Nineteen.

`Mornin’ guys.’ Their exchange was interrupted by Jimmy Cole throwing another piece of paper onto the crowded desk.`Something diferent for your zoo today. He stopped on his way past and looked at the gut on McGuire `peanuts are fattening you know, Skinny?’ he grinned a friendly laugh which shone in his mahogany face and took his wiry frame off through the squad room. His fitness level was as hallowed as his bravery - he was a guy everyone seemed to remember saving their lives at some point.

Ross flipped the man’s departing back the bird but patted his stomach protectively and sat up in his chair, stretching for the piece of paper he’d delivered.

It was a summary of a recent case just across the river in New Jersey. The remains of a woman’s body had been discovered by her four year-old son in their backyard. The twenty-seven year old appeared to have been largely eaten by some animal. The range of blood spattered around the site indicated a savage attack. None of her limbs remained attached but despite the dismembered state of her body it was noted that the womans breasts and pelvis had been untouched - in fact, remained basically clothed.

`Yeah - I remember reading about this in the News last week’ commented Rathbone, taking the paper from the other cop’s hand. `Weird, huh? A wolf they said! Like one of those movies - what was that one with Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer in a couple of years ago?’he thought to himself, `”Wolf” - that’s it. Yeah,’ his eyes glazed as he remembered his favourite actress (one of many) for a second, `that film was a trip.’

`C’mon shithead’ said Ross as he stood and grabbed his jacket, he called him shithead solely because Joe kept calling him Jack `they want you to contact them if you snatch any perpetrators whose eyebrows meet…’

`Hell, I believe in ‘em’ the younger detective said to no-one in particular `makes a lot more sense than the crap we see in here most days’ and he followed his partner to their pool car. Another day of fun in the sun awaited them.

Eighteen. Chapter Five.

Detective Ross McGinty picked up another peanut and threw it into his mouth. A shudder of distaste shook his athletic frame as he chucked the report he’d just completed onto the desktop to land on countless bits of paper and food wrappers. He looked at his partner. `They don’t care about this shit, why should we have to go through all the motions? Better off the street than on if you ask me.’

Joe Rathbone studied the man a moment before deciding to answer. Ross hadn’t shaved that morning and the striped shirt outlining his paunch had not been ironed. We’re still in the doldrums then, he figured. This conversation was a familiar one amongst the officers patrolling some of the city’s areas. The murder of a known and habitual drug felon would occur and, generally, the rest of the population wouldn’t care beyond keeping that section of the city to itself. Recent zero-tolerence policing measures had made the majority of the city a relatively safe place to go about your daily business, even at night although care had to be taken still.

However, for that policy to work the citizens had to want to avoid trouble with the law. In the ghettos and projects these days, the law was a slight hiccup, notthing more. The people running the areas were making or losing so much money in each deal that one or two dead police officers was no big deal. Especially when those brought in generally cried that the police should stay out - that they wanted no help from them, they would look after themselves thanks. The majority of the city’s taxpayers seemed to agree with this view and now almost regarded police activity in these areas as foolish and a waste of resources. Most police agreed as well. Unfortunately, as it was seen within the ranks, there were too many pressure groups waiting to launch on the commissioner’s office should rumours get out of specific negligence in `protecting these people from themselves, if that’s what it takes’ as was now said.

Therefore, the forms were filled in and the cases left to gather dust every time another body was scraped off some street corner. Papers generally published news of murders where the death occured within the regular city zones, an occasional total of murders for zone A,B,C etc appearing quarterly and at year-end. These totals could then be used at elections - by either side. Ross and Joe were used to having the conversation but every now and then Ross would have a couple of weeks where, missing his long-dead wife, he became morose and the conversation would be replayed every day. Joe felt sympathy for his partner but preferred to knock the mood out of him rather than give in to the downer. The ex-footballer was usually great company and they had been together three years now they had a lot of time for each other.

`His mother cares, Jack.’ His usual response.

`He probably sold his mother and you know it. God only knows what he did to his sisters.’ replied Ross

Seventeen

Ray stepped from the elevator into the busy heart of the newspaper. People loitered around the room gossiping and passing the time of day. Over the next few hours the scene would gain urgency as the paper prepared to go to press, last minute rewrites on the news stories occuring constantly as editors challenged points ordered further evidence. Then the teams would use enough energy and suffer so much stress that the chiefs allowed a certain amount of lassitude at this time of day. He nodded greetings to the few colleagues who noticed his arrival. He knew a lot of them a little but hadn’t bothered making many good friends. He preferred to keep his own counsel and the few people he hung with through choice were mainly from the street, the night people. He felt secure in their company, the knowledge of their peculiar honour allowing him whatever freedom from the everyday world that he needed. The non- PC environment of the after hours clubs and bars provided the perfect antidote to the hypocritical and bullshit - filled world of the regular citizenry.

He headed for the day-office of his big boss, the feature editor, down a plushly carpeted corridor away from the news room. At four, the various editors returned to their news-room desks for the final putting to bed of the paper. His leather jacket hung loosely from his shoulders and crackled lightly with each step. At his approach Irma, the P.A. to the five editors based in the suite of offices at the end of the corridor watched his leisurely progress toward her. A secretive half-smile played around her lips as she remembered how her hard-bitten New York exterior had melted so completely under the heat from that body.

Ray grinned at her and allowed an admiring glance to steal over her figure `Hi!’

`He said to go right in, Mr Adams’ she said, mock seriously.

`Thanks.’ He sauntered towards Chris Wells’ office. At least the editor didn’t play the little power games - like keeping you waiting for hours just to prove who’s in charge - he could say that for him. On the other hand he had no idea what this meeting was about but it probably wasn’t an impending Pulitzer. He’d had a message waiting on his machine when he’d got in last evening to call in the office in the morning. He knocked on the door and walked in.

Chris O’Leigh was a giant of a man in every way. Spread out behind the oak desk he moved as little as possible and hence carried off the mountain impression flawlessly but the heavy green of his Armani suit softened the view to that of a meadowed hill. Indicating with his eyes he told Ray to sit down. Behind a greying bushy beard his lips were invisible.

`I’ve gotta let you go Ray’ the words echoed in the thin air of the forty-fifth floor. Ray just sat there staring at the man mountain.

