"Good-bye," said Althene, "to the scum. He will be dead in a few minutes. I shot him in his big penis, of which he was so proud."

Rachaela began to shake. She thought, distantly, So much for rationality.

"Don't faint," said Althene. "We'll go and find a drink for you."

"For me? I'm here with a wild beast and it offers me a drink."

"How complimentary. What beast?"

"That gun—" said Rachaela, uselessly.

"Custom made. A Derringer Remington. One of the smallest weapons in the world, bar the hatpin. A leopardess, perhaps. Come. The club I spoke of isn't far."

"You want me to walk into some private club with you as if nothing—as if—as if you had—" Rachaela stopped. The alley whirled, settled sickeningly, and was still. Althene had her by the shoulders.

"He would have stuck himself into you," said Althene. "And elsewhere, quite soon, into some other woman, less able to cast off what he did to her than you. Requiescat in pace."

No one had come. No sirens or rushing feet.

Althene let her go. Instead her warm and scented

Rachaela's lips.

"Walk with me as if you will live for many hundreds of years," said Althene. "Walk with me as if you have seen it all before. And as if you love and trust me."

"But I don't."

"Then make believe, little girl. Pretend."

They walked.

The darkness and the lit window drew behind and the body of the dying or dead rapist was hidden by a twist of buildings. Dim notes of buses, cars, far off. Music from a cassette.

They reached a shut door under a lamp.

Althene rang the bell.

The shaking was fading off, as if something that had had Rachaela in its teeth was now growing tired.

Rachaela had a double brandy, and then they drank china tea. It was a long room with comfortable chairs and small waxed tables, a luminous bar, prints of ancient houses.

At any moment, for the first three quarters of an hour, Rachaela expected someone to burst in, crying of a corpse close by. No one did.

Althene was gracious and attentive, but she did not really speak for a long while.

In an alcove a man sat playing a guitar, softly and beautifully. It seemed he might also be one of the scatter of patrons, who simply played there to please himself.

Rachaela, an insect newborn, hardened. She felt only sad, like a child who had realized it would die. But this was the reverse of that. It was as if she had learned that death was not for her.

Finally, she said, "I suppose murder isn't anything fresh in your life."

Althene smiled in the old mysterious way. She had readjusted her voice, jettisoning harshness and banality.

"Now you think I've slain a hundred men."

"Have you?"

"I would have to count them up. Wouldn't that look like boasting?"

"With the gun?"

"With whatever was to hand," said Althene.