Welcome to King Radio.

Described by the leading German Literary Journal MAXI as

this remarkable book, King Radio, is that unlikely animal, a love story wrapped around a mystery thriller, woven through with a ghost story…. Here are some extracts which you're welcome to download from the web for your own use only, though all rights of copyright must be respected. Now read on, you've 124 pages to enjoy

Frank Lauder

© Frank Lauder MMVI

All persons, situations and places

represented in this

book are imaginary, any reference

to persons living or dead is

coincidental

The right of Frank Lauder to be

identified as the author of

this work has been asserted

in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs

and Patents Act 1988

'King', The tall man with the stooped back left the desk and slowly straightened, cartoon painfully, before beginning to pace the small room for the umpteenth time in some sort of hyperactive mood, turning at reducing intervals that themselves underlined thus the fact that in some way he was anxious, his pace and agitation covering the space between window and door,work desk and storage shelf increasingly rapidly.

The Room.

The room here is overall brown in colour, and set high up in a tall middle-aged city block, itself as stooping as the occupant of this room, and the room is simultaneously rather dusty. The window at it's far end is endlessly open, but there is little intrusive sound from outside at this height, save for an occasionally deep, almost unheard, background rumble, and the endless chains of space and wind outside yaw metallically both audibly and visually beneath its distant hardwood rim.

This described sensation of fathomless space has more to do with the dynamics of wind than the orientation of the building itself, which somehow fails to act as a receiver for the funnel of sound that the polished acetate and glass of the looming city blocks in the central distance and the combined wind, create and push out from their stacks. Up at this height then, it is strangely quiet most of the time.

On a quiet night, the careful ear can hear away in another vector of the middle distance, the sound of breakers on a beach, when the wind is up and in the right direction.

One extraordinary thing though about this window: there is a mixed array of stub aerials set some way beneath the window, and the enquiring mind is set to wonder not only how the tall stooped man has managed the suicidal task of suspending such equipment at such a height and inclination, undaunted by imminent mortality and sudden squalls of wind but also, most of all, what their function could possibly be.

Because the windows are so often open and the climate is a warm one, the interior of the room and its contents are overlaid by the fine rhime of pollution that any cloud of traffic exhaust always carries with it. Logically.

The interior woodwork too is old but dry, and has never been looked after, though it is still in surprisingly good condition. From the hardwood frame the window itself looks out onto the sort of myriad of avenues and city streets that anyone would expect in a bustling city and sees, again in the middle distance, the tall flexing stalks of concrete towers, just off geometry. The stacks of the central city blocks.

And then, a few kilometres distant, the hint of an edge of deep blue ocean and the traces of palm trees fringing the cup of a bay.

Just a hint of that, with the brown exhaust haze lying thin as a knife between the dense air of the traffic and the cooler air of the airstream.

This eyrie maintains thus a slender contact with reality, and though good as a receiving point for the radio equipment in this apartment has only a limited scope as a watchtower. Mind you, with the electronic equipment here in this room one would rarely need one's eyes.

You see the man here, stooping and tall as he is, The King of the Airways, has thought this question of visibility and invisibility out already and, equally - already forgotten the question - for his interest is in sound: purity: pure, perfect sound and all its wonders and the equipment that can carry all it's confection - and wonderful various modulations - because in his experience of the world all truth is hidden in sound - from the shriek of the Fox to the report of the Carbine, sound contains the questions to many answers.

Perfect answers. As perfect as answers ever could be.

Now, from his lonely eyeline some way back in the space, the King regards the view for a brief moment.

The altered shape of the window from here, looks out onto the neat, greys, browns and verdant green rectangles of a sector of the city, generated by the production of the streets at some now distant time, and at some variance with the view first described.

This is his image of the city, most days, most times.

A light, warm, slightly salty wind bustles against the side of the block.

He turns away. Disinterested. This is everyday, whereas the mechanics and mathematics of sound are always a question, that is where the future is though he knows not exactly how; that is where it will all end, someday.

There is a certain amount of heat generated in the interior of the room.

