Rollback...

This story first appeared on Alternate Species in 2001 and was also published in the Alternate Species Print Magazine.

Hneftafl
by Dan Radlett

Part Three of Three

"Where's that coffee?" Colin said, shivering and rubbing his hands briskly together. It was probably all an act, and it ceased as he caught her expression. Jenny sat and watched as a flicker of concern appeared in his face, followed just too late by the look she assumed he thought appropriate. He came no nearer, perhaps guessing that distance was required.

"What's wrong?" He asked, and she saw him scanning for some explanation. She let him see the card held open in her fingers, let her hands rest openly on the table.

"'Here on time, in on time'," she read, with feigned pleasantness, finishing dryly, "'Ten quid'."

Colin tore off a strip of kitchen roll, and wiped his hands with it.

"Do you always read other people's mail?" he enquired, quietly. Looking down at the paper getting filthy in his palms. "Can I read your diary now, or rifle through your bag?"

Half smiling, Jenny closed the card, and laid it on the table.

"Maybe later." She tapped the printed picture lightly, refusing to be drawn.

"Tell me what it means."

"No." He dropped the paper onto the nearest surface, then leaned against the wall, folding his arms deliberately across his chest. "It's a message I wrote to someone else. I won't explain it to you. I don't have to."

"All right." Slowly, she nodded. She stopped tapping, and opened the card again. "Tell me it's nothing to do with me."

Colin shrugged, unconcerned.

"It's nothing to do with you," he said, flatly.

Jenny nodded once or twice more, then closed her eyes, and let her head loll back.

"I think I know the rules, now." She sighed a heavy sigh, sliding her hands into her jeans pockets. She was close to tears again, but didn't want to let him see. Frowning, she moved her lips, without words, as she composed the next question. "Is the message that you wrote to Mark making reference to the fact that you have slept ..." She pulled one hand from her pocket, and signalled revision with a raised finger. "That you have..." Again, she frowned. "Fucked me." She let her hand fall to the table, and her head came up, her eyes open now.

Colin stared back at her. She waited.

"And that." She raised her hand to emphasise what followed. "That by so doing, you have won your bet?"

This time, she laid her hand flat on the table, fingers spread. She didn't look at him, but studied her fingernails.

"Yes."

There was no emotion in his voice.

"Bastard!" she muttered.

"Was that another question?" Colin said. "It wasn't clear."

"You fucked me for a bet." Each word was spoken carefully, as she ignored him, scratching at the table with her painted nails.

"Not entirely." He cut across her. "You really shouldn't ask any more. It's not necessary."

"Why else?" she said. Colin sighed, and slapped his open hands together, once.

"Because it was enjoyable, as I thought it would be." He was looking down at his shoes. He frowned, pointedly. "And as I recall, you invited me." His puzzlement seemed a pretence. Jenny stopped scratching, and glared at him.

"Did that matter?"

"Hypothetical," he said, quickly. "I don't need to answer that."

"We're not in court," she said.

"Feels like it."

He pushed himself upright, and stepped towards her, his arms spread in supplication. "Look, Jenny--"

"Stay away!" she barked.

He paused, then shrugged, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"You weren't asleep, you weren't tied down, for God's sake, the clothes weren't torn from your back " Again, he shrugged, and shook his head, as if lost for words. "No one forced you!" He actually laughed.

"Didn't they?" she said, sitting up, clasping both her hands now in front of her. She looked through her thumbs, as if through a gunsight, at his groin. " Wasn't it all planned? This isolated place. Just you and me. You knew we'd be alone, didn't you?" She stared at him again, challenged him.

"Some of it was fortuitous," he said, easily. "Mark and Laura were meant to come. But he's already porking her. You'd have been just as alone, really."

Jenny looked down, shoulders sagging. She had to concede that much.

"I didn't know," she said, then chastised herself for making the explanation. "It doesn't make any difference!" Outrage took over from embarrassment. " Everything you did or said was calculated to get me into bed. And you knew it wasn't fair."

"Is it ever?" Colin said, dryly. He smiled when she couldn't answer.

('Because she doesn't know,' I hissed at him, bitterly. 'That was your major string on her, and you used it, pulled it, played it, tied it round her, just as you tied me and Gretnal!')

