She lay there in the pitch black. She had a pain in her chest that was not due to the fall, it was fear. Pure, naked fear.

George scrambled down to her. The mask was hot and he loved it. Loved the feel of it and the smell of it. He also loved the fear that was emanating from this girl. Thumbing lifts! My God, asking for trouble, just asking for it. Well, she had got it now, by Christ. She had well and truly got it now.

George felt the rage roar in his head. A red hot rage that made his hands tremble. Pulling a torch from his pocket he played the beam across her prostrate form. He frowned. She was unconscious. He sighed heavily, then taking back his heavily booted foot he kicked her in the chest, sending her skidding across the gravel. Still she did not move.

George sighed again. The mask was making his head itch.

Still she did not move.

George knelt on the gravel, and taking the knife more firmly in his hand he stabbed her in the stomach. As the knife entered her she seemed to try to double up, but it was only a reflex action. George was puzzled. He pulled the heavy leather of her flying jacket from her arm and tried to find a pulse. There was none. She was dead. George was fuming. How dare she die on him? How dare she just die like that! He pushed the knife into her calf, through the thin material of her shellsuit and the soft plump skin, hitting the bone.

George sat on his haunches, biting his lip inside the mask. He pulled it off and felt the cold air bite into his hot skin, his scanty hair standing up and waving gently in the breeze. George spat into the dirt and pulled the knife out of the girl’s leg, then he began to undress her.

He carefully pulled down the bottom of her tracksuit and cut off her panties. He opened the flying jacket and folded it then unzipped the tracksuit top. He was surprised to find that she was very big-breasted. He cut the white lycra bra so that her breasts sprang free.

He had placed the torch on a small mound of dirt and the light shone on to Louise Butler’s cold and lifeless skin.

George cheered up. He glanced at his watch. He had hours before he had to get home. He began to hum.

In the distance the rave had really got underway. The music was blaring and the partygoers were dancing. It was New Year’s Eve. Everyone was waiting for twelve o’clock, for 1990 to begin.

Everyone except Louise Butler.

‘Happy New Year, Kate.’ Patrick’s voice was soft.

‘Happy New Year, Patrick. I hope it’s a good one for you, I really do.’

He smiled sadly. ‘Well, I’ve got to be honest, girl, I ain’t looking forward to it.’