"You don't think so?" I say. "You mean your parents called you Eddie?"

"Yeah," she says.

I'm not convinced. She's hiding something. "It's short for something," I say.

She gives a little shrug and looks worried, but she doesn't say anything.

"Edwina," I say.

That makes her squeal. She gives a half-disgusted, half-incredulous laugh. "No!" she says, all indignant.

"Edina," I say.

She shakes her head.

"Edaline? Edwardiana? editions Gallimard?" I say this with the best French accent I can manage and she rolls her eyes.

"You made that up," she says. She's not annoyed, though.

"Theodora?"

"No."

"Thandra?" I say, lisping it.

"No."

I jump up, and do an Archimedes. "I know," I say.

She looks excited, like I'm about to tell her something she's needed to know her whole life. "What?" she says.

"It's Rumpelstiltskin!" Rumpelstiltskin!"

She punches me then, in the upper arm, and she hits hard. "f.u.c.k you," she says. Next minute we're laughing at each other and a minute after that I'm f.u.c.king Dorothy Lamour's daughter again, and it's just like it was the first time, all salty and sweet and close-up-and-personal, just like before, only better. When we stop again, and I'm thinking I could do this forever, she leans up on her elbow and looks at me. "Did you know," she says, all grave and didactic, "that if you pick a Chihuahua up by the scruff of its neck, its eyeb.a.l.l.s pop out?"

When I sneak Eddie out again, Dad is still in the front room, only now he's got the radio on, which is actually quite a promising sign, because at least he's listening to something. I mean, something is going into his head. Sometimes he watches TV, but he always has the sound turned down low, or even mute, and you can see from his face that he's not really making any sense of what's going on, he's just looking at the colors and movement in between sleeps. So the radio is good. It's Radio 4, some arts program, and some new young American director is talking about a film he's either made, or wants to make, where he and Janet Leigh-he's put himself in the film-are building this sculpture in the desert from pieces of magnetic rock. Only the work keeps getting interrupted, because some guy with a huge silver knife is after them, and then there's a gang of kids in leather jackets, with switchblades and stuff, who are also after them, so they have to keep escaping and starting again, over and over, just him and Janet against the world. I stand and listen for a while, then I give up trying to follow it. Obviously, here's a guy who's seen too many movies. I look at Dad to see what he's making of it all. He looks absolutely rapt, his head turned to one side, like a bird, just sitting in the big armchair, listening.

I decide to leave him and go upstairs and tidy up. I'd wanted Eddie to stay longer, but she'd said she had to go. So, just before we say goodbye, I ask her about the message.

She looks at me all confused. "What message?" she says.

"The message from Jimmy." I'm grinning at her. "Remember?" Her face is a blank. "You told me, when you got here, that you had a message for me. From Jimmy."

She shakes her head. "I dunno," she says. "I forget."

I laugh. "Well," I say, "it can't have been that that important." Now, this being Eddie, I don't know if there really was a message and she forgot it, or if she just made it up as an excuse to come round and see me. Either way, I'm glad she came, and I'm sorry she has to go. important." Now, this being Eddie, I don't know if there really was a message and she forgot it, or if she just made it up as an excuse to come round and see me. Either way, I'm glad she came, and I'm sorry she has to go.

I'm lucky she did, though, because twenty minutes after I've finished sorting the room out, Elspeth turns up. And she is not happy. "Where the f.u.c.k were you?" she says, as soon as I open the door.

I make desperate hus.h.i.+ng signs, but she just ignores me.

"I was waiting for you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she says. I'm looking to the front-room door, thinking Dad will be out any minute to find out what's going on. As if. "Did you forget, or what?" Elspeth says.

"Come on," I say. "Let's not argue. Dad's in there having a rest."

"Sounds like he's watching telly," she says.

"Well," I say, "he's listening to the radio. But we should let him get some quiet." She's giving me this totally p.i.s.sed-off look, but I'm not sure it's for real now. I think she's starting to remember that I'm not that good with time, plus I've got him next door to look after. Plus-well, she likes me, doesn't she? "So," I say, "let's go for a walk. We can talk about it, right?"

She gives me this incredulous look. "A walk?"

"Yeah. A walk."

"You want to go for a walk?" walk?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"I'm not going for a walk" for a walk" she says. "I'm too upset to go out for a b.l.o.o.d.y walk." She starts up the stairs, not even bothering to look back to see if I'm following. Which means, of course, that we're going to f.u.c.k. And after that, everything's negotiable. Almost before we get through the door, she turns round and starts working at my jeans. "Come on," she says. "I'm in sore need of a good seeing-to." she says. "I'm too upset to go out for a b.l.o.o.d.y walk." She starts up the stairs, not even bothering to look back to see if I'm following. Which means, of course, that we're going to f.u.c.k. And after that, everything's negotiable. Almost before we get through the door, she turns round and starts working at my jeans. "Come on," she says. "I'm in sore need of a good seeing-to."

I just stand there and let her get on with it. "You wanton hussy," I say.

She looks up and smiles. "That's me," she says. Then we're on the bed, sideways, doing it in our clothes and I'm feeling a bit guilty about Dorothy Lamour's daughter, though not that that guilty. Tiramisu and steak in one day. All I got wrong was the order. Then, when we've both calmed down and started taking it slower, she looks up at me and laughs. "A guilty. Tiramisu and steak in one day. All I got wrong was the order. Then, when we've both calmed down and started taking it slower, she looks up at me and laughs. "A walk" walk" she says. "He wants to go for a b.l.o.o.d.y she says. "He wants to go for a b.l.o.o.d.y walk." walk."

[image]

It turns out Eddie did have a message for me, but since she'd forgotten what it was, I don't find out till the next afternoon, when Tone catches up with me outside the library.

"Jimmy says to ask if you're ready for tonight, or what," he says, barely concealing his distaste.

"Why?" I say. "What's tonight?"

Tone sneers. "I thought you'd f.u.c.king back out," he says. "I knew you wouldn't go through with it."

"Ready for what?" what?" I say. I say.

Tone gazes at me in awe and wonder. "I suppose you're going to tell me you didn't get the message," he says.

The penny drops then. "Oh," I say. "Eddie told me she had a message for me, but she forgot it."

"Yeah, right."

