healy in chastising his stooges - and flicked them across the neck. One by one. As his fingers touched each girl in turn, she changed.

    Heads dangled limply from broken necks. The eight dancing girls became eight dancing cadavers. Eight, count 'em, eight. The dancing dead. The dancing dead, with skulls for heads. Skulls with diamond eyes.

    Dead arms reached out and scrabbled in dead skull-sockets. They picked out the diamonds and threw them at me. I twisted and turned, sweated and squirmed, but I couldn't dodge. The diamonds hit me, seared me with icy fire.

    Cono laughed. The girls danced off stage and he was all alone. All alone except for the chair. It stood there in the centre of the stage and the lights went down. As the spotlight narrowed, Cono moved towards its centre, closer to the chair. He had to stay within the circle of light or die.

    Then the circle narrowed still further and he was sitting in the chair. As if by magic, squirrels danced out on the stage. They each carried a tiny thong, and each bound the thong around Cono's arm or leg or neck until he sat there crisscrossed with thongs that lashed him to the chair.

    I don't have to tell you what kind of a chair it was. What else would it be?

    And I don't have to tell you what was going to happen next. Even in my dream I knew it, and I struggled frantically to wake up.

    

    But I couldn't. I couldn't even leave my seat in the theatre. Because while I had been watching Cono getting bound into the chair, somebody had bound me!

    Now I was sitting in an electric chair, hands tied, feet tied, electrodes clamped and ready. I tugged and tore, but I couldn't move. They had me, all right. It had all been a trick, a dirty trick to get my attention away from myself.

    I knew that now. Because suddenly Cono burst his bonds with a flick of his fingers, the same fingers that had killed the dancing girls. He stood up and laughed because it was a joke. A joke on me.

    He wasn't going to die. I was. He'd live. He'd get the eight thousand dollars and the blonde, and I'd fry. Just as soon as they turned on the juice. The bonded juice. The neon lights were winking now and the bartender was ready to pull the switch as soon as the conductor called out "Chicago!" and now they were getting ready to give the signal. While waiting, Cono stood on the stage and amused me with card tricks. He pulled the Ace of Spades out of his mouth and held it up for me to see.

    Then it was time. Somebody came onstage and handed him a telegram from the carney and that was the signal for them to yell "Chicago!"

    The switch was ready. I felt the cold sweat running down my spine, felt the electrodes bite into the side of my leg, the side of my head. And then, they pulled the switch -

    I woke up.

    I woke up, sat up in bed and stared out the window.

    Through the windowpane, the blonde stared back at me.

    I could only see her face, and that was funny, because it was a full window. Then I realized it was because she wasn't vertical, but horizontal. And only her face was pointed towards me.

    Shall I make it plainer?

    I mean she was floating in empty air outside my window.

    Floating in empty air and smiling at me with her icy eyes aglitter.

    Then I really woke up.

    The second dream, or the second part of the dream, was so real I had to stagger over to the window and convince myself that there was no one outside. It took me a minute before my trembling legs would support me and carry me that distance, so if she really had been at the window there'd have been enough time for her to get back down the fire escape and disappear.

    Of course she wasn't there.

    And she couldn't have been, because there was no fire escape. I gazed down at a sheer drop of five floors to the closed and empty courtyard below. It was black down there, black as the Ace of Spades.

    I don't know what I should have done under the circumstances; all I know is what I did do.

    I shoved my head under the cold water faucet, towelled my face dry, dressed, and rushed out of my room in search of a drink.

    And that's when the next nightmare started.

    There was this little joint three blocks south of the hotel. I ran all the way, couldn't stop running until I'd covered that much distance. The street was deserted and it was dark, and only this little joint had a rose light burning in the window. It was the light that drew me, because I was afraid of the dark.

    I opened the door and a blast of smoke and sound hit me in the face but I ploughed through it blindly to the bar.

    "Shot of whiskey!" I said, and meant it.

    The bartender was a tall, thin man and he had a glass eye that almost fell out as he bent his head while pouring my drink. I didn't pay very much attention to it at the time; I was too busy getting the drink down.

    Then it fascinated me. I didn't want to stare at it, so I looked away - looked down the bar, into the seething centre of smoke and sound.

    That was a mistake.

    Sitting on the stool next to me was a little man who was sipping a glass of beer. He had to sip, because he had no arms. He lapped at the glass the way a cat laps at a saucer of cream. Watching him was a blind man. Don't ask me how I knew he could see, but I got the impression of watching from the tilt of the head, the focus of the dark glasses.

    I whirled around and nearly collided with the man on crutches. He was standing there arguing with the man on the floor - the one without legs. Down the bar a way; somebody was banging with a steel hook affixed to his elbow. I could scarcely hear the thumping because the juke box was playing so loudly. Sure enough, there were dancers present; the inevitable two women, both of them engrossed in their movements. They had to watch carefully, because both of them were on crutches.

    There were others present, too - others in the booths. The man with the bandaged head. The man with the hole where his nose should be. The man with the great purple growth bulging over his collar. The lame, the halt, the blind.

    

    They didn't pay any attention to me. They were having fun. And in a moment I realized what I'd stumbled into. It was a street beggar's tavern. I saw the tin cup set alongside the shot glass, the placard resting against the beer bottle. What was the name of the dump in Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris? "The Court of Miracles" he called it. And this was it.

    They were happy enough, drinking. They forgot their physical ills. Maybe liquor would cure me of my mental ills. It was worth a try. So I had another drink.

    Along about the third drink somebody must have slipped out. Along about the fourth drink somebody must have come back. And in a minute or two, she walked in.

    I didn't see her, at first. The reason I sensed her presence was because the noise cut down. The juke box stopped and didn't start again. The conversation dropped to a hush.

    That's when I looked around and noticed her. She was sitting in a booth, all alone, just watching me.

    She made a little gesture of invitation and I shook my head. That was all. Then she raised her glass and offered me a silent toast.

    I turned, noted my re-filled glass, and toasted her. Then I downed my drink. The bartender with the glass eye had another waiting for me.

    "On the lady," he said.

    "No thanks, chum."

    He looked at me. "Whats a matter? She's a nice lady."

    "Sure she is. Nobody's questioning that."

    "So whyn'cha drink it?"

    "I've had enough, that's why." I had, enough and to spare, I suddenly realized. The room was beginning to spin a little.

    "Come on, drink up. We're all friends here."

    The bartender didn't look friendly. Neither did anyone else. For the first time I grew aware of the fact that everyone was looking at me. Not at her - at me. The legless, the armless, the blind. In fact, the blind man took off his dark glasses in order to see me better, and one of the crowd slapped his crutch on the bar and walked a little closer.

    The Court of Miracles! Where the blind see and the lame walk! Of course it was; and half of these beggars were fakes. They were as sound as I was - sounder, perhaps.

    And there was a whole roomful of them, all looking at me. None of them seemed happy any longer. They were quiet; so quiet I could hear the click of the key in the lock as the armless man locked the door.

    Oh, he had arms now; they'd emerged from beneath a bulky vest. But I wasn't interested in that. I was interested in the fact that the door was locked. And I was here, inside.

    She stared and they stared.

    The bartender said, "How about it, chum?"

    "Not today." I stood up. That is, I tried to stand up. My legs were wobbly. Something was wrong with them. Something was wrong with my eyes, too.

    "What's the trouble?" drawled the bartender. "Afraid of being slipped a Mickey?"

    "No!" It was hard to talk. Only gasps came out. "You already slipped me one the drink before this. When she came in, and gave you the signal."

    "Wise guy, huh?"

    "Yes!" I managed to spin around, fast. Fast enough to grab the whiskey bottle off the bar and hold it cocked. My other hand supported me.

    "Now - open that door or I'll let you have it," I panted. "Come on, move fast."

    The bartender shrugged. There was neither fear nor malice in his glass eye.

    My own eyes were turning to glass. I tried to focus them on the bartender, tried not to look at the creeping, crawling cripples that slithered closer all around me, brandishing canes and crutches and uttering little grunts and whimpers and moans.

    "Open that door!" I wheezed, while they crept closer and closer, stretching out their arms and tensing to spring.

    "All right, chum!"

    That was the signal for them to rush me. Somebody swung a crutch, somebody clawed at my legs. I began to spin and go down.

    I swung the bottle, clearing an arc, and they fell back, but only for a moment. The bartender aimed a punch, so I swung the bottle again.

    Then they came back. It was like fighting underwater, like fighting in a dream. And this was a dream, a nightmare of crawlers, of slithering shapes tearing at me, dragging me down.

    The bartender hit me again, so I raised the bottle and brought it down. It landed on his head with a dull crunch.

    For a moment he stood there, and the glass eye popped out of its socket and rolled along the bar. It stared up at him and watched as he sagged slowly and fell.

    

    Then it stared at me as the man with the artificial arm hit me across the neck with the hook.

    I felt the blow land and melt my spine.

    The glass eye watched as I collapsed into roaring darkness and when I went down, it winked.

    When I woke up, she was stroking my forehead.

    Not bad. Lots of men would have traded places with me at the moment - lying there in the cool dusk, on a comfortable bed, with a beautiful blonde stroking my forehead.

    Too bad some other guy didn't show up, because I would have traded him in a flash.

    I'd have thrown in a splitting headache, free of charge, and a taste in the mouth like the bottom of the Chicago Drainage Canal.

    But nobody showed up to take my place, so I just stayed there. When she said, "Drink this," I drank. When she said, "Close your eyes and wait for the pain to go away," I closed my eyes and waited.

    Miraculously, the pain went away.

    The headache and the taste vanished. I opened my eyes again, wiggled my fingers and toes.

    I was lying on this bed in a darkened room. The shades were drawn, but enough light filtered through to bring life to the diamond choker and the diamond ring and the diamond eyes. The diamond eyes regarded me candidly.

    "Feel better now?"

    "Yes."

    "That's good. Then there's nothing to worry about."

    How right she was. Nothing to worry about except where I was, and why. I suppose a little of my bitterness crept over into my reply.

    "Thanks," I said. "Thanks for everything you've done for me. Including getting me knocked out."

    "That's no way to look at it," answered the blonde. "After all, I saved your life."

    "You mean those beggars would have killed me?"

    "No. But the police might."

    "Police?"

    "Yes." She drew a long breath. "After all, you did murder that bartender."

    "What?"

    "You hit him with the bottle. He's dead."

    I sat up, faster than I would have believed possible. "Come on, let me out of here," I snapped.

    "They'll be on the lookout for you," she told me. "It's not safe for you to go just now. You're among friends here."

    "Friends!"

    "Don't misunderstand. If you'd only listened to me in the first place and come along sensibly, all this would never have happened."

    I had no answer for that one. All I knew was that if she spoke the truth, I was a murderer. And I knew what they did to murderers. They sat them down in a chair and turned on the juice and fried them. A faint odor of singed flesh tainted my nostrils.

    "How do I know you're not lying?" I asked.

    "I can furnish proof if you like, later. Right now, I want you to meet a friend." She put her hand on my shoulder and even through the shirt I could feel the icy coldness of her flesh. She was cold and hard, like a diamond.

    "As long as I'm meeting friends, we might as well establish a few facts," I suggested. "You know my name. Now, what's yours? And where am I?"

    She smiled and stood up. "My name is Vera. Vera LaValle. We are in a home on the South Side. And, although you didn't think to ask me, it's Monday evening. You've been unconscious for almost forty-eight hours."

    I stood up, then. It wasn't a spectacular performance. I glanced down at myself in the dim light and what I saw wasn't pretty.

    "Why don't you go in and bathe, clean up a bit?" Vera suggested. "I'll go out and bring back some food. You can eat it before our meeting."

    Without waiting for my reply, she went out. Went out and locked the door.

    It was getting to be a habit. Everybody that I met locked me in. Of course, that's what you do with murderers. Dangerous people to have around. Always killing bartenders, for instance. And if I was a murderer…

    I doubted it. The whole thing was phoney from start to finish. Things like that just didn't happen to me. I was the original timid soul. Couldn't lick my weight in wild flowers.

