I shook my head, kept my mouth closed. I stared into the distance, at the doors through which they had just taken Benji. The cop looked at me, concerned.

*Sweetheart, do you want me to find out where they took him? Want me to take you there?'

I thought for a moment, then started to shake my head slowly. No.

*Then can you give us the details of his next of kin?'

I gave them Mrs Connor's cell number, and the number to the house. They got my name and address and asked me a few more questions: was I his girlfriend, did we have a fight, had he taken any drugs, to all of which I answered no.

*He was sad,' I said, as if that explained everything, and the cop looked at me like I was crazy. A maid came out with a mop and started to clean up the blood, swirling it in big ineffective circles so it just smeared across the courtyard, and everyone went back into their rooms. A sign was placed next to the pool saying it was now closed for cleaning. The party in Bungalow 3 went quiet. Benji had given everyone a hell of a show.

One of the cops' cell phones started to ring. He scooped it out of his belt.

*Okay, thanks,' he said, and snapped it shut. *Your friend is going to be just fine,' he said. *The cuts are superficial. Nothing serious.'

Nothing serious. I didn't know if I was relieved or not.

*You want me to call someone for you?' he asked.

*Could I use your phone?'

*Sure.'

I took his phone, dialled the number, and waited. Around the pool there were now only a few cops who lingered, and some guys from the party, answering questions and looking miserable. Finally the phone picked up.

*What?'

*Hank?'

*Who else would it be?'

*Um, do you think I could come over?'

*It's sorta late isn't it?'

*I just, um, need to talk to you.'

All that blood. All that blood running down Benji's arms.

*I need to talk to you too,' Hank said.

*Why?'

*It's time.'

*Time?' I was still dazed. *Time for what?'

*Just hurry. Please.'

Hank had never said please in his life. I snapped the phone shut, handed it back to the officer. No Hank. Not tonight. Not now.

*You need a ride?' the cop asked.

I shook my head.

*Suit yourself.'

I picked up my heels and ran through the foyer of the Chateau down to the boulevard, bare feet hitting the pavement. I thrust my hand in the air to flag down a cab, and as we sped away I became aware of the flash of cameras, and the paparazzi who had chased me down, convinced I was someone else.

FORTY.

When I arrived at Hank's apartment it looked like no one was home. The lights were off and the curtains drawn. Jake's were drawn also, but I could see the faint light of a reading lamp. As I climbed the stairs I strained to hear the sound of Hank's television, constant and reassuring, but there was only silence. I crept over, feet bare, my heels still in my hand. When I tried the doorknob it turned. Hank had left it unlocked for me. I opened the door and padded inside.

I had to squint to see in the dark. A small sliver of light came from Hank's bedroom. I pushed the door open. Hank was lying in bed, his breathing shallow. Beside him on the bedside table was a lamp emitting a glow so dull it barely illuminated his face.

I remembered the scene from Apocalypse Now when Martin Sheen confronts Marlon Brando at his compound in the jungle. All you can see is the top of Brando's head, bald and glistening, the rest of his body obscured by the darkness. At this moment I felt like Martin Sheen, come to kill Brando while the natives danced outside. Brando had a hard life. His son Christian shot his sister Cheyenne's boyfriend in Brando's living room in Beverly Hills. Christian was convicted of manslaughter and Cheyenne hanged herself at her mother's house in Tahiti. Everyone paid the price for the crime; everyone was punished.

All this raced through my mind as I watched Hank from the doorway. I wasn't even sure he'd heard me enter. His mouth was wide open and facing the ceiling. His eyes were closed. I was about to leave, thinking with relief that he had fallen asleep, when I heard his voice in the darkness.

*Sounded like you were having a fun night,' he said.

*I hope it's about to get better, but I don't like the chances.'

*Close the door. Did anyone see you come in?'

The single lamp gave the feeling of being inside a cave. *The CIA were trailing me for a while, but I gave the cab driver a fiver to lose them.'

*This is no time for jokes.'

*You're damn right it's not. The fiver wasn't enough so I had to blow him too.'