I give him a look to let him know if he doesn't cut this c.r.a.p I am going to break his f.u.c.king neck. He gives me the same look right back. I have to hand it to Tone, he isn't the one to play statistics. I've got height, strength, and speed over him, and he probably knows it. He just doesn't give a d.a.m.n. If ever we get to the point when I have to f.u.c.k him up, it won't make any difference to him. He'll just keep coming right back till he gets something over on me. It's a fairly chilling thought. "Yeah," I say. "Right. So just calm down and tell me the when and the where."

"You mean you're in?" he says.

"I said I was, didn't I?"

Give him his due, he does look slightly penitent then. Not much, but enough. "Ten o'clock," he says. "At the old substation on the West Way. You know the place?"

I nod. "I'll be there," I say, and I can see that he believes me now. I can also see that this is going to be one big mistake from start to finish. Hammer Horror time, or some kind of sad farce. Or maybe a little of both. I ask myself what the f.u.c.k I'm doing all this for, or how I ever got involved with Jimmy and his crew in the first place, then I shake my head and turn for home, to get ready.

RIVERS.

WHEN HE HEARS THE FIRST NOISE, ANDREW IS IN THE MIDDLE OF WRITING a letter to Patricia Franz. It's not a good noise, but he doesn't pay much attention, because this is a difficult letter, the last he will ever write to her, and he's looking for the best words to put down on the paper so she will understand why he has decided not to stay in touch. He knows all the noises in this house, and every sound that happens outside, in the garden or along the road, which is usually empty, though sometimes people walk by, on their way to pick blackberries. Though he can't imagine that anything growing around here would be good to eat. Sometimes a kid from the Innertown drifts by on his own, a nice-looking boy with dark, curly hair, and Andrew watches him go wandering along the path from behind the curtain. That one boy looks good-hearted, someone whose father could be proud of him, but they're not all like that. A lot of the boys are mean. They call him bad names and put stuff through his letter box. Dog s.h.i.+t. Old condoms. Fireworks. a letter to Patricia Franz. It's not a good noise, but he doesn't pay much attention, because this is a difficult letter, the last he will ever write to her, and he's looking for the best words to put down on the paper so she will understand why he has decided not to stay in touch. He knows all the noises in this house, and every sound that happens outside, in the garden or along the road, which is usually empty, though sometimes people walk by, on their way to pick blackberries. Though he can't imagine that anything growing around here would be good to eat. Sometimes a kid from the Innertown drifts by on his own, a nice-looking boy with dark, curly hair, and Andrew watches him go wandering along the path from behind the curtain. That one boy looks good-hearted, someone whose father could be proud of him, but they're not all like that. A lot of the boys are mean. They call him bad names and put stuff through his letter box. Dog s.h.i.+t. Old condoms. Fireworks.

Sometimes, when he sees that one boy on his own, he goes out and does things in the garden, so he can look up and catch the boy's eye, all natural and easy-seeming, like it had just happened by chance. He likes to look at children, especially when they are on their own. He likes the way they get all wrapped in their own thoughts when they think n.o.body else is watching. They walk along with their heads down, or they stop and gaze up through the trees at something, or maybe they sing to themselves. He knows what they say about him in the town, but it's not true. He doesn't mean any harm. He just likes likes children, that's all. He's borrowing moments, borrowing looks and smiles and the odd word from people who are luckier than he is. He's not the kind of person to get married, or have kids of his own, not with him being so shy. Anyway, how would he ever have met anybody, when he'd had his dad to look after all those years? And even if he had met someone, who would want to live out here, on the edge of a poisoned wood? No, the truth is, he'd never even dreamed of anything like that. In fact, he doesn't think he's ever actually children, that's all. He's borrowing moments, borrowing looks and smiles and the odd word from people who are luckier than he is. He's not the kind of person to get married, or have kids of his own, not with him being so shy. Anyway, how would he ever have met anybody, when he'd had his dad to look after all those years? And even if he had met someone, who would want to live out here, on the edge of a poisoned wood? No, the truth is, he'd never even dreamed of anything like that. In fact, he doesn't think he's ever actually talked talked to a woman. He wouldn't know what to say. to a woman. He wouldn't know what to say.

Still, he had had hoped to make some kind of connection with Patricia Franz. Because if ever anybody needed a friend, it was her. That's why he wrote to her in the first place, to be her friend, because he'd read about what she had done. By that time, his dad couldn't see at all well, so Andrew would read out loud to him from newspapers and magazines. His dad loved magazines. Whenever he got a chance, Andrew would go out-in the early morning, say, when there was n.o.body about, or maybe when it was raining-to search in people's bins all across the Outertown, and he'd bring home any magazines or decent-looking papers that he found. They were clean, though; he didn't take any that were crumpled or dirty. Most of the time, in fact, they were like new. He would read stories that he thought his dad might like to hear, maybe something funny to cheer him up, but it didn't seem to make much difference toward the end. His dad was in too much pain. Which is a funny thing to say, when you think about it, because if there can be such a thing as too much pain, that means there could be just enough, or too little. But then, when you think again, maybe that's exactly right. Maybe you can have too little pain. Maybe you can be condemned to have just enough. hoped to make some kind of connection with Patricia Franz. Because if ever anybody needed a friend, it was her. That's why he wrote to her in the first place, to be her friend, because he'd read about what she had done. By that time, his dad couldn't see at all well, so Andrew would read out loud to him from newspapers and magazines. His dad loved magazines. Whenever he got a chance, Andrew would go out-in the early morning, say, when there was n.o.body about, or maybe when it was raining-to search in people's bins all across the Outertown, and he'd bring home any magazines or decent-looking papers that he found. They were clean, though; he didn't take any that were crumpled or dirty. Most of the time, in fact, they were like new. He would read stories that he thought his dad might like to hear, maybe something funny to cheer him up, but it didn't seem to make much difference toward the end. His dad was in too much pain. Which is a funny thing to say, when you think about it, because if there can be such a thing as too much pain, that means there could be just enough, or too little. But then, when you think again, maybe that's exactly right. Maybe you can have too little pain. Maybe you can be condemned to have just enough.