    Then, again…

    There was blood on my suit. Blood on my shirt. Blood on the back of my neck, crusted blood from where the steel hook had landed.

    I went into the bathroom, filled the tub, undressed, bathed. There was a nice array of soap and towels, all laid out and waiting for me.

    

    I even found an electric shaver to plug in. I felt a lot better once I was cleaned up.

    When I dressed, I was surprised to discover a fresh white shirt conveniently placed on top of a clothes hamper. My genial host or hostess thought of everything.

    By the time I stepped out of the bathroom she had returned. She had four sandwiches wrapped in cellophane, a double cardboard cup of coffee, and a wedge of pie. She didn't say anything while I ate. It only took me about six minutes to dispose of the meal and latch onto a cigarette from my pocket. I offered her one.

    "No, thanks. I do not smoke."

    "Funny. I thought all women did nowadays."

    "I tried it once. Many years ago. Of course, it wasn't a cigarette."

    This didn't seem to be getting me anywhere. "About that friend I was going to meet. Where is he?"

    "Waiting outside the door," she said. "Shall I ask him in?"

    "By all means. Don't keep the gentleman waiting." My tone was facetious, but I didn't feel very gay. I don't know what I really expected. Years of reading - and writing - horror fiction had conditioned me to almost everything. A Mad Doctor, perhaps, coming to recommend a certain brand of cigarettes. A Mad Scientist with a beaker-full of monkey glands. A Mad Professor with a driver's license for a flying saucer.

    The last person I expected to see when the door opened was a friend. But it was a friend who walked in. It was Cono.

    Cono Colluri. The man who died in the electric chair.

    He stood there in the twilight and looked at me. He wore a battered trench-coat with the collar turned up, and he had a hat pulled down over his eyes like a movie gangster, but I recognized him. It wasn't a double, or a stooge, or somebody made up to resemble him. It was Cono. Cono in the flesh. The dead flesh -reanimate and alive!

    Changed? Of course he had changed. There was a dreadful facial tic, where the muscles had been pulled and torn by the convulsive spasm of the shock. And he was pale. Pale as death. But he lived. He walked. He talked…

    "Hello, Bob. I've been waiting for you."

    "She - she told me."

    "Too bad you wouldn't come at once. I should have used more sense, let her tell you who wanted to see you. But I figured you wouldn't of believed her."

    "Yes. I guess that's right." I fumbled for words while he stood there, stood there looking at me. "How - how are you?"

    That was a fine thing to ask. But he didn't seem to mind.

    In fact, he smiled. The smile creased the side of his face and got tangled up in the tic, but he made it. "Oh, I'll live," he said. "I'll live forever."

    "What?"

    "That's the pitch, Bob. That's why I had to see you. I'm going to live forever. Varek fixed that."

    Varek? Where had I heard that name before?

    "He's the one who claimed my body. You remember."

    Yes, I remembered. The mysterious cousin. "But how did he know you weren't dead, and how did he revive you?"

    "I was dead, Bob. Deader'n a doornail. And he fixed me up. He can fix anybody up, Bob. Bring them back. Make it so's they never die. And that's where you come in."

    "Me?"

    "I been telling him about you. About how smart you are, all that stuff you write. He needs somebody like you for the outside - to front. Somebody with brains. Young. And alive."

    Alive. I was alive, all right, but I wondered if I was awake and sane. Talking to a dead man…

    "Come here, Bob. I can see you don't believe me."

    I moved closer to Cono.

    "Feel my skin. Go ahead."

    I put my hand on his wrist. It was cold. Cold, but solid. Up close I could see the waxen pallor of Cono's face. Cono's death-mask. The tic rippled across it and he smiled again.

    "Don't be scared. I'm real. It's real. He can do it. He can bring back the dead. Don't you see what it means? What a big thing it is, if it's handled right?"

    "I see. But I still can't understand where I fit in."

    "Varek will tell you all about it. Come on, I want you to talk to him."

    I followed Cono Colluri out of the room. Vera smiled and nodded as we left, but she didn't accompany us as we walked down the long corridor to a stairway. Descending the stairs into the soft, subdued light of the parlours below, I became conscious of a peculiar odor. It smelled like stale air, steam heat and the scent of mingled flowers.

    "Say, just where are we, anyway?" I asked.

    "Funeral home," Cono answered. "Didn't you know?"

    I hadn't known. But I might have guessed. Living quarters upstairs and down here the parlours. The parlours, the soft lights and the scent of flowers.

    We walked across a carpeted hallway, and I glanced around me. It was the way Cono had said; this was a funeral home, and a rather shabby one. Perhaps that's why there were no bodies lying in state, no mourners. Varek had set this up for a front, and I rather suspected that if I made a dash for it and tried the front door I would find it locked.

    But I didn't make a dash for it. I followed Cono into the darkened parlor to the left, to meet Mr Varek.

    I walked in and Cono lumbered over to the corner. He walked stiffly, awkwardly. The muscles in his body were taut with shock. But he did pretty well for a dead man.

    He was turning on a lamp in the corner, he was closing the door behind us. I paid no attention. I was staring down at the coffin on the trestle. Staring down at the body in the coffin. The body of the man with the glass eye.

    It was the bartender I'd killed.

    He lay there on the cheap satin, dressed in a worn black suit. Somebody had put the glass eye back in place and it stared up at me sardonically. The other eye was closed, and the general effect was that of a wink.

    There we were - me and the man I'd killed. I looked at him, and he looked at me.

    He looked at me!

    Yes. It happened. The eyelid rolled back. The eye opened. It focussed on me. And the mouth, the bound mouth, relaxed its smirk. The lips parted.

    And from the corpse came the voice: "Hello, Bob. I'm Nicolo Varek."

    "You - "

    "Oh, I'm not the bartender you killed. He's dead enough, as you can see for yourself. His body isn't breathing."

    It wasn't, either. The corpse was still a corpse, but something was alive, something lived inside it. Lived and looked and talked.

    "I'm just taking temporary residence. So that I can talk to you, without having to travel a great distance. You can appreciate the convenience."

    I couldn't, at that moment. I could only stand and gape and feel the sweat trickling down under my armpits.

    "You've been a long time coming, Bob. But it was inevitable that we should meet. Cono has told me all about you, and of course I have other ways of gaining information. Many ways."

    "I'm sure." It came out before I could stop it, but the corpse chuckled. The sound was a death-rattle.

    "How typical of you to say that. How characteristic! Ah, yes, I've studied your background, your work. You interest me greatly. That is why I have gone to all this trouble to arrange our meeting."

    I nodded, but said nothing. I was waiting.

    "I'm inclined to give Cono credit for finding you. It's quite true, I can use you."

    "Dead or alive?" That remark came out before I could stop it, too.

    "Alive, of course. But don't think I'm not appreciative of the distinction. You're a man of keen wit, sir. And I admire you for it. One seldom finds acerbity in these decadent days."

    "Look," I said, beginning to recover a little composure. "I'm not used to indulging in character analysis with a corpse. Just what do you want of me?"

    "Your services, sir. Your professional services. For which, needless to say, you will be generously rewarded. In perpetuity, I might add."

    "Cut the double-talk. I've had enough from Vera, and from poor Cono - "

    "Poor Cono? I would hardly endorse the adjective. Were it not for me, my dear sir, Cono would be languishing in an unmarked grave. Whereas, thanks to my efforts, he is among the quick rather than the dead. And if you wish plain talk, sir, you shall have it.

    "I am Nicolo Varek, man of science. I have perfected a means, a methodology, a therapy if you like, which defeats what men call death. Defeats death? It goes beyond that, far beyond. For those whom I revive also possess the boon of eternal life. Eternal life!"

    Crazy talk. But it was coming from the mouth of a corpse, and I believed it. There was no hint of fakery or collusion - no ventriloquist could open that cadaver's eye, manipulate his dead lips. I saw, and I heard. And I believed.

    "Yes, I can give life to the dead. As to the how and the why of it, well, that's my secret. My priceless, precious, perfect secret.

    "And what do you think the use of that secret is worth, Sir? What is the proper fee for the boon of eternal life? A million dollars, perhaps?

    "There are many men with a million dollars in this world, my friend. Do you think any of them would hesitate to part with that sum if I could assure them of continued existence?

    "But there's the rub. They must be assured. And at the same time the secret must remain a secret. For this reason I must continue to operate anonymously. There is nothing men would stop at in order to extract my secret from me - if I were known to them as its possessor. How often I've faced torture and death myself at the hands of those who suspected I might save them!

    "You say I have helpers aplenty? That I can summon up an army of the dead, if need be, to assist me in my aims? That is true -but only within certain limits. The dead must be controlled. And I cannot carry out my plans completely without the aid of living humanity. I need a man of prescience, a man of integrity. Such as yourself, sir."

    "I don't see what you're driving at."

    "A business arrangement. You might even go so far as to call it a partnership. With myself as the silent partner. You as the go-between. Our product: Eternal life. Our goal: Unlimited wealth, unlimited power."

    "Sounds a bit too easy."

    "Do not mistake it, my friend. There are innumerable obstacles to overcome, many problems to face and to solve. I can provide for them all, however. This has been a cherished dream of mine for centuries. Yes, centuries."

    "Who are you, anyway?"

    The corpse chuckled. "So many men have asked that question of me, so many times! Yet I find it best not to answer. My handiwork is proof that I speak truth, and that is all you need. Trust me, and we shall rule.

    "Yes, rule! Surely you can see what power lies in my secret. The hold it will give us both over the great ones of this world, now and forever! We'll seek our fortunes first, and the rest shall come.

    "I have the plans well laid. You will be able to go forth and proclaim the gift of eternal life to the world. Nor shall you lack for assistance. I can summon a host to your command, to do your bidding and mine. We shall broadcast the tidings: There is no more death, for those who can pay the price! Eternal life, and more; special powers, new powers.

    "But you'll learn all this and more in time to come. You'll learn the methods I've devised for bringing the news to the world. Of course, it would never do to make a really public announcement or statement; it must all be cloaked in mysticism and the proper formulae. We'll start a cult, attract the wealthy, and reveal the truth only to the select few.

    "Now, sir, how does my proposal strike you? Eternal life, eternal riches, eternal power?"

    I didn't say anything for a long moment. I stared at the corpse that told me men could live forever.

    "Silence means consent," said the voice.

    "Not necessarily. I was just wondering - what if I refuse?"

    "I'm sorry you even mention the possibility. For it forces me to remind you that you really have no choice in the matter."

    "You mean you'll kill me if I don't? Kill me and animate my corpse, I suppose?"

    "Come now, surely you give me credit for more subtlety than that? I've already gone to a great deal of trouble and risk to bring you here, as you know. I cannot jeopardize my plans to any further extent. And you would be of no use to me as a corpse. Besides, there is no need for me to kill you. If you walk out of here, you're as good as dead anyway."

    "Meaning?"

    "Meaning that you are wanted for murder. For killing this poor one-eyed citizen of a free republic. The bartender."

    "But he's alive, you've revived him - "

    "Not like the others. It's purely temporary, you understand. I can keep him animated as long as I choose, and I will do so if you consent. I'll even put him back to work in the bar." Again the chuckle. "It won't be the first time a dead man has walked abroad with none the wiser. If only you knew or even suspected how many of the dead presently mingle with the living, thanks to the Varek method!"

    I shuddered. The single eye of the corpse was omniscient. The voice purred on: "If you refuse, he becomes a corpse again. With a dozen witnesses to swear you killed him. I'll not wreak vengeance - the full majesty of the law will attend to that. And your story of mysterious women and corpses that talk and a walking dead man will not help you or save you. I believe you realize that.

    "But you won't refuse. Because you can see what I'm offering you. Wealth and power. The goals, the dreams of every man. A chance for eternal life yourself, such as I enjoy. Think it over, sir, think well upon it. Life or death?"

