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white　boy…liar　without　the　passion　or　the　wisdom　to　understand　what　he　had　dared　to　do。
　　Now　it　was　done。　The　lies　were　told；　the　tricks　were　played；　and　the　people　on　the　highway；　sick　beyond　death　of　being　misrepresented　and　mocked；　were　buzzing　at　the　crack　in　the　wall；　and　demanding　satisfaction。
　　That　crack　she　had　opened：　she　had　unknowingly　fingered　and　fumbled　at；　unlocking　it　by　slow　degrees。　Her　desire　for　the　boy　had　done　that：　her　endless　thoughts　of　him；　her　frustration；　her　heat　and　her　disgust　at　her　heat　had　pulled　the　crack　wider。　Of　all　the　powers　that　made　the　system　manifest；　love；　and　its　panion；　passion；　and　their　panion；　loss；　were　the　most　potent。　Here　she　was；　an　embodiment　of　all　three。　Loving；　and　wanting；　and　sensing　acutely　the　impossibility　of　the　former　two。　Wrapped　up　in　an　agony　of　feeling　which　she　had　denied　herself；　believing　she　loved　the　boy　simply　as　her　Go…Between。
　　It　wasn't　true！　It　wasn't　true！　She　wanted　him；　wanted　him　now；　deep　inside　her。　Except　that　now　it　was　too　late。
　　The　traffic　could　be　denied　no　longer：　it　demanded；　yes；　it　demanded　access　to　the　little　trickster。
　　She　was　helpless　to　prevent　it。　All　she　could　do　was　utter　a　tiny　gasp　of　horror　as　she　saw　the　highway　open　out　before　her；　and　understood　that　this　was　no　mon　intersection　they　stood　at。
　　Fuller　heard　the　sound。
　　〃Doctor？〃　He　looked　up　from　his　tinkering　and　his　face…washed　with　a　blue　light　she　could　see　from　the　corner　of　her　eye…bore　an　expression　of　enquiry。
　　〃Did　you　say　something？〃　he　asked。
　　She　thought；　with　a　fillip　of　her　stomach；　of　how　this　was　bound　to　end。
　　The　ether…faces　of　the　dead　were　quite　clear　in　front　of　her。　She　could　see　the　profundity　of　their　suffering　and　she　could　sympathize　with　their　ache　to　be　heard。
　　She　saw　plainly　that　the　highways　that　crossed　at　Tollington　Place　were　not　mon　thoroughfares。　She　was　not　staring　at　the　happy；　idling　traffic　of　the　ordinary　dead。　No；　that　house　opened　onto　a　route　walked　only　by　the　victims　and　the　perpetrators　of　violence。　The　men；　the　women；　the　children　who　had　died　enduring　all　the　pains　nerves　had　wit　to　muster；　with　their　minds　branded　by　the　circumstances　of　their　deaths。　Eloquent　beyond　words；　their　eyes　spoke　their　agonies；　their　ghost　bodies　still　bearing　the　wounds　that　had　killed　them。　She　could　also　see；　mingling　freely　with　the　innocents；　their　slaughterers　and　tormentors。　These　monsters；　frenzied；　mush…minded　blood…letters；　peeked　through　into　the　world：　nonesuch　creatures；　unspoken；　forbidden　miracles　of　our　species；　chattering　and　howling　their　Jabberwocky。
　　Now　the　boy　above　her　sensed　them。　She　saw　him　turn　a　little　in　the　silent　room；　knowing　that　the　voices　he　heard　were　not　fly…voices；　the　plaints　were　not　insect…plaints。　He　was　aware；　suddenly；　that　he　had　lived　in　a　tiny　corner　of　the　world；　and　that　the　rest　of　it；　the　Third；　Fourth　and　Fifth　Worlds；　were　pressing　at　his　lying　back；　hungry　and　irrevocable。　The　sight　of　his　panic　was　also　a　smell　and　a　taste　to　her。　Yes；　she　tasted　him　as　she　had　always　longed　to；　but　it　was　not　a　kiss　that　married　their　senses；　it　was　his　growing　panic。　It　filled　her　up：　her　empathy　was　total。　The　fearful　glance　was　hers　as　much　as　his…their　dry　throats　rasped　the　same　small　word：
　　〃Please…〃　That　the　child　learns。
　　〃Please…；　That　wins　care　and　gifts。
　　〃Please…〃　That　even　the　dead；　surely；　even　the　dead　must　know　and　obey。
　　〃Please…；　Today　there　would　be　no　such　mercy　given；　she　knew　for　certain。
　　These　ghosts　had　despaired　on　the　highway　a　grieving　age；　bearing　the　wounds　they　had　died　with；　and　the　insanities　they　had　slaughtered　with。　They　had　endured　his　levity　and　insolence；　his　idiocies；　the　fabrications　that　had　made　a　game　of　their　ordeals。　They　wanted　to　speak　the　truth。