The stories he liked best were the spectacular murders, whole families killed in their beds or on their living-room floor, rooms of blood and silence in the spooky police photos they sometimes printed. That was what started him thinking about Patricia Franz. He read about her in a long article with lots of pictures-the killer, the victims, before and after, the detectives- and even though what they said about her was horrible, he knew it wasn't the whole story. He could see in her face that she wasn't all evil. He studied those pictures a long time. Some of the dead people on the floor of their living room, a collection of knives and guns that were used in the various killings, and then, larger than the others, two images of Patricia: one, as an eighteen-year-old with long dark hair and a pretty face, the kind of picture they usually say was taken "in happier days," and another as she looked after she was arrested, in her orange overalls and her hair cut short. Those court pictures are never very flattering, of course, because the person is being portrayed to the world as a brutal criminal, and they are probably upset and angry. Even in that picture, though, there was something innocent about her. She had the look of a little girl thinking about something else to make all this ugliness go away, or maybe just trying to work something out. Andrew thought she had a good face, in some ways. It seems now that he was wrong, but at the time he thought somebody ought to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Not that he didn't understand that what she did was wrong. It was a terrible crime, one of the worst ma.s.s killings by a woman in history. Patricia killed seven people: three men, four women. One of the women was just a girl of fourteen. She murdered the first three in one house-it was her uncle and his second wife, along with her stepcousin-then she drove four miles to another house and killed the others. At the trial, she said her uncle had abused her as a child, but they didn't believe her. She didn't offer any reasons why she killed the second family. According to most witnesses, she hardly even knew them. In one interview, she said she was p.r.o.ne to fits of confusion and helpless fear, so that, even though other people seemed to think she was functioning normally, she barely even knew what she was doing. She called these fits her "clouds;" when she was in one of her clouds, she started drinking, and doing crazy things, but n.o.body seemed to notice until she did something really terrible, like killing people. Andrew thinks she intended that as a joke. As soon as she started talking about clouds, though, the prosecution took it as the first step in an insanity defense and brought in experts to say there was nothing wrong with her mentally. Which meant that they thought it was a perfectly normal, sane act, to kill seven people before tea -time.

She didn't reply to his first letter, or the one after that, but he wasn't surprised. She probably decided he was just some weirdo with a thing for murderers. Or maybe she thought he was a journalist trying to get an angle on her. By the time he wrote to her, the press had made her into a monster. They said she was cold and calculating, but Andrew told her that he had seen the good in her face, and he wanted her to know that somebody, somewhere in the world, was on her side. He was quite proud of those letters. He showed the first few to Dad, but he wasn't that interested. It might have been more interesting for the old man if Patricia had replied, but she never did. Andrew kept trying, though. He imagined she would take her time to work out if he was genuine, and then she would write back. When she did, she would be really friendly and kind, not saying that much really, but apologizing for taking so long to reply and explaining what had been going on with the case. She would also thank him for the birthday card he had sent her, or she would say some of the things she wanted people to understand about her, maybe ask him to help her tell her real story. She would want people to know that she wasn't cold, like the papers said, she was a person with feelings like everybody else. In her long interview with the first journalist, the one she probably trusted because he was going to tell the story from her point of view, she said she only killed those people because they had abused her. That's not what the guy said in the newspaper, though. He spoke to Patricia and then he spoke to other people, and he decided that she did it for money. Patricia Franz denounced him after that, but it was too late.

Andrew was disappointed that she wasn't replying to the letters, but he kept on writing. That was his life for over a year: looking after Dad, and writing to Patricia Franz when he got some time for himself. He had to give the old man his painkillers, and try to get him to eat; he had to clean up after him and tidy the house, so it was a busy time, but whenever he had a free moment, he wrote a letter or sent a card. But Patricia still didn't reply, not to any of them. He didn't even know if she had read any of the things he wrote. So, after a while, he got a little annoyed. He wanted her to know what an effort it was, to keep the faith, and to go on writing to her, when there was no dialogue, it was all just one-sided. Of course, when his dad died, Andrew had a lot of stuff to arrange, and he was never very good at that kind of thing. It was hard, and he thought he could use a friend, too, but she was all tied up with her appeal, and she didn't have time for him. They've put back her execution date three times so far, but she's still going to die, unless she can get her sentence commuted. Andrew doesn't really understand these things, though-and Patricia is on record as saying that she doesn't care that much about dying. She says that she got used to the idea long ago. The only thing that makes her mad is that she will die from being poisoned, when she would rather be shot. To be poisoned is so disgusting, she says. That was the word she used to journalists, when she talked about her own death. Disgusting. Disgusting.

People drive by here, though not usually at night, and when he first notices the noise, he's surprised to see that it's already dark. He looks up, he notices the blackness outside, and he should be working out that something bad is going to happen. He should be registering, but he's not, he's all caught up in the constant whirring of self. self. This noise isn't a car, as it happens. He's not sure what it is and he doesn't really focus, because he's distracted, thinking about Patricia. He wants to tell her that he isn't going to write anymore, and it's a hard thing to say. He doesn't want to add to her problems. He's sitting in the dining room, with all Dad's decorations around, the wall of cuttings and photographs and stamps off old letters that the old man kept for years, to make this room, what he used to call his study. This used to be his favorite room and now it's Andrew's favorite room, because the two of them spent so much time together here, reading books and doing puzzles, or watching television. His dad had made the room by himself at first, pasting pictures onto the walls, images he'd found in magazines, or sc.r.a.ps from soap or jam labels, stamps, anything he could lay his hands on, really. After a while, though, Andrew had started helping him. They'd made books, too. They would build them over days, or weeks sometimes, from cuttings and stamps, then they would write or draw in them, little mottoes and sayings they had found. When his dad became too ill to continue, he moved upstairs permanently, but Andrew kept the room going and he would tell his dad about it sometimes. For a while the old man took a real interest; eventually, though, he couldn't remember anything, and his mind started to wander. He liked to sleep, and that was about it. But Andrew kept alive the man he really was, in his mind and in the room, and even in his letters to Patricia, mentioning him from time to time and putting in little reminiscences and facts about his life. This noise isn't a car, as it happens. He's not sure what it is and he doesn't really focus, because he's distracted, thinking about Patricia. He wants to tell her that he isn't going to write anymore, and it's a hard thing to say. He doesn't want to add to her problems. He's sitting in the dining room, with all Dad's decorations around, the wall of cuttings and photographs and stamps off old letters that the old man kept for years, to make this room, what he used to call his study. This used to be his favorite room and now it's Andrew's favorite room, because the two of them spent so much time together here, reading books and doing puzzles, or watching television. His dad had made the room by himself at first, pasting pictures onto the walls, images he'd found in magazines, or sc.r.a.ps from soap or jam labels, stamps, anything he could lay his hands on, really. After a while, though, Andrew had started helping him. They'd made books, too. They would build them over days, or weeks sometimes, from cuttings and stamps, then they would write or draw in them, little mottoes and sayings they had found. When his dad became too ill to continue, he moved upstairs permanently, but Andrew kept the room going and he would tell his dad about it sometimes. For a while the old man took a real interest; eventually, though, he couldn't remember anything, and his mind started to wander. He liked to sleep, and that was about it. But Andrew kept alive the man he really was, in his mind and in the room, and even in his letters to Patricia, mentioning him from time to time and putting in little reminiscences and facts about his life.