`Go where?’ he eventually managed stupidly.

`Come on big guy.’ That was a laugh!`You know you’ve not settled properly, you dont get on with the guys, you dont have any enthusiasm as far as I can see and if it werent for your trying to get in to the current job’s pants,’ he paused to gather moss `you wouldn’t care about that either.’ He glared balefully at the reporter. `And don’t look so fuckin’ surprised’ he muttered `if you’ve not been itching to leave for months now I’m an Irishman!. As he clearly was an Irishman, the point was unclear to Ray.

`Anyway,’ he continued,`we want you to stick with the animals feature if you can - they’re going down quite well and as we can be sure of your attention to the subject’ a glint of amusement showed above the beard,`you’ve got the next three months on staff. As your work is good when you can be bothered, I have no problem landing you on another paper so your reference will be good - from me at least. You can shut your mouth now.’

Ray, still stunned, gathered his wits. He’d been so sure that he would be the decision maker when he thought of leaving the paper, that to be fired had severely wounded his ego. The three months were a blessing though. He knew enough people to try and connect something. Maybe the mid-west… a return to the california nut-zone perhaps? Into the middle of these thoughts came a vision of Alison. Army fatigues tucked into her walking boots, hands on hips whilst she watched his slow progress after her. He could almost sense her now. Somewhere nearby, over his shoulder, stroking his neck… he came back to the conversation with a shake of his head.

`No debate, I guess?’ he asked.

`Not this time’ replied the fat man and held out his craggy hand.

Ray shook it and left the office, managing only a wan smile for Irma as he passed. His mind was a jumble of thoughts: shock, relief, happiness and the fear that he may have to leave Alison. He set off to find her; checking his watch he realised she’d be back at the park according to her itinerary. He would catch her there.

Sixteen

Sunday evening. 8 pm. Alison sits on the sill of her living room bay window. The apartment was in darkness. The glow of her eyes reflects on the pane in front of her. She mechanically spoons tapioca from a catering-size can into her cherry red mouth. Fishlike she opens and closes her lips. The creamy treat flows over her tongue and down her throat hardly pausing for swallowing. Spills decorate her shapely t-shirt and little streams of the dessert run in channels from the creased corners of her perfect mouth. People are arguing, loving, dancing, laughing, crying in the bright windows of the block opposite, sunset catching their curtains open. Alison watches all and sees nothing. Within, silent movies play across her mind, a tapestry of ordination playing over, over, over.

In the tranquil beauty of her pose, sitting on one buttock with her other knee raised, stockinged feet at right angles on the sill cushion, she looks placid, peaceful.

The vein in her temple stands out in relief of the brow with the blood pounding through it. Her concentration is acute, the working of her brain so fevered that the blood seems to hurry with replenishment, causing the vein to expand and contract, expand and contract like a hungry larva. Pictures of her future, their future, play out on her screen. She provides the words, actions, reactions. She sees them walking, talking, laughing, kissing - in bed, buying a house, having children, eating killing feeding protecting killing needing killing…

She hiccups and with one heave her thorax contracts her stomach squeezes and pints of tapioca flood out of her mouth wide-straining tendons standing proud of her neck ridged striations of her wind pipe crushed against the skin - spattered by vomit. The window returns the spray to cover her face and coat the silken frame of hair. A delta of tapioca flows over her perfect chest, the t-shirt sodden as a pool gathers on her tight lycra crotch. And still she sits staring in, planning,causing, building.

**

Fifteen

Despite his denial, or perhaps because he protested too much, McCann was having none of it - so he explained his curious infatuation with someone he’d met about thirty seconds ago for about ten seconds. What he did not explain were the reasons for his odd sense of fear. He’d have to understand the underlying truth himself first and that certainly wasnt the case. Was it just a sense of danger he read in her - or merely his own hesitance to embrace a break with his comfort zone, that of normality and civilisation. He could feel that she lived by different rules -cholesterol, soaps, petrol consumption and the American Dream did not figure on her shopping list of issues of concerns. The pull he felt was faltering under a weight of doubts that had no reason existing at this stage of the game - if thats what it was. His mind was still saying yes though, hungry for intrigue yet his heart was saying no - or vice versa. For this thirty-two year old the only truth was his confusion.

Neil rang off later with a hearty and helpful`go for it, see what happens’ and plans for a visit next year. Max replaced the handset, grabbed his jacket and headed out into the sunshine.
As he turned onto the street adjacent to his, a low murmur from ahead caught his attention. Penetrating the eternal traffic noise, it was the sound of a crowd, not agitated but interested. He followed the murmur, ready to execute the New Yorker’s instant loss of attention should it be trouble. It was just a fuck of a lot easier to not get involved in those situations. A blind eye came with every welcome-pack on moving to the city.

On the next corner, people stood in the street and on the sidewalk watching Ed’s corner store. Correction - what had been Ed’s corner store. A wrecking truck was stationed alongside the building, its majestic blood red arm hanging way above periodically dropping the solid weight of the ball onto the roof and walls below. Brick ash and rubble oozed from fatal crevices in the remaining uprights whilst discordant heaps of wood, shelving, floor tiles and concrete formed burial mounds along the whole east section of the walls. The name of the store had been painted red onto the white bricks its walls, now the words were just occasional bright specks in the grey.

Surrounding Max, people stood in various states of onlooking. Women muttered to each other about what a shame it was to see the old place go. Old men, uprooted from their normal places outside the store, slouched under awnings and muttered `what a fucking shame’ around dangling lucky strikes and salems. Children stood glued to the spot, eyes wide at the damage the truck could do excitedly contemplating the adventures and finders-keepers to come once the truck had gone. A few joggers, interrupted from their usual route and pace talked animatedly about progress in the neighbourhood. A few teenagers cheered from under garish woollen hats drawn low over their heads whenever the ball connected. Listening to the conversations, views of the scene signalling an ending seemed to be beating the `new beginning’ lobby. Max, a long standing neighbourhood veteran of nearly two years just stared blankly at a small board leaning against the end of the building; in big red letters, it proudly proclaimed - `Exciting new development of a local counselling and therapy centre - just a step from home!!’.

Thinking of the quart of milk and dozen eggs he’d bought from Ed just last week, he shoved his hands into his pockets and waded through the dust and diesel fumes back the way he’d come.

