Zoe nodded. Getting through locks was a skill she'd been tutored in by a local tearaway. "And what did you do?" she asked, curious. "Once you were in?"

There'd been a moment when he'd almost turned and left, overcome by the enormity of it: of breaking in, of wreaking havoc. But then he'd seen Tom's office. I like things ordered, Joe, he'd said. And there, to prove it, stood his filing cabinets, with its reams of carefully alphabetized records that Joe had carefully, randomly, reordered. Tom would be hours straightening that lot out. Hours. Maybe days.

"It's better you don't know," he told her.

He was sure that's what Marlowe would have said.

SWORD LILIES.

Sally Spedding.

SINCE CHRISTMAS, THE Rue des Platanes in Villerchamp has become known as the Rue des Morts.

Old Monsieur Renaud in number ten succ.u.mbed to liver failure on Millennium Eve, while further up, next to the public telephone, Madame Pla had fallen senseless from her bed. On February 14, young Thierry Santos had mounted his moped only to be struck by a VW camper van belonging to a German couple from Kohl. They'd been too hysterical to park it safely afterwards, so the street was blocked off for at least half an hour.

Now, as always, Madame Laval was busy by her front window, wiping over the inner shutters with a new chamois leather, and re arranging the plastic gladioli in their faux Sevres vase. It was already mid-April, and soon more tourists from the north would be pa.s.sing through the village to the famous gorge and its chapel cut deep into the rock. No, she'd never written in its Book of Supplication to the Blessed Virgin, preferring to keep her wishes private. Besides, one way and another, most of them had been granted without Divine intervention.

It was more important that this retired school teacher kept a continual and visible presence in the street, something for which the Dreille family opposite were always grateful, seeing as their absences were growing more frequent. They had a sole remaining relative in Brittany, and were no doubt hoping their solicitous attentions would soon be paying off.

She'd be the first to know of any decease by the inevitable brand new car parked outside, complete with tinted gla.s.s and fancy wheels. Even an A Vendre sign, she guessed, presaging a move to the better side of the town. That's when her smile would become a little less warm, her gift of confiture aux framboises proffered in a smaller pot than usual . . .

She looked out again, the morning sun glancing in on her grey head. The church bells clanged eleven and here on the dot was old Monsieur Jose from number four with his terrier. Why in G.o.d's name did a man in such poor health keep such a handful as that? She asked herself as the dog roamed from left to right, oblivious to its owner's feeble whistling. Then horror of horrors, it squatted outside her door. She watched as a brown coil extruded from under its tail, sending up a fuzz of steam.

Dilemma. Monsieur Jose's son Yves was the electrician. She needed him to upgrade the wiring in her house and put in an extra point for her special new equipment arriving next week. She sighed. All she could do was stare at the aberration and remove it as soon as Monsieur Jose had struggled by.

She put on her coat, for although the sun was warm in a clear sky, a northerly breeze still persisted. Two pieces of kitchen roll and a plastic bag lay ready in her basket, and mercifully, the t.u.r.d proved a clean lift. Then, with the bundle still exuding its own rich smell, she set off up the street and rounded the bend by the poubelles.

To the right lay steps up to another row of houses which could only be reached by foot. A mere three were occupied, the rest had been for sale for months, their handwritten notices bleached by the sun. An unpruned rose together with an array of terracotta pots stood outside number four. She squeezed the smelly package to fit the letterbox and pushed it in, then with the agility of someone ten years younger descended the steps and walked home as if nothing was amiss. She made herself a tisane of honey and elderberry, before sitting down once more by the window with the accoutrements of her trade.

She had a fine-nibbed pen, royal blue ink and an empty mustard pot for water, in which rested a pastry brush. However, her paper was the common variety found in any tabac or kiosk, each page a pattern of fine turquoise squares.

"For the peasants," she told herself, but anything more personal or special was out of the question.

As always, before the first word, she drained the surplus ink into a piece of white blotting paper and watched as its stain spread and darkened.