"I never pretended," he went on. "I played the game, I'll admit that much. but so did you, if you're true to yourself. God knows, if Mark and Laura do ever get here, you listen to the bullshit flying. I never did that. I never said I loved you, never even said I cared, and certainly never promised anything."

He had taken a step closer, Jenny noticed, but she didn't try to stop him. She didn't even look at him, couldn't do so. He sat down across the table from her, studied her, and then leaned forward, his hands close to hers. Now he spoke more softly.

"And you were the same. Admit it. You didn't love me, don't pretend you did. You let it happen, and Christ knows that's good. Don't hate me. So I've been stupid, that doesn't mean we have to end it. Maybe something more will come. But we enjoyed fucking each other, and we still can. We can be honest about it. That's more than many another."

His fingers opened, and he tried to take her hands. In recognition of how near the truth it was, she almost let him.

(And I almost wept, seeing that glint in his eyes, hearing his unspoken cry of triumph as his thumbs pressed lightly on her knuckles.)

But as she felt his touch, Jenny snatched her hands away, and held them tightly against her chest. She was trembling, partly with anger, partly with the fight against her urge to cry. She stared steadily at him, her head slightly bowed, but steady.

"I. Do. Not. Believe," she said, her voice faltering between shallow breaths. "That your half truths, or playing. With the truth. Is less. Than lying." She scratched at the skin of her right hand with the nails of her left. "I let you I touch me!" Her disbelief put a whine into her voice. She buried her chin in her chest, still holding back tears. She sucked in air, and looked at him again.

"I . I . Was scared. You knew that. And you used it!" She spat the last few words. "I. Did not know..." She shook her head, and then closed her eyes. "I. Trusted you. What I let you do..." Again, she shook her head, in an agony of remembrance. "What I did, for Christ's sake, I did. Because I trusted you. If you had said, just once. Said, that you wanted to have. Sex with me." She paused. A tear did flow. She supposed it didn't matter, now. "I could have made. A sane decision. That might have been that I didn't mind. That not minding was enough. It probably would have been."

She wiped the tear away, and the one that followed.

"But I trusted that. You were. The same as me. Your hand was being forced by circumstance. That you too were afraid. Too proud to lie at loving me. Too afraid to say that less than love's enough. You were never in that position. You knew all the time. Just what you wanted. And you worked with a single mind to draw me to that! You pretended to give me a choice. And made sure there was none. We didn't arrive at the same moment. You were always there. You created it."

She took a deep breath.

"When you didn't talk to me, I thought it was the absence of lies again. It wasn't. It was the withholding of truth. And there is a difference."

A second breath.

"When I kissed you, and held you, it wasn't because I loved you. It was to let you know I liked what you were doing. When you kissed me, and stroked me, it was because you liked the taste and touch. You were my guest. I was your victim. There is a difference."

A third breath.

"You may just as well have tied me down, because that's what you did, with your deceit. And making me like it is the same as pissing on me."

Colin sat back, and said nothing. Jenny sat back, her eyes red, cheeks flushed, breathing deeply. Colin rose, and while she drowned in emptiness, put the kettle back on the stove. He stood, she sat, and for quite a while there was only the sound of the hissing kettle, him breathing, and her sniffing back her tears.

"I'm going," she said, standing.

"The snow's here," Colin said.

"Perhaps I'll die." She murmured the words, fastening her anorak.

"Jenny..." He reached out for her.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed.

He held back, flexing his fingers.

"I'm going." She turned to walk away.

"Oh, are you!" he yelled.

Anywhere in two strides, the kitchen door slamming shut in her face, the handle torn from her fingers. The kitchen rattled, and his words echoed, at least inside her head. Then there was a moment's silence.

#

"Is she alive?"

Gathalwyn's voice. I hoped for the answer that I was dead, that this was just the agony of death. My right eye was opened, and I saw the Roman's face looking down at me, and Gathalwyn standing behind him. I knew then I was alive, that I had not escaped him yet.

#

The kettle whistled. He took his hand from the door. She opened it quickly, but he slammed it shut again, as fiercely as before. She was seeing, she realised, a pure emotion genuinely expressed on his face. Sheer fury. Anger burning in his eyes, a bitterness in the twitching of his thin lips.