Fourteen. Chapter Four.

Max tried to work on the book over the next couple of days but the sun was shining, the streets were full of cheerful people enjoying the weekend and, of course, he kept thinking of Alison. It was entirely possible he’d never see her again - New York was one of the easiest places in the world to unintentionally avoid people living across the street. He wasn’t sure that he did want to see her again - ok, bullshit. Of course he wanted to see her. But what else did he want? She made him uneasy. Her certainty worried him. To his disbelief he was even wondering how a relationship with her would work - jumping ahead a little aren’t you? Especially as she left you hanging the other night after your masterful attempt to converse with her. Lamebrain.

The phone rang. Putting his cold coffee down on the desk he picked it up. 'Hello?'

`Afternoon!’ the deep and refined voice of Neil McCann, his oldest friend, thumped down 3000 miles -`just checking up on you.’.

Neil had swanned off to England with a new Brit wife five years ago. They only saw each other on occasional holidays or when Max was travelling for research, staying with the small family in their London terrace and spoiling their son Robert - his godson. Good times based on a long grounding of mutual trust. They had mostly understood each other from the first as teenagers and just accepted what they didn’t. Whilst Neil delivered the latest exploits of the perfect son, Max’s mind started to wander down a crooked woodland path to a perfect multicoloured cottage in which a young woman with blonde hair sat, wearing a long green dress, small diamond earings and a smile.

`…and we’ve decided to sell Robert to a circus nearby to help with our holiday savings - good plan, right?’ Asked Neil.

`Sure.’ said max, `Great plan’

`Max!’ yelled his friend.

`Shit! What,what?’ recovered Max, flinching.

`What’s up mate?' Asked Neil. 'You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying.’

`Oh, sorry. I’m stuck on a scene in my latest load of dross and it’s winding me up. I think I need a beer.’

`Go ahead - I’m on my second - but that’s bollocks anyway - your writing never interferes with tales of our incipient nervous breakdowns due to the brat. Talking of which,’ he continued, `you’d better remind yourself of your responsibilities on our incarceration - it aint gonna be long.’

Max laughed - the two parents constantly complained of the havoc the three year-old created but still spoilt him rotten.

`…anyway, back to the subject in hand. You’re either being sued for libel by one of the men you so badly disguise in that trash, or you’re thinking of a woman. So which is it?’

Thirteen.

The bar was half full but the other night-crawlers seemed to retreat to the background. He felt the atmosphere solidify whilst his senses quickened. The music was an undefined constant beat surrounding them . Their voices, low, seemed crystal clear. He felt himself slide into the arena.

`Secrets baby, thats what you need to beware, secrets.’ She shook her curls, the highlights glinting in the strobe lighting from the dance floor. She grinned, the ivory gleam shined incandescently. `You have secrets…’ she leant closer and whispered `I know you do.’

He returned her gaze calmly, his heart beating low and regular and leant his chin on his hand, tracing the corner of his upper lip with his little finger. `You don’t know my secrets. I could tell you,’ he smiled, `but then I’d have to kill you - and I don’t even know you’re name.’

She laughed softly, `excuses excuses’ picking out a cigarette and placing it with exagerrated attention between her lips, allowing her crimson tongue to flick the tip in a gesture so obvious he nearly laughed out loud.

`They say thats bad for you.’ he said.

`I know,’ she replied `but everyone needs a vice. What’s yours?’

He lit a marlboro `Its a secret.’

`Uh huh’ she let her hand linger on his collar - `is your place haunted?’ she asked.

`Only by ghosts’ he said standing.

`Good’ she said, walking to the door with him.

--

Her body was toned, muscular and long. Their clothes came off as soon as they were in the bedroom. Walking soundlessly towards him, her eyes reflecting his urgency, she backed him against the wall. Her nails raked his neck, chest, and stomach as her kiss stole his breath. Breaking away he grabbed her arms, feeling the tensed challenge in them. He held them to her sides as he lifted her and took her to the bed. He was about to lie her down, when she caught a foot behind his knee and pushed with her other against the side of the bed. He flipped over and crashed on the sheets. With his breath knocked out of him, she was on top immediately. Her breathing was ragged but harsh and low, controlled. Her chest, crushed, dragged across his face. Some strands of hair stuck to her cheek bones and triumph glowed in her eyes as she sat upright. She had his hands bent back against his wrists with her weight holding them against the bed. Any attempt to move resulted in a searing pain shooting up his arms. His jaws locked in defiance but she laughed in his face looking down at his erection, straining for her, rock-like in Ray’s subjugation. She rubbed her engorged vulva up and down its length, her open lips leaving a cool wetness. Slowly she raised her pelvis and hovered above him, savouring the mutual frustration and anticipation.

His wrists were a forgotten ache now. He looked helplessly at her small heavy breasts, the nipples darkly swollen, swaying gently inches from his teeth. Her ribs stretched her skin and receded slowly, in a measured rhythm. The narrow concave stomach framed muscle paving the way to the minimal thatch of her pubis - jet against the soft tan of her hips. In desperation he suddenly raised his pelvis and pushed agaist her backside with his thighs, grunting as the pain in his wrists briefly intensified before disappearing. As she fell forward, her balance stolen, he whipped out from under her. Twisting over he pushed her down on her stomach with one hand and grabbed her wrists with the other, pulling them above her head to the headboard. She started thrashing and groaning in anger as he kept her arms pinned and simulataneously moved his other hand under her belly, lifting her up and towards him. In one fluid movement he brought her back onto him but stopped suddenly when his tip was just millimetres beyond her labia. He felt her resistance suddenly cease and knew that this was her moment. Deciding.

She started to push slowly onto him ,a husky laugh coming from deep within her throat as she turned her head, shook her hair away from her face and grinned. The smile was replaced with a faraway look in her eyes as they started moving together, concentration wrinkling her brow. They raced along the short path to release before she stopped and slipped away from him. Slowly twisting around, she looked at him. He released her hands and she lay on her side, her legs parting in invitation. Ray lay beside her and they moved together, his hips sliding slowly between her knees. They made slow, powerful progress. Reaching their peaks separately, the challenge was limited to their eyes, locked from start to finish.

They fell asleep immediately - she was gone when Ray woke up. He still didn’t know her name.

