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box.
    What?’
    What did you buy her?’
    ‘It’s a surprise,’ Bill said.
    Ivy and Janice’s eagerness to undo the ribbon and find out what the box contained was matched by Bill’s; however, with Bill, eagerness was tempered by doubt, worry and deep-seated fear. Someone had put the present in one of the food bags when he’d left the market to find a cab. Of that he was certain. Who that someone was also presented no great challenge to his deductive powers. It had to be Sideburns. But why?
    ‘Oh, Daddy!’ Ivy cried, producing a beautiful hand-painted purse from a nest of tissue. ‘Oh, Daddy, I love you, love you!’
    She flung her arms around Bill’s neck and squeezed him until he shouted with laughter, ‘Okay, okay, help, please, somebody!’
    ‘But really, Daddy, it’s perfect.’
    Ivy kissed Bill once again, then turned to study her gift.
    Similar in style to the, Fragonards inset in their living-room ceiling, the illustration on the pale-blue satin purse featured a lovely French courtesan sitting on a flower-garlanded swing being pushed by a dashing swain. It was lush, excessive, and utterly romantic. Ivy hugged it to her breast.
    ‘How did you know I always wanted it, Daddy?’
    ‘I guessed,’ Bill said, the smile slowly fading from his face.
    Now it was the demon’s head - blunt snout, sunken eyes, stubby horns, lascivious serpent’s tongue, a disgusting baroque horror leering down at Bill from the complex plasterwork of the ceiling plaque in the centre of their bedroom. Small, circular, ancient, the plaque had once served as centre base for a light fixture. A small chandelier, perhaps. Probably gas, from the age of the building, Bill thought, lying in bed, watching the constantly changing patterns appear, then recede, then alter into new forms all at the whim of his imagination. Forcing his eyes to shift focus slightly, Bill made the demon dissolve into shapeless fragments and, with a bit of concentration, brought back the soft, flowing, graceful lines of the woman running. She, too, was an old friend like the demon, and the man playing cards, and the ship’s prow slicing through a sea in turmoil. All old friends, companions of the nights when Bill couldn’t sleep.
    It was after three, according to the luminous dial on the clock-radio. Janice’s soft, rhythmic breathing beside him and the gentle whir of something electrical downstairs were the only sounds to be heard at this early hour.
    At least she can sleep, Bill thought, feeling the warmth of her leg against his. The sleep of innocence. Of trust and faith and belief in the perfect order and certainty of their lives. He had not told Janice about Sideburns because he didn’t want to shatter that belief. As long as Bill thought himself the target, the focal point of Sideburns’ interest, why on earth drag Janice into it, especially since he hadn’t the foggiest idea what the whole thing was about?
    But now - with the coming of the gift - Bill knew that all his wishful thinking, his carefully organized conjectures and rationalizations would have to be drastically revised since it was obvious now that he was not Sideburns’ exclusive target. The gift had thrust its way beyond Bill’s life into the very centre of his family’s lives. Into the very heart of his home.
    Sideburns knew a great deal about them. Knew of Ivy’s illness. Knew just the thing that would please her. Knew more than Bill did, in fact.
    What the hell’s going on here anyway?’ he uttered aloud.
    Janice stirred in her sleep, then turned over and snuggled into his side. Bill shut his eyes. Remained perfectly still.
    What was it? Ivy had asked. ‘How did you know I always wanted it, Daddy?’ The question now on Bill’s mind was: ‘How did he know?’
    Bill drifted into sleep gradually, fearfully, pausing on the edge of a deep jungle, reluctantly being drawn into its cloying fastness, its myriad colour grades, its menacing refuge for fang and claw. Great coco palms reared