His dad was self-taught. He probably could have been very clever, if he'd had the opportunity. So, when Andrew didn't want to go to school, his father had decided to teach him at home. The only thing he knew about was logic, but he said that was enough. All that really mattered was to be able to think for yourself and make the right connections between one thing and another. Knowledge wasn't about facts, his dad said. It wasn't about things. things. It was about the relations.h.i.+ps It was about the relations.h.i.+ps between between the things. It was about the things. It was about systems. systems. They didn't have textbooks, or anything like that, but there was one big book that his dad had built up over the years, a huge sc.r.a.pbook full of newspaper clippings, some of them faded to yellow, some almost ghostly white and fragile as a moth's wings. Every time they opened up that book, it was like opening the door to another room, a lighted s.p.a.ce whose orderliness had acquired an almost living form, the logical fauna of some distant, yet still perceptible world. Andrew trusted that world more than anything else he had ever seen, even though he knew it was a kind of dream. They didn't have textbooks, or anything like that, but there was one big book that his dad had built up over the years, a huge sc.r.a.pbook full of newspaper clippings, some of them faded to yellow, some almost ghostly white and fragile as a moth's wings. Every time they opened up that book, it was like opening the door to another room, a lighted s.p.a.ce whose orderliness had acquired an almost living form, the logical fauna of some distant, yet still perceptible world. Andrew trusted that world more than anything else he had ever seen, even though he knew it was a kind of dream.

The rest of his education came from television and films. His dad told him what to watch at first, mostly doc.u.mentaries and old films, films in a slightly milky black-and-white, films that looked so much like memories that, eventually, it seemed that they really did belong to his own past. For instance, he remembers Fred Astaire in a car, driving on a beach at the end of history, maybe the last man alive in the whole world. Farther along the coast, the people are gone; all that remains are faint palm prints of water and oil on a kitchen window, or the singed pages of a school Bible, or maybe just the moon peering in at the door of an abandoned cabin, finding a lamplit room, a deck of cards, and the remains of something that might once have danced, in a top hat and tie, to the music of some old Hollywood film. Andrew loved to watch old films on television, to see the real people who only exist in celluloid. They are the only ones who are free, because in their world, time does not apply, you can do what you like with it. He liked watching other programs too, but for the opposite reason: there it was all about time, because time is fast and relentless on television, n.o.body can stop it or slow it down. It's always there, threatening. The best thing, though, is when you see a woman with a torch, going through a building and either she's going to find something terrible, like a dead body, or someone is waiting for her there, in the darkness. He loves watching a woman walking slowly through a building at night with her torch panning across the unknown darkness, Agent Scully in a warehouse, looking for a suspect with superhuman powers, Catherine Willows in a suburban mansion or a sorority house, finding one body after another as she works her way through the building.

Now, sitting in the room, with his letter almost finished, he hears a new sound, closer this time, and he knows for sure it's a bad sound, but it's too late because whoever is there is already inside the house. He can hear them: there's definitely more than one, maybe four or five, and they are gathering just outside the door. And they are there, and he can't believe that he didn't register the danger, because he always hears everything, inside and outside. He can't sleep for it, sometimes. He hears owls moving in the trees, he hears a sound and goes straight out to it in his mind, so he can tell, without even seeing, that it's a fox, or a deer, or one of the feral cats that live out on the headland, coming through the bushes at the edge of the garden. So it comes as a shock when he reckons how close this danger has come without his knowing. A shock, yes; but more of a shock when he sees them coming into the room where he has been alone for so long. They are not cautious, like burglars. No, they are confident, casual, strolling into the room like it was their own house: three boys, then a girl with spiky dark hair, four of them-no, four at first, but then another comes, hanging back a little, looking like he doesn't really want to be here. He's in the shadow of the others at first, but then Andrew realizes that it's the boy he's seen before, the boy with the curly black hair who comes along the path sometimes, on his way to G.o.d knows where.

At first, he thinks they will speak. He imagines they will explain why they are here, at least, but they don't say anything, they just come into the room and surround him, casual as you please, thinking about what they are going to do next. He can see that they don't have a plan, they are just there. there. He can also see that the dark-haired boy wants to say something, but Andrew doesn't imagine he actually knows why they are here, and anyway, the boy is afraid of the others. Afraid, or maybe ashamed. It's the same thing sometimes. When Andrew was a child, he couldn't go outside the house, and he thought it was because he was afraid, but it wasn't just that. It was shame-and he thought it would be easy to say that he was ashamed He can also see that the dark-haired boy wants to say something, but Andrew doesn't imagine he actually knows why they are here, and anyway, the boy is afraid of the others. Afraid, or maybe ashamed. It's the same thing sometimes. When Andrew was a child, he couldn't go outside the house, and he thought it was because he was afraid, but it wasn't just that. It was shame-and he thought it would be easy to say that he was ashamed of himself, of himself, though it wasn't even just that. He though it wasn't even just that. He was was ashamed of himself, when he went out into the world, but he was only shamed by being ashamed of himself, when he went out into the world, but he was only shamed by being there, there, among others. He never felt that way at home. It was the shame of being with other people. He was afraid, too, but it was his shame, mostly, that frightened him. And it seems to him now that the dark-haired boy feels the same way. Maybe not all the time. Maybe he feels like one of the gang, most days, but tonight he is afraid, and ashamed, and Andrew feels afraid for him, because the others-the gang-will easily be able to smell that shame, that's what a gang is good at, smelling out the ones who are not altogether convinced, the ones who are ashamed. So Andrew thinks it will probably go very badly for the boy, if he isn't very careful. Of course, he knows it will go badly for himself. among others. He never felt that way at home. It was the shame of being with other people. He was afraid, too, but it was his shame, mostly, that frightened him. And it seems to him now that the dark-haired boy feels the same way. Maybe not all the time. Maybe he feels like one of the gang, most days, but tonight he is afraid, and ashamed, and Andrew feels afraid for him, because the others-the gang-will easily be able to smell that shame, that's what a gang is good at, smelling out the ones who are not altogether convinced, the ones who are ashamed. So Andrew thinks it will probably go very badly for the boy, if he isn't very careful. Of course, he knows it will go badly for himself.