Twelve.

Max watched Sean’s stiffly departing back,`Your friend seems a little possessive…’ he let the sentence hang - fill in the blanks. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this whirlwind of a woman but he knew he liked her singling him out.

`He’s not that kind of friend’ Alison murmured absentmindedly and laid featherlight fingers on his arm. 'He’s doing a feature on my work - I like him well enough - but his testosterone is drowning me and it gets boring after a while.’ Her quietly - hypnotic - expectant air flustered Max who didn’t just for a change know what line was expected. `So why did you agree to come to something like this with him?’ He asked. In answer she just grinned at him mischeviously before whispering into his ear `What’s your greatest fear?’.

You was what jumped unbidden into Max’s head. In fact, he stumbled over changing the subject while he tried to rationalise where the hell that had come from.

Ray watched them from the bar, picking up the two drinks. Champagne would have been quicker and easier from one of the waiters but he only drank beer or vodka so he’d been waiting and no silently fumed to see the obvious intimacy of the two he’d just left. What was odd was that Alison seemed the more forward of the two. She was clearly coming onto the writer in a big way but Max seemed almost uncomfortable. Even in his relatively short career Ray had learnt to study body styles and he could spot most moods and languages displayed.

Alison had also noticed the Max was not matching her own vibes. She had not expected reticence and was not used to it. This wasn’t going to be as straightforward as she’d expected. She knew that if she pushed, there was a strong chance of losing the edge she knew she had. She changed tack. She let her face cloud `I’ll go and help Ray with those drinks’ and briefly smiled a farewell, walking away.

Max was now totally wrong-footed but suspected a game and so allowed nothing bar a thanks-for-coming smile and nonchalently, he hoped, returned to his nemesis - the critic from the Times.

Alison allowed Ray to take her from the party for some late supper at a local restaurant but drew the line there. Thanking him for the evening she waved to him from her building lobby and let the door close on her night.

Ray allowed the car to lead the way whilst he sorted his thoughts. He was a little ticked off about not being invited in but he couldn’t blame her for his expectations - he realised that much. It left him uptight however and he needed to chill somewhere awhile. Her behaviour with Writer-Guy had annoyed him for a while and then puzzled him but the rest of the evening had been fine. He’d managed to get his quotes and then dinner was fun, although even he noticed that he did all the talking. Alison remained just that bit out of his reach but he’d crack it. He pulled his Camaro over to the kerb near a familiar club and headed for the silver. He climbed down wrought iron stairs over bodies of close friends and turned through the doorway at the bottom. The beat of jungle vibrated the bones in his feet and ankles. He smiled at Tiny the bouncer who lifter the velvet rope for him. Why were they all called that?

Leopard-skin clocked him as soon as he walked in. She leant against the bar - situated in a small ante-chamber off the club main. He grabbed a space beside her and got a double Absolut on ice with a Bud chaser. A creamy half-caste in her mid twenties, she watched without looking at him as he downed the vodka.

`Are you scared honey, cos you should be’ she watched from the corner of her eye, her voice low but even - a bluesy sunset ripple shadowing the sound.

`Of what?’ He asked, indifferent but still, he felt his space being challenged despite her being two feet away.

`Why, life of course babe.’ She crooned, gliding closer and stroking his cheek and earlobe with the backs of her amber nails.

Flinching, he told her `I’m not scared, or not yet, anyhow’.

Eleven.

Alison and Ray walked into the ballroom a lot later than anticipated. Ray’s car had had a flat before he’d even left the garage where he kept it and all in all an hour had passed before he’d managed to get moving again. Alison had been seriously pissed by the time he’d arrived but had warmed considerably in the drive up to the hotel. From the state of his coat she’d believed that he hadn’t purposely left her waiting. Ray himself was back to his cheerful self of earlier when she had first agreed to accompany him to the do. He was covering for the literary editor who was on vacation. Ray knew next to nothing about books but had promised to provide a basic summary of the evening for brownie points from his boss. He’d been surprised that Alison had agreed to come - especially when she’d been consistently refusing to go out with him for ages.

He wasn’t to know of course that it was his mention of Max’s name - on the attendance list - that had got her attention. He was going to make sure she had a good time though. After introducing her to a few of these old farts he planned to take her to a late dinner and then to a club and then … Meanwhile she looked incredible - a backless green dress, little make-up and a couple of small diamond earrings and she put the literati women to shame with all their baubles. As he walked beside her, he noticed the hush that preceded her, the conversations parting like Moses’ wave.

He was disconcerted when she immediately made for a group of people towards the other side of the room, without even looking back - just assuming he’d tag along, or not even caring. As she drew nearer, talk petered as the group became aware of her. She walked straight up to a man, a bit scruffy to Ray’s mind, and said hello. The man’s initial surprise was quickly covered and he smiled - a smile that immediately wound Ray up - kissed her on the cheek and proceeded to introduce her to the group. He failed to notice Ray loitering behind Alison until he turned back to talk with her. His enquiring glance reminded her and she quickly turned to her escort;

`Max, this is Ray, the shining knight who sayeth “You shall come to the ball!” and even had to win a fearsome battle with an errant flat to fulfill his promise. Ray, this is my good friend Max Shaw - a writer. Ray’s a journalist Max, covering this shindig.’she took in the room with a twist of her fingers.

The two men shook hands.`Nice to meet you’ said Ray. Yeah, right. Suck me. and fished in his pocket for a card.

`Always a pleasure to meet the press’ confirmed Max, accepting and pocketing it without looking at it. Hmm, not a happy camper...

`Which paper do you write for?’ he asked pleasantly, although to wind the guy up he made a show of raising his glass and smiling Hello to someone across the room while Ray was answering.
Ray immediately turned to Alison,`Shall we go find ourselves some drinks?’ he began to walk her away by gently tapping her flawless shoulder.

Alison lit him with a smile but then doused him `Oh would you Sean, I must catch up with Max for a minute.’ And then turned her back, ending the conversation.

Ten. Chapter Three.

The ballroom was buzzing with animated conversation. The people, especially the women were decked in their best and the rattle of jewellery provided a background beat. The room dwarfed them however. Gracefully arched ceilings dangled chandeliers sparkling with shards of light warming the skin-tones of the people below. Rich velvet drapes smothered the New York night outside and clashed happily with the profusion of imported flowers on every surface. Although not famous, these awards were backed by serious money thought Max, and one day would be among the top of prestigious events.