"Sit down," he ordered her, slowly, contemptuously.

She hesitated, trembling, but then complied. At least it would put a distance between them. Not much, and certainly not enough, but a little.

(Are you laughing now? she asked me, silently, as she pulled back the wooden chair, scraping it on the tiled floor. She sat, her gaze fixed on him, and I laid my hands on her shoulders. 'There is nothing funny,' I told her. 'I am not laughing.')

For a while, he stood with his hand firmly against the door, glaring at her. The fingers of his other hand still flexed, never quite making a fist.

Then, quite suddenly, he gained control, hid his rage. He took his hand from the door and ran his fingers through his dark hair. His other hand's movements remained unchecked, the barely hidden threat demanding her continued subordination.

"And I'll make coffee," he said, exhaling heavily, trying desperately to disguise the tone of a few seconds earlier. He had to leave the door to cross to the stove, but Jenny drew no hope from that. He was too quick, too strong, The only relief she felt was that the piercing shriek of escaping steam ceased, abruptly, and the kettle became like the room, boiling but contained. Then he was back between her and the door, filling the mugs.

"I can't let you be stupid." He was laughing, nervously. "You'd freeze to death out there. A daft end to a daft argument. And we have to talk." He put her mug on a saucer, and then into her hand. "Mustn't stain the table."

The light from the window shimmered on the black, liquid surface. He waited a moment, perhaps to be thanked, then returned to stand against the wall as he'd been at the start of their conversation. She watched him light a cigarette, and blow a small cloud of smoke into the room.

"Don't mind, do you?" he said, gesturing with the burning fag between his fingers, then took another drag and made to tap ash onto the floor. "I'm not trying to keep you here against your will," he said, voice calm, gentle even. He'd put his mug on the nearby surface, and now he reached out and turned it so the handle pointed towards him. "But I have a duty, don't you agree? To make sure you come to no harm." He sighed, heavily. "And if we are going to be stuck with each other. For a few hours, anyway, maybe for days. I think it's necessary for you to understand me. Properly."

He laughed.

"I'm not saying you've got me wrong." Again, he shrugged. "A bit blunt, perhaps, but I can see the sense in what you say. That makes it even more important that we don't waste this understanding we have. We do know each other very well." He gestured again with the cigarette. "Drink your coffee."

She ignored him, staring down at the toes of her shoes. She could smell the smoke he was blowing as he continued.

"Perhaps you're right. I wasn't honest enough with you last night. I should have been more straightforward. Oh, we both know the bet was daft. It's not the point, though, is it?"

No," she agreed, softly. "It's not."

"The real point, as you say, is to do with truth. I did understand that, Jen. Trouble is, women seem to have great difficulty in saying what they want. Really want. That's where you're different. You've told me now exactly what you expect. I'm sorry that I've hurt you. Disappointed you. It won't happen again." He tapped more ash onto the floor. "If you want me to be more honest, I will be. I've no difficulty with that. With respect, it's ones like you who seem to find honesty difficult. But I can be dead straight, brutally honest with you, now, if that's what you want. I promise. And somehow we'll get along."

From the corner of her eye, she watched the ash drift gently to the floor. She heard him sigh, and felt her fingers beginning to clench tightly into fists.

"I'd like to put last night behind us. Or at least this morning. I thought last night was great. There's no reason why we shouldn't keep happy for a while. But I'll go along with what you want, understand?"

"Yes." She looked up at him, and smiled, thinly. "I understand."

He smiled back at her, and nodded.

"Right, then," he said. "I know you're still angry with me. And I don't want you to rush into saying or doing anything. So I'll go tidy up the car, and leave you by yourself a while. Then maybe we can talk more."

"I think that's a good idea," she said.

His look just betrayed his uncertainty. But then he left her, closing the door gently behind him. She swallowed, and looked out of the window at the heavy snow now blowing in across the landscape.

Then she was looking into the eyes of the girl in the drab grey dress. Blue eyes, impassive, thin lips slightly bitten, the girl seemed to be considering her with as much restraint as Colin had. Her braided hair was laid across her shoulder, and stroked by her delicate fingers as one might stroke a cat.

