elaborate system of sliding fragments, she saw (or again, seemed to see) movement. Only now did she realize that she'd been holding her breath since this display began, and was beginning to become light-headed. She tried to empty her lungs of the stale air, and take a draught of fresh, but her body would not obey this simple instruction.
Somewhere in her innards a tic of panic began. The hocus-pocus had stopped now, leaving one part of her admiring quite dispassionately the tinkling music that was coming from the wall, the other part fighting the fear that rose in her throat step by step.
Again, she tried to take a breath, but it was as if her body had died, and she was staring out of it, unable now to breathe or blink or swallow.
The spectacle of the unfolding wall had now ceased entirely, and she saw something flicker across the brick, ragged enough to be shadow but too substantial.
It was human, she saw, or had been. But the body had been ripped apart and sewn together again with most of its pieces either missing or twisted and blackened as if in a furnace. There was an eye, gleaming at her, and the ladder of a spine, the vertebrae stripped of muscle, a few unrecognizable fragments of anatomy. That was it. That such a thing might live beggared reason-what little flesh it owned was hopelessly corrupted. Yet live it did. Its eye, despite the rot it was rooted in, scanned her every inch, up and down.
She felt no fear in its presence. This thing was weaker than her by far. It moved a little in its cell, looking for some modicum of comfort. But there was none to be had, not for a creature that wore its frayed nerves on its bleeding sleeve. Every place it might lay its body brought pain: this she knew indisputably. She pitied it. And with pity came release. Her body expelled dead air, and sucked in living. Her
oxygen-starved brain reeled.
Even as she did so it spoke, a hole opening up in the flayed ball of the monster's head and issued a single, weightless word. The word was: "Julia."
2
Kirsty put down her glass, and tried to stand up.
"Where are you going?" Neville asked
"Where do you think?" she replied, consciously trying to prevent the words from slurring.
"Do you need any help?" Rory inquired. The alcohol made his lids lazy, and his grin lazier still.
"I am house-trained," she replied, the riposte greeted with laughter all around. She was pleased with herself; off-the-cuff wit was not her forte. She stumbled to the door.
"It's the last room on the right at the end of the landing," Rory informed her.
"I know," she said, and stepped out into the hall.
She didn't usually enjoy the sensation of drunkenness, but tonight she was reveling in it.
She felt loose-limbed and light-hearted. She might well regret this tomorrow, but tomorrow would have to take care of itself. For tonight, she was flying.
She found her way to the bathroom, and relieved her aching bladder, then splashed some water onto her face. That done, she began her return journey.
She had taken three steps along the landing when she realized that somebody had put out the landing light while she was in the bathroom, and that same somebody was now standing a few yards away from her. She stopped.
"Hello?" she said. Had the cat breeder followed her upstairs, in the hope of proving he wasn't spayed?
"Is that you?" she asked, only dimly aware that this was a singularly fruitless line of inquiry.
There was no reply, and she became a little uneasy.
"Come on," she said, attempting a jocular manner that she hoped masked her anxiety, "who is it?"
"Me," said Julia. Her voice was odd. Throaty, perhaps tearful.
"Are you all right?" Kirsty asked her. She wished she could see Julia's face.
"Yes," came the reply. "Why shouldn't I be?" Within the space of those five words the actress in Julia seized control. The voice cleared, the tone lightened.
"I'm just tired..." she went on. "It sounds like you're having a good time down there."
"Are we keeping you
Somewhere in her innards a tic of panic began. The hocus-pocus had stopped now, leaving one part of her admiring quite dispassionately the tinkling music that was coming from the wall, the other part fighting the fear that rose in her throat step by step.
Again, she tried to take a breath, but it was as if her body had died, and she was staring out of it, unable now to breathe or blink or swallow.
The spectacle of the unfolding wall had now ceased entirely, and she saw something flicker across the brick, ragged enough to be shadow but too substantial.
It was human, she saw, or had been. But the body had been ripped apart and sewn together again with most of its pieces either missing or twisted and blackened as if in a furnace. There was an eye, gleaming at her, and the ladder of a spine, the vertebrae stripped of muscle, a few unrecognizable fragments of anatomy. That was it. That such a thing might live beggared reason-what little flesh it owned was hopelessly corrupted. Yet live it did. Its eye, despite the rot it was rooted in, scanned her every inch, up and down.
She felt no fear in its presence. This thing was weaker than her by far. It moved a little in its cell, looking for some modicum of comfort. But there was none to be had, not for a creature that wore its frayed nerves on its bleeding sleeve. Every place it might lay its body brought pain: this she knew indisputably. She pitied it. And with pity came release. Her body expelled dead air, and sucked in living. Her
oxygen-starved brain reeled.
Even as she did so it spoke, a hole opening up in the flayed ball of the monster's head and issued a single, weightless word. The word was: "Julia."
2
Kirsty put down her glass, and tried to stand up.
"Where are you going?" Neville asked
"Where do you think?" she replied, consciously trying to prevent the words from slurring.
"Do you need any help?" Rory inquired. The alcohol made his lids lazy, and his grin lazier still.
"I am house-trained," she replied, the riposte greeted with laughter all around. She was pleased with herself; off-the-cuff wit was not her forte. She stumbled to the door.
"It's the last room on the right at the end of the landing," Rory informed her.
"I know," she said, and stepped out into the hall.
She didn't usually enjoy the sensation of drunkenness, but tonight she was reveling in it.
She felt loose-limbed and light-hearted. She might well regret this tomorrow, but tomorrow would have to take care of itself. For tonight, she was flying.
She found her way to the bathroom, and relieved her aching bladder, then splashed some water onto her face. That done, she began her return journey.
She had taken three steps along the landing when she realized that somebody had put out the landing light while she was in the bathroom, and that same somebody was now standing a few yards away from her. She stopped.
"Hello?" she said. Had the cat breeder followed her upstairs, in the hope of proving he wasn't spayed?
"Is that you?" she asked, only dimly aware that this was a singularly fruitless line of inquiry.
There was no reply, and she became a little uneasy.
"Come on," she said, attempting a jocular manner that she hoped masked her anxiety, "who is it?"
"Me," said Julia. Her voice was odd. Throaty, perhaps tearful.
"Are you all right?" Kirsty asked her. She wished she could see Julia's face.
"Yes," came the reply. "Why shouldn't I be?" Within the space of those five words the actress in Julia seized control. The voice cleared, the tone lightened.
"I'm just tired..." she went on. "It sounds like you're having a good time down there."
"Are we keeping you
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