He watched the assembled literary bluebloods from his corner of the room. Grabbing his first champagne from one of the passing waiters he raised the glass to his lips and wondered how soon he could leave. Too late he noticed his publisher notice him. Simon Weller was in truth, a great guy. Max used to go for beers with him once but found that he never took off his publisher head. Would not allow a change of subjects in conversation. Eat drink breathe the book business. He was now a partner in Peter Worth inc. so perhaps it worked but it was too full-on for Max and he now dreaded the invites and in the last year had managed to cancel or avoid them all.

`Max, thank God, I thought you’d blown me out!’ he muttered on arrival. `even I’ve had enough of this one and I’ve only been here an hour’ he took a long swig of what clearly wasn’t his first bubbly.

`What’s the problem?’ Max asked, amused that the great book man was so stressed.

Simon leaned towards him, `Max, you’re the only non bitchy writer here. The others were all over each other within minutes of arriving. What’s with these people?’ he looked exasperated.

Max looked over to the nearest group, a couple of familiar faces nodded at him and then resumed their conversation. He noted the sardonic glances, arched eyebrows and pursed lips that accompany a civilised disagreement. Occasional laughter shouldered its way derisively through other conversations. He looked back to Simon.

`Argument is fertile ground for these people’ he said `you should know that, guy, and of course most of them hate each other so if they’re to be seen in the same room together, then they’d like to be seen victorious. Anyhow, I presume you have some torture lined up for me - that should make you feel better.’ He frowned, looking back to the crowd.

`Too right, mate’ agreed Weller `but I took pity and decided you only have to meet ten including just two critics.’he started to lead the way into the room.

`Shit.’ muttered Max and followed.

Nine

Max finished the page and sat back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head. It was only four in the afternoon but he felt a hankering for a drink. He was only a moderate drinker, indulging in an occasional binge when the mood took him. The reason for his need now, however, was the T.S. Eliot awards to be held tonight. He hated these occasions but his publisher had eventually persuaded him to go for any number of reasons. Anyway, he had relented and was lined up to rub shoulders with an impressive assemblage of worthier talent than he. The idea of going half out of his tree was a tempting one but he should resist. Whatever he felt about them, critics would be there and he needed to be sober enough to avoid them…

He turned the volume up and The Magic Flute filled the apartment. He hadn’t a clue what it was about but he’d been trying to mature his musical tastes beyond his Prince collection and had thought he’d start with the famous stuff. A quick tour with the credit card had secured a bundle of maturity amongst which this was so far his favourite - he could at least hum to it. Looking at his watch he decided he could relax with one beer for the next hour before scrubbing up.

* *

Unlike Max, Martin Spellman was looking forward to the evening ahead. At twenty-five he was seriously considering marriage. For a few months now, he’d been dating Lottie King and things seemed to be getting better and better, especially bedtime. Or kitchen time, dining room time and even elevator time once. He couldn’t help grinning to himself as he walked down the quiet residential street near his rent-controlled apartment. Flowers in window boxes bloomed to his mood in the late afternoon sunshine. Spring in the Big Apple was beautiful this year - a sweet deliverence unto the hell of midsummer he thought. That was one of the benefits of his present life-situation - he could disappear back to the family’s base in the sticks for the summer.

Then again, that was a possible snag also. Lottie jokingly called him the eternal student - and as he wasn’t even halfway through his doctorate he would be a long time getting into the regular money and he suspected that she, and perhaps especially her Bostonian family, wanted a more secure promise for the future. Or even a plan, any plan… but they were the sort who thought a doctorate on `Leisure in Ancient Rome’ prepared him for nothing - he preferred to think it prepared him for almost anything. As a rule though, he’d rather have autumn - the darkling skies and the sombre yet stunning colours. Being surrounded by swirling leaves on a late Sunday afternoon whilst embracing the girl - or life-partner as they’d have it - on a street corner being closer to the life force of primal nature. Whoa, he must be in love!

The baseball bat smashed fatally into his skull, killing his love of nature and Lottie. Instantly unconscious he dropped like a stone, a whisper from death. The two young men - black or white, tall or short, young or old, local residents would tell the police before re-locking their doors - knelt and efficently went through his pockets. Their anger on finding he had only one dollar thirty-eight cents and no credit cards was such that one kicked him repeatedly in the face with his steel-capped boots before they departed the scene.

No career worries now, Martin.

Eight

`Before I knew it, the book was finished. It took just over two months start to finish - I hardly slept. It really was like a steam train, unstoppable.’

He glanced around the room. ` I didn’t know what to do. I re-read it and thought it was genuinely bearable - at least of a standard I could send to an agent. But what about my claims on serious literature? My pride was so obscene - I think it still is - that I was embarrassed in case it did sell. I didn’t want to be known for trash.’ He shook his head in disgust.`So, in the end I looked at where I was living, at the shitheap I called my car and at my bank statement and eventually told my ego where to get off. Any extra cash would be an improvement and it still had to be accepted by someone. Believe me,’ he looked back to her, his eyes crinkling in a wry smile ` I was not romantic about its chances. I was convinced it would never see the light of a publishing day and so it was almost with a light idealist heart that I sent off a few copies. The rest, as they say, is history.’

With the last sentence his mood appeared to lighten, `A brandy?’ he offered. She smiled a quick acceptance. She’d been touched by his honesty. Whilst he gave the order to Guilio she watched his profile. A sharp fleshy nose dominated his face which was narrow, accented by high cheekbones and authoritative chin. The sporadic shadow along his jaw indicated an inexpert shaving technique but she found herself liking his general careworn air. His dark brown eyes gave the impression of trusting honesty but at times the light turned them ebony and she caught a frisson of a scary depth and almost, a malevolence. Christ she’d suddenly become an outpatient of the romantics clinic! Whatever, she figured there was more to the everyday languor and ease of life that this guy displayed. Still waters and all that. Alison Ellis, she thought, you’re going to have this man - into my life from nowhere.

With a secret smile she made her excuses and left, leaving Max in a quandary of emotions. No arrangements had been made for another meeting; he’d been too slow off the mark and, of course, too unsure to ask as she went. He left feeling low after the high of the evening.