"Gathalwyn's learned to lie," she said, softly. "That's all."

"Colin," Jenny corrected her, automatically. She was trembling with fear, though not of the apparition. She needed company, and comfort. Even if it was madness, this girl offered both. "And he isn't lying. I know the rules."

#

"Is she alive?" Gathalwyn repeated, irritated. I could see many things in the Roman's face. Revulsion at the sight of me, my body smouldering beneath his gaze. Sadness was there, too, and then another regret in his eyes.

"She lives," he said, gently, for he could not hide it. That's what I sensed. He stood, and turned to his master. "Though she's as good as dead. She won't last the hour."

"Liar." The word was a sneer.

The Roman looked down at me again, and I saw my own flesh. One side burned, my left hand black and smoking, my right hand, perversely, seemingly untouched. My body was full of pain. Only one eye would open, the other seemed sealed shut. I lay on a makeshift litter, and could see Gathalwyn and the Roman, and another standing with a torch to shed some light. Some others standing at Gathalwyn's side.

"Two hours, then," the Roman said, with controlled anger.

"Still you lie."

Gathalwyn looked down at me. I could see the rage in his eyes, and knew that I'd succeeded in denying him his passion.

"So she's still alive. That's her mistake. She'll last a day, at least." His gaze pierced through my melted skin into my soul. "But even an hour, even half of one, even a minute will be enough! She still breathes. She still feels!"

He kicked me, and I screamed. The Roman placed a hand on Gathalwyn which he knocked aside angrily, his gaze never leaving me.

"She feels!" There was triumph in his voice. "And that's sufficient."

"What use is she to you?" the Roman demanded.

"Don't ever question!" Gathalwyn yelled. His hand hovered over the hilt of his dagger, then turned into a fist, with a single finger which pointed down at me. "She challenges!" He was trembling. Then he spoke to me. "You challenge! You think you are beyond my will--"

"My Lord--" This further intercession earned the Roman a blow.

"Silence!"

The Roman nursed his mouth. I saw blood on his hand. Gathalwyn was right, I was laughing at him, seeing this. Perhaps he saw my contempt even through my disfigurement. He knelt beside me, and pressed his fingers into my blistered, melted skin.

"You want to burn?" He spoke ominously. "You want to feel heat piercing you? Whatever else you think I cannot do, that..." He pressed my cheek, and I cried out with pain. "That I can arrange." He was nodding.

However long it takes, I thought, however long, Gathalwyn, you will feel me likewise.

"That I promised you," he said, grinning. "And that much I shall give you. And when you scream, and writhe, do not deceive yourself that I shall not derive an equal " He pinched again, and I moaned more loudly. "Equal! Pleasure as from any other thing I may have planned."

He stood, still looking angrily down at me. Oh, the things I saw in him. Rage, yes, but also excitement, anticipation. He, too, had schemes in the alternative. Turning to the others, he shouted.

"Let every man " The shout turned to a scream. "Let every man place his sword into the fire till its blade glows red and the hilt sears his hand. She will feel them! Every one!" He stepped towards them, then half-staggered. "Every one'" He was screaming, clutching his head. "Every one!"

He would have fallen, then, had not the Roman caught him. Gathalwyn's fingers tore at his own hair, and he seemed to be fighting the support the other offered him. Then, he became resigned, accepted it, and screamed loudly of his rage and agony, one feeding the other.

Pity him? It was not enough. Ten times would not be enough. He clutched the Roman's shoulder, turned his tortured face to him. I saw his cheeks twitching, his eyeballs rolling up into his head.

"Do it!" he hissed, spittle spraying from his lips. "Do it all, if I cannot!"

"Take him," the Roman commanded, and Gathalwyn was carried away, supported by his servants.

"I command!" he was screaming. "I command you all!"

I feared the pain of the slightest movement too much to say anything. That I'd lived long enough to see that was a blessing, of a kind. For a while, his men, his officers, if you could call them such, seemed as helpless as I. Not burned, not pained, not dying, but helpless. And lost. Whatever happened, I was not lost.

"Well, sir?" one said to the Roman. "What shall we do?"

"Why, is he mad, then?" the Roman asked, contemptuously. "Is he sick? Was he sick before? Did you not enjoy his command, then?"

