The Magic Cottage

me.

With friends as obnoxious as Bob, any enemy could only be sweet. But I was used to him; he was an old habit with me, and they die hard, don't they? Besides, I knew part of his act was for the benefit of Val: he liked to rile anyone he couldn't get the hang of.

Kiwi tutted disgustedly at him, flicking her blonde hair back behind one ear. 'Sometimes your manners are just an embarrassment,' she scolded, nevertheless kneeling, then squatting on the floor beside him.

'It's my coarseness that makes me so lovable, am I right, Mike?'

I took the glass from him, replying, 'Yeah, adorable. Same in here again?'

'A little heavier on the vodka this time. I'm not driving tonight.'

'It makes a difference?'

He draped an arm around his girlfriend and smiled that close-lipped smug smile of his, the cat who'd not only had the cream, but knew there was more to come.

I sent out the mental message to him: Behave yourself tonight, pal, and don't let me down.

He didn't really. What happened later was only partly his fault.

Dinner was a great success.

The more wine we consumed, the more the conversation flowed. Bob and Val soon began to get the measure of one another, each jibe and riposte becoming more humorous and less antagonistic as the evening wore on. Salads were never my favorite fodder, but as Midge's agent was strictly vegetarian the menu had to suit all parties; besides, there was plenty of cold meat for us carnivores. The warm weather—we were seated around the kitchen table (spruced up somewhat by a lace tablecloth and red candles and things) with the outside door open wide to catch any breeze drifting our way—made such a meal even more appropriate. Kiwi proved to be a lot brighter than she looked (she refused to disclose how she had acquired that nickname, incidentally, but Bob hinted heavily and somewhat lasciviously that it had something to do with boot polish), and had no inhibitions whatsoever about telling us of her earlier years as a rock-band groupie (there's a great sociological study to be made some day by some learned professor on this particular species, because their motives are not entirely what you might expect).

More than once during the dinner I found myself watching Midge, her small-boned face transformed by candlelight from pixie to princess, almond eyes sparkling yet still soft with a beauty that came from somewhere inside. The steady flow of wine may have influenced my judgment to a degree, but the feeling was nothing new; I'd melted over the same indefinable quality many times before and in my most sober moments. So maybe I did put her on some kind of pedestal (and I was not alone in that), but I'd known her long enough for any cracks to appear in that column by now. None had, not ever. Don't take me for a besotted idiot, though: I was aware of her faults and weaknesses, and they only made her more vulnerable, more human. Let's say they brought realism to the dream, made her more accessible to me. And one of the things that tied me so closely to her was that she saw some goodness in me; and that somehow made me freer, allowed me to expose my feelings more easily than ever before. Call me a romantic fool.

I was a fool on another count that evening also, for Bob, he of the cast-iron bladder, had popped upstairs to the bathroom a couple of times during the course of dinner and it was only on the second occasion that I noticed he was chewing on something when he returned. It didn't occur to me until later, when he was giggling over the silliest remarks, that he was disappearing so that he could cut off tiny segments of cannabis resin, wary of lighting a joint in the presence of his hostess whose antipathy toward drugs was well known within our circles. He obviously felt the need for a stimulant other than booze, and no wonder he was in such hearty mood.

I let it go, although I was anxious that Midge shouldn't discover what he was up to: I'd taken enough stick over the matter of drugs that week, and wrongfully so. Fortunately, she appeared oblivious, presumably putting Bob's affable manner down to good wine, food and company.

It was pretty late when we finally closed the kitchen door against the cooler night air and took ourselves upstairs, Midge remaining behind to make coffee. I'd bought a good brandy from the village liquor store that day and poured for Val, Bob and myself; I was unable to produce a Malibu for Kiwi, so she settled for vodka with 'lots and lots of lemonade.'

I resisted bringing down the guitars, knowing that once Bob and I got started, we'd play all night until everyone around us was slumped in unconscious heaps; instead, I put on a tape, keeping the volume low so that our own voices wouldn't have to compete with the music.

Even Val seemed mellowed and more charming than I'd ever known her to be, and we had a good-natured debate along the lines of: Agent—parasite or provider? I think she came out ahead, and I didn't begrudge her that.

The first yawns started around one-ish—clean country air took the blame—although Bob was ready to talk the night away, and Midge, clear-headed as usual, informed our quests of the bedding arrangements, suggesting a sensible iota for the use of the bathroom. Bob and Kiwi would be sleeping in the round room on the sofa, which was the kind that could be pulled out into a bed, while Val would be in the spare room next to ours on a small fold-away cot we'd always kept for such occasions in our previous place.

Midge and I went back downstairs to clear the dinner things, while they all made themselves ready for bed. I chuckled when I heard Bob's voice through the ceiling doing his impression of Michael Jackson singing butch.

Midge and I also took time to stand on the doorstep and watch the stars, which looked more unreal and numerous seen through unpolluted air than in any space movie. We took time, too, to kiss and fondle, like teenagers home from a date. I was glad I didn't have a last train to catch.

When we gazed upward again, most of the stars had disappeared behind seeping black clouds. It looked as if there'd been a power cut in the sky.

I've no idea what time it was when the screams woke us.

We both shot upright in bed as though activated by the same spring. There was just enough light to make out Midge's outline and I felt her hands clutching fearfully at me.

'Oh God, Mike, what was that?'

'I'm not sure—'

The screams came again, high-pitched and terrible, impossible to tell whether they came from man or woman. I scrabbled for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over before finding the switch to flick it on. We were both naked and Midge lost no time in pulling on her nightshirt while I reached for my robe. We made it to the door together.

I'll admit it, though: I hesitated just a fraction before opening that door. The screams sent an iciness through me that seemed to reach down and frost my testicles. I turned my shudder into action by twisting the handle.

With no barrier between us, the sounds were even more intense and scary.

A lamp was on in the round room, Kiwi kneeling on the floor beside it: she was staring horror-struck at a crouching figure on the far side of the room. That crouching figure was Bob, his face even more horror-struck, ugly and disfigured, like one of those stone gargoyles you find jutting from cathedral ramparts. What made his appearance all the more shocking was that he was white. I mean it—totally white. From his face down to his chest and stomach. Down to the waistband of his pyjama legs. Even his arms. Not just pale, or ashen, but white.

He was looking toward the open doorway leading to the stairs, and his eyes were wider than seemed possible. His jaw was dropped almost to his throat, his mouth a huge gaping hole, now his screams no more than dry scratchy sounds.

I ran to him, calling his name as if that might drag him back from the madness that was evident in his stare, skidding to my knees before him. His hands, like stiffened claws, were held up to his face as though to block out a nightmare vision; but still his eyes stared insanely from behind bent fingers. He was trembling, the movement jerky stiff, his body somehow brittle.

'Bob, what is it? Calm down and tell me what's wrong!'

He didn't seem to hear; he tried to push himself further into the curved wall, bare feet scuffing at the carpet. I pulled at his wrists and they were like juddering steel rods, impossible to move. Somewhere in the background I could hear loud sobbing, and I hoped Midge was tending to Bob's girlfriend—I had enough to cope with without