I sat on the edge of the bed, still squinting to adjust to the light, and Hank sat up. He was skinny but otherwise he appeared strong. As he pushed himself up on his arms, I could see the long thin scars of his suicide attempt running up his wrists like reeds on a riverbed, and I thought of Benji. The scars cut right through the blurred tattoo on his wrist, and I saw for the first time what the bandages at the hospital had been covering. In the middle of the tattoo the skin glistened wet and pink, probably infected. It looked like he had tried to cut it out.

*What's the crisis Hank?'

He pointed to the wall, as if that explained everything. Stacks of old newspapers were piled high in the corner of the room. So, the newspapers in the living room had never been thrown out, just moved into his bedroom.

*What do you know about vigilantes?' Hank asked.

*That's a hell of a fire hazard, Hank. You drop a lit cigarette and this place would go up like the Wicker Man.'

*Not a bad idea. Fire would be clean, leave no trace.'

*What do you mean vigilantes?'

*What do you know?'

*I don't know a thing.'

*You know a lot of things about a lot of pretty screwy stuff.'

*If by vigilantes you mean people taking the law into their own hands, can't say I've met many. Are you trying to tell me you're Batman?'

*I'm not the hunter, Hilda. I'm the hunted.'

*No, you're a paranoid old man. By the way, if you think people are out to get you, you shouldn't leave the front door unlocked.'

*It doesn't matter now.'

I smoothed down his bed covers, tucked in the corners. *Well you seem perfectly fine to me, apart from the obvious dementia, so if you're looking for someone to stick a pillow over your face you'll have to find somebody else. Try Jake. He'd probably find killing you therapeutic.'

*Shut your yapper and get me one of those newspapers,' he said, pointing to the corner of the room.

*Can't we turn on a light?'

*No lights. Just the newspaper.'

*Fine,' I said as I stood, *but if I trip and fall, I'm suing your ass.'

I walked over to the newspapers, kicking aside an empty beer bottle on the way. *Now I'm more scared of being crushed to death,' I said, looking at the towering pile of newsprint in front of me. *Which one?'

*Christ, the one on the ground. Do I have to draw you a map?'

I picked up the newspaper that was lying on the floor, separate from the others. It was the Los Angeles Times from last Saturday, the headline a spate of car-jackings in Long Beach. I threw it to Hank like a Frisbee. He rustled through the first few pages, found what he was looking for.

*There,' he said, jabbing at the article.

I snatched the paper back, scanned the article.

*JWA charged in US,' I read. *What are they? Your favourite band or something?'

*Justice War Alliance,' he said in a hushed voice.

*You mean like the Justice League of America? Is Superman their leader too?'

Hank's eyes lowered, drifting to something invisible on the bedspread, but I could tell he was just avoiding my gaze. I read the article again, this time more closely. Apparently some group calling themselves the JWA had been hunting down war criminals since the fifties and dispensing their own special brand of justice. It sounded like something from the TV show *Get Smart', a vigilante organisation inflicting Indian burns and wedgies on the bad guys. But Hank was taking this very seriously. I could feel him watching me as I read, waiting for my reaction. I looked at him, my face blank, and I could see his disappointment. He'd been hoping this was the moment when all his ramblings and failed suicide attempt finally made sense, but I was only more confused. I put the paper down on the bed and kept looking at it, avoiding him.

*So what?' I said. *Sounds like an urban legend to me. Anyway, what's it got to do with you?'

*I've read the paper every day for nearly fifty years, looking for any mention of them. Last week a German was taken out on the freeway with a sniper rifle. The car crashed into the wall and when the cops dragged the guy from the wreckage they saw they had a goddamn homicide on their hands. They'd blown this guy's brains all over his windscreen. I know it was them.'

*Do you know what this guy did? Why the JWA were supposedly after him?'

*He threw people against electric fences at the camps. To see what would happen.'

*So he got what was coming to him.'

*Some might say.'

*Is this why you're hiding out in here? Because you think some vigilante group is hunting you down? You're a Holocaust survivor for Christ's sake!'