It's the girl who starts things in motion. Everything is an event, everything begins. begins. Sometimes you don't see that beginning, or you find it in the wrong place, but this time it's easy. The girl, who is not as pretty as she thinks, comes over to where Andrew is, standing up now, though he doesn't remember getting out of the chair. She pulls something out of her pocket. Andrew doesn't see what it is at first, and he draws back, then he looks and sees that's it nothing, just a little penknife. He almost laughs at that-but then she jabs him with it and, slipping it sideways, draws it along his bare arm. It stings like h.e.l.l and he realizes it might have been a penknife, once, but she has sharpened it at the point and on the edges, so now it is a weapon. She is about to cut him again, and he tries to back away, then a voice comes, one of the boys. "Come on, Eddie," the voice says. "Leave something for somebody else." Sometimes you don't see that beginning, or you find it in the wrong place, but this time it's easy. The girl, who is not as pretty as she thinks, comes over to where Andrew is, standing up now, though he doesn't remember getting out of the chair. She pulls something out of her pocket. Andrew doesn't see what it is at first, and he draws back, then he looks and sees that's it nothing, just a little penknife. He almost laughs at that-but then she jabs him with it and, slipping it sideways, draws it along his bare arm. It stings like h.e.l.l and he realizes it might have been a penknife, once, but she has sharpened it at the point and on the edges, so now it is a weapon. She is about to cut him again, and he tries to back away, then a voice comes, one of the boys. "Come on, Eddie," the voice says. "Leave something for somebody else."

What he says makes Andrew realize how scared he is. He hasn't been frightened before, he's been more angry, annoyed that these people had come uninvited into his dad's favorite room, into where he kept all his stuff, his maps and pictures and the Book. He turns to the boy who has just spoken, because this this one is the ringleader and Andrew knows he needs to speak to the one in charge. He wants to tell them to get out of this room. But when he sees the boy's face-so hard, so amused by all this-he realizes there is no hope. They are all standing together, or all but the girl: the Leader, who is big and square and heartless-looking, a fat boy with spiky hair and one very dark eyebrow, the dark-haired boy, who is still hanging back, looking uncertain and maybe a little bit scared, and another boy, dressed in a grubby old Pica.s.so "Dove" T-s.h.i.+rt and tie-bleached shorts, who looks oddly like a smaller version of the Leader, a likeness that is half natural and half worked on. The girl is still standing next to Andrew, and for a moment n.o.body is moving. They are all just standing there, looking at one another-and it is that, that stillness, that silence that resembles the moment just before everybody looks round at one another and laughs, it is this that makes Andrew desperate, so that he runs straight at them, trying to slip past the Leader and through, to where the dark-haired boy is, next to the door. Andrew thinks, if he can get to him, this boy will allow him to slip through and, though he may not get away, then at least they will all be out of his dad's special room. one is the ringleader and Andrew knows he needs to speak to the one in charge. He wants to tell them to get out of this room. But when he sees the boy's face-so hard, so amused by all this-he realizes there is no hope. They are all standing together, or all but the girl: the Leader, who is big and square and heartless-looking, a fat boy with spiky hair and one very dark eyebrow, the dark-haired boy, who is still hanging back, looking uncertain and maybe a little bit scared, and another boy, dressed in a grubby old Pica.s.so "Dove" T-s.h.i.+rt and tie-bleached shorts, who looks oddly like a smaller version of the Leader, a likeness that is half natural and half worked on. The girl is still standing next to Andrew, and for a moment n.o.body is moving. They are all just standing there, looking at one another-and it is that, that stillness, that silence that resembles the moment just before everybody looks round at one another and laughs, it is this that makes Andrew desperate, so that he runs straight at them, trying to slip past the Leader and through, to where the dark-haired boy is, next to the door. Andrew thinks, if he can get to him, this boy will allow him to slip through and, though he may not get away, then at least they will all be out of his dad's special room.

It's an almost risible act, though, even Andrew sees that. The Leader simply lunges out and grabs him as he tries to get by, then he shoves him down to the floor and kicks him, hard. This is a signal to the others, and they all wade in, kicking, punching, one of them-the girl probably- sticking him with something small and sharp. Then someone takes hold of his arm and drags him up against the wall. Whoever it is props him up there-and Andrew sees that it's the Leader, the thickset boy, and he's talking, only Andrew can't hear what he's saying, because his head is singing, it's all noise inside his head like bells ringing, not church bells, but like the bells in old town halls in travel programs, those sonneries sonneries they always make a feature of in doc.u.mentaries about Belgium or Holland. So, by the time he comes back to the room, he's missed what the Leader is saying. He can't really see the boy's face, either, it's mostly a blur close to and then, farther away, on the wall opposite, something comes into focus. Andrew sees it, and he realizes that this is something he has predicted, maybe something he has brought upon himself. Because his dad always said it: words are cheap, but pictures are a different story. You take a picture and you put it in the room, then you are taking on something magical, you are opening yourself to a possibility. they always make a feature of in doc.u.mentaries about Belgium or Holland. So, by the time he comes back to the room, he's missed what the Leader is saying. He can't really see the boy's face, either, it's mostly a blur close to and then, farther away, on the wall opposite, something comes into focus. Andrew sees it, and he realizes that this is something he has predicted, maybe something he has brought upon himself. Because his dad always said it: words are cheap, but pictures are a different story. You take a picture and you put it in the room, then you are taking on something magical, you are opening yourself to a possibility.