　　Fuller　was　peering　at　her　more　closely；　his　face　now　swimming　in　a　sea　of　pulsing　orange　light。　She　felt　his　hands　on　her　skin。　They　tasted　of　vinegar。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　he　said；　his　breath　like　iron。
　　She　shook　her　head。
　　No；　she　was　not　all　right；　nothing　was　right。
　　The　crack　was　gaping　wider　every　second：　through　it　she　could　see　another　sky；　the　slate　heavens　that　loured　over　the　highway。　It　overwhelmed　the　mere　reality　of　the　house。
　　〃Please；〃　she　said；　her　eyes　rolling　up　to　the　fading　substance　of　the　ceiling。
　　Wider。　Wider…The　brittle　world　she　inhabited　was　stretched　to　breaking　point。
　　Suddenly；　it　broke；　like　a　dam；　and　the　black　waters　poured　through；　inundating　the　room。
　　Fuller　knew　something　was　amiss　（it　was　in　the　colour　of　his　aura；　the　sudden　fear）；　but　he　didn't　understand　what　was　happening。　She　felt　his　spine　ripple：　she　could　see　his　brain　whirl。
　　〃What's　going　on？〃　he　said。　The　pathos　of　the　enquiry　made　her　want　to　laugh。
　　Upstairs；　the　water…jug　in　the　writing　room　shattered。
　　Fuller　let　her　go　and　ran　towards　the　door。　It　began　to　rattle　and　shake　even　as　he　approached　it；　as　though　all　the　inhabitants　of　hell　were　beating　on　the　other　side。　The　handle　turned　and　turned　and　turned。　The　paint　blistered。　The　key　glowed　red…hot。
　　Fuller　looked　back　at　the　Doctor；　who　was　still　fixed　in　that　grotesque　position；　head　back；　eyes　wide。
　　He　reached　for　the　handle；　but　the　door　opened　before　he　could　touch　it。　The　hallway　beyond　had　disappeared　altogether。　Where　the　familiar　interior　had　stood　the　vista　of　the　highway　stretched　to　the　horizon。　The　sight　killed　Fuller　in　a　moment。　His　mind　had　no　strength　to　take　the　panorama　in…it　could　not　control　the　overload　that　ran　through　his　every　nerve。　His　heart　stopped；　a　revolution　overturned　the　order　of　his　system；　his　bladder　failed；　his　bowels　failed；　his　limbs　shook　and　collapsed。　As　he　sank　to　the　floor　his　face　began　to　blister　like　the　door；　and　his　corpse　rattle　like　the　handle。　He　was　inert　stuff　already：　as　fit　for　this　indignity　as　wood　or　steel。
　　Somewhere　to　the　East　his　soul　joined　the　wounded　highway；　on　its　route　to　the　intersection　where　a　moment　previously　he　had　died。
　　Mary　Florescu　knew　she　was　alone。　Above　her　the　marvellous　boy；　her　beautiful；　cheating　child；　was　writhing　and　screeching　as　the　dead　set　their　vengeful　hands　on　his　fresh　skin。　She　knew　their　intention：　she　could　see　it　in　their　eyes…there　was　nothing　new　about　it。　Every　history　had　this　particular　torment　in　its　tradition。　He　was　to　be　used　to　record　their　testaments。　He　was　to　be　their　page；　their　book；　the　vessel　for　their　autobiographies。　A　book　of　blood。　A　book　made　of　blood。　A　book　written　in　blood。　She　thought　of　the　grimoires　that　had　been　made　of　dead　human　skin：　she'd　seen　them；　touched　them。　She　thought　of　the　tattooes　she'd　seen：　freak　show　exhibits　some　of　them；　others　just　shirtless　labourers　in　the　Street　with　a　message　to　their　mothers　pricked　across　their　backs。　It　was　not　unknown；　to　write　a　book　of　blood。
　　But　on　such　skin；　on　such　gleaming　skin…oh　God；　that　was　the　crime。　He　screamed　as　the　torturing　needles　of　broken　jug…glass　skipped　against　his　flesh；　ploughing　it　up。　She　felt　his　agonies　as　if　they　had　been　hers；　and　they　were　not　so　terrible。
　　Yet　he　screamed。　And　fought；　and　poured　obscenities　out　at　his　attackers。　They　took　no　notice。　They　swarmed　around　him；　deaf　to　any　plea　or　prayer；　and　worked　on　him　with　all　the　enthusiasm　of　creatures　forced　into　silence　for　too　long。　Mary　listened　as　his　voice　wearied　with　its　plaints；　and　she　fought　against　the　weight　of　fear　in　her　limbs。　Somehow；　she　felt；　she　must　get　up　to　the　room。　It　didn't　matter　what　was　beyond　the　door　or　on　the　stairs…he　needed　her；　and　that　was　enough。