They stood silent, confused rather than ashamed, too stupid to appreciate his subtlety. He glanced down at me, then stared back at them, spitting his blood and a piece of tooth into the soil.

"Then do as he said. Go lay your swords in the fire. Let her feel your manhood." He spat again. "Or just go."

They went, save one, whom the Roman seized by the arm. A prisoner, he stared with frightened eyes, not knowing whether to go or stay, and so remained a captive. The sound of shouted orders filled the night. Let this pass, I thought, let this pass swiftly. How much more pain could there be? Don't let me know too long.

"Do you approve of this?" the Roman whispered. "Quick, man, answer!"

"No, sir," said his prisoner, his voice trembling with indecision. The Roman threw his arm back at him, and I saw the other nurse it, tenderly.

"Then two horses. Quickly. Two more if you're coming. And as much as you can grab discreetly. I'll end this now." They both paused, seeming frozen for a second. "Well go!"

His shout sent the other man running into the night. Then, he knelt beside me, and stroked the tattered remnants of my hair. He buried his revulsion, and I felt glad I could not see what he did. He spoke to me in a whisper.

"I did not mean to give you hope. I'll need to ride both day and night. One horse at least can rest unridden."

I could see he wanted to touch me, but could see nowhere safe to do so, save my unburnt hand. He held it tight, glancing quickly around.

"You'd never make it." Without any trace of humour he added, "Warrior though you are. You won't let yourself succumb, though, you are too strong for that. They will have their fill. I'll spare you that."

He pulled his sword. I saw its edge glint in the light.

"Did..." I struggled to speak. "Did...You...?"

"I stood and watched and let it happen."

It was enough to condemn him, but for now enough to forgive. With all my strength I squeezed the hand that clutched mine, and raised my chin to take the blade.

#

The drawer rattled as she pulled it open, and still more as she rifled through the assortment of cutlery within. Forks, spoons, knives, none with a pair, collected over years and waiting. She pulled out a knife, edge serrated and embossed 'Stainless Steel Sheffield Finest Quality'. She held it in her hand and saw her eyes reflected in its surface.

"You'll need a firmer blade than that," the ghost observed.

Jenny threw the knife down into the sink, and returned to the drawer. Again the rifling and clattering as utensils spilled to the floor. Her fingers found a wooden handle towards the back, curled round it, and lifted it to the light. An edge nine inches long, honed sharp and curving to a point that almost pierced the finger pressed against it.

"Satisfied?" Jenny said, bitterly. She looked up at the girl for some reaction, saw only blue eyes staring back at her.

"A steady hand." She was calm. "Under the ribs is best, but don't try that. You've not the skill."

Jenny slammed the drawer shut and turned away.

The ghost continued.

"Not the centre. To the left or to the right, and hold the blade flat." Jenny walked away, the handle tight in one hand, blade balanced on the palm of the other. "Use all your weight." The ghost was following. "And pull it out, don't leave it in."

"Shut up!" Jenny cried, turning on her heels to face her. "I know! All right? I know!"

"No, you don't. You must keep a clear head and you must understand."

Jenny collapsed into one of the chairs and pressed her face to her palm. Her other hand still gripped the knife, which rested across her knees.

"Two blows, no more," the ghost said. Jenny closed her eyes, wanting to hear and not to hear of this act of butchery. "He won't fall in one. Not at your hands." Jenny's fingers slid into her hair, and her attention focused on the clean edge of the blade, as the girl went on. "With the first, you will surprise him. That will give you opportunity for the second. But that must be the last! And you must be clear, or else Gathalwyn will have you anyway."

"Colin," Jenny corrected again, in a whisper. The girl knelt beside her. Jenny felt fingers cold upon her hand.

"He will slaughter you," the girl said, with certainty. "If that's all that's left to him. Before he dies himself."

She lowered her head, as if further explanation were hopeless.

Jenny wrapped both hands around the rosewood knife handle, and let it dangle between her fingers, swinging gently like a pendulum.

"I will kill him," she stated, quietly.

"Be sure of it, or else don't try."

"What else can I do? He's right about the snow. Let him?" She watched the knife point sway. "Better than rape, and at least I'd live." She looked up at the girl. "What do you think of that? No trial, no questions. Just a bad time to put behind me. Fuck my honour. Literally."

