against the wall, waiting until his eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the garden. It was empty. He moved swiftly across the stream and stood in the shadows under a cherry tree thirty feet from the corner room of the north wing of the house. Again he waited.
The room was small and comfortable, its floor covered with a llama rug, its walls decorated with yellow and red striped satin. It contained a large wooden tub big enough for two people and a massage table covered with a mat of goose feathers. Beside it was a smaller table covered with urns of oils, powders, and creams. There were no lights, only scented candles.
Heth Led Halford by the hand to the room and she slid the door shut behind them.
‘You wait,’ she said in her tiny, melodic voice.
She walked across the room to the door leading into the garden. But a foot or two from the door she stopped. Her hand reached out and, like a hummingbird poised before a honeysuckle bush, it fluttered for a fraction of a second before it found the door and slid it open.
Halford was stunned. Now he understood her vulnerability, the sadness in her incredible eyes, why Madame Kwa had said, ‘She is special to all of us.’
Heth was blind.
‘You see,’ she said turning in his direction, ‘gar-den.’
Emotions he had forgotten swept over him, desire, feeling, longing. He walked across the room and held her face between his fingertips.
‘Yes, I see,’ he said gently. ‘I see for both of us.’
Heth smiled and her fingers moved over his body, as soft as cobwebs swaying in the wind.
Thirty feet away, Burns watched front the shadows, saw Halford framed in the doorway, watched as he touched the girl’s face, saw her respond, her fingers moving over his body, the buttons on his shirt opening as if by magic as she removed his clothing.
The girl was great.
She led Halford to the tub and her hands moved down, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his shoes. She knelt before him and removed his shoes and pants and, reaching up, slipped her hands inside the waistband of his shorts. Her fingertips flirted with him, touching and yet not touching. She finished undressing him, leaning forward and breathing softly on him, letting her lips brush against him. She began an almost imperceptible chant in Japanese. She touched his face, felt the rigid line of his jaw, his quivering lips, and slipped two fingertips inside his mouth, tapping his tongue. Her own tongue flittered over his chest and sucked at his nipples. She took his hand in hers, helped him undress her, guided them over her breasts, her stomach, and down to hair as soft as rabbit’s fur.
His fears vanished. He was hypnotized, overcome by a sensuality more complete than any he had ever known. His manhood was restored.
Burns moved silently across the garden and stood near the door, heard her soft chant, the sounds of water splashing, the murmur of soft laughter. He took the Cotton swabbing from his pocket, wrapped a strip around one hand, held it in place with his thumb, and slipped on one of the surgical gloves. He repeated the action with the other hand. He unzipped his pants and took out the nylon cord, wrapped it several times around each hand, and tested it again, pulling it taut. The knot was centred perfectly. He eased himself to the door and looked in.
They were out of the tub. Halford lay on his back on the table, facing away from Burns, who stood watching, behind him.
Heth covered her hands with warm oil and began massaging Halford, her strong fingers kneading the muscles in his legs and chest. She stroked his arms and placed them at his sides. Then she got up on the table, straddling him, settling down on him, moving against him, leaning over him. Her butterfly tongue teased his stomach, moved lower, and her mouth enveloped him.
Halford was unaware of the new presence in the room, an obscene presence moving stealthily across the llama rug, the nylon cord dangling between latex-sheathed fists.
But Heth was aware. Her keen ears amplified each creak in the floor, the rustle of clothing, a different rhythm of breathing in the room. She reached out to the smaller table. Her fingers found a short silk string with twelve knots tied in it, each about an inch apart. She slipped her hand under Halford and began to insert the string. Halford, lost in fantasy, hardly felt it. His pulse was hammering, his breath was laboured and quick.
The tempo increased. Faster. Faster. Faster.
Halford gasped. His blood, charged with lightning, surged through his body. His head rose off the table. His body went rigid. At that moment Heth ripped the string from inside him and Halford cried out. He exploded.
As he did, Heth dropped her legs over the side of the table and clamped them under it. Her arms enveloped it and she grasped one wrist with the other hand.
Halford was caught in a human vice.
Burns dropped the nylon cord around his throat. His hands snapped apart.
The knot in the cord bit deep into the hollow in Halford’s neck. Ecstasy turned to pain. His temples erupted. His breath was cut off, trapped in his throat. His tongue shot from his mouth.
Burns snapped the cord again, tighter this time.
Halford began to shake violently. Spasms seized his body. It began to jerk against Heth’s. She tightened her grip. He tried to scream, but the cry was crushed in his throat. He looked up, saw the grotesque inverted face above him. He tried to utter one last word, a syllable, distorted and guttural, which died in his mouth:
Wh-a-a-a-r-r-ghh...’
And then his windpipe burst. He shuddered convulsively. His breath surged from him like wind squealing from a punctured balloon.
He went limp.
Heth released her death grip. She lay across Halford’s body, her arms and legs dangling over the sides of the