Hank scratched at his arm where his tattoo used to be. His nails were jagged and cut into his tender skin, drawing blood to the surface. *I was only eight when I went into the camp. I wasn't a Jew, or a homo, or even a gypsy. I didn't have to be there. You know why I was there?'

I sat down on the edge of the bed, shook my head.

*I was there because I was a stupid son of a bitch. Threw stones at the Nazis as they goosestepped into town. I still remember braining one right on the head. Four of them chased me down into an alleyway, picked me up and dragged me off. Threw me on the back of the wagon with the rest of them. No one saw it happen and, if they did, I guess they couldn't have done anything anyways. I didn't even get to say goodbye to my parents.'

*That was brave Hank,' I said. I imagined a valiant young boy taking up arms against the invading forces, striking a blow while the adults were too complacent and scared to retaliate. Hank just laughed.

*Brave, hell. I was just a little shit. Threw rocks at everything in those days. I'd had my ass beat just days before for throwing stones at the Hooper shop window.'

*Why doesn't that surprise me?'

*Remember this ain't no movie, Hilda. This ain't no Schindler's List.'

*Obviously.'

*Sometimes your life can turn on a dime just for some stupid shit you done. I get taken from my family because I'm a stupid, shit-head kid who doesn't know any better. I didn't deserve to be there. That's how I felt anyway. I wasn't part of the grand plan, I was just collateral damage. It made me angry. But not at the Nazis, no way. I was angry at the people in the camp. The other kids. The ones who were meant to be there. I kept away from them, sat on my own, ate with my back turned to them. I wanted to show that I was different, that it had all been a stupid mistake and that the guards would see that. They'd let me out and I could go back to my parents. But it didn't happen. Days and weeks and months passed and still I was there. Soon I forgot what my parents even looked like.'

I didn't know what to say. I was frozen to my spot on the bed, wanting to run away but desperately wanting to know the truth. All of Benji's horrible predictions about Hank seemed to be coming true, all of Jake's warnings. I tried to imagine what it was like for a boy in that situation, how he would feel, what he might do to survive.

*At first it wasn't so bad, all things considered. We got three squares a day and they put us to work. As the war dragged on things started to deteriorate. That's when people started to disappear in the middle of the night. The guards made us fight for food. We'd stand in circles and kick the living shit out of each other, just to get a scrap of bread. I was a pretty good fighter but it was tiring. There was more food to go around when kids just disappeared. Poof!'

Hank threw his hands up, like a magician dispensing of a rabbit in midair.

*Because I was quiet, and a loner, the other kids didn't pay much attention to me. They didn't know I was watching them. Didn't know I was plotting against them. Like some stinking, slimy sewer rat. Like the worst kind of dog.'

I put my hand on his. *You were a kid,' I started to say, but Hank cut me off, shaking his hand free.

*Kids are cruel-is that what you're going to say? Kids do the darndest things? I know what I was. I knew right from wrong.'

*No you didn't. You were a child in a concentration camp. How the hell would you know the difference between right and wrong? A whole country didn't know the difference!'

The light in the room dimmed further, as the bulb of the lamp died. It was as if all the energy of the room was being sucked out by every word Hank said, as if the planet were growing darker just for us.

*I started to watch them,' he continued. *Listen to their conversations. Some of them were planning an escape. A girl called Mary, her brother Eli, and some other kid. They were always whispering in corners, hiding behind their hands. They were going to try to squeeze through the fence at night. I told the guards.'

He looked at me for a response. I stared at the bedspread. There were smears of blood from where his cuts had stained as they healed.

*Mary, Eli and that other kid-they disappeared. The guards said I had done well. I got extra scraps of food and was allowed to take breaks while everyone else worked. It was a damn sweet deal. I started thinking about what else I could tell them. I spied on people. Looked for anything that would be worthwhile telling. If some kid stashed a crust of bread beneath his pillow for later, I made damn sure those guards found out about it, and the crusts became mine. But sometimes there was nothing to tell. Sometimes I had to make shit up. I got more crusts. More kids disappeared.'