Embarrassed, the girl looked down, took her hands away. She stood, and moved to put some distance between her and Jenny.

"Honour becomes important when it's all that's left. And life was not an option. Even then, there were more essential things. But I would not condemn you. What will you do, though, when he comes through the door?"

"Kill him." It was a whisper. "I'm dead already."

"That won't last. What will you do?"

"Kill him," Jenny said, simply, then with increasing loudness. "Kill him, kill him, kill him! How many times do you want to hear it?"

"And will that be enough?"

Jenny looked down at the knife, dangling.

"You are too merciful," said the girl, stroking Jenny's hair like a sister.

#

The wind dropped suddenly, and all was very still, just a few flecks of white playing on the currents. Then he saw her, walking through the snow, slowly, gracefully. Only a grey dress swaying with each step, and a scarf over her head, held tight under her chin. She was coming towards him, smiling at him, her eyes clear blue, sparkling it seemed as she drew closer. Her cheeks pale. He waited, puzzled, intrigued, entranced by her.

"Who are you?" he said, as she came nearer still. She smiled more widely, her lips a subtle pink.

"Helspath."

She pulled back the scarf, revealing braided blonde hair, appropriate to this timeless place, the scarf dropping as a shawl around her shoulders.

"You're the girl that Jenny saw." He saw her nod, shyly. "And that's her headscarf. Are you living here?"

"You could say that," the girl replied, her voice light, with a slight, unplaceable accent.

"Does the old man know?"

"I doubt it." She smiled.

He was aware of just how weird this was, but felt no fear. How could he be afraid of this girl, slight as she was, inches shorter than himself? Pretty. Smiling. And she'd come to him.

"You must be cold. Have you been here all along?"

"I've been watching you, Gathalwyn." She reached out to touch him. "I knew you'd be here."

"Colin." Even as he corrected her, he was thinking, this must be a dream. He took her fingers from his face, found he was holding her hand, found that she didn't mind. "You are cold." He squeezed her tiny palm.

"Very," came her sweet reply. He ever so lightly stroked her hair.

"What brings you here?"

"I heard you argue," she said, and laughed. "I thought you'd like company. Someone's touch. My touch."

"You are strange," he said, laughing, confused. "You..." The rest of his words drifted into nothingness, seeming unnecessary. This was how it should be, he thought. This is what nature cries out for. Simplicity.

"Jenny doesn't understand," he said. How easy to speak to a dream.

"I understand." She raised his hand to kiss his fingers. "Shall we go inside?"

"No," he said, glancing away, releasing her. "She's there. She wouldn't understand this, either. Neither do I."

"What is there to comprehend?" she said, and he felt her touch on his arm. " You and I. A time. A place."

Colin's heart raced.

He looked at her, and she nodded, gently, smiling still, her blue eyes holding such mysteries. He wanted to explore. Why was it so hard to accept that he'd found that other he'd always known was waiting? Why not now? Why not her? She had seen him, known him, come to him, as he had known some day she surely would.

"No time, no place." She was caressing his arm. "You want me, and believe well that I want you."

"That's enough." He'd meant it as rejection, but when the words came out they were acceptance. "Why not in the car?"

He thought he saw her blush. He thought he saw something, hidden deep down beneath her expression. Something flickering in her cheeks.

"Your choice," she said, and stepped away from him, pulling the scarf from her shoulders, to lay it across his half outstretched arms.

She kept her eyes on him, and crossed her arms to pull off the dress that covered her. She was naked underneath, her body perfect, exquisite to him. If this is a dream, he thought. But no dream, her eyes, firm but shy, her smile thin and knowing told him. The dress fell from her hands, silently onto the snow beside her.

"You'll catch your death." He opened the car's rear door.

She nodded, once, getting in as he removed his overcoat, and left it with the scarf on the car roof. Excitement betrayed reason as he looked inside at the girl lying there, waiting for him. He clambered in, the car jerking, its suspension groaning, mock leather upholstery squeaking. None of the silent grace of her entry. He knelt awkwardly between her feet, and pulled the car door shut. He leaned forward, over her, towards her waiting arms, the delicate fingers that undid his shirt. He started at the cold touch of her hands on his shoulders, but then lay to feel her smooth, cool flesh against his own.