In the boulangerie next morning, she learned that the elderly and fragile Mademoiselle Bertrand in number fifty-two had died after lunch the day before. A fact she later recorded on her Fleurs de Campagne calendar, and not without a quiet satisfaction. For Renee Bertrand was, like many in that rundown part of the town, ready enough to take her charity, whether it was a clutch of violets or a carton of ready-mashed potato, but unwilling to give anything in return. And since her son's win on the Lotto whereby 50,000 francs had trickled her way she'd withdrawn even more behind her fly-speckled curtains.

Madame Laval never had need of a thesaurus or dictionary, for her words flowed like the irrigating water in the local jardins. She knew exactly how to infer, emphasize or simply leave to the imagination whenever that was more effective. It was her craft, after all, just like tapestry work or crochet, perfected over the years . . .

Her pen paused between sentences as she watched Simone Dunoine wrestle with her three children on the way home to dinner from the nursery school. Probably nothing worth eating on their table, she mused, but what else could you expect from an unmarried mother who worked part-time at the Esso pumps? They'd be better off coming to her for tuition, except she couldn't abide anyone bringing in the street on their shoes, or the clamour of youthful ignorance.

Sweat built up under her latex gloves as she folded the paper in two, eased it into the envelope and brushed water under the flap.

"Voila." The same with the stamp. The pile of letters was growing. It was all very satisfying, and never failed to give her an appet.i.te. One o'clock.

The street was quiet. Everyone's tucking in, she smiled to herself, and as it's Thursday it'll be ham and leeks with fruit tart to follow. She could smell the pig meat wafting from nearby chimneys as she went to buy her croissant. How these people could afford a joint of meat and a patisserie day in day out, was n.o.body's business. Even those on Social Security.

She opened her larder door on a crust of cheese and two pickled dills in a cloudy liquid at the bottom of the jar. There was a k.n.o.b of baguette and a sc.r.a.ping of margarine from the economy-sized tub. Small wonder Renee Bertrand hadn't lasted. She reminded herself to write in the Book of Condolence which the woman's son had left outside their front door. Of course, her sympathies would be in an entirely different hand with a different pen.

After lunch, she washed up, leaving the solitary plate to dry in the rack, then, with her mail in her handbag went down the tiled steps to the garage. Most people in the street had converted what had once been stabling into utility rooms with boilers, freezers and unwanted gifts, keeping their cars outside but to her this s.p.a.ce was a necessary cool and sombre womb for her most inventive notions.

Her white Renault Clio was a common enough car and it was the reason she'd bought it. In fact, she'd once sat by the window all day checking the tally of all the various makes, and this far outstripped the rest. Thus would she merge more anonymously with the region's traffic as she travelled from letterbox to letterbox.

Today it was the Ariege. A department dotted with sizeable towns sufficiently far away, yet plausible, for most of Villerchamp's residents had relatives within 200 kilometres. The bird must stay close to the worm, she told herself, unlocking the car door. And what worms they were . . .

She could hear next door's telephone as she checked her black leather gloves were handy. More news, no doubt, for Monsieur and Madame Vouziez, who spent their days in their garden at the top of the street. It was probably their former lodger, a student at Montpellier university, who phoned once a week on Thursdays.

Her car nudged its way into the daylight and she left the engine running while she closed the garage door. There was no one around, just the buzz of afternoon television through the shutters. Everyone was digesting the news and weather. She was soon out of Viller-champ and picking up speed between the pruned plane trees that lined the route. She tuned in to France Musique and a heated debate on Berlioz, then hummed along to excerpts of "L'Enfance du Christ" as the road climbed up away from Quillan and into the high pastures.

The bells were chiming five o'clock as she returned to the Rue des Morts, and immediately she recognized Madame Vouziez with her wheelbarrow, and her other next door neighbour, Madame Baro standing by the new phone booth shaking their heads.

They beckoned her to join them and dispensed the news that old Monsieur Jose had been rushed to hospital with a defibrillator attached to his heart.

"Mon Dieu. It never ends." Sybille Vouziez sighed. "Soon there'll be none of us left."

"But he's had a bad heart for years." Madame Laval feigned concern, yet her eyes were unchanged. "His sister told me he had a funny turn last Toussaint. I could hardly believe he'd once played rugby for Beziers. It's a good job we don't know what's round the corner, that's for sure . . ."

The other two nodded, staring in at pa.s.sing cars. "I expect Yves has already had a valuation on it," she added, looking up the street.