The picture he sees is one that he put up after his dad died. Even then, he knew the old man wouldn't have approved. It was too strong, too powerful. What Andrew saw in it was a fragment of history, a detail from a forgotten war, but he hadn't understood the power of the image, not until he looks up now and sees it, as if for the first time. It is a picture of a soldier, probably a young man not much older than these children, standing over the body of his enemies. He is wearing a mask, of the kind that anyone can buy in a joke shop, a Halloween mask with a skull-like face and stringy gray hair, a scary mask. He is carrying what might be an automatic rifle, dressed in a combination of army fatigues and casual clothes, trainers or tennis shoes on his feet, like any boy out for a Sat.u.r.day afternoon, only he is looking down at what remains of a man, a ruined mess of a corpse, sprawled barefoot on the tarmac, his limbs absurdly twisted. The boy is glancing down at this man in pa.s.sing, but he is still walking: it is a casual moment of appraisal; there is no emotion here, just a mild curiosity. Andrew had chosen this image for the wall because he liked the mask, and he was awed by the notion that this was a historic and terrible moment, captured on camera-by whom?-in the most casual manner. He'd wondered about the photographer, about how close he was and whether he was afraid the boy might shoot him. He'd wondered if the boy felt anything behind the mask, and if the mask allowed him to go about the business of killing with a sense that it wasn't really his doing, that he was simply performing a role. Maybe it gave the boy courage, too. Maybe this boy had been afraid, all the time he was growing up, that he might end up like this, killed by a scary monster and left to rot on an anonymous road, so he'd put on this mask and become the scary monster himself, the victor, not the victim, the one who keeps moving, killing everything in its path, rather than the one who is mown down before he even knows it. Andrew knew it was a terrifying picture, a terrible moment, and he had thought long and hard about using it for the wall, but he hadn't recognized the true power of this image, a power his dad would have seen right away. "It's all right to be afraid of dreams," his father had told him once, when Andrew woke up after a nightmare, crying and calling out for help. It was good to be afraid of dreams, if the dreams were scary- and it was good to be afraid of certain pictures, because pictures had just as much power as dreams.

Now, Andrew can see this picture, and he thinks at first it is a sort of prophecy, or premonition. But it's more than that. Someone is cutting his hands with something and he wants to scream, but he doesn't make a sound, he just keeps his eyes fixed on that picture. He wants these children to see it, to find their way to this picture through his attention, so he keeps his eyes fixed on that masked face. He keeps his eyes fixed on the picture and he tries to consider what they are doing to his hands as something other than pain, or rather, a different kind of pain, a shared pain, a courtesy. A courtesy and a bearing witness. A testimony, a testimonial, a testament. Not his particular pain, but all pain, everywhere. Not just this soldier's death, but every murder, every killing, every human life lost in war and genocide. Every human life, in its living and in its death. He keeps his eyes fixed on the picture and he considers how pain changes, when it is a courtesy and a testament, he notices how the body stops and listens to itself, in response to this pain. They are slas.h.i.+ng at him now and he keeps his eyes fixed on the picture, and he lets his body listen to itself, going outside time, bearing witness, moving away from these children by surrendering to them. Because he cannot change this and he cannot end it. They cut his hands and his arms, they stab at his face, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the picture. These children are going to kill him, he knows that. Like this dead soldier, he will die for no reason, other than cruelty, so he keeps his eyes on the picture and he bears witness to that.

After a while, though, something breaks through his fixed gaze and he hears a voice, a pleading voice, a boy's voice. It's the dark-haired boy, and he is trying to get them to stop what they are doing.

"I don't think it's him," the boy says. "I don't think this is the guy."

"Why not, not, Leonard?" the Likeness asks-and there is danger in his voice. Leonard had better watch out for himself. Leonard?" the Likeness asks-and there is danger in his voice. Leonard had better watch out for himself.

"He's not the type," Leonard says. Andrew is touched by this. He's grateful to this boy for coming to his defense, if that's really what he's doing. Though maybe it's himself he is defending. Maybe he is bearing witness to something too. "Come on," Leonard says. "Let's just leave him and get out of here."

The Likeness whips round now and turns on him. "Why don't you stop f.u.c.king whining?" he says. He's really angry with Leonard, and this isn't a new thing.

Leonard stands firm. He's quiet, maybe a little mournful. "He's not the one," he says, pretty well knowing that it doesn't matter now what he says.

"Who gives a f.u.c.k!" the Likeness screams, his face angry and barking, like a dog at the end of a chain.

Something in the room snaps then. They've all stopped what they have been doing, all gathered around him, hemming him in, but they have run out of steam now. It had started to get repet.i.tive and they'd got bored. They'd wanted to do something bigger, something final. After this exchange, though, they back away, circling round Leonard, leaving Andrew on the floor, though the fat one, the one with the Eyebrow, keeps his eye on him, fixing him there with his attention. Or so he thinks-only n.o.body is fixed, n.o.body is holding anybody down. Andrew's not going anywhere, not because he's being held in place by some fat kid's staring eyes, but because he's suddenly tired of it all. Or maybe he is just tired of himself. We do tire of ourselves, he thinks, and if we can't find something else to take an interest in, then it gets pretty tedious, being human. We tire of the self, the self, of the shape of it, and its slightly exaggerated colors; most of all, we tire of its constant noise and just long for a little quiet. Andrew thinks he remembers a time when of the shape of it, and its slightly exaggerated colors; most of all, we tire of its constant noise and just long for a little quiet. Andrew thinks he remembers a time when his his self was smaller than it had become by the time those kids turned up in his father's little study. He seems to remember a different shape, more muted colors, like the colors you catch glimpses of through snow on a winter's day. But most of all, he remembers something smaller and quieter. That would have been before his dad died. Afterward, he'd just sat around the house watching television or going through his dad's old stuff and he had lost contact with the world. All the same things were there, all the same machinery was there, but he didn't know how it worked. He didn't know how other people worked and he'd lost any real interest in doing things so that his lonely self just grew and grew, like some exotic hothouse plant. Those kids didn't know how it worked either, but they still wanted to do things and that was why they had come to his house, so that they could see themselves doing something. Andrew can imagine them poking sticks at an animal in a cage, or tipping baby birds out of their nests, and he knows he is nothing to them but bigger, slightly noisier game. When they hurt him, they do it with the same odd, almost tender curiosity about themselves, and what they are capable of, that they would have felt tormenting a kitten. self was smaller than it had become by the time those kids turned up in his father's little study. He seems to remember a different shape, more muted colors, like the colors you catch glimpses of through snow on a winter's day. But most of all, he remembers something smaller and quieter. That would have been before his dad died. Afterward, he'd just sat around the house watching television or going through his dad's old stuff and he had lost contact with the world. All the same things were there, all the same machinery was there, but he didn't know how it worked. He didn't know how other people worked and he'd lost any real interest in doing things so that his lonely self just grew and grew, like some exotic hothouse plant. Those kids didn't know how it worked either, but they still wanted to do things and that was why they had come to his house, so that they could see themselves doing something. Andrew can imagine them poking sticks at an animal in a cage, or tipping baby birds out of their nests, and he knows he is nothing to them but bigger, slightly noisier game. When they hurt him, they do it with the same odd, almost tender curiosity about themselves, and what they are capable of, that they would have felt tormenting a kitten. Look at me, this is what I can do. Look at me, this is what I can do. It's a dangerous thing to get started on, because you don't know where it might end until it's too late. How it will end now, tonight, is easy enough to predict. It's a simple, almost logical progression, a progression from fists and feet to an old gas lighter for the cooker they found in the kitchen, then the knives in the drawers and the razor blades in the bathroom. Andrew had been angry when it all started, but by the end he was just hopelessly sorry about what they were doing. It's a dangerous thing to get started on, because you don't know where it might end until it's too late. How it will end now, tonight, is easy enough to predict. It's a simple, almost logical progression, a progression from fists and feet to an old gas lighter for the cooker they found in the kitchen, then the knives in the drawers and the razor blades in the bathroom. Andrew had been angry when it all started, but by the end he was just hopelessly sorry about what they were doing.

