tangle of torn bandaging, still steamed. His neck was clearly broken, head set askew on 
his shoulders. He was devoid of skin from head to foot.
    Kirsty looked away, nauseated.
    "Satisfied?" Julia asked.
    Kirsty didn't reply, but left the room and stepped onto the landing. At her shoulder, 
the air was restless.
    ("You lost," something said, close by her.
    "I know, " she murmured.)
    The bell had begun to ring, tolling for her, surely; and a turmoil of wings nearby, a 
carnival of carrion birds. She hurried down the stairs, praying that she wouldn't be 
overtaken before she reached the door. If they tore her heart out, let Rory be spared the 
sight. Let him remember her strong, with laughter on her lips, not pleas.
    Behind her, Julia said, "Where are you going?" When there was no reply forthcoming, 
she went on talking. "Don't say anything to anybody, Kirsty," she insisted. "We can deal 
with this, Rory and me-"
    Her voice had stirred Rory from his drink. He appeared in the hallway. The wounds 
Frank had inflicted looked more severe than Kirsty had first thought. His face was 
bruised in a dozen places, and the skin at his neck plowed up. As she came abreast of 
him, he reached out and took her arm.
    "Julia's right," he said. "Leave it to us to report, will you?"
    There were so many things she wanted to tell him at that moment, but time left room 
for none. The bell was getting louder in her head. Someone had looped their entrails 
around her neck, and was pulling the knot tight.
    "It's too late..." she murmured to Rory, and pressed his hand away.
    "What do you mean?" he said to her, as she covered the yards to the door. "Don't go, 
Kirsty. Not yet. Tell me what you mean."
    She couldn't help but offer him a backward glance, hoping that he would find in her 
face all the regrets she felt.
    "It's all right," he said sweetly, still hoping to heal her. "Really it is." He 
opened his arms. "Come to Daddy, " he said.
    The phrase didn't sound right out of Rory's mouth. Some boys never grew to be 
daddies, however many children they sired.
    Kirsty put out a hand to the wall to steady herself.
    It wasn't Rory who was speaking to her. It was Frank. Somehow, it was FrankShe held 
on to the thought through the mounting din of bells, so loud now that her skull seemed 
ready to crack open. Rory was still smiling at her, arms extended. He was talking too, 
but she could no longer hear what he said. The tender flesh of his face shaped the words, 
but the bells drowned them out. She was thankful for the fact; it made it easier to defy 
the evidence of her eyes.
    "I know who you are..." she said suddenly, not certain of whether her words were 
audible or not, but unquenchably sure that they were true. Rory's corpse was upstairs, 
left to lie in Frank's shunned bandaging. The usurped skin was now wed to his brother's 
body, the marriage sealed with the letting of blood. Yes! That was it.
    The coils around her throat were tightening; it could only be moments before they 
dragged her off. In desperation, she started back along the hallway toward the thing in 
Rory's face.
    "It's you-" she said.
    The face smiled at her, undismayed.
    She reached out, and snatched at him. Startled, he took a step backward to avoid her 
touch, moving with graceful sloth, but somehow still managing to avoid her touch. The 
bells were intolerable; they were pulping her thoughts, tolling her brain tissue to dust. 
At the rim of her sanity, she reached again for him, and this time he did not quite avoid 
her. Her nails raked the flesh of his cheek, and the skin, so recently grafted, slid away 
like silk. The blood-buttered meat beneath came into horrid view.
    Behind her, Julia screamed.
    And suddenly the bells weren't in Kirsty's head any longer. They were in the house, 
in the world.
    The hallway lights burned dazzlingly bright, and then-their filaments 
overloading-went out. There was a short period of total darkness, during which time she 
heard a whimpering that may or may not have come from her own lips. Then it was as if 
fireworks were spluttering into life in the walls and floor. The hallway danced. One 
moment an abattoir (the walls running scarlet); the next, a boudoir (powder blue, canary 
yellow); the moment following that, a ghost-train tunnel-all speed and sudden fire.
    By one flaring light she saw Frank moving toward her, Rory's discarded face hanging 
from his jaw. She avoided his outstretched arm and ducked through into the front room. 
The hold on her throat had relaxed, she realized: the Cenobites had apparently seen the 
error of their ways. Soon they would intervene, surely, and bring an end to this farce of 
mistaken identities. She would not wait to see Frank claimed as she'd thought of doing; 
she'd had enough. Instead she'd flee the house by the back door and leave them to it.
    Her optimism was short-lived. The fireworks in the hall threw some light ahead of her 
into the dining room, enough to see that it was already bewitched. There was something 
moving over the floor, like ash before wind, and chains cavorting in the air. Innocent 
she might be, but the forces loose here were indifferent to such trivialities; she sensed 
that to take another step would invite atrocities.
    Her hesitation put her back within Frank's reach, but as he snatched at her the 
fireworks in the hallway faltered, and she slipped away from him under cover of darkness. 
The respite was all too brief. New lights were already blooming in the hall-and he was 
after her afresh, blocking her route to the front door.
    Why didn't they claim him, for God's sake? Hadn't she brought them here as she'd 
promised, and unmasked him?
    Frank opened his jacket. In his belt was a bloodied knife-doubtless the flaying edge. 
He pulled it out, and pointed it at Kirsty.
    "From now on," he said, as he stalked her, "I'm Rory." She had no choice but to back 
away from him, the door (escape, sanity) receding with every step. "Understand me? I'm 
Rory now. And nobody's ever going to know any better."
    Her heel hit the bottom of the stair, and suddenly there were other hands on her, 
reaching through the banisters and seizing fistfuls of her hair. She twisted her head 
round and looked up. It was Julia, of course, face slack, all passion consumed. She 
wrenched Kirsty's head back, exposing her throat as Frank's knife gleamed toward it.
    At the last moment Kirsty reached up above her head and snatched hold of Julia's arm, 
wrenching her from her perch on the third or fourth stair. Losing both her balance and 
her grip on her victim, Julia let out a shout and fell, her body coming between Kirsty 
and Frank's thrust. The blade was too close to be averted; it entered Julia's side to the 
hilt. She moaned, then she reeled away down the hall, the knife buried in her.
    Frank scarcely seemed to notice. His eyes were on Kirsty once again, and they shone 
with horrendous appetite. She had nowhere to go but u?. The fireworks still exploding, 
the bells still ringing, she started to mount the stairs.
    Her tormentor was not coming in immediate pursuit, she saw. Julia's appeals for help 
had diverted him to where she lay, halfway between stairs and front door. He drew the 
knife from her side. She cried out in pain, and, as if to assist her, he went down on his