The shadowed city streets retched with the stench of another unfulfilled day for the street people. Doorways and gratings moved with the sorry drudge of humanity discarded from too many dreams. Max slowly roamed home. The place had an effect on his outlook - or his outlook had an effect on his view, whichever. He had given up fear though. Assuming a fatalist belief had allowed him to retain an equanimity in the face of mounting hysteria by many of the city’s middle classes. The star-pricked night watched his passage this night, as always.

Seven.

`You fancy yourself as my Dr. Lecter do you?’ She laughed quietly. `No, I was brought up extremely properly in Boston. But I’ve been away from them for quite a while now. No,’ She changed the subject `I just seem to connect with animals - I like being with them and I enjoy learning from them. Sometimes I feel… I don’t know, as if I understand them better than people.’ Her speech had a lilt that coloured its edges with character. Whilst it was strong and even, her voice was quiet enough to make him lean closer to hear. The girl didn’t appear to mind.`Also, they’re always in the present, never the past.

Max thought he understood her angle.`You’ll be from suffocating old money then, I guess? There’ll be a limo somewhere outside.’
`No limos for this girl.’ Her tone was sharp and she quickly changed the subject. `What do you write, Mr. Roundhill’
`Well, Ms Ellis’ He raised an eyebrow. `I write stories for mass appreciation.’
`Do you do it well?’ she sipped her drink.
Max laughed `I’m hopefully more successful than your ignorance of my books would suggest.’’
`Ah.’ She flushed lightly. `I’m sorry. I don’t read much fiction Max, no offense’
`None taken. I assume you spend time engrossed in deathly scientific journals or, of course, the society pages…’
`Now look here…’ she noticed him laughing and did so herself, shaking her head.`Sore subject, I guess. I’m sorry to snap.’
`No sweat. I was pushing it. Could I err’ he coughed to cover his sudden nerves and stood to order more drinks. She looked up into his face. He continued`would you allow me to buy you dinner - I promise I won’t mention family or money or Boston or anything you’d rather not talk about.’
She smiled.`How do you know I want to talk in the first place?’
`I’ll take my chances. Besides, I don’t mind silence at all.’
`In which case, I’m happy to accept your offer, but I warn you, I’m hungry.’ Her words made Max blush.

Shortly, Guilio arrived and directed them to a table. They both chose from the simple but varied menu and when they eventually noticed their food, agreed that it was superb. Max lost himself and revelled in her attention. She seemed so together, steering her way into life with a precision that suggested a long term plan. Her energy was emanating in waves he found washing over him - he was carried by her enthusiasm into nostalgic memories. He began to tell her of the guiding light of his literary ideals - the need to write that had been present for as long as he could remember. He, like all other budding writers he’d known at college, had wanted to set the world alight with his erudition expressed in cerebral prose. His unique insight into the human world. The way he could watch people and their situations, then write the rest of the story. Christ, he had been so full of himself then. He figured he knew the answers - just give him the questions.

He tried to write whilst doing various jobs - after work, on the train, at weekends. A few stuttering imbecilic sentences were the result. He’d taken another job - less hours, less money and forced himself to sit down every day and write for a set number of hours. He’d done this for months until his head was bursting with directions but going nowhere. His brain seemed intent on leaving his head, such was the weight of ideas pressing for release. `I decided to write a thriller type thing just for fun. To let off the head of steam in a mindlessly silly story written just for my entertainment and a few hours peace - getting words on paper…’

At this point his mood sobered and he lowered his gaze from Alison’s jewel-bright eyes to his empty plate, the remains of spicy tomato sauce seemed to absorb him. To Alison, the radiance that had surrounded him suddenly dimmed. He seemed ashamed as he continued;

Six. Chapter Two.

The dining room of Guilio’s was full of murmuring couples and foursomes, the quiet laughs rippled the hushed atmosphere. Typical Italian decor of subdued reds worked better here than most of the genre. Genuine taste had been displayed in the decor by the owner - a small dapper man who had devoted his life in the U.S. as well as his name to the restaurant and bar. The success of his exertions was visible any night and a wait was mandatory procedure due to the owner’s no reservations policy.

Max walked in off the street and turned into the bar, relatively deserted as could only be seen on a Sunday night. At the bar an arrestingly attractive blonde sat on a stool drinking a small beer. Although dressed semi-casually, she seemed to outclass the other women in the bar just by being there and Max noticed the scattered men surreptitiously glancing over. Whilst ordering his drink a familiar voice spoke behind him.` I’m sorry Max, that crowd have just sat down. I’m afraid there is a half hour wait for a table.’ Max turned and looking down, smiled at the italian who had lost all trace of an accent. `That’s fine, Guilio, I’ll keep myself occupied seducing one of your daughters.’ He turned to wink at Rosetta, the youngest of the three girls who kept the bar with enormous efficiency and flirting good humour. She coyly grinned back and ingenuously batted her eyelids. Guilio accepted the flattery intended and laughing, said,`you are welcome to them my friend, they are more trouble than they are worth.’ He smiled adoringly at his baby and said mock-harshly `get back to work girl, stop distracting my paying customers!’.

In truth, Max suspected that Guilio knew that his delicious threesome attracted as many customers as did the delicate menu. `No Max, you should concentrate on a good American girl like Ms. Ellis here.’ He turned to the girl beside him at the bar `Ms Alison Ellis, may I introduce Mr. Max Roundhill. Max, ms Ellis is studying animals or something in New York for her doctorate and Alison, my friend Max here, is a writer.’The girl blinked her predatory eyes and smiled Her cheekbones and brow formed a triangular frame from which they seemed to glow. `Now I must leave you to enjoy each other while I see to my other friends.
Max laughed with the girl.`I’m sorry about that. All guests, new and old become friends of Guilios instantly and then he insists on sharing them - whether they like it or not.’
She took a swig of her beer and looked at him, still smiling.`I think in this instance, I can just about cope with it. I occasionally like company.’
`Only occasionally?’ he queried, `you generally prefer your own, I take it.’ He settled on the stool adjacent to hers. `What animals are you studying?’ he asked her, trying not to study her cleavage.
Amused, she answered, `Displaced pets, basically. The family dog that becomes too big or too expensive and gets dumped on the highway. I try and find out how their numbers change and in response to what. Mainly though, I’m studying how they survive and how easily they do so.’ She waited expectantly for him to form an intelligent question.
`Err’ he began, `Is this a lifelong ambition? He tried to keep the doubt from his voice.
She decided to answer seriously.`Well, I have always wanted to work with them. All animals, I mean. This is a fun way to get the doctorate and then,’ she paused `who knows?’ she shrugged her shoulders. Max was entranced by the way the bar’s soft lighting caught at the hollows at the base of her neck.
`A lot of pets as a kid, I suspect, or maybe you were dragged up on a farm and couldn’t bear the crying of the lambs?’ He smiled again, he just couldn’t help himself.

