shut, checking the street to make sure he hadn't been seen. Upstairs, Losh was sitting in a chair containing more holes than stuffing.
'This was a good boozer before it was closed down,' Manser said, his excitement unfolding deep within him.
'Was,' Losh said, keeping his eyes on him. He wore a butcher's apron that was slathered with blood. He smoked a cigarette, the end of which was patterned with bloody prints from his fingers. A comma of blood could be mistaken for a kiss-curl on his forehead. 'Everything changes.'
'You don't,' Manser said. 'Christ. Don't you ever wash?'
'What's the point? I'm a busy man.'
'How many years you been struck off?'
Losh smiled. 'Didn't anybody ever warn you not to piss off the people you need help from?'
Manser swallowed his distaste of the smaller man. 'Nobody warns me nothing,' he spat. 'Can't we get on?'
Losh stood up and stretched. 'Cash,' he said, luxuriously.
Manser pulled a wad from his jacket. 'There's six grand there. As always.'
'I believe you. I'd count it but the bank get a bit miffed if they get blood on their bills.'
'Why don't you wear gloves?'
'The magic. It's all in the fingers.' Losh gestured towards Laura. 'This the one?'
'Of course.'
'Pretty thing. Nice legs.' Losh laughed. Manser closed his eyes. Losh said, 'What you after?'
Manser said, 'The works.'
Wide eyes from Losh. 'Then let's call it eight thou.'
A pause. Manser said, 'I don't have it with me. I can get it tomorrow. Keep the car tonight. As collateral.'
Losh said, 'Done.'
The first incision. Blood squirted up the apron, much brighter than the stains already painted upon it. A coppery smell filled the room. The pockets of the pool table upon which Laura was spread were filled with beer towels. 'Soft tissue?'
Manser's voice was dry. He needed a drink. His cock was as hard as a house brick. 'As much off as possible.' 'She won't last long,' Losh said. Manser stared at him. 'She'll last long enough.' Losh said, 'Got a number five in mind already?' Manser didn't say a word. Losh reached behind him and picked up a Samsonite suitcase. He opened it and pulled out a hacksaw. Its teeth entertained the light and flung it in every direction. At least Losh kept his tools clean.
The operation took four hours. Manser fell asleep at one point and dreamed of his hand overpowering the rest of his body, dragging him around the city while the mouth that slavered and snarled at the centre of his palm cupped itself around the stomachs of passers-by and devoured them.
He wakened, rimed with perspiration, to see Losh chewing an errant hangnail and tossing his instruments back into the suit-case. Laura was wrapped in white bath towels. They were crimson now.
'Is she okay?' Manser asked. Losh's laughter in reply was infectious and soon he was at it too.
'Do you want the offcuts?' Losh asked, wiping his eyes and jerking a thumb at a bucket tastefully covered with a dishcloth.
'You keep them,' Manser said. 'I've got to be off.'
Losh said, 'Who opened the window?'
Nobody had opened the window; the lace curtains fluttering inward were being pushed by the bulge of glass. Losh tore them back just as the glass shattered in his face. He screamed and fell backwards, tripping on the bucket and sprawling on to the floor.
To Manser it seemed that strips of the night were pouring in through the broken window. They fastened themselves to Losh's face and neck and munched through the flesh like a caterpillar at a leaf. His screams were low and already being disguised by blood as his throat filled. He began to choke but managed one last, hearty shriek as a major blood vessel parted, spraying colour all around the room with the abandon of an unmanned hosepipe.
How can they breathe with their heads so deep inside him ? Manser thought, hypnotized by the violence. He felt something dripping on his brow. Touching his face with his fingers, he brought them away to find them awash with blood. He had time to register, as he looked up at the ceiling, the mouth as it yawned, dribbling with lymph, the head as it vibrated with unfettered anticipation. And then the woman dropped on him, ploughing her jaws through the meat of his throat and ripping clear. He saw his flesh disappear down her gullet with a spasm that was almost beautiful. But then his sight filled with red and he could understand no more.
She had been back home for a day. She couldn't understand how she had got here. She remembered being born from the warmth of her companions and standing up to find both men little more than pink froth filling their suits. One of the men had blood on his hands and a cigarette smouldered between his fingers. The hand was on the other side of the room, though. She saw the bloody, tiny mound of towels on the pool table. She saw the bucket; the dishcloth had shifted, revealing enough to tell her the game. Two toes was enough. She didn't need to be drawn a picture.
And then somehow she found herself outside. And then on Edgware Road where a pretty young woman with dark hair and a woven shoulder bag gave her a couple of pounds so that she could get the tube to Euston. And then a man smelling of milk and boot polish she fucked in a shop doorway for her fare north. And then Preston, freezing around her in the early morning as if it were formed from winter itself. She had half expected Andrew to poke his head around the corner of their living-room to say hello, the tea's on, go and sit by the fire and I'll bring some to you.
