Lucy sinks to her knees before William, resting her head on his lap.

But truly I am so afeared and only thou can help.
Even Mistress Widdecombe downstairs

who owns this lodgings will turn me out.
She hates my trade in men, though she loves

the rub of coins in her sweaty palm more.
Dost thou know that she rivals the puritanical

Lizbet as the oldest virgin in all of England?
Indeed she is so proud of it she will tell

anyone who cares to listen of her purity.
Why, methinks she will lift her skirts

and show us her pitted old apricot any minute.
She will turn me out, though, William.

These past few days I have seen the gleam
of bleating victory in her froggy eyes.

William: I love it when you’re vicious, Lucy dear.

Stanley cups her face in his hands. She rolls her eyes, tries to pull back, but his fierce second sight holds her fast. Her eyes widen as if she knows William has been inhabited, and she herself too. It is Jessie who is staring up with such passion, with such longing. It is Jessie who is seeking her own escape, who is offering Stanley the keys to the kingdom of freedom.

Lucy: Don’t mourn for me when I am dead, William,
when you hear the sullen bell ring out,

warning the world that your beloved has fled
from this vile world, with viler worms to cohabit.

William: Well thou know’st, to my dear-doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

William leans towards her, closes his eyes and pouts his lips.

William: Kissy kissy, my lovely?

Lucy: In truth, thou hast no idea, spoilt Wills.
My hell art thine heaven. Blessed be thee.

Rising to her feet in exasperation, Lucy leads him towards the bed. William follows, a mischievous smile on her behind.

William: Wench!

Stanley: What the hell was …

Jessie: What’s the matter?

Stanley sat upright on the mattress like a marionette being yanked up at the forehead by its puppet master’s strings. Jessie awoke sensuously beside him, placed her palm on to his lower back and curled into him with the suppleness of a cat.

‘Come back to sleep: it’s still only Saturday, you don’t have to work today, sweetie.’

Her cheeks were smooth as caramel. He wanted to lick them, to stroke them. No scars, no stench. She turned away, but Stanley wanted more.

He was sure he could see a rash of mosquito bites between her shoulder blades, but when he reached over they dissolved under the light touch of his fingers. Jessie could take him places, he decided.

I dreamt another world, magicked into this one.

Lingering at the tail-end of the twentieth,

yet mauling the rotten gut of the sixteenth.

Was it all true and how did Lucy Negro die?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art so right, dear, somnolent Jessie.