"No."

"So you wouldn't help me?"

"Oh, I'd help you. I'd go with you." Zanny turned her head and looked at the.ceiling. "Upstairs," she said.

Did she mean what he thought she meant? Or was it the whisky talking in his mind? The whisky tended to talk a lot of garrulous nonsense - garrulous and delightful nonsense.

He smiled at her. "Pretty p.u.s.s.y," he said. It was just a feeler.

"Miaw," said Zanny, making contact.

He sat still for several minutes, excitement rising inside him. He had done a lot of stupid things in his time, but nothing this stupid. You didn't open a convent fair and then lay one of the pupils. But wouldn't you, said the whisky, given the chance? No, said the judge, it's unthinkable - certainly not.

He edged the chair back.

Zanny was pleating her dress. She was pulling it up and down over her knees as she pleated it. She had never seduced anyone in her life, but for the first time it wasn't a bad effort. She looked over at Sir Clifford and smiled shyly.

Innocent as a raindrop, he told himself and didn't believe it.

"Well -" he said, "if it isn't far up the stairs . . ."

"Not very," said Zanny, "and we can take it as slowly as you like."

Take what slowly? he thought. How knowledgeable was she? Suzanne, the French wife of a junior counsel, was the slowest player of the game he knew. Largo for a very long time and then a thundering prestissimo conclusion.

They hadn't got a very long time.

He was a highly respected retired judge.

Well. . . respected by those who didn't know.

Retired by those who did.

"You stand," Zanny said, "a very good chance of winning."

"Winning? Winning what?"

"The treasure, of course," said Zanny. "Aren't you dying to know what it is?" Dying, judge - dying.

"Come." she said, "I'll show you."

"Show me?"

"The way."

The first flight of stairs - wide and shallow - she danced up, her skirt swirling tantalisingly so that he had glimpses of the backs of her knees - sweet little hollows. He laboured after her, the vicious hammer in his chest tapping at the hard metallic anvil in small warning blows.

"Hold on there," he said. "Hold on."

She turned on the top step and began creeping down. "p.u.s.s.y," she said, "p.u.s.s.y."

"You - p.u.s.s.y," he said.

"You Tarzan - me Jane," said Zanny, three steps away from him.

The little devil. The little randy b.i.t.c.h. Where would she take him? Where would be private enough?

"Where?" he asked.

"Higher - higher - higher . . ." She pointed past the cool blue and white Virgin with the flowers around her feet, "Up - and around . . ."

"Far?"

"Not very."

"Heart sick."

"Poor sick heart."

"p.u.s.s.y."

He hauled himself onto the half-landing. She disappeared around the corner and began walking up the second flight. He wanted to lie down on the parquet under the banked up flowers at the statue's feet. His forehead was cold and wet. What he was doing was mad. He should just sit down here for a few minutes - in the corner where the stairs turned. No one would see him. He needed to rest. He would then go down. Put the crazy episode out of his mind.

"Miaw," said Zanny. She was sitting halfway up the second flight.

He shook his head. "No good. Can't."

Purple face, Zanny thought. Purple hangman. Call him Iggy, would you? Not let him breathe the autumn air, would you?

"Oh, come," she said gently, very adultly, "come -- do come -- try -- do try . . ."

His breath was like flames.

He closed his eyes.

She was humming a little tune to herself. "The Roses of Picardy". He raised his head and looked at her. She had opened the top b.u.t.tons of her dress. Her left nipple showed like a tiny pink rosebud.

He groaned.

He began climbing again.

One step up the mountain -- two steps -- three.

Twelve in all. He had reached the second landing.

The hammering in his chest was making all his bones ache - his arms - his wrists - his finger-tips. He was in a furnace of pain. And through it all he kept on desiring her.

White clouds at the top of the mountain. Huge pillows. Flesh, white as sugar crystals - sweet as sugar crystals.