"But his Papa's not dead yet." Madame Baro gave her a sharp look. "He may come back fit as a flea."

"Well let's hope so, but I say it's too much for someone like him having a house here, a Maison Bourgeoise in Perpignan, and a farm near Toulouse, as well as that dog . . ."

"Maybe that's what's kept him going. But I've never understood why he chose to stay in this old street," Madame Vouziez removed her hat and shook it. "Unless it's to be near his son, and of course he's always got us, his friends . . ."

"Exactly. We've never let him down, have we?"

"No. That's why I've already offered to look after little 'Chipie' for him while he's away."

Madame Vouziez forgot to return her hat to her head as an all-too-familiar figure had emerged from number twenty-three. The now childless widow Pauline Santos.

It was impossible for Madame Laval to make her excuses and leave. That would have been too obvious. Instead, she fixed her mouth in a rictus of pity while holding out both hands.

"Paulette, cherie, how are you?" she said. "We've all been so worried. We've not seen anything of you for weeks."

The woman looked ill, her skin as grey as the tombs in the cemetery, and she kept her eyes downcast, refusing Madame Laval's kindly gesture. The former schoolteacher noticed a telecarte in her hand for as well she knew, the Santos had never had their own phone.

"Not good. It gets worse," sighed the widow. "Each day I think, dear Thierry wouldn't want to see me like this, that his Mama should be strong, but no. I must be a terrible disappointment to him and it cannot be otherwise . . ."

Madame Vouviez reached into her wheelbarrow and pulled out a big celeriac with leaves still bearing a few beige slugs.

"Have this, Paulette. Better than pills any day."

However the woman barely noticed. Her tired eyes began to water.

"I'm just on my way to telephone the police." That last word made Madame Laval flinch. "I've been meaning to since it happened, you know," she gulped. "The accident . . ."

"Police?" Madame Baro looked shocked. "Why?"

"I'll show you." Pauline Santos dug in her pocket and pulled out a long white envelope which had obviously been studied many times. She then extracted the note and held her breath.

"Go on. What is it?" Madame Laval tried to get a closer look. Tried to keep her voice steady.

"It arrived the day he . . ." the younger woman broke off, unable to continue.

"We're your friends," encouraged Madame Laval in her carefully rehea.r.s.ed caring tone. "You can trust us."

"Well, after reading it, he went round like a mad thing, yelling, slamming doors, not like him at all." She sniffed. "He should never have taken his moped out in that state, but there it is. He did."

A silence fell over the small group, broken only by sparrows in a nearby plane tree.

"Please, let's see it." Madame Vouziez reached for the sheet of expensive paper, but Pauline Santos held it fast.

"Fingerprints. I've got to be careful. They'll want to examine it, and so far, there's only mine and . . ." She began to sob and Madame Laval put a hand on her arm.

"You read it then. We're your friends. We want to help . . ."

And in that sunlit street with the birdsong overhead, the women listened as a pure and terrible wickedness pa.s.sed from the page to taint the late afternoon.

"It's impossible anyone could be so wicked." Madame Laval's eyes threatened to pop from her face.

"Fancy telling the poor boy he'd failed his army tests. Who would do such a thing?"

"The worst is, if he'd checked properly, he'd have realized the letter wasn't on army headed paper, and the postmark was Ceret. It's just that he wanted army life so much . . ." Madame Santos buried the letter back in her pocket and excused herself.

The women watched as she headed for the telephone, her shadow still touching them, and while the other residents finished their discussion, Madame Laval noted her eight minutes, twenty-two seconds in the phone booth, and when she got home, contacted the florists to send her a spray of gladioli. It was the most her pension would allow.

Twenty-four hours to go before the computer keyboard would become mightier than the pen. Madame Laval was in the public lavabo, rubbing at her washing with extra vigour. The imminence of an e-mail address using Madame Baro's name, reaching a wider readership, turned her fingers red and her towels cleaner than ever before, so that the two Leboeuf sisters walking past like elderly crabs seemed amused.

"Bonjour." They chorused. "Someone's energetic today."

"Ah oui. I'm tired of looking at dingy laundry. And it's such a fine morning to make a difference."

