him a chance to realize that they weren't alone in the room.
    "Going to fuck on the floor, are we?" he asked casually.
    "Any objections?"
    "Not if it suits you," he said and clamped his mouth over hers, his tongue frisking 
her teeth for cavities. There was some passion in him, she mused; she could feel him hard 
against her already. But she had work to do here: blood to spill and a mouth to feed.
    She broke his kiss, and tried to slip from his arms. The knife was back in the jacket 
on the door. While it was out of reach she had little power to resist him.
    "What's the problem?" he said.
    "No problem..." she murmured. "There's no hurry either. We've got all the time in the 
world." She touched the front of his trousers, to reassure him. Like a stroked dog, he 
closed his eyes.
    "You're a strange one," he said.
    "Don't look," she told him.
    "Huh?"
    "Keep your eyes closed."
    He frowned, but obeyed. She took a step backward toward the door, and half turned to 
fumble in the depths of the pocket, glancing back to see that he was still blind.
    He was, and unzipping himself. As her hand clasped the knife, the shadows growled.
    He heard the noise. His eyes sprang open.
    "What was that?" he said, reeling round and peering into the darkness.
    "It was nothing," she insisted, as she pulled the knife from its hiding place. He was 
moving away from her, across the room.
    "There's somebody-"
    "Don't. "
    "-here."
    The last syllable faltered on his lips, as he glimpsed a fretful motion in the corner 
beside the window.
    "What...in God's...?" he began. As he pointed into the darkness she was at him, and 
slicing his neck open with a butcher's efficiency. Blood jumped immediately, a fat spurt 
that hit the wall with a wet thud. She heard Frank's pleasure, and then the dying man's 
complaint, long and low. His hand went up to his neck to stem the pulse, but she was at 
him again, slicing his pleading hand, his face. He staggered, he sobbed. Finally, he 
collapsed, twitching.
    She stepped away from him to avoid the flailing legs. In the corner of the room she 
saw Frank rocking to and fro.
    "Good woman..." he said.
    Was it her imagination, or was his voice already stronger than it had been, more like 
the voice she'd heard in her head a thousand times these plundered years?
    The door bell rang. She froze.
    "Oh Jesus," her mouth said.
    "It's all right..." the shadow replied. "He's as good as dead."
    She looked at the man in the white tie and saw that Frank was right. The twitching 
had all but ceased.
    "He's big," said Frank. "And healthy."
    He was moving into her sight, too greedy for sustenance to prohibit her stare; she 
saw him plainly now for the first time. He was a travesty. Not just of humanity, of life. 
She looked away.
    The door bell was ringing again, and for longer.
    "Go and answer it," Frank told her.
    She made no reply.
    "Go on," he told her, turning his foul head in her direction, his eyes keen and 
bright in the surrounding corruption.
    The bell rang a third time.
    "Your caller is very insistent," he said, trying persuasion where demands had failed. 
"I really think you should answer the door."
    She backed away from him, and he turned his attentions back to the body on the floor.
    Again, the bell.
    It was better to answer it perhaps (she was already out of the room, trying not to 
hear the sounds Frank was making), better to open the door to the day. It would be a man 
selling insurance, most likely, or a Jehovah's Witness, with news of salvation. Yes, she 
wouldn't mind hearing that. The bell rang again. "Coming," she said, hurrying now for 
fear he leave. She had welcome on her face when she opened the door. It died immediately.
    "Kirsty."
    "I was just about to give up on you."
    "I was...I was asleep."
    "Oh."
    Kirsty looked at the apparition that had opened the door to her. From Rory's 
description she'd expected a washed-out creature.
    What she saw was quite the reverse. Julia's face was flushed: strands of 
sweat-darkened hair glued to her brow. She did not look like a woman who had just risen 
from sleep. A bed, perhaps, but not sleep.
    "I just called by"-Kirsty said-"for a chat."
    Julia made a half shrug.
    "Well, it's not convenient just at the moment," she said.
    "I see."
    "Maybe we could speak later in the week?"
    Kirsty's gaze drifted past Julia to the coat stand in the hall. A man's gabardine 
hung from one of the pegs, still damp.
    "Is Rory in?" she ventured.
    "No," Julia said. "Of course not. He's at work." Her face hardened. "Is that what you 
came round for?" she said. "To see Rory?"
    "No I-"
    "You don't have to ask my permission, you know. He's a grown man. You two can do what 
the fuck you like."
    Kirsty didn't try to debate the point. The volte-face left her dizzied.
    "Go home," Julia said. "I don't want to talk to you."
    She slammed the door.
    Kirsty stood on the step for half a minute, shaking. She had little doubt of what was 
going on. The dripping raincoat, Julia's agitation-her flushed face, her sudden anger. 
She had a lover in the house. Poor Rory had misread all the signs.
    She deserted the doorstep and started down the path to the street. A crowd of 
thoughts jostled for her attention. At last, one came clear of the pack: How would she 
tell Rory? His heart would break, she had no doubt of that. And she, the luckless 
tale-teller, she would be tainted with the news, wouldn't she? She felt tears close.
    They didn't come, however; another sensation, more insistent, overtook as she stepped 
onto the pavement from the path.
    She was being watched. She could feel the look at the back of her head. Was it Julia? 
Somehow, she thought not. The lover then. Yes, the lover!
    Safely out of the shadow of the house, she succumbed to the urge to turn and look.