"I'm only half-made," Frank's voice said. "I don't want you to see me...don't want 
anybody to see me...not like this..." The words were halting once more, and wretched. "I 
have to have more blood, Julia."
    "More?"
    "And soon."
    "How much more?" she asked the shadows. This time she caught a better glimpse of what 
lay in wait there. No wonder he wanted no one to look.
    "Just more, " he said. Though the volume was barely above a whisper, there was an 
urgency in the voice that made her afraid.
    "I have to go..." she said, hearing music from below.
    This time the darkness made no reply. At the door, she turned back.
    "I'm glad you came," she said. As she closed the door, she heard a sound not unlike 
laughter behind her, nor unlike sobs.
    
    
    SEVEN
    
    1
    Kirsty? Is that you?"
    "Yes? Who is this?"
    "It's Rory..."
    The line was watery, as though the deluge outside had seeped down the phone. Still, 
she was happy to hear from him. He called up so seldom, and when he did it was usually on 
behalf of both himself and Julia. Not this time however. This time Julia was the subject 
under discussion.
    "There's something wrong with her, Kirsty," he said. "I don't know what."
    "Ill, you mean?"
    "Maybe. She's just so strange with me. And she looks terrible."
    "Have you said anything to her?"
    "She says she's fine. But she isn't. I wondered if maybe she'd spoken with you."
    "I haven't set eyes on her since your housewarming."
    "That's another thing. She doesn't even want to leave the house. That's not like her."
    "Do you want me to...to have a word with her?"
    "Would you?"
    "I don't know if it'll do any good, but I'll try. "
    "Don't say anything about me talking to you."
    "Of course not. I'll call in at the house tomorrow-"
    ("Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow. "
    "Yes...I know. "
    "I'm afraid I'll lose my grip, Julia. Start slipping back.")
    "I'll give you a call from the office on Thursday. You can tell me what you make of 
her."
    ("Slipping back?"
    "They'll know I've gone by now. "
    "Who will?"
    "The Gash. The bastards that took me..."
    "They're waiting for you?"
    "just beyond the wall.")
    Rory told her how grateful he was, and she in turn told him that it was the least a 
friend could do. Then he put down the phone, leaving her listening to the rain on the 
empty line.
    Now they were both Julia's creatures, looking after her welfare, fretting for her if 
she had bad dreams.
    No matter, it was a kind of togetherness.
    
    2
    The man with the white tie had not bided his time. Almost as soon as he set eyes on 
Julia he came across to her. She decided, even as he approached, that he was not 
suitable. Too big; too confident. After the way the first one had fought, she was 
determined to choose with care. So, when White Tie asked what she was drinking, she told 
him to leave her be.
    He was apparently used to rejections, and took it in his stride, withdrawing to the 
bar. She returned to her drink.
    It was raining heavily today-had been raining now for seventy-two hours, on and 
off-and there were fewer customers than there had been the week before. One or two 
drowned rats headed in from the street; but none looked her way for more than a few 
moments. And time was moving on. It was already past two. She wasn't going to risk 
getting caught again by Rory's return. She emptied her glass, and decided that this was 
not Frank's lucky day. Then she stepped out of the bar into the downpour, put up her 
umbrella, and headed back to the car. As she went she heard footsteps behind her, and 
then White Tie was at her side and saying: "My hotel's nearby."
    "Oh..." she said and kept on walking. But he wasn't going to be shrugged off so 
easily.
    "I'm only here for two days," he said.
    Don't tempt me, she thought.
    "Just looking for some companionship..." he went on. "I haven't spoken to a soul."
    "Is that right?"
    He took hold of her wrist. A grip so tight she almost cried out. That was when she 
knew she was going to have to kill him. He seemed to see the desire in her eyes.
    "My hotel?" he said.
    "I don't much like hotels. They're so impersonal."
    "Have you got a better idea?" he said to her.
    She had, of course.
    
    He hung his dripping raincoat on the hall stand, and she offered him a drink, which 
he welcomed. His name was Patrick, and he was from Newcastle.
    "Down on business. Can't seem to get much done."
    "Why's that?"
    He shrugged. "I'm probably a bad salesman. Simple as that."
    "What do you sell?" she asked him.
    "What do you care?" he replied, razor quick.
    She grinned. She would have to get him upstairs quickly, before she started to enjoy 
his company.
    "Why don't we dispense with the small talk?" she said. It was a stale line, but it 
was the first thing that came to her tongue. He swallowed the last of his drink in one 
gulp, and went where she led.
    This time she had not left the door ajar. It was locked, which plainly intrigued him.
    "After you," he said, when the door swung open.
    She went first. He followed. This time, she had decided, there would be no stripping. 
If some nourishment was soaked up by his clothes then so be it; she was not going to give