They nodded their old heads in unison, but then, instead of continuing their trek home as she'd have preferred, they stopped to peer down at their reflections in the dark water.

"Is anything wrong?" Madame Laval looked up. Since Pauline Santos had made that call, she was a little, but not overly, on edge. "Well, we don't know if it's true or not, but . . ." Cecile Leboeuf began, just as Madame Laval's soap slid from under her palm and plopped into the current.

"What is?" She fished for it, to no avail. "d.a.m.nation!"

Both spinsters stepped back in astonishment at hearing this respectable retired schoolteacher swear so vehemently.

"I'm sorry," she didn't look up. "It's my only bar . . ."

But the wind had gone from their sails and they turned away, whispering. She steadied herself, aware that something had changed.

They would gossip as sure as night follows day. It would get round the town that she wasn't the woman they all thought. But worse, in her correspondence, that particular swear word was her most favoured, even some might say, her hallmark. She watched her soap glide away out of reach, wrung out her towels and returned to the house, anger quickening her steps.

Her wrist was still damp but no matter, and the brief letter took half the normal time. It was as if her special Muse had landed on her shoulder. The sentiments to the Leboeufs were perfect, the promise her best yet. She would make one more trip, this time to Chalabre in the morning, and then be ready for her new era . . .

She glanced up to see a gendarmerie car pa.s.sing then slowing to a crawl along the gravelled edge. It stopped at number twenty-three, whereupon two officers got out and rang Madame Santos' bell, all the while looking up and down the Rue des Platanes.

She froze. Could they see her through the floral net? Did they suspect anything? She looked round at her equipment, the envelope ready to be sent. She'd only need a minute to burn it all and set some books on the table instead. Her little stove was nearly out, however, she tore up the exercise book and together with the pen and blotting paper, crammed it into the fire.

Strange coloured flames leapt into life followed by short bursts of the pen exploding. But then, quite unexpectedly, as if this intrusion had been too sudden, the fire died, leaving her crucial evidence unburnt. She panicked. Should she go and get new wood or stay on guard? She decided to stay, for after all, should the gendarmes knock on her door, she could always pretend to be out.

She turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs to view the scene from above. Clutching her throat, she hardly dared breathe until as antic.i.p.ated, the gendarmes reappeared, one carrying a large manila envelope. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. It had never been particularly strong since a childhood pneumonia, and teaching at secondary schools had further strained it.

"Merde!"

They were focused on her house. Staring, in fact. And now, without bothering to turn their car round, were coming her way. She gripped the bed end. The wood felt cold. Its familiar rustic carving of corn sheaves hard and unforgiving. Suddenly the pain whipped round her chest like cask bands, then down her arm, her side, until her whole body buckled in a final deathly spasm.

"Madame Laval?" One of the officers called through the letterbox. "We'd like a word. Won't keep you a moment . . . It's just that as we were around in the street, Madame Santos asked us to thank you for her flowers . . ."

LOVE HURTS.

Bill Kirton.

HELEN DIPS THE spoon into the jar, twists it to collect the honey and lets a long, golden teardrop fall on to the bread. She slides the knife across the glistening surface. The small Sabatier has a wide blade, perfect for the fat smooth flow of the spread. Honey was one of the first things she'd tried Ben on when she began to wean him off the breast. Eighteen and a bit years ago.

She smiles as her eyes lift to look through into the dining room with its big bay window. Outside, the sky hangs between pale blue and the peach wash of the sunset's beginning. Ben is in his usual place on the window seat. Six feet two of him, folded into a corner of the sky. She marvels yet again that she has carried that tall, handsome man inside her.

After it happened, she was interviewed by a man and two women.

"It was so sweet when I started feeling him moving and prodding inside. He was so gentle. Never hurt me."

She laughed, reached across and tapped Fraser on the arm.

"You know, I'm sorry for you," she said.

"Really?"

"Yes. You'll never have a baby inside you."

"No fear of that," said Fraser.

He smiled, but Helen didn't notice. She was lost in thoughts of how, in the darkness inside her, she'd made the bones and tissues of a man. Fraser studied her, saw an image of his mother or one of his aunts, only more refined. They didn't have her quiet careful tones, each word sculpted by her mouth, correct.