    I thought. I thought well upon it. And everything within me clamoured for assent. Oh, it's easy enough to be a hero when there's no temptation. But the cynic who said every man has his price knew human nature. There aren't many who wouldn't settle for eternal life, eternal wealth and eternal power even at the price of their souls - and the souls of everyone else, for that matter.

    The souls of everyone else…

    I looked at Cono. My friend, Cono Colluri. The late Cono Colluri who went to his death looking like an overgrown college boy. Cono, who left me eight thousand bucks and a promise to clear his name.

    Where was Cono now?

    He wasn't here in this room. His body was here, and it moved and it talked, but the soul…

    There was a tic, there was torment, there was twisting torture. Not real life. This was a stranger, a bulking walking corpse. No emotions, no warmth, no humanity.

    Sure, I could sell myself out. But I couldn't sell out the world.

    So I stared down at the corpse and I said, "No. I'm sorry, Varek. I've got to refuse, and take my chances."

    "The decision is final?"

    "Final."

    "Very well. You've had your chance."

    The mouth shut. The eye closed. The dead bartender was truly dead again. I saw the light fade away from the countenance, then I moved back. Back, into Cono Colluri's arms.

    I might have known Varek would lie. That he'd never let me out of that room alive. If I hadn't realized it before, I knew it now. Because the cold arms wrapped around me. And the great thumbs rose up to my neck, ready to press and squeeze.

    "Cono!" I gasped. "It's me - your friend - don't - "

    You can't argue with a corpse.

    You can only fight. Fight and pant, and try to keep the strangling hands away from your throat. I hit him with everything I had. Nothing happened. Nothing happened, except that he bent me back, back…

    I sagged then. Sagged so suddenly that he went down with me. As I fell, I twisted. His grip broke. I rolled under the trestle. He groped after me. I dumped coffin and all on his head. He went down. Blind corpse-eyes sought me. I ran. I made it down the hall with no one to stop me. He lumbered to his feet, came groping after me.

    I knew the front door would be locked. But there was a glass panel, and next to it in the hall somebody had placed a large urn.

    I grabbed it up, smashed the glass, and stepped through.

    Then I was out on the street, running. It was night. The air was cool.

    It was good to be free.

    

    Free, and wanted for murder.

    Have you ever wondered what it feels like to be a murderer?

    I can tell you.

    It feels like rabbits who bear the baying of a hunting dog. It feels like lying in bed with the covers pulled over your head and Pa coming up the stairs to give you a spanking. It feels like waiting for the Doctor to sterilize the instruments.

    You don't walk down the street when you're a murderer. You skulk through the alleys. You don't take the streetcar and you don't pass any cops. And when you finally get down-town to your hotel, you walk a long time before you go inside the lobby. You look around very carefully to make sure it's deserted.

    And when you do go in, you don't ask for the key to your room. The police might be waiting up there. Or somebody else. Somebody that's dead, but alive. Waiting to grab you and -

    I had the feeling, but I kept it out of my face and voice long enough to ask the clerk and the desk whether or not there had been any message for me.

    You see, I had to play one hunch; that the hotel hadn't been tipped off. Varek wouldn't, as long as he thought I was coming in with him. And now, there was still that chance. If I could only get the message…

    It was waiting for me, the precious little yellow envelope stuck in the pigeonhole. The telegram from the carney. I ripped it open and read:

    GREAT AHMED AT FORTY THREE EAST BRENT STREET UNDER NAME RICHARDS.

    That was all, and it was enough. Brent was a street on the near North side. Walking distance, I could take an El and bypass the Loop, if I was willing to risk it.

    I was. Ahmed, or Richards, had the money.

    I had to. Ahmed, or Richards, could save me.

    I did. Ahmed, or Richards, was the answer.

    Brent Street was about a mile across the bridge after I left the El. It was a long, hard mile, I kept to the shadows, kept my face averted from passersby. But nothing happened. I stopped in front of the dingy old brownstone frost that was graced with the numerals 43, lit my last cigarette, and went up the steps to preas the buzzer.

    Then I waited.

    It was a good two minutes before the door opened. During that time I speculated quite a bit about the man I was going to meet.

    Would it be the Great Ahmed in a turban? A swarthy man with a pointed beard, deepset burning eyes and a singsong voice?

    Would it be the suave, cultivated, cosmopolitan Mr Richards, a con man from the carney, dressed a little too garishly, with a voice too soft and smooth?

    It was important for me to know. Because I'd have to throw myself on the man's mercy.

    The door opened to answer my question.

    "The Great Ahmed?" I asked.

    "Yes. Please come in."

    I came in. Into the light of the hall-way, where I could see my host.

    He wasn't Ahmed and he wasn't Richards, either.

    He was nobody.

    A small man of about fifty, with thin, greying hair. Wrinkled face, watery blue eyes, almost grey. Come to think about it, his skin was grey, too. And he wore a grey suit. Quiet and inconspicuous. About as far away from a carney type as I could have possibly imagined.

    How to describe him? In Hollywood, he'd be what they'd call a Barry Fitzgerald type without the smile and the brogue. Somebody's uncle. The kindly bachelor uncle.

    I hoped he'd be mine.

    "You are the Great Ahmed?" I asked, still not sure, still not sold.

    "Yes. You want a reading?"

    "Uh… yes."

    I might as well stall for a while until I was sure. The way things had been happening, I wouldn't have trusted my own brother.

    It was a big house, an old house, one of those places built for people to live in at a time when most families had eight or nine children instead of a television set.

    The Great Ahmed led me down a long hallway, past two or three doors leading, inevitably, to a sun porch, a parlour, a library. The room he ushered me into was a sort of secondary parlour, towards the rear of the house. It had plenty of solid mahogany in it; old pieces, but durable. There was a massive centre table and the inevitable grouping of chairs as if for a seance. But there was nothing of the medium's workshop or the clairvoyant's clip-joint about this place.

    I took advantage of the light in the room to study my host a little more closely, but I can't say I learned much. He was just a tired, middle-aged man, and I wondered how he managed the grift with a tough carney outfit. He didn't look the part of an Oriental mystic at all.

    Even when he told me to sit down and produced a crystal ball from a cupboard, I wasn't impressed. The ball itself was small, and a trifle dusty. As a matter of fact, he brushed it off with his sleeve, smiling sheepishly as he did so.

    Then he sat down, stared into the ball, and smiled again.

    "The reading is three dollars," he said. "An offering, you understand, not a fee. Fee's against the law here."

    "Shoot the three bucks," I said.

    "Very well." His eyes left my face. They focussed on the ball. Grey eyes, a trifle bloodshot.

    I sat very quietly while he stared. He cleared his throat. He fidgeted. Then he spoke.

    He told me my name.

    He told me where I'd been working.

    "You are a friend of the late Cono Colluri," he said, his eyes downcast. "And you are here to collect his money. A sum amounting to eight thousand, two hundred and thirty-one dollars."

    He paused. I felt the perspiration running along the collar of my nice white shirt - the one from the funeral parlor, probably stolen off a stiff.

    He paused, and I stared at him. Nice little man in grey, but he knew too much. I'd never believed in "occult powers", and yet here he was, telling me these things.

    After what I'd gone through in the past three days, I felt that I couldn't take much more. My whole concept of the universe was shattering, and along with it, my sanity. Dead men walking, me a murderer, and now a man who actually reads minds. It was too much…

    "Take it easy, friend." The Great Ahmed stood up, slowly. "I didn't mean to upset you so. It was a cheap trick, I guess."

    His hands moved upwards from under the table. They held an envelope and a sheet of paper.

    With a start, I recognized Cono's letter.

    "Picked it out of your pocket when I brushed against you in the hall," smiled the little man. "Then held it under the table and read it while you thought I was reading the crystal. Old bit of business, but effective."

    I nodded, and tried to smile in a way that conveyed my relief.

    "So you're Cono's friend," said the Great Ahmed. "He wrote me about you, you know. A couple of weeks ago. Didn't mention the money, though. It was a tragedy, wasn't it?"

    "Then you know about the confession?"

    "Yes. Louie was a rat." The smile left his face. "Too bad, a messy business. I'm glad I left the show."

    He walked around to the cabinet, stooped, and opened the lower drawer with a small key. He took out a big black tin box. Another key opened it. He began to pile bills on the table - big bills, hundreds and thousands.

    "Here's your money," he said, sorting a pile and pushing it across to me.

    "But… don't you want some kind of paper, some kind of identification or signature?"

    "You're Cono's friend. I trust you."

    He smiled shyly, and his hands made a gesture of dismissal.

    "You trust me, eh?"

    "Why not?"

    I took a deep breath and came out with it. I had to come out with it to somebody, or go crazy. "Because I'm wanted for murder, that's why!"

    The Great Ahmed sat down again, still smiling. "And you want to tell me all about it, is that it? Well, go ahead. I'm listening."

    I went ahead, and he listened. It took up a long time, but I told him the whole story - from the time I hit town until the time Cono hit me.

    He sat there, a little grey idol, quietly gazing off into the gloom.

    "And so now you want to clear your name, eh? And rescue Cono, I suppose? And put the finger on this man Varek, whoever he may be?"

    I nodded.

    "That's a big order. A mighty big order, friend. You know, of course, that your whole story sounds a bit implausible?"

    "It sounds screwier than blazes," I told him. "But it's true. Every word of it."

    "Granted. So the problem arises, where do we go from here?"

    I glanced at the eight grand plus, lying before me on the table. Suddenly I shoved it back across to him.

    "Will this help you to figure things out for me?" I asked. "Because if it will, take it. Part of it or all of it. Whatever it may cost to clear me, to save Cono. To pin a rap on that rat, Varek."

    "You trust me to come in with you?" he asked.

    "I've trusted you with my story. With my life. The money isn't important. If you're Cono's friend, you'll help."

    "Good enough." The Great Ahmed sorted the bills and stacked them up next to the tin box. "From now on, I'm your man. Full time. Now to our problem." He pushed the crystal ball aside. "This won't help us any, I'm afraid. We have to face facts."

    "Fact number one," I said, "is that the heat is on me."

    "Which means you'll have to lay low. That makes me the outside man," he said.

    "Correct. So it's your move."

    "My move is to the hotel," Ahmed answered. "To your room. Sooner or later somebody is going to show up there, looking for you. The law will be around. But so will your blonde charmer, and some of the rest of Varek's friends. Perhaps even Cono himself. At any rate, chances are I'll find someone to tail; someone who will lead me to the funeral home or wherever else Varek hides out. He probably has a dozen or more places to hang his hat. If he wears a hat."

    "I keep wondering," I mused. "What kind of a creature is this man? And his secret of eternal life - "

    "He may have it," Ahmed retorted, "but you don't. And from the looks of you, a little sleep is in order. I'll take you upstairs to a bedroom. You might as well get a good night's rest while I go to work."

    I didn't argue with him. The weariness pulled at my knees as I followed him up the stairs.

    "You'll have to trust to me and to luck," said the little grey man. "Right now all I can tell you is I'm playing a hunch. That I can go back to the hotel, pick up the trail, and somehow have it lead me to Cono. He's the weak spot in the whole setup, for us. If I can handle him, he'll tell me what we have to know about Varek. Then we'll figure out how to deal with him."

    "Sounds logical," I said, as we entered a small bedroom at the end of the corridor.

    "Sounds mighty weak and flimsy, to tell the truth," replied my host. "But it's all we have to work on right now. I hope that by the time I return there'll be a little more to work on. Now - here we are. You don't fit into my pyjamas, but I think you'll find the bed is comfortable enough. I'll be on my way. Go to sleep, and pleasant dreams to you."

    He waved and went out. I sank back on the bed, scarcely mindful of the click of the key in the lock. Then I sat up. "Here we go again!" I muttered.

    

    My voice must have carried, because he called from beyond the door. "Locking you in. Got a cleaning woman who gets here in about an hour, and I don't want to take any chances. If your description has been broadcast, that is."

    "Good enough," I answered. "But you'd better come back."

    "I'll be back: And with good news. Don't you worry about a thing. When the Great Ahmed takes over, he takes over."

