"And what bra is our Julie wearing?" said Blackie.

He had taken out the paper and tobacco again, and among the empty smeary dishes, was constructing another joint.

"You'll have to guess," said Julie. "I'm not sure you're really interested."

Blackie nodded. "Maybe not. I bet Ruthie's got a good one on."

"Well," said Jenny, "I bet you won't get to see it."

Blackie lit the joint from his gold lighter B to B, and drew on it as if performing a yoga breathing exercise. He passed the joint directly across to Jenny.

"Ruthie'll show me." He looked up at Ruth and bared his teeth. "Won't she, eh?"

Ruth looked down into Blackie's face. Her eyes were the night of temples far, far to the east, a night deeper than the neon dark which had settled on the house. Terry stared at her long mascara lashes. He realized he had not felt anything like this for a girl for half a year.

"You stay here, Ruth," he said, stumbling on his words, on the taste of curry and hash and beer and wine, and on the chill-sweet bottomless aroma of desire. "You stay with me."

But Ruth got up, and Blackie had got up from the floor.

Julie said loudly, "Blackie, you cunt."

"Dead right," said Blackie.

"Don't use the fucking bedroom," shouted Julie.

"We'll use the camp bed," said Blackie, with kindly reassurance.

Terry tried to stand up. Jenny pulled on him. He sank down and Jenny put her hand possessively over his fly.

Thump, thump, went the music, and the house went on thrumming like a space ship, thump, thump, thump.

Blackie walked in front of Ruth into Terry's lair and turned on the light. The curtains were drawn. Blackie sat down on the camp bed, bouncing once, to test it. Then he undid his trousers. His penis burst free.

"Take your clothes off," slurred Blackie. "And then come and try this. It'll taste of curry. Wait and see."

Ruth had shut the door behind her.

She poised in the small room, looking at Blackie, and at his penis. Her face was whiter than the rice they had eaten but her lips were scarlet and he would be a lovely fit.

Her eyes were funny though. Who cared?

Ruth ran her hand lightly over Terry's table, among the books and spent cans. She took up a Biro and drew off the cap.

Blackie was not concerned with the pen. Everything was in a wonderful slow motion. He was looking forward to the T-shirt coming slowly off. Ruth was a big girl, better than that bloody Julie, like two gnat bites, stupid mare.

Ruth came toward Blackie, slowly, slowly, and he took hold of the edge of the T-shirt. But he had slowly raised it only half an inch when she stabbed him quickly and thoroughly through the windpipe with the Biro.