The Leader intervenes in the dogfight, but he's not trying to make the peace. He's face-to-face with Leonard now, the Likeness backing him up, bristling and craning his neck, ready to kill. "How do you know he's not the type?" the Leader says. For a moment, Andrew wants to know what they are talking about, he wants somebody to go back to the beginning and explain why they are all here, and what is going on, but then he's too tired and maybe too scared for that. He just wants this to be over.

"How do you you know he know he is?" is?" Leonard asks. "We haven't even asked him anything. I thought we came here to question him, to find out what he knows about Liam and the others." Leonard asks. "We haven't even asked him anything. I thought we came here to question him, to find out what he knows about Liam and the others."

This is a challenge to the Leader, Andrew can see that, and the boy doesn't like it. "We didn't come here to question anybody," he says. "We came for revenge on this ponce."

"n.o.body told me that," Leonard says.

The Leader does a little incredulous, music-hall turnaround for his troops. "Well," he says. "Did you hear that, boys and girls?" He spreads his hands out. "n.o.body told Leonard Leonard that." that."

The Likeness is loving this. "n.o.body told him what, Jimmy?"

"Why we came here," Jimmy says.

"And why did we come, Jimmy?" the Likeness asks.

"Ain't telling ya," Jimmy says, flaring away from the group with a mad laugh, and they all burst into activity again, rested from their labors, looking around for some new fun, some new trick. The girl goes out and rummages around in the kitchen; a moment later, she runs back in again with the big scissors, the ones with the red handles. She's really excited, jumping up and down almost on tiptoe.

"Let's cut off his pee-pee," she screams.

The Eyebrow snorts. " Pee-pee," he mutters, looking at Andrew like he is in on the joke.

"G.o.d, Eddie," the Leader says. "What is it with you and scissors?" He looks sad now that he has faced down Leonard's challenge, and Andrew thinks the boy is beginning to understand that Leonard is right, that maybe they are in the wrong house, but he can't let it register, in his own mind, or in the minds of the others, that he is wrong. He has waited for so long to do something, and now that all this has started, he has to see it through. Andrew understands that. But he can also see there is another reason for his sadness, and it has to do with Leonard, who is standing apart from the rest, watching, not prepared to do more to help, but no longer willing to be a part of what's happening. It has to do with Leonard, not just because the unexpected challenge is upsetting to the Leader-he is is only a boy, after all- but because he likes Leonard, and now he knows they aren't together anymore, they're on opposite sides, totally separated. Meanwhile, the Likeness has been going through the stuff on the table and he's found a spike; Andrew doesn't know what it's for, maybe for sticking doc.u.ments. He doesn't know where the boy found it; he didn't even know his dad had had one of those. "Let's do his eyes," the Likeness says, grinning savagely. He looks at the Leader. "Let's do his eyes with this." only a boy, after all- but because he likes Leonard, and now he knows they aren't together anymore, they're on opposite sides, totally separated. Meanwhile, the Likeness has been going through the stuff on the table and he's found a spike; Andrew doesn't know what it's for, maybe for sticking doc.u.ments. He doesn't know where the boy found it; he didn't even know his dad had had one of those. "Let's do his eyes," the Likeness says, grinning savagely. He looks at the Leader. "Let's do his eyes with this."

Suddenly Andrew starts screaming at them, shouting and screaming like an animal, like a mad person. At the same time, Leonard starts shouting too. Andrew thinks at first that Leonard is going to try and stop the others from hurting him anymore, then he realizes that his defender is angry with him. him.