    I lay back, kicked off my shoes, loosened my tie and belt, and then crawled under the covers. His footsteps receded into silence.

    Here I was, in a strange house, in a strange bed, my future dependent on the integrity and the ability of a man I hadn't known a half hour.

    Somehow, though, I trusted him. I had to trust him, of course, because there was nobody else. I wondered about the Great Ahmed, or Richards - if that was his real name. What he'd been doing hanging around a carney. Why he'd set up a three-dollar-a-throw crystal reading parlour here. Little colourless middle-aged nobody, without even a good line of patter to hand out. But the son-of-a-gun knew how to pick pockets!

    That reassured me. He wasn't the schmoe he appeared to be. But was he good enough to handle a man who raised the dead?

    I couldn't answer that one now. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait and rest. Rest and sleep.

    The room was dark. The night came in at me through the window. I got up and pulled the shade. I didn't want the night. It contained too much that could hurt me. Police, detectives, Varek and the walking dead. Better the special darkness of the room, the special darkness behind my closed eyes. The darkness of sleep.

    The darkness of dreams…

    Funny, the people you run into when you're asleep. Like this negro, for instance. He was just a common citizen, like hundreds of thousands of others on Chicago's South Side. He was riding on the El and I was riding on the El, hanging on the strap next to him.

    I wouldn't have even given him a second glance, except for one little thing.

    He was dead.

    Yes, he was dead. When the El lurched, and he toppled against me, and I saw the rolling whites of his empty eyes, felt the cold, the ebon coldness of his black skin, I knew he was dead. A black corpse, hanging to a strap in the El.

    I knew he was dead, and he knew I knew it. Because he smiled. And the deep bass voice rumbled up from the depths - from the depths of his empty grave, his plundered and cheated grave - and he said, "Don't look at me. 'Cause I ain't the only one. They's a lot of 'em dead around heah. A lot of 'em. Look!"

    I looked. I gazed down the aisle of the lurching El and I saw them, recognized them. Some of the passengers were alive, of course, and I could tell that at a glance. But there were others. Many others. The quiet ones. The ones with the fixed, cold stares. The ones who didn't talk. Who sat alone. Who carefully avoided touching other bodies. They were pale, they were stiff, they were dead.

    Most of the men wore their good suits, because that's the way they were dressed in the undertaking parlours. Most of the women wore too much powder and rouge, because the morticians fixed them that way. Oh, I recognized them. And the Negro nudged me with his icy finger and grinned a grin that held neither mirth nor malice nor any human emotion.

    "Zombies," he said. "Tha's what they calls us. Zombies. Walkin' dead. Walkin', talkin' dead. Walkin' and talkin' because the Man say so. The Man. The Big Voodoo Man."

    "Varek!" I said.

    The El lurched again. The lights went out. Something was happening to the power. Maybe because I'd spoken the name.

    The black corpse thought so. In the darkness all I saw was eye-white and tooth-white, flashing at me. "You went and done it," the voice rumbled. "Sayin' the name!"

    And all the corpses in all the cars groaned and murmured, "He said the name!"

    Suddenly the car gave a sickening lurch and I knew we were going off the track, going over. The corpses rolled against me in waves, and we were twisting and turning, falling, falling…

    I landed. You're supposed to wake up before you land, but I didn't. Because I went too deep. The car crashed down into the sewers. I wasn't hurt. I was flung free. And I crawled along in the darkness, without eye-white and tooth-white flashing. Just red, this time. Little red lights.

    "Rats," I told myself. "Rat eyes."

    "We take the form of rats, yes. And of bats. And of other things. But we are not animals. We are not men either." The voice at my ear was soft but imperative. "They call us - vampires!"

    I couldn't see him, or the others, but I heard the chittering laughter rise all around me, rise and turn to metallic mockery as it boomed off the sewer walls.

    "Vampires. He raised us from the dead, he made us. In the big church up on Division Street, Father Stanislaus makes the Holy Sign against us. But we do not care. He is fat and old, that priest, and he will die. We can never die. We walk the night, we feast, and we own the world below."

    Another voice droned in: "It's like this under the whole city, did you know that? And under every city. There's always places to hide, if you're clever. You can tunnel from place to place, come and go as you please, and nobody knows. Nobody sees. Nobody hears. And you can lift the manhole covers, drag down what you want, and dispose of what's left without leaving any evidence. Oh, it's clever and no mistake, and we can thank the Master for it all."

    I nodded. "You mean Varek," I said.

    They howled at that, and the sound nearly tore my head in two as the echo hammered from the metal walls. They howled, and then they scrabbled towards me in the darkness, but I ran. I ran and waded and crawled and swam through muck and filth, seeking an opening, seeking a light, seeking an escape from the world of death and darkness here below.

    I found it, found it at last. The round metal lid above my head which led to safety. Safety and the cool darkness of a cellar. A chink of light guided me to a stairway and the door above. I came out into a kitchen, moved past to the bedroom, and peered through the door.

    Edgar Allan Poe sat by the bedside and made strange motions with his slim white hands. Two doctors were in attendance, and all focussed their gaze on the apparition lying on the bed; the gaunt, skeletal countenance peered up from the pillows with glazed and glassy eyes.

    The patient had white whiskers and incongruously black hair; outside of the animation in his eyes he might have passed for dead, and none would be the wiser.

    But Poe's hands moved, commanding the sleeper to awake, and as I watched, he awakened.

    Ejaculations of "Dead! dead!" absolutely burst from the tongue and not the lips of the sufferer, and his whole frame at once -within the space of a single minute or even less, shrunk - crumbled - absolutely rotted away. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome, of detestable putridity.

    Then I fled, screaming, from the house of M. Valdemar.

    But wherever I went, there were the dead.

    Poe couldn't raise Valdemar. But Varek could. And he had. In my dream, I saw the proof. I tramped the streets of Chicago and recognized the faces. That stiff-lipped, unsmiling doorman in front of the ritzy Gold Coast hotel - he was dead. The black-haired girl on the end of the switch-board at the Merchandise Mart, the one who said, "Number please?" in such a mechanical fashion - she was Varek's puppet, too. There was an elevator operator at Field's and three men who worked the night shift at a big steel plant out near Gary. An old precinct sergeant over in Garfield Park was a walking corpse and even his wife didn't suspect. But what the precinct sergeant didn't know was that his captain was also a cadaver, and neither of them knew the secret of one of the Cook County judges.

    The dead - there were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Because Chicago isn't the only city in the world, and Varek had been everywhere.

    I walked along, and then I ran. Because I couldn't stand it any longer, couldn't stand to see the faces, the empty eyes. I couldn't stand being jostled by a corpse in the crowded Loop. I ran and I ran until I came to the Great Ahmed's house and I came up to the bedroom, battered down the locked door, and crawled in bed here with myself again, knowing that I was safe at last, I was here, I could wake up into a world of reality - where dead men still walked]

    "And they have other powers, too."

    Who had told me that? Varek himself, in the bartender's body. Other powers. Powers like levitation - like floating through space, through windows high off the ground…

    It had happened once before in a dream, and now it was happening again.

    I could see her face at the bedroom window. Vera's face. The pale blonde hair. The diamond choker. Floating outside the window, bumping against it. Her hands groped out. She was opening the window from outside.

    Funny that I should see it that way, because I'd pulled the shade down, and it was up now. So was the window. She was coming into the room, floating in gently, softly, ever so quietly. And now she landed, without a bump or a thump or a shudder, on the tips of her delicate toes. She was dead, too, of course. I knew it now. Her stare was glassy. She moved by automatic compulsion only. It was like a hypnotic trance, with every motion directed by an outside, an alien force.

    Glassy-eyed, like a drugged Assassin. And like an Assassin, she drew the dagger from her waist. It was a long, slim, feminine-looking weapon, but it was deadly. The steel was diamond-bright. Why did she remind me of diamonds? Because of the choker. I gazed at the choker now as she tiptoed over to the bed. I wanted to watch it.

    

    Better than watching the dagger. Because the dagger was a menace. It was coming up over my throat. In a moment it would come down, the point would bury itself in my neck, over the jugular.

    All I had to do was watch the diamonds in her choker. And in a minute it would be all over. The knife was coming down, the knife that would end my life, the knife that would make me one with Varek's army - the army of the dead.

    It came down, fast.

    The glitter of that frantically falling blade broke the spell. Instantaneously, I realized that I was seeing it. There was a knife, and it was coming down at my throat.

    I jerked my head to one side on the pillow and slammed my body forward, upward. My hands closed around solid flesh. Cold flesh.

    Vera LaValle twisted wildly in my arms.

    I sat up, hands moving to her wrist. I pressed it back until the knife dropped to the carpet. She fought me silently, her face a Medusa's mask, blonde curls tumbling like serpents over her cold, bare shoulders.

    Suddenly her head dropped. I caught a glimpse of strong white teeth grimacing towards my neck. Vampire teeth, seeking my jugular.

    I tore at her throat. My hands ripped the choker, dug beneath it. It came free, and fell. My hands closed around her neck, then came away.

    I could not touch the thin red line, the scar that encircled her neck completely.

    My hands came away, and I slapped her, hard.

    Abruptly, she sank to the bed. The glassiness left her eyes and something like recognition flooded her face.

    "Where am I?" whispered Vera LaValle.

    "In a bedroom on Brent Street," I answered. "The Great Ahmed's place. You floated through the window and tried to kill me."

    "He put me under," she murmured. "Then he sent me here and levitated me. I didn't know."

    I nodded, but said nothing.

    "You believe me, don't you?" she implored. "I didn't know. He promised me that he'd never make me do that again. But he did. He always does. Even now, I can't trust him. He can do anything he likes with me, because I'm - "

    She stopped abruptly, and I filled it in for her.

    "Because you're dead," I told her. "I know."

    Her eyes widened. "How did you find out?"

    For answer, I pointed at her throat. She noticed then that the choker had been torn away. Her hands covered the red scar on her neck and she stared at me for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, she swept her hair back into place.

    "Tell me about it," I said. "Maybe I can help."

    "Nobody can help. Nobody."

    "I can try. And the more you tell me, the more I have to work with. That is, if it's safe to talk."

    She thought that one over for a moment. "Yes, it will be, for at least a half hour now. He goes into a sort of coma when he levitates one of us; it requires terrific concentration. But if he comes out of it and discovers I've failed, anything can happen."

    The fear was coming back into her eyes, and I sought to capture her attention again, quickly.

    "Half an hour," I said. "That's time enough. Tell me about it from the beginning. What happened to you?"

    Vera LaValle sighed. Her hands stroked the scar, softly. "All right," she said.

    I lighted a cigarette and sat up, offering her the pack. She shook her head and I said. "Oh, that's right, I remember now. You don't smoke, do you?"

    "I can't," said Vera LaValle. "I haven't been able to smoke, or drink, or eat. Not since I was beheaded - in 1794."

    In 1794, the Terror ruled France. You could run into almost anything under the Terror. You might encounter a Citizen Robespierre or a man called - ironically enough - St Just.

    If you did so, the chances were that they would introduce you to still another man with a more apt name - Samson, the executioner.

    And Samson, in turn, would direct you to La Guillotine.

    Everybody in France knew La Guillotine. Despite the feminine appellation, La Guillotine was not a giddy female - although she turned a lot of heads.

    La Guillotine was the Terror incarnate. The head-chopping Terror. The beheading blade that waited until you were ripe for it, then chopped and filled the basket beneath it with rich and rotting fruit.

    In 1794, the Terror ruled France, and you might run into almost anything. If you were Vera LaValle, age 20, daughter of Lucien LaValle the wealthy merchant, you walked in constant danger of your life.

    

    Wealthy merchants were not popular these days. Wealthy merchants had to twist and turn, fawn and cringe, resort to almost any stratagem in order to try and escape from Paris before the order came - the fatal summons to the Tribunal. Better to ride out of the city in a dung-cart than to the Place de la Concorde in a tumbril.