　　She　stood　up　and　felt　her　hair　swirl　up　from　her　head；　flailing　like　the　snake　hair　of　the　Gorgon　Medusa。　Reality　swam…there　was　scarcely　a　floor　to　be　seen　beneath　her。　The　boards　of　the　house　were　ghost…wood；　and　beyond　them　a　seething　dark　raged　and　yawned　at　her。　She　looked　to　the　door；　feeling　all　the　time　a　lethargy　that　was　so　hard　to　fight　off。
　　Clearly　they　didn't　want　her　up　there。　Maybe；　she　thought；　they　even　fear　me　a　little。　The　idea　gave　her　resolution；　why　else　were　they　bothering　to　intimidate　her　unless　her　very　presence；　having　once　opened　this　hole　in　the　world；　was　now　a　threat　to　them？
　　The　blistered　door　was　open。　Beyond　it　the　reality　of　the　house　had　succumbed　pletely　to　the　howling　chaos　of　the　highway。　She　stepped　through；　concentrating　on　the　way　her　feet　still　touched　solid　floor　even　though　her　eyes　could　no　longer　see　it。　The　sky　above　her　was　prussian…blue；　the　highway　was　wide　and　windy；　the　dead　pressed　on　every　side。　She　fought　through　them　as　through　a　crowd　of　living　people；　while　their　gawping；　idiot　faces　looked　at　her　and　hated　her　invasion。
　　The　〃please〃　was　gone。　Now　she　said　nothing；　just　gritted　her　teeth　and　narrowed　her　eyes　against　the　highway；　kicking　her　feet　forward　to　find　the　reality　of　the　stairs　that　she　knew　were　there。　She　tripped　as　she　touched　them；　and　a　howl　went　up　from　the　crowd。　She　couldn't　tell　if　they　were　laughing　at　her　clumsiness；　or　sounding　a　warning　at　how　far　she　had　got。
　　First　step。　Second　step。　Third　step。
　　Though　she　was　torn　at　from　every　side；　she　was　winning　against　the　crowd。　Ahead　she　could　see　through　the　door　of　the　room　to　where　her　little　liar　was　sprawled；　surrounded　by　his　attackers。　His　briefs　were　around　his　ankles：　the　scene　looked　like　a　kind　of　rape。　He　screamed　no　longer；　but　his　eyes　were　wild　with　terror　and　pain。　At　least　he　was　still　alive。　The　natural　resilience　of　his　young　mind　had　half　accepted　the　spectacle　that　had　opened　in　front　of　him。
　　Suddenly　his　head　jerked　around　and　he　looked　straight　through　the　door　at　her。　In　this　extremity　he　had　dredged　up　a　true　talent；　a　skill　that　was　a　fraction　of　Mary's；　but　enough　to　make　contact　with　her。　Their　eyes　met。　In　a　sea　of　blue　darkness；　surrounded　on　every　side　with　a　civilization　they　neither　knew　nor　understood；　their　living　hearts　met　and　married。
　　〃I'm　sorry；〃　he　said　silently。　It　was　infinitely　pitiful。　〃I'm　sorry。　I'm　sorry。〃　He　looked　away；　his　gaze　wrenched　from　hers。
　　She　was　certain　she　must　be　almost　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　her　feet　still　treading　air　as　far　as　her　eyes　could　tell；　the　faces　of　the　travellers　above；　below　and　on　every　side　of　her。　But　she　could　see；　very　faintly；　the　outline　of　the　door；　and　the　boards　and　beams　of　the　room　where　Simon　lay。　He　was　one　mass　of　blood　now；　from　head　to　foot。　She　could　see　the　marks；　the　hieroglyphics　of　agony　on　every　inch　of　his　torso；　his　face；　his　limbs。　One　moment　he　seemed　to　flash　into　a　kind　of　focus；　and　she　could　see　him　in　the　empty　room；　with　the　sun　through　the　window；　and　the　shattered　jug　at　his　side。　Then　her　concentration　would　falter　and　instead　she'd　see　the　invisible　world　made　visible；　and　he'd　be　hanging　in　the　air　while　they　wrote　on　him　from　every　side；　plucking　out　the　hair　on　his　head　and　body　to　clear　the　page；　writing　in　his　armpits；　writing　on　his　eyelids；　writing　on　his　genitals；　in　the　crease　of　his　buttocks；　on　the　soles　of　his　feet。
　　Only　the　wounds　were　in　mon　between　the　two　sights。　Whether　she　saw　him　beset　with　authors；　or　alone　in　the　room；　he　was　bleeding　and　bleeding。
　　She　had　reached　the　door　now。　Her　tre