Five.

So here he was, two months into the job and, although the excitement was noticeable by its absence, he was in lust and it showed no sign of abating or, for that matter, being reciprocated. The amount of effort and dedication he put into breaking through with her was more than doubled by Alison in the pursuit of her subject. She was involved in studying the recent expansion, in the last decade or so, of domestic animals surviving in the wild. This had happened, she said, for a number of reasons including abandonment, unsuitability and cruelty. Whatever the reason they were out here, on the periphery of urban civilisation, attacks by them on household pets as well as familiar wildlife had been increasing steadily; possibly through an increase in their numbers through breeding or the increasing poverty in some neighbourhoods causing owners to dump extra mouths. The ecosystem of the largely industrialized and urbanized environment would not hold up to an increasing influx of predators near the top of the food chain hence the animals in question would have to venture further into the danger zones of the suburbs and find what they could. After a couple of successful sorties, their fear would recede until, as Alison saw, they were about to enter a very scary situation where people could expect to be terrorized by packs of feral cats or dogs in their back yards.

This was the only area where she had asked Ray to show a little responsibility in his reporting, `I do realise that to you, this is probably the only newsworthy aspect of the assignment’. She had gazed at him earnestly, full voltage flowing from her eyes,` However, if you print anything about these fears before we collate the material properly and make rational decisions based only on that, you’ll be amazed how quickly the public will become alarmed. This will cause the mayor to have a knee-jerk solution instigated and he would come down heavily on your boss for scare mongering, in which case, you’ll be out of a job - and so, incidentally will I.’ He was still stunned by how quickly he had ripped up his journalistic principles and agreed to run everything by her.

Things had become more interesting anyway. Through following up information from the police about pet killings called in, they had noticed over the last two weeks that more of the deaths were not the usual cats and small dogs but anything from Alsations and Rottweilers to goats and cows. Not that there were a lot of them around due to the general lack of smallholdings but there was now a burial of a house trained llama scheduled for today. Ray knew that Alison was puzzled by this and her air of preoccupation made him think that she was keeping a lot of her semi-conclusions to herself. He could figure some of it himself though and he was wondering, as he followed her hand-span waist through into the clearing at the top of Gibbet Point, how much leeway he should give her before forcing her to give him a reason not to print at least some of the de facto conclusions he had reached.

`From here we can see the three most recent cases’ she was saying as he arrived beside her, `the Swannman’s over there,’ she pointed `the Braccis and the Lessings, down there and by that pylon.’ She picked out each in turn. The addresses formed a rough triangle around the northern edge of the park. `This doesn’t actually tell us much, as we have as many from the other sides as well but it does support our basic theory that the animals carrying out the attacks may be coming from the park.’ Ray followed her gaze over the enormous area covered by trees not destroyed by the army’s vehicle testing days - `Is this good or bad news?’ he asked in a dubious tone. `Neither,’ she replied ` but considering I’m meant to be studying the effects of a wild habitat on previously domestic animals, it might make it easier to find them if they remain in one area rather than travelling all the time, singly, or in groups.’ She turned to face him. `On the other hand, if what I’m sure you want to print was to be published I could very quickly see the subject or subjects of my doctorate being erased. Knowing roughly where it was would make a decision to remove the problem very easy don’t you think?’ Her eyes widened to the point where he thought they may fall out of their sockets.

‘Oh no you don’t’ thought Ray ‘this time I’m at least going to fight for my side.’

Four.

The oversize 4x4 swung wildly through the gates, gravel and dirt shooting from under the enormous tyres and peppering the undergrowth, pulling up at the limit of the car park. Ray Daventry stepped out of the passenger door, his polished tan cowboy boots shining in the dusty grass. He walked to the back of the car and watched admiringly as the chino’d backside of his companion descended athletically from the cab. `Every time I can’t see you I know where you’re looking’ she said with a humouring smile in her voice. On the ground, she turned and accused him with her eyes whilst grabbing the kit from the back of the truck. `Just admiring the view ma’am’ he returned in his best back-hills drawl whilst indicating the woodland around them, wild flowers liberally spread below the over-hanging boughs. He was besotted with those deep emerald eyes - accusing was nothing, they could hang, draw and quarter him and he’d love it. She threw a kit bag to him `come on, dickhead’ she said and led the way into the trees.

With a resigned sigh he grabbed and shouldered the bag and set off after her. They were in the New Jersey Country Park - an attempt by the community leaders to persuade the citizens of this joke of a state that they weren’t living in an industrial wasteland. As such it had become a surprising success. Around twenty square miles had been reclaimed from defence agency property ten years ago and the area had been left largely untouched save for the reintroduction of some indigenous species. Lakes and streams had been cleared and marshlands and wooded areas had been zoned to provide nesting areas for wildlife as well as recreational space for people. Only a small area had been allocated to mountain biking and ‘blading had been outlawed. The most amazing thing was the lack of concrete. With the trees shielding most of the noise from the freeways you could almost imagine that you were indeed in the boondocks. There were, however, numerous refreshment cabins scattered around - Americans don’t like to go far from food.

Sean trudged up the wood chip path behind the woman. He tried to keep an eye on her figure but the going was so rough in places that he had to concentrate hard on the ascent. Her name was Alison Ellis and she was an animal behaviourist. His editor, not liking Ray much, had handed him this peach of an assignment. To follow her around for a few weeks while she built up evidential statistics for her doctorate. The paper’s management had agreed to help fund her year in return for the usual accreditation and regular access to her findings for any stories for weekend features. Alison seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. ‘And why wouldn’t she?’ thought Ray - all costs and living expenses for a year for doing what you wanted to do anyway?, but until he had met his assignment Ray himself had been figuring to chuck it in and try to move to another paper in another state. New York was pissing him off. Ten seconds into meeting her and he was ecstatic that he hadn’t thrown the assignment into the editor’s face and followed it with a swift uppercut as he’d fleetingly thought of doing.

