*Better go,' Benji said, putting the lens cap on his camera. We got in the car and drove away. My head didn't clear until we were back amongst the noise and traffic on Sunset Boulevard.

EIGHT.

Later that night I sat in my bedroom looking at websites about the Manson Family. Leslie Van Houten was up for parole again. There was no way she would be released, even after thirty-seven years in prison. All the Manson Family murderers who were put on death row had their sentences commuted when California abolished the death penalty, but there was no way any of them would ever get parole. Murderers like that became part of the public consciousness, part of our collective nightmare. Kill an unarmed grocer in a robbery gone wrong and you might get twenty years. But if you kill John Lennon you can be pretty sure you ain't seeing the light of day ever again.

Lynette was working late in her office as usual, and the house was quiet. All the lights were off except for a small desk lamp above my computer. I was looking at a photo of Leslie Van Houten in her jail manacles when the phone rang.

*Hello?' I said. A voice filled with gravel snapped back.

*HUH?'

I waited. *Uh...hello?'

*Is this Hilda?'

*Yes it is. Who's this?'

*This is Hank.'

My mind was blank. *I'm sorry, who?'

*HANK!' the voice boomed back. *From Echo Park.'

*Echo Park?'

*You came to my place, you and your friend with the camera. You took photos of my bathroom.'

*How did you get this number?' I asked, already knowing the answer.

*I called that wise-ass friend of yours. He left his card with me. I called and he gave me your number.'

*I'm sure he did.'

*So I was thinking I'd call, figured I had something you'd like to see.'

Great. Now I was getting obscene phone calls from senior citizens. *Not interested,' I said.

*You will be.'

*Listen, I'm flattered, but you're not really my type, get what I'm saying?'

*No! Not like that, for Christ's sake. Like the sink. The sink in the bathroom you wanted to see. I got something like that for you.'

*Then why don't you give it to Benji, you know, the guy who was with me? He said he was interested if you ever wanted to sell anything.'

*'Cause it's not for him! It's for you!'

*You know what? This is very nice of you mister-'

*HANK! MY NAME'S HANK!'

*-Hank, but I can't come over. I don't have a car.'

*Get a cab. There's plenty of cabs in this town.'

I scrambled for excuses. *It's more complicated than that,' I said, hoping my vagueness would make him give up. I was wrong.

*It's as complicated as you wanna make it. What I got, I think you'll like. I think you'll like it a hell of a lot.'

I don't know what came over me, whether it was the darkness of the house, the silence, or merely curiosity about what was on offer. Hank waited on the other end of the line, his breathing raspy. Jesus, I thought. He'll probably kill me. Chop me up over all those old newspapers in his apartment.

*Well, all right,' I said, against my better judgment. *Just don't try anything. I'll be telling people where I'm going.'

*I said it ain't like that. You will get a kick out of this. Trust me.'

*When?'

*I'm an old man. I ain't got all the time in the world.'

I rifled through an imaginary diary in my head, every page blank. Benji had mentioned a dentist appointment he had the next day. *I suppose I could squeeze in some time tomorrow.'

*Done!' Hank cried, and slammed down the phone.

Done. I looked around my room, the sound of the dial tone still echoing in my ear. I looked again at the photograph of Leslie Van Houten. When she was first convicted she was just another gangly hippy teenager with scraggy brown hair, a glint of mischief in her eye. Now she was an old lady, her face gaunt, grey hair pulled back tight in an old-fashioned bun. She had put a pillowcase over dress-shop owner Rosemary LaBianca's head, tied it with electrical cord, and held her down while another Family member stabbed her in the stomach with a knife.

I wondered if she thought it was all worth it now. I wondered if in agreeing to meet with Hank, I was getting myself into something I was going to regret.

NINE.

The next day I took a cab to Echo Park. It was going to cost a fortune but I couldn't bring myself to take the bus. There was something unsavoury about riding public transport in Los Angeles. All I could think of was the song by Billy Idol about the killer travelling on the bus, reading books about murder and thinking about his next victim. It was The Night Stalker's favourite song. He'd play it on his Walkman as he skulked through people's yards, looking for an unlocked window or open pet door. Anyway, I didn't really have to worry about money. Lynette made enough and gave me a healthy allowance to keep me quiet and out of her hair.

The driver turned on the radio and The Ramones were playing. I couldn't believe that three of the band members were dead already. *Can you turn it up?' I asked. The cabbie leant over, turned a knob, and The Ramones and their special brand of frenetic punk rock blasted through every corner of the cab.

*Pretty rockin' huh?' the cabbie yelled over the music.

*Hell yeah.'

*Most girls your age, they like the pop music, you know? Britney Spears. Christina Aguilera. They don't like the good stuff. They think Maroon 5 is rock and roll. I got more if you like.'

The cabbie put in a CD of hard rock hits-AC/DC, Nine Inch Nails, Metallica. We drove down the freeway, the music battling against the sounds of the other traffic. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up outside the drab apartment block in Echo Park. The same mail catalogues were still on the lawn, dry and brittle like fossils. I paid the driver.

*You okay?' he asked, looking up at the apartment. *You need me to wait?'