    No wonder Lucien LaValle betook himself to desperate measures and consorted with strange people in an effort to procure a means of deliverance before it was too late. Paris was aswarm with rogues and adventurers, thieves and sharpers who fattened on the misery of the remaining members of the nobility or the well-to-do. Some of them, for a price, could procure passports or arrange an unauthorized passage across the border or the English Channel.

    Lucien LaValle, wealthy widower with a handsome, marriageable daughter, thought that he had found a solution.

    Somewhere, somehow, in heaven knows what den or dive or stew, he encountered Nicolo Varek. Varek, the friend of the illustrious Comte St Germain. Varek, the confidant of the mighty Cagliostro. Varek, the alchemist, the mystic, the seeker of the Philosopher's Stone. Varek who boasted of powers greater than those of the two great charlatans he claimed to have known - and taught. Varek, the unsmiling, the cold, the ageless. But - and this was the crux of the matter - Varek the foreigner. Varek, the holder of the priceless possession, the Russian visa. The passport to freedom for himself and family.

    Varek had no family, now. But Vera LaValle was young, she was chic, she was eminently well dowered. If she were a wife, and Lucien LaValle an official member of Varek's family - then what would there be to stop the menage from leaving France?

    It was a reasonable proposition, and Lucien LaValle presented it to Varek on many occasions.

    He shrugged. There was work to be done here in Paris, he said. Great things were afoot. He had never been presented to Mademoiselle LaValle, and no doubt she was all her fond father proclaimed her to be but still… A man in Varek's position is above matrimony and the calls of the flesh. And as to money (and here Varek shrugged again), he fortunately was in a position to command a fortune whenever he wished. No, it would not be advisable to leave the country now. As a matter of fact, everything depended upon remaining.

    Lucien LaValle was eloquent. When eloquence fell upon deaf ears, he was insistent. When insistence failed, he resorted to tears. He sank to his knees. He wept and implored. And in the end, Nicolo Varek consented to meet the merchant's daughter, to talk to her.

    That was enough for La Valle. He returned home elated, and put his case to Vera.

    "Consider now how much depends upon your conduct," he told her. "Be charming - sprightly - gay. This Varek, he has a long face. He needs cheering. He needs your youth."

    Vera LaValle nodded dutifully. No need to instruct her in coquetry. Long before he revealed his hopes and plans, she was miles ahead of her father. He had found a man who could save them - at a price. What the price was did not matter. Her father would pay his share and she would gladly pay hers.

    She bathed, dressed, perfumed and painted for the interview. The meeting took place in the parlour and it was unchaperoned. A carriage drove up in the dusk, and Vera LaValle met Nicolo Varek under candlelight.

    And it was thus that Varek, the friend of the nobility, the mentor of magicians, the peer of alchemists - Varek, the man who was above matrimony or the commonplace emotional reactions of ordinary men - fell in love.

    Candlelight and coquetry definitely won the day, and the night. The suave, cold middle-aged man became a stammering, intense importuner. As to the matter of age, Varek was quite explicit on that point.

    "Do not think of me as old, my dear," he reassured her. "For I am truly ageless. There are secrets I possess, secrets you shall share with me. Oh, we will share a great deal, you and I!"

    He began to boast then, like any love-sick youth, and to confide.

    Varek was Russian by birth, but the date of that birth and the details of his parentage would (he smirked) astound her. Suffice for him to say that he came of noble blood. He had been educated at the leading universities of Europe, but the bulk of his learning came from extended sojourns in Mongolia and Hindustan where he had studied occultism and the forbidden mysteries. Upon his return to Europe, he had visited Italy and imparted some of his wisdom to Cagliostro - wisdom which Cagliostro misused in his unscrupulous career. Varek, still seeking disciples, later gave instruction to the Comte de St Germain, whose mastery of mass illusion and the principles of levitation enabled him to win fame and fortune.

    But he, Varek, was not interested in such trivia. True, as an alchemist he had sought to transmute baser metals to gold. But he soon realized that cultivation of other powers was more important.

    

    Once he had developed them, fame and fortune would be his for the asking.

    There were two secrets, and two only, which were worth possessing. One of them was the secret of eternal youth, and the other, the secret of eternal life.

    To the discovery of these secrets, Varek had dedicated himself for scores of years.

    It was a costly study, an expensive search. In order to finance himself he had, at times, resorted to base means. As an alchemist he was acquainted with the group that centred around La Voisin, and he admitted assisting that notorious female in her preparation of poisons. He had also been familiar with the clique surrounding the infamous de Montespan.

    "But that was ages ago!" cried Vera, when she heard him. "Over a hundred years!"

    Nicolo Varek, the unsmiling one, smiled. "Exactly," he said. "You see, I succeeded in at least part of my quest. I did discover the secret of eternal youth. Discovered it and possessed myself of it."

    "You are over a hundred?" Vera murmured.

    Varek inclined his head. "I assure you, time is a relative concept. You will not find me less ardent a lover due to my age, no less honourable a man because of my past associations. As you realize, we who seek the mysteries have always been on the fringes of society. We skulk in darkness, we consort with the underworld, we compound with the charlatans simply because we have never been accepted by the scholars and the savants. They are jealous of our achievements, these so-called "men of science" - although virtually all they know or hope to know has come from our work.

    "Yes, it is we alchemists who have given them their chemistry, we sorcerers who have preserved what little is known of medicine and physiology and biology, we mystics who have the only knowledge which can develop into a science of the mind."

    "I don't understand," Vera said. "What are you trying to tell me?"

    "I'm telling you not to be afraid of me." he answered. "It has been said that I am a cheat, a liar, a fraud, a scoundrel, a magician, a murderer. Very well - I am all these things, but to a purpose. That purpose is power, power greater than you can dream!

    "I've played my part behind the scenes these years past, my dear - and you've seen the result! I've had my interview with Mademoiselle Charlotte Corday, and Marat died. I've talked to Citizen Robespierre's brother, and Danton is no more. I've ways and means to pull the strings and make the puppets dance. And the end will be power. Great power. Once France is properly disrupted, there are other lands ripe for revolution.

    "Revolution, my dear, always ends in dictatorship. Dictatorship, my dear, always ends in megalomania on the part of those who rule. And what would a megalomaniac do for the secret of eternal youth or the secret of eternal life - or both?

    "Ah, yes, it will end only one way: My way. I shall rule the rulers! Think of that, my dear. Within a few years, Nicolo Varek will be the unseen ruler of the world. And you, his empress, his queen."

    Varek came closer, and Vera could see the paper thinness of his bloodless lips. He might have been forty, he might have been four hundred. "The secret of eternal youth. How does that please you, my little one? To be always young, always as you are today? To live, to rule, to enjoy the senses to the full forever? I have that gift for you, that dowry.

    "And soon - sooner than I dare tell you - I shall have the other, too. The Great Secret. Eternal life! I've a laboratory here - you must see it - where I experiment. In times like these, there is no shortage of subjects. Samson sells me the unclaimed ones every day." The bloodless lips formed a bloody smile. "I'm getting closer and closer to the solution," Varek told her. "And once it's gained, the world is mine. Ours!"

    It was mawkish melodrama, but it was also naked nightmare. For the little lisping, whispering, sniggering creature came closer and closer, and then he was no longer braggart or stammerer but merely a lustful automaton. He pawed at Vera LaValle and she endured his carrion breath upon her neck for a moment. But only for a moment. Then she wrenched free, and Varek, losing his balance, tumbled grotesquely to the floor.

    Vera LaValle laughed.

    She didn't refuse his offer of marriage. She didn't call him an old man, a liar, a murderer, a repulsive fool. She didn't do anything but laugh.

    Her laugh said all those things.

    Nicolo Varek rose, tugged at his ruffled clothing, and bowed coldly. "Adieu," he said. And left.

    Vera LaValle waited. She waited for Lucien to scamper in, rubbing his hands briskly in anticipation. She waited for the effect of her story upon him; his crestfallen stare, his agitation, his frantic reiteration of, "Why, why, why? He was our only hope, out only chance! Why?"

    She waited, then, for the summons. It came soon enough.

    

    Somebody had denounced Citizen LaValle and his daughter. As usurers, as enemies of the People.

    She waited for the trial, and it was short. Lucien sobbed when he heard the verdict, but she shrugged.

    She waited, then, for the tumbril.

    Waited, those last few days, alone. For Lucien LaValle hung himself one gloomy Sunday morning and she was left alone.

    She was alone, and waiting, that last night when Varek came.

    Citizens were not allowed to visit with prisoners in their cells on the eve of execution. But Varek was not a citizen. He was not a man at all in the ordinary concept of the word. He was a mocking shadow that glided silently to her cell.

    One moment nothing, and the next, Varek was there. Whispering in the darkness.

    "Vera, Vera LaValle, listen to me! I have news for you. Great news!"

    Silence, as he waited for a reply. But she said nothing. After a moment, he continued: "Remember what I told you? About the laboratory, the experiments, the secret of eternal life? I have it at last, Vera - I have it at last! Oh, it's not exactly all I'd hoped, and much remains to be done in refining the method. But it's the goal of sorcery through the ages, the dream of science. And I have it. For you. For us!"

    Silence once more. Vera LaValle did not move. He spoke again: "Eternal life, Vera! I swear it's the truth; I can give you eternal life. All you need do is say the word and you're free. I can get you out as easily as I got you in. And now you can be young forever, alive forever! You must believe me, you must!"

    Vera turned and faced him through the bars of the cell. She could not see his face in the darkness of the corridor, but he could see her countenance - and the lineaments of loathing.

    "I do believe you," she said. "And I tell you that I prefer to die tomorrow morning rather than spend eternity - or a single living moment - with you."

    Varek's laugh grated through the gloom. "A plain answer, Mademoiselle LaValle. But I wonder if you have rightly considered what's in store for you. When the tumbril rolls and the sun is gleaming, gleaming on the bright blade of the guillotine? Have you see the heads in the basket, Mademoiselle? Have you seen Samson lift them by the hair and exhibit them to the crowd?"

    "You can't frighten me," she whispered.

    "Do you know what it's like to be dead? Dead forever and ever?

    

    They'll put you in the ground, Mademoiselle, in the cold wet ground. You'll lie there in eternal darkness, lie there and rot and decay into slime and dust. And the lips that you withhold from me will feed kisses to the worms.

    "Aren't you afraid of death, Mademoiselle LaValle?"

    She shook her head and smiled into the blackness beyond the bars. "Not as much as I fear life with you," she said. "Now, go and leave me in peace."

    He broke down, then. The creature cried and begged. "I don't understand, it's never happened before - that a woman, a girl, a mere child should do this to me! I thought I was immune to folly, but since the moment I laid eyes on you I cannot endure the thought of not possessing you. You are a burning in my blood, you must know that and you cannot refuse - you cannot! But you must be mine of your own free will, not by force. I want you willingly, and I must have you." Varek sobbed, and it was the dry and dusty sobbing of a reanimated mummy, rustling in the darkness.

    Once again, Vera LaValle shook her head. "No," she said.

    Varek's sob held not grief but rage. "Good enough," he cried. "If I'm not fit for you, I commend you to a new lover. To Death! Death shall embrace you, twine his bony fingers in your curls, take your head as a souvenir of his conquest. Adieu - I leave you to hold tryst with your beloved. He'll not be long now!"

    And he left her.

    Then and only then did Vera break down. For she had lied. She did fear death. The thought of dying terrified her past all comprehension, and now in the darkness she could almost see the grinning presence of Death incarnate; the skeleton in the black coat, the grinning skull covered with a cowl.

    He was still with her the next morning, when the guards came. He walked with her to the tumbril, and as she and five other weeping and bedraggled women took their places, Death climbed in beside them.

    Death grinned at Vera LaValle as she rode through the streets of Paris to the site of execution. Death pointed his finger at the roaring crowd, the prancing Citizen Samson and his grimacing assistants. Death showed her the shrieking silhouette of the knife against the dawn-drenched sky.