Three

Max tried to be subtle in following the woman ahead of him. Her long legs were bare and a small scorpion flexed its tail within a Celtic ring just above her heel. Virtually crablike, he tried to avoid lamp posts, trash cans and other people as he sought to catch a glimpse of her face. He was expecting to be disappointed - a figure like that had to be the silver lining - but just as he was preparing for a cross-path sortie she nixxed him by turning into the office building they’d just reached. In a way it was a relief; had he seen her properly, she could have taken the shine off the day. Whether she was beautiful or not - she would be unattainable. `Typical chauvinist asshole’ he reprimanded himself as he headed for his apartment, stopping briefly to get a sandwich for lunch.

He remembered the girl from the street later as he worked on his book - he needed a new character to fill a gap he’d noticed in a tangential story line. The mystery girl’s sultry way of walking and how her hair swung, together with the small tattoo on her inner ankle (he wondered, hoped, there were more) conjured images of a latter -day Siren into his mind. She was by no means a major player but the character might fulfil a symbolic role in the tale that he felt needed emphasising. He worried about the so-called hidden themes in his books - his publisher didn’t. Max believed his readership to be a lot brighter than Peter Worth Inc. Even his agent called them his `herd of cows’ in the belief that they’d go wherever he pointed `after all - they have so far’ he glibly pointed out. Max however, reckoned they just thought he was patronising them when he underlined too fervently what, to them, was a patently obvious undercurrent. He realised he wrote ostensibly for the trash or ‘holiday’ sector but still believed in respecting his consumers. In the end he decided to use her but to mellow the episode a little to make the link clear yet unassuming.

At around five he decided to call it a day. His cat Mrs Parker deigned to give him an audience as he stacked the loose leaves of the book in a pile. This one was going ok - well, he only met an inability to put words on a page every other day. The last one had taken well over two years to even finish the first draft. Talk of contracts and everything. But the truth was - and he was sure they knew it too - that when he lost the spark, the taste, anything he wrote was just so much crap. It happened at its own speed and hopefully would be worth waiting for - although probably not in a literary sense. He was just happy to be able to make an okay living at something he generally loved doing. Absentmindedly he scratched behind the cat’s ears. She told him it was time for food.

He followed orders and headed for the kitchen thinking that perhaps he should have made some excuse for tapping the girl on the shoulder and introducing himself yeah, right. He decided to chill with a movie before going out for dinner.

Two. Chapter One.

Eleanor Wykeham struggled through the storm door with the washing basket ungainly against her side. Carefully negotiating the slippery wooden steps down to the yard, out of the corner of her eye she noted at least seven toys Thomas had left out in the drizzle when the weather turned. He had a disconcerting knack of looking her straight in the eye and lying, in this case about putting his toys away, so boldly and believably that she didn’t know whether to admire or deplore his skewed interpretation of right and wrong. After all, she honestly believed that he would get much further in the world he was entering by being able to charm, no come on - fess up - con, his way through. She knew that her grip on his social orientation wasn’t exactly PC but suffered from a sustained fear of the environment they now seemed to live in to the extent that she was willing to arm him with all available tricks in order that he be prepared to go forth etc. She started to collect the soaked washing from the line - she’d completely forgotten it when the rain had started.

Her view of Tom’s development was not one shared by Chris, her husband and she was careful not to allow him to see the evidence too often. This was not difficult considering the hours he worked. He may be pulling down an excellent salary - which she’d been excited by in their first years of marriage - but now she found herself wishing theirs was a more old-fashioned situation with less money but more time spent together. She struggled with a large sheet as she considered that the major test of Tom’s duplicity was Chris’ mother Clara - her cow-in-law. How is it possible to become the perfect stereotype without noticing? Anyway, Clara believed Tom walked on water. Eleanor knew that the old bag would immediately notice and put a stop to any gauche behaviour on her grandson’s behalf - if he could fool her, he was bloody good. She reached the end of that line, humped the basket onto her hip, and stepped over to the other.

It watched from beneath the bushes that lined the garden, prowling the ranch-style fence separating the property from the common land. Part of its mind admired the curve of her lithe youthful body, the way her breasts stretched the fabric of her sweater and how her toned thighs were outlined against her skirt by the breeze. Her legs flowed from her trim waist, tapering neatly to tiny ankles and feet - bare in the wet grass. The more dominant side of its brain however concentrated on - was consumed by - the smell of prey. Fresh flesh.

As the woman lugged the half full basket over to the second line It flattened itself to the earth and crept forward, building speed before launching itself at her body with the force of a battering ram. In seconds it was over - her startled cry was snatched from her throat by its savage teeth. Peace, momentarily shattered, quickly returned to the suburban garden and as the sun finalised its descent the only sounds to be heard were the soft call of bird song and the gentle squelch of ripping flesh with the crunch of bone… Tommy found his mother’s remains 20 minutes later.

From that point on young Tommy’s social development was a little fucked up.

One. Prologue.

She moves silently with an agile grace around the kitchen, her movements sinuous and smooth - swiftly pausing in one area then moving on to the next with an unbroken rhythm.

The whiteness of the room startles in its intensity. Cool ceramic tiles line the floor, seamlessly meeting the walls with no change in brilliance. Cabinets and fittings are also white - the antiseptic surfaces remain uncluttered save for the groceries she is using. Stainless steel pots and pans shine from the walls and clean bright lighting kills amy intruding shadows. An apologetic steam from boiling water is whisked away through the hood fan. Her figure is outlined by tanned skin and tight black leotard.

Pausing at the counter with a bowl, she reaches for, grabs and triple-taps an egg into it with one flowing movement before repeating the action with another. At the third tap the egg remains un-cracked - her music dies. She stares uncomprehendingly at the shell. Puzzlement, frustration and fury all reshape her beauty before she hurls the egg into the trash. A moment of abstraction occupies her before she continues.