"Shut up!" Leonard shouts. He pushes Andrew into the corner again and starts raining blows on him, kicking, first with one leg, then with the other, and shouting all the time. "Shut up! Shut the f.u.c.k up!" He goes on like that for a long time, maybe a minute, and then, with a horror that gradually gives way to grat.i.tude, Andrew begins to understand what is happening. The boy is trying to rescue him. He's inflicting a smaller pain to avoid a greater, he's buying time, or maybe he's trying to make a more merciful end of it all. He keeps kicking and stamping, and n.o.body does anything to stop it, and then Andrew is swimming, his body is moving, rising, buoyed up, as if he had fallen into water and, after descending briefly, had started to rise, borne up on the tide, suddenly light. And all at once he is far away from the room, and he is dreaming, he thinks, drifting through something that feels like sleep, even if it isn't. He's dreaming something that, even as he watches it unfold, doesn't seem to be his his dream at all, but something he remembers from somewhere, a story that belongs, not to someone else so much as to the air, like radio: a vision of a world that anyone might enter if he chose, or if he knew how. In the dream, Andrew is in a large country house, a vast, rambling mansion full of dark, dank-smelling rooms. Every thing is in shadow, there is almost no furniture, the walls are bare, the smell of damp and rot is everywhere. He moves through the house and he smells it, on the staircase, in the hallway, in the huge, still rooms, but he doesn't mind it at all, because he is there for a reason, he has a purpose. He is moving quickly, searching for something, determined, though he is not quite sure what it is he is looking for, and the more he searches, the emptier the house seems, till there is almost nothing, no staircase, no walls, no windows, only a s.p.a.ce that is still the s.p.a.ce inside a house, and a sensation of weightlessness as he goes on and on, searching, searching, a sensation of weightlessness that belongs, not to him but to the house, and then not to the house, but to everything. The whole world, the entire universe, is empty, weightless, without form or substance. Everything is melting away, becoming insubstantial, and the only solid fact that remains is whatever it is he is searching for. And then he finds it, and it's nothing, or it's light, not dream at all, but something he remembers from somewhere, a story that belongs, not to someone else so much as to the air, like radio: a vision of a world that anyone might enter if he chose, or if he knew how. In the dream, Andrew is in a large country house, a vast, rambling mansion full of dark, dank-smelling rooms. Every thing is in shadow, there is almost no furniture, the walls are bare, the smell of damp and rot is everywhere. He moves through the house and he smells it, on the staircase, in the hallway, in the huge, still rooms, but he doesn't mind it at all, because he is there for a reason, he has a purpose. He is moving quickly, searching for something, determined, though he is not quite sure what it is he is looking for, and the more he searches, the emptier the house seems, till there is almost nothing, no staircase, no walls, no windows, only a s.p.a.ce that is still the s.p.a.ce inside a house, and a sensation of weightlessness as he goes on and on, searching, searching, a sensation of weightlessness that belongs, not to him but to the house, and then not to the house, but to everything. The whole world, the entire universe, is empty, weightless, without form or substance. Everything is melting away, becoming insubstantial, and the only solid fact that remains is whatever it is he is searching for. And then he finds it, and it's nothing, or it's light, not a a light but light itself, just a s.h.i.+mmer of light that grows and brightens as it surrounds and then includes him, till he slips entirely into its great, wide whiteness. And it's peaceful, now, peaceful and a little silly, like the games Dad used to play, back when he was well. And he remembers an old rhyme his father used to say, something he had read somewhere, or maybe he made it up himself, because he did that sometimes, he made up silly little stories and rhymes from time to time. It was a stupid rhyme, just pure silliness, but Andrew had liked it for some reason. He couldn't remember all the words, just the ending, and first it was just himself remembering it, then he could hear his father saying it, as if he were there, sitting at the table in the room and they were safe again. Time had gone away and n.o.body could touch them. And he could hear his dad, it was his dad's voice, with a bit of a smile in it, repeating the words: light but light itself, just a s.h.i.+mmer of light that grows and brightens as it surrounds and then includes him, till he slips entirely into its great, wide whiteness. And it's peaceful, now, peaceful and a little silly, like the games Dad used to play, back when he was well. And he remembers an old rhyme his father used to say, something he had read somewhere, or maybe he made it up himself, because he did that sometimes, he made up silly little stories and rhymes from time to time. It was a stupid rhyme, just pure silliness, but Andrew had liked it for some reason. He couldn't remember all the words, just the ending, and first it was just himself remembering it, then he could hear his father saying it, as if he were there, sitting at the table in the room and they were safe again. Time had gone away and n.o.body could touch them. And he could hear his dad, it was his dad's voice, with a bit of a smile in it, repeating the words: The planet turns From day to night And a marvelous planet it is!

And sometimes the Devil Looks over our shoulder But who is it looks over his?

Andrew has to laugh then, because he can just see the old man there, being silly the way he liked to be sometimes, and it was beautiful, because his dad looked fine, like he was when Andrew was a little boy, a happy man with dark hair and blue eyes, not sick, not dead. And Andrew laughed and laughed because his dad could be so funny back then, when he was still well, before he had to go away.

Part 2 - The Fire Sermon

UNDOING.

I COULDN'T STOP KICKING HIM. I SUPPOSE I WANTED HIM TO DIE, SO THE COULDN'T STOP KICKING HIM. I SUPPOSE I WANTED HIM TO DIE, SO THE stupid game couldn't go on anymore, or maybe I was angry with him for being so pathetic. He just lay there, screaming and making weird animal sounds, till I thought I was going to go mad, and I knew Jimmy and his crew would never let him go now. Tone was dancing around with some kind of spike in his hand, talking about sticking the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's eyes and Rivers was lying on the floor, wailing. So I couldn't take it anymore. I just laid into him. It was all red, like you hear people say. I saw red. That was how it was. I saw red and I couldn't see anything else, though I knew I was moving and kicking him, using the wall to balance myself and keep him in focus without really noticing it, just using the walls the way a boxer uses the ropes in a corner, when he's got the guy hemmed in and doesn't want him to escape. I could feel myself breathing, gasping for air like a freestyle swimmer. I was really aware of that, which was odd to me, because I'd been in fights and things at school and I didn't remember anything about breathing. This was different, though. I don't know how long it lasted, but when I stopped kicking him I felt sick to my stomach and totally exhausted. I didn't really register much for a minute, I just reeled away from him, feeling dizzy, but I think he was still moving when I stopped. Then I came out of the redness and saw the others, all of them standing together in the middle of the room, watching me. They looked shocked-or maybe not shocked, but bemused, a bit bewildered, as if they thought it was me who had gone too far, and not them. There was blood all over the place. There was blood on me, too, even on my hands and face, and I felt them watching me like they were watching an animal that had just got loose from its pen. I think they were scared, too. All but Jimmy. Jimmy wasn't scared, he was just puzzled. stupid game couldn't go on anymore, or maybe I was angry with him for being so pathetic. He just lay there, screaming and making weird animal sounds, till I thought I was going to go mad, and I knew Jimmy and his crew would never let him go now. Tone was dancing around with some kind of spike in his hand, talking about sticking the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's eyes and Rivers was lying on the floor, wailing. So I couldn't take it anymore. I just laid into him. It was all red, like you hear people say. I saw red. That was how it was. I saw red and I couldn't see anything else, though I knew I was moving and kicking him, using the wall to balance myself and keep him in focus without really noticing it, just using the walls the way a boxer uses the ropes in a corner, when he's got the guy hemmed in and doesn't want him to escape. I could feel myself breathing, gasping for air like a freestyle swimmer. I was really aware of that, which was odd to me, because I'd been in fights and things at school and I didn't remember anything about breathing. This was different, though. I don't know how long it lasted, but when I stopped kicking him I felt sick to my stomach and totally exhausted. I didn't really register much for a minute, I just reeled away from him, feeling dizzy, but I think he was still moving when I stopped. Then I came out of the redness and saw the others, all of them standing together in the middle of the room, watching me. They looked shocked-or maybe not shocked, but bemused, a bit bewildered, as if they thought it was me who had gone too far, and not them. There was blood all over the place. There was blood on me, too, even on my hands and face, and I felt them watching me like they were watching an animal that had just got loose from its pen. I think they were scared, too. All but Jimmy. Jimmy wasn't scared, he was just puzzled.