    Death was with her as she walked to the platform. Death helped her up the stairs, and it seemed to Vera in the delirium of the last few moments that not Samson but Death himself was the executioner - removing her cloak, binding her arms forcing her to kneel and gaze down at the bottom of the basket when all the time she wanted to gaze up; gaze up at the knife, the bright blade of the knife which was the only real thing left in the world.

    Then, as the roar of the crowd came up, the blade of the guillotine came down.

    Death took Vera LaValle in his arms.

    And - released her!

    "You want to know what it's like, of course," she told me, sitting there on the bed, thousands of miles and lifetimes later. "But I don't remember. There was no pain, no sensation, and yet I felt, I was conscious in a new way. There was no sense of duration, either.

    "Then the pain came back, and I was alive.

    "I had this pain in the throat, and in the head.

    "I opened my eyes. I saw the bandage on my neck. I saw the silver tube coiling to the top of my spine. And I saw Varek.

    "You know what happened, of course. Samson had sold me to Varek after the execution. He took me to his laboratory and brought me back to life.

    "I realized it, naturally, at once. But I can never convey to you the horror of that moment - when I discovered that he had sewed my head back on my body!

    "It was grotesque, it was ludicrous, and it was somehow blasphemous. But despite it all, in the weeks to come, I learned to respect the power, the wisdom, the genius of Nicolo Varek.

    "My convalescence, if you can call it that, was slow. It was not easy, with the crude techniques he had painfully evolved, for Varek to keep me alive and nurse me back to a semblance of health and sanity. But he did it. Since that time I've learned a great deal about what he does to reanimate the dead, and still I haven't grasped the true secret."

    She paused, and I cut in: "You say he sewed your head back on? But that's… incredible."

    Vera pointed at the scar and smiled wanly. "Would you find it equally incredible if I told you that there's a metal plate covering half of my skull - that there is metal, some sort of machinery, extending down the neck and into the upper spine? That Varek, in 1794, was using electrical voltage and a sort of miniature dynamo for metabolic regulation? That the control he exercised and still exercises is a combination of hypnotism and an extension of brain-waves transformed into electric current? Yet it's true, all of it. I am an automaton - operating on the power generated from within plus the current fed me by Varek at a distance. I'm alive yet not alive. I do not age or change, I do not eat or sleep. But there's something worse than sleep. Something much worse." She shuddered. "That's when he turns me off."

    Either she was crazy or I was. Or both of us. This I knew. But I believed her. I believed the cold-eyed, cold-skinned creature with the livid scar who talked to me across the centuries.

    "He's done it to me, many times, temporarily and to suit his convenience or his needs. But I've seen him do it to others - permanently. It's horrible. They die, then; die a second death. A hideous death, forever.

    "That's the hold he has over me, over all of us. The ability to turn us off. Because there's something inside that wants to live, fights to live. Oh, how can I tell you the story of what took a hundred and sixty years to live?" Vera glanced around the room, and for a moment her agitation seemed completely human. "There's not time; he'll come out of it now, hear us."

    I pressed her. I had to know the rest. "Quickly, then," I urged. "What happened after you recovered?"

    "He was still experimenting. I was his first complete success. There were other… corpses… that he revived temporarily. But they were damaged, warped. Completely insane. At the time, he hadn't perfected his methodology of control. Several escaped. There was an ugly scandal. And Robespierre's dictatorship fell. He went to the guillotine himself. Varek no longer had protection in Paris. So we fled.

    "The Embargo was on, and the only ship we could find was bound for the colonies. We ended up in Haiti, just the two of us.

    "It was a strange relationship. He no longer desired me, of course - and I think he almost regretted his monstrous act of revival. Gradually he set about to make me his servant. And of course, he succeeded. I was alone, helpless, literally dependent on him for my existence.

    "I offer no apologies for serving Varek. I had no choice. And he was master.

    "It didn't take long for him to establish himself in Haiti and in San Domingo. He had brought money and jewels. We took a mansion; he posed as a planter. And immediately set about fomenting an insurrection. You know what happened to Haiti a few years later, when Toussaint L'Ouverture, Dessalines and Christophe revolted against the French. Varek played his part. Blood flowed, and there were bodies for Varek's new laboratories. Black bodies to experiment upon. Black bodies to toil on the plantations.

    "It was at this time that a new superstition arose. The one about zombies. The walking dead. Can you understand now just why and how this belief was born?"

    I nodded, thinking of my dreams. There was a horrid logic and conviction behind her words. Varek had created the concept of the zombie. His creatures walking the world.

    "The blacks were primitive, simple. Varek bungled often. He was still groping, evolving methods and techniques. The botched jobs were the zombies.

    "And the vampires - that was Hungary, of course."

    I raised an eyebrow. "But Varek isn't responsible for the belief in vampires. That's an ancient superstition."

    "Correct," answered Vera. "But we went to Hungary from Haiti because of the belief. Because, there, tales of the walking dead would be ascribed to superstition and no one would investigate too closely if some of Varek's experiments moved freely over the countryside. Also, Varek wished to follow the latest developments in European scientific research. Even before the Revolution, he had worked briefly with Anton Mesmer in the development of hypnotism. Now he was interested in the new psychology.

    "You see, attaining the power he dreams of is a long and a complicated process. It involves much more than merely the ability to control the reanimated bodies of the dead. At first, Varek could not keep a corpse alive except by constant hypnotic control. He had to focus his own energies every moment. Then he reached a stage were he could fix a behaviour pattern for hours, or days, and turn to other matters. But that is not enough.

    "Each reanimated corpse must be provided for - given a new identity, a new life, a new rote to play. Varek moulds the puppets, breathes life into them, and then he must manipulate the strings. Dozens, scores of puppets, on dozens of separate stages; all play their part in one involved drama.

    "He had to enter into scientific fields, enter into politics. How much of the intrigue behind the Third Empire in France was due to his work, I'll never know. For in 1847 I rebelled; I tried to get away. And as punishment he turned me off for seventy years!"

    Vera's white death-mask contorted in remembered agony. "For seventy years I followed Varek across the world as baggage - in an ice-packed coffin. And meanwhile he meddled with science, he pulled strings, and he waited. What's time to Varek?

    "I awoke in Russia, during the Revolution. By this time he'd come to realize that he needed living allies; men to work in front of the public. Dupes and spies. He'd made some connection with a monk, Rasputin. There was a plan to kill the young Tsarevitch and then bring him back to life again; the Czar and Czarina would be at his mercy, from that point on. But somebody murdered Rasputin, and we fled Russia for a spell. That's when I was reanimated again.

    "Varek believes in Revolution, you know. A time of turmoil and disruption is what he needs; it gives him an opportunity to profit by confusion. New and untried leaders arise, and he comes to them with hints of what he can do. He presents plans and attempts to gain control of those who form governments.

    "We returned to Russia, and I aided him. I had no choice. It was that or lying in darkness - refrigerated darkness, now, thanks to modern conveniences." She smiled wryly. "You can guess what he's been up to since then. You can guess who was behind the scenes in some of Pavlov's experiments. Varek reached members of that group. You can guess that sooner or later the Comintern got wind of it. But what you do not know - and what history does not show - is just how perilously close Russia came to developing a truly mechanized army in the 1930's. An army of the dead!"

    I lit a cigarette and tried not to look at the clock on the bureau; the clock that was ticking the minutes away.

    "We were in Germany, then, and Varek attempted to sell his notion to the New Order. But his spokesmen fell out of power, and in 1939 we fled again. We were in Canada for a few years, in Manitoba and further north. Varek waited out the war. But he has infinite patience, infinite cunning.

    "He can afford to wait - wait for centuries, if necessary. He's a strange man, Varek. He has possessed vast wealth, and lost it time and time again fleeing from country to country. He has a chameleon-like ability to alter his personality his appearance. He is - But what's the use of telling you? You're doomed."

    I crushed out the cigarette.

    "Now let's get down to cases," I suggested. "He sent you to kill me. Why?"

    "Because you know about Cono. His offer was genuine, at first. He is still looking for a man, for many men, who will serve him as living allies. But you refused, and because you understand his power, you must die."

    "Yet, Cono is such an insignificant cog in his machine," I persisted. "A dumb strong-man from a carnival. I can't see why a man with Varek's gigantic plans would bother with such a trivial matter."

    "Then you don't know Varek. He has plans within plans. He's not lived quietly for the past few years for nothing. He's been waiting - waiting for the next war. The big one. The one his plans have indirectly fomented.

    "There's a great laboratory set up already, somewhere in Sorora. It is capable of… processing… the dead almost on a factory assembly line. Its services will be offered to the highest bidder when the time comes. Whichever side runs out of manpower and needs a new army of workers, a new army of fighters. Don't you understand? That's where it all leads to, Varek's dream; to create a world run by slaves - by the dead!"

    "He'll never get away with it."

    "I'm not so sure. The past few years have brought the scientific developments he needs. There are new methods of controlling bodies en masse. Radio, electronics, blood plasma all play a part in his schemes.

    "For years now he's been in the background, waiting for the right time. When war comes he will have emissaries ready to approach the new leaders. He knows how to get to the wealthy, the powerful, and intrigue them. That has been my job in the past. He intended to have your help, too - and probably the help of a hundred men like you."

    "That's the one point that isn't clear to me yet," I told her. "Just exactly how does he manage to insinuate himself into the confidence of the men on top?"

    Vera smiled. The ghost of a smile, the smile of a ghost. "Simple. Have you ever heard of the Fox sisters? Or D. D. Home or Angel Annie or Madame Blavatsky?"

    I nodded. "Spiritualist mediums or mystics, weren't they?"

    "Yes. During my… sleep… Varek was able to hit on that gambit. The same one used earlier by St Germain and Cagliostro. Through the ages the wealthy, the powerful have always had one weakness. A belief in superstition. A longing to pierce the veil of the Mysteries. They've always followed the seers, flocked to the occultists, confided in them. No need to explain the phenomenon. It exists."

    "True enough." I said. "So Varek allies himself with the mediums. They act as his front men. They attract the rich. And Varek watches, waits, chooses those he wants or can use, and then steps into the picture and reveals his plans."

    "Exactly." Vera sighed. "It was that way with Rasputin, if you remember. He was the key to the Czar's influence. And he's ready to start again."

    

    "But the mediums aren't trustworthy, many are frauds," I argued.

    "And many are not. Take D. D. Home, for example. No less a scientist than Crookes verified the fact that Home levitated himself out of a third storey window and floated back in through another. It actually happened, time and time again. But what Crookes didn't know is that little, tubercular, wan Mr Home had been dead for a year - and Varek animated him, hypnotized him, and then levitated him by concentration. Just as he levitated me tonight and sent me to kill you."

    Vera paused. I stared at her white face in the gloom. And as I stared, something happened. A spasm contorted her countenance, the same dreadful tic that had afflicted Cono. I watched her as her mouth opened and a voice came out. But it was not Vera LaValle's voice. It was the voice of the dead bartender, the voice of Varek.

    "Yes," it told her, as much as it told me. "I sent you to kill him. And you failed. Failed and then talked. I cannot afford to have you talk any more, Vera. I'm going to turn you off. Forever."

    The voice shut off abruptly. It had to shut off, for there was no longer a means of utterance. The spasm in Vera's face swept down over her body in a single hideous horripilation. For a moment she swayed there, shuddering convulsively. Then - she melted.

    There was a change, and it wasn't a collapse. It was a running together, as though flesh were falling in on splintering bone. She shrank, dwindled before my eyes - and then she crumbled.

    Somebody had taken the wax doll that was Vera LaValle, and held it over a roaring flame. In an instant she ran together, fused.

    I stared at the floor, stared at the heap of fine white ash surrounding a charred and twisted cluster of wires linked to a metal plate.

    Vera LaValle was gone.

    Vera was gone and I was alone in the bedroom. Or was I?

    If I'd had any doubts about Varek's power, they were gone now. They'd vanished with Vera, and taken a part of my sanity with them.

