“Don’t try it, Pascal. The safety catch is off. The gun’s cocked. You know anything about guns? This is a fifteen-round magazine. Nasty bullets. You can really get off on these bullets. You can really spray them around… She’d be dead, and you’d be dead, before you’d moved two fucking feet…” His voice rose. “You don’t like that, Pascal? It upsets you, huh? Makes you feel a bit inadequate, a bit impotent, maybe? Well, too bad. I had years of that. Years of being pissed on and dismissed and ordered around and locked up. Years crawling to those cocksuckers, in the homes, at night, jerking those fucking bastards off—you know how fucking old I was? Five years old the first time, up the ass, in my mouth, I had ten, twelve fucking years of that, treated like I was shit, like I was some fucking nobody—”

Pascal froze. Gini gave a low moan and clamped her hand across her mouth. Pascal started to move; he knew Star was about to start shooting; he watched his face contort. The telephone rang. Star was jamming the gun at Gini’s mouth—then suddenly, five rings in, he seemed to hear the phone and stopped. A shudder ran through his body; he drew back; his face became blank and tight, then he seemed to relax. He jabbed the gun in Gini’s ribs.

“Get back over there. With him. The far side of the table, where I can see you both. Neither of you move. I have to take this call…” He shivered, then laughed. “I have to talk to my shrink.”

He watched Gini stumble across the room. He waited until they had both reached the far side of the table, twenty feet back. Keeping his eyes and the gun trained on them both, he picked up the receiver and cradled it on his shoulder. He listened, smiling. Pascal could just hear the voice of the man addressing him, a quiet, even voice.

Pascal drew Gini tightly into his arms. Whoever the man on the telephone was, he prayed to God he was good, and he prayed he would realize that they had to be quick.

He locked his arms around Gini. He kissed her tears, kissed her upturned face, tried to still the tremors of fear in her body. When Star began speaking so the sound of his own voice was drowned, he pressed his mouth against her ear and her hair and began to whisper, so she could only just hear him. He felt her body go rigid in his arms. He knew, and she knew, he thought, that this might be their last conversation. So little time, and so much to be said.

“Gini. We haven’t got very long…”

“I know. I thought he was going to fire then.”

“He was. He’s right on the edge. But he wants those photographs—and there’s something I could try…” He waited until Star began speaking again, then continued whispering. Gini listened, her eyes fixed on his. She could feel his lips against her skin and her hair. His suggestion terrified her.