I considered it for a moment. *No, I'm fine. Thanks for the tunes.'

The cabbie shook his head and drove off. I looked up. Unlike the day before the curtains and windows were wide open, making me feel a little better about being there. At least if I screamed it would be carried on the wind.

*YOU!'

I jumped. Hank was hanging out the window, waving.

*Hello,' I called, waving back.

*Come up! Come up! Christ, don't just stand there.'

*Okay.'

I walked up the stairs. The front door was already open when I got to the top, Hank standing there in a pair of white shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt. He waved me in. *Hurry. Come on, get inside. Quickly.'

*I'm Hilda,' I said, stepping inside.

*I know who you are. What the hell you think I've been standing up here waving my arms for? Get inside, quick!'

Hank threw the door closed behind me, giving one last look outside as if he suspected I'd been followed. The apartment was much cleaner than two days ago. The bottles had been cleared away and the ashtrays emptied, but the smell of alcohol still hung in the air. With the windows open and the breeze coming in, the place seemed much nicer, more inviting. I stood in the doorway as Hank dashed to the kitchen, scooping the kettle off the stove. On the bench were two matching cups and saucers. He poured us tea and brought the cups into the living room.

*Don't just stand there like a freakin' hatstand,' he growled. *Sit down.'

I sat on the edge of the dusty old couch, as far away from Hank as possible. Again I looked around the room. No easy exits. The door was locked, but if I needed to I could jump out the window, break a few bones. I was curious about people who put themselves in situations where death was almost inevitable. The wife who gives her violent husband a second chance. The girlfriend who lets her ex-boyfriend visit late at night to return her books, a knife concealed in his jacket. I always thought I was much smarter than that, but here I was, in a strange man's apartment with the door locked and only an open window for escape. Maybe I had a death wish?

*Tea?' he said, handing me a cup of hot, milky liquid.

*No thanks. I can't stay long.'

*Sure you can. Take the goddamn tea.'

I took the cup.

*Everyone's always in a rush,' Hank said. *Rushing here and rushing there. No one takes the time to sit anymore.'

*I really can't stay long,' I said again. *I'm due back-'

*To what?'

*Well, I have stuff to do.'

*What have you got to do that's so important?'

*Excuse me?'

His lip curled. *You heard. A girl who spends her time going into strangers' houses to take photographs of bathroom sinks ain't got a lot going on in her life, if you get my meaning.'

*Kinda hard to miss it.'

*You know that friend of yours?'

*Benji?'

*He's some kinda asshole. Ain't as smart as he thinks.'

I frowned. *You said you have something for me?'

Hank's eyes were grey and dull. The skin on his legs was dry and scaly, and had flecked off only to get stuck in the spindly hair that grew there. *What are you doing with someone like that?' he asked.

*There's nothing wrong with Benji.'

*Sure there's not. Comes in and tells an old man someone died in his bathroom.'

*Look, I'm really sorry about that,' I said, taking a mouthful of tea and swallowing hard even though it was scalding hot. It would be rude to leave with tea still in my cup, so I decided to drink the whole lot as fast as possible. *We shouldn't have done it. We were just curious.'

*Yeah, well people do things and once it's done you can't take it back. Now here you are. Ain't nothin' but consequences in this life.'

*Consequences huh?' I tried to sound like I didn't care, like what he was saying wasn't creeping under my skin and taking root in my veins. I didn't like the sound of *consequences', the way his eyes glazed over when he said it, like a murderer reminiscing about his last really satisfying kill. I wondered whether I could smash the tea cup right there on the table if I needed to, pick up a sliver of ceramic and drive it into his throat just as he lunged for me, or whether I should just throw the whole cup at his head, praying to God I hit a temple or some other magic spot that would make him black out. A hundred different scenarios raced through my mind from movies and TV shows: Dan Aykroyd getting a TV smashed over his head in Grosse Pointe Blank, the scene from Single White Female where a guy gets dispensed of with a high heel to the forehead. I stood.

*I gotta go. My brother's gonna be outside. I told him to pick me up. He'll be looking for me.'

Hank laughed. *You ain't got no brother pickin' you up. What the hell is wrong with you? You think I'm gonna attack you?'

*I don't know. When you sit there talking like Hannibal Lecter about "consequences" you can really start to freak a girl out.'

*What the hell do ya think I'm gonna do? My prick's been useless for years. I'm lucky to get any piss out of it let alone make it stand to attention long enough to get my rocks off. So sit down will ya? You're makin' me nervous. I don't get many people around here you know.'

I stayed standing. *Listen, I know we did kind of a shitty thing. It was not a cool thing to do. But if you think you're going to hold me hostage because I feel bad about it, and make me do some kind of forced community service by coming here to visit you to make up for it, you're mistaken.'

*I ain't holdin' no one hostage. You came here of your own volition. And it's because I have somethin' for you. I wasn't lyin' about that. Just wait.'

*You know what? It's cool. I don't want anything.'

*No. Wait.'

I watched him slink into the kitchen and take something off the bench. When he came back I saw it was an old brown paper bag, crinkled and stained. He handed it to me.

*What's this?' I asked.