    Let's face it; I was panicked. Varek knew where I was, and that meant I would no longer be safe here. Not safe from him, not safe from the police. I wondered what had happened to Ahmed. For all I knew, Varek had attended to him, too. And I couldn't stick around and wait.

    I went over to the door. It was locked, of course, and I'd have to force it. I gave it the old college try. You see them do it every day in the movies and on television. Brawny, broad-chested hero puts his shoulder to the locked door. The door gives way. Simple.

    Try it sometime. Desperate as I was, all I managed to gain was a bruised shoulder. Then I picked up a chair. That was a better deal. The panel splintered. I broke the lock.

    Then I was running down the hall in darkness, groping at the head of the stairs, clumping down them, racing through the hall to the front door. If a cleaning woman had showed up, she didn't show.

    I made the door, opened it. The night air hit me. So did a hand.

    "What's the rush, friend?"

    I gasped with panic, then with relief.

    Ahmed bustled in, rubbing his hands. "Hold it," he said. "I've got news for you."

    I shook my head. "I've got news for you, too," I said.

    "What do you mean?"

    I decided to risk it. He had to be shown. I took him by the arm and steered him back up the stairs. If you think it wasn't hard for me to force myself into that room again, you've got another guess. But it had to be done that way.

    "Take a look," I said.

    His little gray eyes examined the charred ashes on the floor. He stooped and picked up the metal plate, contemplated the dangling wires protruding from it.

    "What's this?"

    "All that remains of Vera LaValle. She visited me with a knife. I got her to talk and then she was… shut off."

    "I don't follow you."

    "Sit down," I sighed. "I'll have to explain, but I want to make it fast."

    I did. The Great Ahmed nodded. He wasn't upset, he wasn't alarmed, he wasn't horrified. Somehow, his very calmness managed to reassure me.

    "It ties together," he said, as I concluded. "It fits. Every bit of it."

    "How do you know?"

    "Because I've seen Cono. You were right about the hotel, friend. He came back. And when he found me hiding in the closet he tried to kill me." Ahmed smiled and help up a skeleton key. "I needn't tell you how I got in the room," he grinned. "But to make a long story short, the same thing happened as must have happened to you and Vera here. I managed to calm him down - he recognized me, of course. To be brutally frank, I resorted to an old Varek trick; a little hypnosis of my own. Varek must have been directing his own energies elsewhere, possibly to levitate Vera LaValle.

    "At any rate, Cono talked, Of course, he's newly reborn, as it were, and he doesn't have too many details. Also, he's not the best example of a scientific mind." Ahmed smiled, briefly. "Still, he told more than he thought he was telling.

    "Did you know that Varek has hideouts established in almost every principal city in the world? And that each of them contains anywhere from a dozen to several hundred bodies under refrigeration, ready for reanimation at any time? A sort of dead storage.

    "Also, there are the walkers. More of them than you'd suspect. Although it's really quite easy to detect them because they all have one thing in common - the red scar on the neck."

    I started at that. "You mean, he cuts off their heads before he revives them?"

    Ahmed shrugged. "Not completely, now. But an operation is performed. A deep incision is made at the base of the brain. The metal plate is grafted into place and the wires" - here he picked up the charred mass from the floor and waved it - "are put into place. Meanwhile, the hypnotic control is being established."

    "It's a form of hypnotism, then? But I don't get it."

    The Great Ahmed shook his head. "It isn't easy. But then, what do any of us understand about the life process? We don't know what governs our physiological continuity; makes our hearts beat and our lungs take in and expel air without conscious control. You might say we operate our own bodies through autohypnosis and that keeps us alive.

    "And what's death? Various organs 'die' at different times after the heart stops. We can understand the process of decay, but we can't define or truly measure death. Why, I defy anyone to tell me exactly what sleep is, let alone death!

    "Sleep - that's a form of hypnosis, too.

    "And, somehow, Varek has harnessed that portion of the mind which functions automatically in life, in sleep; kept it going in the state we describe as death. The common denominator is electrical energy; brain-waves, which can be measured electrically, you know. Varek has managed to apply hypnotic principles to the electric current of the body; magnetism controlling magnetism. That's why he performs the operation, inserts the metal plates in the brain and the spine. To alter the 'hookup', you might say."

    The little man spoke earnestly, as though he were lecturing a backward pupil. I listened with equal earnestness now as he waved his finger at me.

    "Let me put it simply. You might compare the human body to a radio set, and Varek to a radio station. His operation consists of putting in the proper tubes and condensers to make the set forever receptive to his hypnotic wave-length. It's all electrical. Once control is established, he can broadcast impulses forever. That's a vast oversimplification, but you get the idea."

    "Not completely," I said. "What about the bartender?"

    "Oh, there are exceptions. The bartender was one. There Varek resorted to a temporary hook-up. Probably gave his entire concentration to animating him temporarily, just to talk to you. As he concentrated entirely to levitate Vera. Those special things require special efforts. But with the vast army of dead, Varek - to return to our little analogy of a radio station - merely sends out a host of previously prepared 'transcriptions' in the shape of hypnotic suggestions. The dead then 'play' the hypnotic suggestions through for hours. And Varek need pay no more attention to them than an engineer who puts on long-playing records for broadcasting. They operate automatically.

    "And that, of course, is the weakness. Sometimes Varek doesn't pay attention; or he watches the wrong body. Then it's possible for someone else with a stronger hypnotic wavelength to 'jam' reception in a corpse - capture its attention, divert its purpose. As I did with Cono tonight at the hotel. And as you did with Vera."

    "Lucky for both of us we did," I said. "But what else happened? What else did you find out? Why is Varek operating in Chicago now? And - this is the jackpot question - what's the secret of his own eternal life?"

    The Great Ahmed smiled. "You want a lot for a few hours' work, friend," he answered gently. "Some of those questions you'll have to find out about for yourself. All I can do is give you that opportunity."

    "Meaning?"

    "Meaning I made a deal with Cono. And I think he can be trusted - as long as Varek doesn't get to him. Cono has promised to lead you direct to Varek himself tonight."

    "Now?" I was genuinely startled.

    Ahmed glanced at his wristwatch. "In about three quarters of an hour. You're to meet him in the lobby of the Wrigley Building at eleven-thirty. Alone."

    I didn't like that at all, and he could see it even before I spoke. "What's the big idea?" I asked. "Why aren't you coming along?"

    

    The little man returned my gaze with unmoved composure. "For a very obvious reason; it might be a trap. Then Varek'd have both of us. As it is, you'll have to take your chances. And if anything does go wrong, I'll still be able to carry on, to follow through. After all, that's why you hired me. And I aim to finish the job."

    He was silent for a moment. "Think it over," he said. "You don't have to go, you know. And I don't mind telling you I'd hesitate before taking such a risk."

    I nodded. "Somebody's got to do it," I said. "So if you'll call a cab for me…"

    Ahmed smiled and held out his hand. "Good boy," he said. He turned and led the way downstairs. He phoned for a cab in the hall.

    "I don't know where you're going or what you'll get into," he mused. "And of course, under the circumstances, you can't have the cops tagging along. You'll just have to use your head. Try and keep in touch with me, tip me off what's going on and what to do."

    "Why don't you follow me in another cab?" I suggested. "Then, no matter where Cono takes me, you'll at least have the address."

    "Good idea." Ahmed stepped to the phone and put in another call. Then he nudged me. "And here's a little idea of my own," he said.

    He held out his hand next to my pocket and dumped something cold and hard. I reached for it and came up with a.38 fully loaded.

    "Just in case," he told me. "I'll feel better if you have something along for company."

    I grinned my gratitude as we walked out of the door of 43 East Brent and waited for the cabs to arrive. Mine rolled up first, but his turned the corner a moment later.

    "Let's go," he said. "Be careful now."

    "Same to you," I answered. Then, "Wrigley Building," I told the driver. And we were off.

    It was a nice, warm, moonless night. I leaned back in the cab as we jolted downtown and tried to relax. I'll give you three guesses how well I succeeded.

    We kept stopping at corners, corners with cops on them. I hid my face and thanked my lucky stars there was no moon.

    When we hit Chicago Avenue and a red light, I took a long chance. I leaned out of the cab, yelled at a newsboy, and bought a paper. Just idle curiosity. I wanted to see if they had my picture in today. With some of the latest gossip. Such as the offering of a reward, dead or alive.

    I riffled through the pages rapidly, but no success greeted my efforts. Maybe they didn't care. Maybe they were used to killing bartenders in Chicago.

    Killing -

    The little squib caught my eye. With the Louisville dateline. James T. Armstrong Shows… Louis Preusser, 43… Confessed murderer of… Psychiatrists declared under influence of hypnosis and drugs…

    It was the follow-up on the story of Louie's confession. He'd walked in, glassy-eyed, and confessed. I wondered what the whole deal was. The Great Ahmed would know. Maybe I'd better ask him before I went on.

    I glanced behind to see if his cab was trailing mine. Nothing was in sight. Maybe his driver had taken Clark Street instead. He'd catch up to me. Nobody seemed to have any trouble at all catching up to me whenever they wanted to.

    Take Vera LaValle, for instance. She'd found me at the Great Ahmed's after I'd been there for less than an hour. That was one question I needed an answer for. How did she - and Varek - know I was there?

    I'd remember to ask Ahmed that.

    But - would he tell me?

    Maybe you're a scientist, a great scientist. Maybe you're a sorcerer too, a wizard. You can raise the dead, and you stay alive yourself. But it's still quite a trick to pick one person out of four million and send a killer right to his door. Unless somebody tips you off.

    The tipoff That was it.

    Ahmed goes out. Ahmed sells out. Of course! He went to the hotel, just as he said he would, with the eight grand in his pocket. Maybe he saw Cono there, maybe he saw somebody else. Maybe he even saw Varek himself. And he made a deal. He told Varek where I was. Varek sent Vera to kill me.

    When enough time had passed, Ahmed came back to see if the job was accomplished. It must have surprised him to find me alive.

    So he came up with the story about meeting Cono. Why? It hadn't, come to think of it, sounded too good at the time. This business about winning Cono over with hypnosis. And Cono leading me to Varek.

    But seeing me alive, he'd told me the story for a purpose. Ahmed was a great guy for purposes, all right. He must even have given me the gun for a purpose.

    I tried to figure it out as we roared down Michigan. I could see the gleaming lighted spire that chewing gum built, right ahead. I'd be there in a minute now.

    What had Varek said? Something about not bothering to kill me because the law would do it.

    And here I came riding up to the Wrigley building, with a gun in my pocket. An armed murderer.

    I knew what to look for now. It wouldn't be Ahmed's cab; he wouldn't show up at all, I was sure. I was looking for a black prowl car.

    I wouldn't see Cono standing in the lobby with a white carnation in his buttonhole, ready to guide me on a conducted tour of Varek's snug harbour. I was more likely to see a couple of downtown boys with their hands in their topcoat pockets. The reception committee from the downtown station.

    We started to edge towards the curb, and I added up my score. Exactly 100 per cent right. There was the squad car, there were the boys. They stood patiently, just waiting for somebody to show up. If I knew Ahmed, I felt sure he'd furnish them with a very good description.

    We nosed in, slowing down. "Here we are - " the driver began.

    "No, we're not," I cut in. "Back to 43 East Brent. And fast. I have another appointment."

    We kept going, over the bridge. Nobody looked up. Nobody followed. I kept my hand on the butt of the.38 all the way back. I didn't want to lose it, you see.

    It was the Great Ahmed's, and I intended to make sure that I gave it to him.

    The house was dark, but then it was always dark. I had the cab park around the corner because I didn't mind walking. In fact, I preferred it. Preferred it so much I went around to the back of the house - the long way around, mind you. Didn't bother me a bit. Nor did it bother me to climb in through a rear bedroom window on the first floor.

    I was quiet. Very quiet. Sort of a slow, seething quiet. Little thoughts kept bubbling up in me about what I'd do to Ahmed when I got my hands on him.