"We've been patient so long, Gathalwyn," she whispered, stroking his arm with one hand.

"Colin." He laughed. As if it mattered. He'd be anyone.

He stroked her hair, and felt her frozen fingers slide down him. Seeing her thin lips part, he closed his eyes, and kissed her. There was passion in her mouth. A burning passion. Burning, burning, burning. Burning! He opened his eyes, and saw her skin melt beneath him. Bubbling, blistering, blackening flesh, the stench of frazzled hair. Her lips held him. He felt the fire in her touch.

"No!" he screamed, but she held him close, roasting beneath him, scorching him. Her hands hot as flames, the heat from her, all from her, burning him. The pain, the pain of it. Somewhere in that blackening face he saw a smile, even as the lips shrivelled and the skin smoked. He tried to shake free, break away, but couldn't.

"Feel it!" the burning body rasped, hissed at him. "Feel the pain, Gathalwyn ."

"No!" Her grip on him was strong. "Jesus Christ!"

"Do I inflame your passion?" she enquired, scornfully. "Is this not what you wanted?"

The car was filling with acrid smoke. He saw the PVC melt, and then ignite, as his own body burned.

"Even after death you taunted me. Tied me in a cow skin. Threw me in a river where I would never rot!" Blackened wizened bones clutched and scorched him. " Never perish! Feel it, feel the burning love that I have held a thousand years and more. Feel it for the death of my sister!"

Screaming, fighting, he broke away, knelt up. Small fires all around him growing bigger. He kicked at the door, slapped at the flames on his arms. The grotesque grabbed at him, his cotton shirt igniting at the touch of the black talons that had been her fingers, his flesh melting at the contact. He heard her laughter above his screams, almost separate from the thing that held him. Plastic, like napalm, dripped and stuck to him. He pressed against the glass and screamed still more loudly as his palms and fingers scorched and seared. Still she clawed at him, kissed him with her repulsive lips, burnt him.

"For my death," she rasped. "But most of all, for what you are."

The car was filled with flames and smoke, and he cried and choked as he tore at the door and at her. Roasting alive. She laughed louder, louder still as he screamed in fear and agony. Then she laughed loudest of all as the door flew open, and the car exploded in a fireball.

Jenny watched, and I watched with her, through every moment of his torment.

She found him where the fire had flung him, burned, blackened, bleeding, crawling. He saw her, and struggled, clawed his way to her feet. Begging her, pleading with her, he edged closer. She simply watched, and waited, as he had, in his own way. I let the snows return to cover him, but she brushed it clear as if it held and hid another breath. The knife lay, forgotten, some way off. I had killed him and she had his death.

Then they came, another carriage pressing through the snow. A man, a woman, lanterns in their hands, coming on her kneeling by his corpse. It seemed as if she barely noticed them, but simply stared and brushed snow from the hairless mound that had been his head. A stifled cry as their light played across him. Then the man started asking her, over and over, what happened, what happened? He ended almost shouting at her, shaking her, restrained only by the other woman. Then Jenny looked up at him. Eyes clear, almost impassive, until she spoke.

"Don't you know?" she said, with a deep bitterness.

I saw a semblance of understanding flicker on his face. Then he glanced away, unwilling to recognise it, unable to hold her stare. Jenny looked down again, into the lifeless eyes, at the remains of lips that had last attempted 'please' .

"Is it over?" she said, shaking now as she felt the chill. "Is he dead?"

The woman shot her man a look, and he nodded. She squatted beside Jenny, took off one glove and wrapped her arm around her. I wondered, too. Was it over? Was he at last the one who'd died, been used and died inside and out? I waited for the gods to move the other's lips, and answer truthfully.

"Yes," the woman said. "He's gone."

Jenny's eyes closed for the longest time in many hours, and she shook and cried at comfort's touch. In part, perhaps, even for him. I could not blame her. I would have wept for many things, and maybe will, in time. For all that I'd avenged but couldn't change. For my sister. Perhaps, if purged of all other causes, perhaps even a tear for him. Or if, just once, I hear him sob and cry for me.

Copyright 2001 Dan Radlett