    So he wasn't the type for a carney grifter, eh? Well, he'd taken me in soon enough. And sold me out even sooner.

    I landed on the bedroom floor and padded out, down the hall. No cleaning woman was around and I knew now that there never had been. Ahmed had locked me in to keep me on ice for Vera LaValle or whoever Varek might send.

    Ahmed and Varek - a good team. Maybe Ahmed was the guy Varek needed for a front man!

    Of course, he wouldn't look quite so presentable after I got through with him…

    I tiptoed down the hall, peeked into the library. It was dark. The whole house was dark. I stopped, listened. After a long moment, I became convinced of the truth. I was alone. Ahmed had gone out in his cab but he hadn't returned.

    I reached a stairway going up - that led to the bedroom and the other rooms on the second floor. But behind it was another set of stairs, going down. I decided to have myself a look. Curiosity killed a cat of course - but this cat carried a.38.

    The basement was big and dusty. Old fashioned furnace, the usual stationary washtubs, a coal-bin, a fruit cellar. I pushed open the door and stared at the usual assortment of dusty, empty jars in the light thrown by a naked bulb dangling from the centre of the small room.

    Nothing in the cellar to interest me. My hunch was cold.

    I was cold!

    Standing in the deserted fruit cellar a little past midnight of a warm May evening, I was cold. Cold as ice! I felt the cold air all around me. But where was it coming from?

    A draft blew against my trouser cuffs. I looked down.

    There was a round metal lid set in the floor of the fruit cellar. I stooped, touched it. The iron was icy. I groped for the ring, lifted the lid. I gazed down into darkness.

    Then I walked away, making a circuit of the cellar until I found what I needed and expected to find - the inevitable handy flashlight.

    I returned to the fruit cellar and pointed the beam down. It focussed on the iron rungs of a ladder. I took the flashlight in one hand, the gun in the other, and left enough fingers free on both for me to cling to the rungs as I descended.

    I lowered myself into icy cold - the coldness of a vast black refrigerator. I went down, down, rung after rung. Finally my feet hit slimy, damp stone. I joggled the flashlight until it bisected a wall with its beams. Eventually I located a light switch.

    I flicked it. The light went on, and I saw everything.

    I was standing in the centre of Varek's laboratory.

    Varek - Ahmed. Ahmed - Varek.

    

    It all added up now. More lights went on.

    They went on in the little room with the big filing cabinets. I pried open a lot of drawers that night; the drawers containing the certificates, the visas, the affidavits, the fake credentials, the diplomas, the letters of identity (hadn't Varek convinced the warden he was Cono's cousin?) and all of the mingled memorabilia of hundreds of years of impersonations, imposture, and disguise. Floods, tons of paper. The dust fairly flew.

    And more light was shed. I found the long closet with the wardrobe; the Ahmed wardrobe, the sportsman's garments, the shabby workman's garb complete even to the battered tin initialled lunchbox and the union button. The accoutrements of Varek the wealthy man of the world were there, too - and a box containing diamonds and other gems that reminded me of poor Vera LaValle.

    Then there was another room, with more files. Letters and newspaper clippings. Ads from the Personal columns of ten thousand papers, in a score of languages. Help Wanted notices. Lonely Hearts messages. And letters, letters, letters - messages from the millions who later turned up missing. Those who answered Varek's appeal for a wife, a husband, an employee. I got a picture of him sitting there, year after year, sending out his letters, interviewing prospects, recruits for his army of the dead. Recruits who would not be missed, searched for.

    There were more lights in other rooms. The big surgery, with the gigantic autoclave; completely modern, completely equipped. I wondered how he'd managed to assemble it here, and then I thought of the dead; the tireless dead who steal, who strain, who slave day and night.

    Beyond the modern surgery was medieval horror.

    The round, dungeon-like room, dominated by the huge table on which rested the alembics and retorts of an ancient alchemist. The beaker filled with the brownish-red, crusting liquid. The herbs and powders on the shelves; the dried roots in bottles, and the great jars filled with monkeys floating in a nauseous liquid, and other things that looked like monkeys but weren't. The stock of chalk and powders. The great circle drawn upon the floor with the zodiacal signs inscribed in blue before it. The jar of combustible powder -that was used to make the circle of fire inside a pentagon, according to the thaumaturgists. And on the iron table rested the iron book; the Grimoire of the sorcerer.

    

    

    Sorcery and science! Surgery and Satanism! That was the link, the combination! Sorcery had led to science, as Varek said. His original alchemic experiments had brought him to actual research and enabled him to perfect his method of reanimating the dead.

    But that didn't explain his own continued life, his boasts of eternal youth. That was sorcery. That was selling your soul, after lighting the fires and invoking the Author of All Evil.

    The rooms, the lighted rooms, seemed to present a panorama of Varek's entire existence across the centuries. Everything was her - and I wondered, now, if he'd told me the truth. If in every great city, unsuspected, beneath a house or a factory or a tenement there existed a duplicate of this place. What had he said? A sort of "dead storage", that was it.

    "Dead storage." But where were the dead?

    There was another room, beyond the alchemic chamber. I entered it, and the coldness engulfed me. This was it. The refrigerator storage space. Where you keep the cold meat.

    The cold meat…

    They lay on slabs, but they weren't sheeted. I could see them all, see their staring faces. Men, women, children, young, old, rich, poor - lavish your categories upon them, they were all here. A host, a hundred or more. Silent but not sleeping, inert but not immovable, rigid without rigor. They lay there, waiting, like toys that would soon be wound up by cunning hands and set about to walk in make-belief of life.

    It was cold in that room, but cold alone did not make me shiver. I walked through rows of dead, staring into the faces that stared into mine. I don't know what I expected to see. None of them looked familiar - except, perhaps one little blonde who reminded me of someone I'd run into before somewhere.

    Then, all at once, I knew what I must do. There was fire outside, and it would serve more purposes than that of conjuring up demons. It could also be used to put them to rest.

    I walked back into the other room and picked up the powder box which, when its contents were kindled, traced a pattern of flame on the floor. A circle of fire protected you from demons, it was said, after you evoked them.

    I ripped the lid off the box and began to sprinkle the powder about. I worked quickly, but not quickly enough..

    Because when I looked up, somebody was standing in the room. He only stood there for a moment, and then he started for me.

    It was Cono.

    

    

    He didn't say anything and I didn't say anything. He came on and I backed away. The cold arms reached out; I'd felt them before. The tic like grimace leered, and I knew it would keep on leering no matter how many bullets I might waste.

    Because the dead don't die.

    Because this was the end.

    Because he was coming at me like a demon.

    But demons can be warded off with fire.

    I pulled out the.38 and pressed the trigger. I didn't aim at Cono; I aimed at the powder on the floor.

    A circle of flame shot up, almost in Cono's face. He stopped. Dead or alive, fire destroys flesh. And he couldn't get through. Not as long as the fire flared.

    I wondered how long that would be. When would the powder's potency be exhausted? Ten minutes, five, two? Whatever the time, I had that long to live and no longer - unless I could convince him.

    I talked then. Told him what I thought he'd understand. About Varek being the Great Ahmed, hiding out with the carney for a while and perfecting plans. About seeing Cono and deciding to make him a recruit, then rigging up the murder charge by hypnotizing Louie, getting him to drug Cono and kill Flo.

    I told him something about what Varek was, what he planned, what he'd do to Cono, to me, to the whole world if he wasn't stopped and stopped soon. I told him about the sorcery and the science and the bodies that walked everywhere in every city.

    The fire began to flicker, to fade, to die down. I talked louder, faster.

    And it didn't do any good.

    It was like talking to a stone wall.

    It was like talking to a dead man.

    With a sickening feeling, I realized I'd been in this spot once before. I'd tried then, tried to tell Cono I was his friend, tried to reach his heart, his soul. But dead men have no hearts. Varek was his heart. And I knew of nothing that could touch his soul. Nothing he cared for, nothing he loved. Except Flo!

    Then I remembered, remembered the next room and the blonde on the slab. The little blonde with the familiar face - Flo!

    "Cono," I said. "Listen to me. You've got to listen. She's in there, too. You didn't know that, did you? He didn't tell you. But he's greedy, he wants them all. He not only took your body, he took Flo's too. She's in the next room. Cono. He cut off her head, put in his damned wires and plates, and now she'll walk for him forever!

    He was blind. Blind and deaf. The flames died, he moved towards me, he caught me up in his arms. I waited for the squeezing strength of his fingers to wrench my life away. But he merely held me, held me and lumbered across the ashes into the next room.

    "Show me where," he said, and the tic rippled horribly across his face.

    I pointed. Pointed at the face I remembered from a photograph he'd shown me.

    Cono saw her. He released me, and his hands went to his head. He kept staring at her, staring and staring, even after Varek came into the room.

    That's how it happened. One second we were alone and the next moment he was there - little grey shadow, silent and suave.

    No emotion, no surprise, no tension.

    Just his soft, quiet voice saying, "Kill him, Cono."

    He might have been asking the big man for a match.

    But as I stared at Varek - stared at the quiet little middle-aged man with the paper-thin lips - I saw many things.

    I saw a vulgar charlatan in a carnival who was in turn a gypsy in Spain who was in turn a Polish count who was in turn a Haitian planter who was a London barrister who was a Polynesian trader who was a Tulsa wildcatter who was a physician in Cairo who was a trapper with Jim Bridger who was a diplomat of Austria who was - it went on and on that way, a hundred incarnations and a hundred lives and all of them were evil.

    He faced us with all of that evil, the evil of a hundred and a thousand men, concentrated but quietly so, and he said to Cono again in the voice that could not be denied because it was the voice of mastery, the voice of life over death - "Kill him, Cono."

    Cono set me down and I felt his arms close about my body, his hands grasp my throat. He was a robot, an automaton, he could not refuse; he was a zombie, vampire, all the evil legends, all the fear of the dead that return, the dead that never die.

    Cono bent me back. And Varek, with a look in his eyes that was a grey ecstasy, came closer and waited for Cono to finish.

    That's what Cono wanted, too.

    For when Varek came close, Cono moved. One instant he held me - the next, I was free and those huge arms had reached out to engulf Varek.

    The little grey man rose, shrieking, in the air. Cono squeezed -there was a sound like somebody stepping on a thin board - and the body of Varek writhed and twisted on the floor like a snake with a broken back.

    

    Cono helped me with the powder, then. There were chemicals, too; enough to start a good-sized blaze.

    "Come on," I said. "Time to get out of here."

    "I'm staying," he said. "I belong here."

    I had no answer to that one. I turned away.

    "You got to go now," Cono told me. "Leave me the gun to start the fire. I give you five minutes to get out."

    The thing on the floor was mewing. Neither of us looked at it.

    "One thing," Cono said. "I want you should know it so you'll maybe feel better. About that bartender. You didn't knock him off. You hit him with a bottle, but that didn't kill him. Varek killed him, later, when they dragged him in back to see how bad he was hurt. But he was going to pin the rap on you. I found out at the funeral home."

    "Thanks," I said.

    "Now go away," said Cono.

    And I went. I walked through the rooms and didn't look back. I climbed the ladder back to the basement. When I reached the top I heard the muffled sound of a shot from below me, far away.

    Long before the flames spread, I was out of the house and on my way to the Loop.

    Next morning I read about the place burning to the ground, and that was the end.

    But this is a story that never ends.

    I keep thinking of those "dead storage" places in other cities. I keep wondering if Varek had turned everybody off that night - or if others walked in other places. The way he and Cono and Vera had all told me. "If you only knew how many…"

    That's what frightens me.

    That's why, wherever I go now, I'm afraid of women wearing high collars and chokers. Men in turtleneck sweaters or even a clergyman's collar. I think of the red scar under the scarf. And I wonder.

    I wonder when someone or something will float through my window again. I wonder what walks abroad at night and waits to drag me down.

    I wonder how I, or you, or anyone can tell, as we go about our daily rounds, which are the living and which are the dead. For all we know, they may be all around us. Because:

    The dead don't die!