How? The interior of the room is ordered in its own technical way: the equipment which lines one wall winks lights and illuminated LCD's.

Further down below the line of the desk are the power units which generate the by-product of heat, keeping the space up here artificially dry and warm. The power units and transformers have grey cases which show their vital signs with glowing dials and maintain the consistency of supply. There is an order to everything.

Perfection in sound requires perfect attention to detail. Small details must be perfect, thus mathematical.

You see, where the order fails is in itself a logical place. For example, chaos itself is order - the corner of the room contains a box, and each time a cassette or (obsolete) spool tape is full, the King will write something upon the label and mark the log, then fling the tape into the box without getting up from his control seat. Perfect, the creation of something so logical in it's own way.

The failing sunlight gathers orange and red and creates as it's by-product a wavelength distorting effect, such that the lights in the equipment begin to make reading slightly uncomfortable; this happens at roughly the same time every day and the King has, of course, everything considered: thus he has set up a bar-shaped reading lamp which segregates its light to any area of detail, or to his notepad or the scuffed but meticulously kept log. He clicks the switch 'On'.

With an effort, the King concentrates his eyes on the tabloid newspaper in front of him: .... 'The Bizarre events at 'Walker's Mansion' Last Thursday.'

Some five kilometres away O'Hara was drinking coffee and smoking a small cigar.

Back in the mid-town block, inside the control room, the light had changed. The King glanced up, sensing something. Such movement in the Sun would affect the solar transmitters. Damn!

One of the diodes had started to dance: he moved sideways along the panel of control switches and touched one of them, simultaneously pushing the fader up: then a remote voice swam into focus almost lazily, as if just awakening, maybe yawning:

"...like the Sunday rag?"

It was merely the fragment of a conversation, a pattern of voices: in space, delicate, shifting rhythms - an unravelling of factual reality - he took another sip of the now cold coffee: pushed the master control forward thirsty for more -

"Not particularly... but there's nothing going on criminologically today"

"Oh, I don't know, there was another peculiar murder last week"

"Ouch"

"What ?"

"Oh, just the light, something like a mirror, blinding.... what was that ?"

"The murder in the papers"

"Oh, you mean the one here"

"..Yes ...'The bizarre events at Walkers' Mansion'"

"Yes, I've been reading about it... no sign of any motive ... call-girl and rich client ... no linking factors ... one for the records, so far as I can see .. plenty of those in the unsolved department"

There was a silence while each voice wrestled with papers, or memory, or just manipulated a few facts. A dry rustling on the recording tapes as if the media were prematurely, acceleratedly, ageing.

Then:

"I don't know whether it's that we're theorists, but I can't seem to find any interest in this sort of thing lately" said the first, lower, voice.

"Arse ... that's what a young mans mind defaults to... I'm not just a computer boffin you know", said the second.

"So I noticed !" said the first, by name O'Hara.

"No", said his compatriot, Nicholas "...it's that lecturer in the Sociology Department that I'm nuts about".

"Oh ?"

"Drop the theories O'Hara.. let's face it .. I'd quite concretely like to get up her skirt"

A sniggering sort of laugh.

"Umm"

"Well?"

"Think more clearly for a moment, think about this". O'Hara clicked a key experimentally.

"Stuff it, I want to loose weight, go swimming, get involved..!... I was married too long.. and now I'm free !"

"Free as a desert?" a third voice chimed in.

"Hey, take it easy Nicky""

"Well, you're probably right. Michael-", said O'Hara's voice ". I could use some of that too .. I haven't touched a woman for longer than I care to remember"

"Well, you should try it some time, before you die O'Hara!". Nicholas.

"Oh, it'll happen one day without me having to push it"

"If you want to wait till you're ninety!"

"I have too much to do, what with setting-up all the new databases and that"

"Think about yourself, O'Hara, for a change."

"Well, I will, when I have the time.. I'm busy, now anyway,".

The man inside the distant room, the King, pulled the fader back to zero, the voices from the speaker seeming to dwindle, and concentrated once more upon his reading.

The worn capstan on the recorder scraped, struggled and then steadied.

He turned the page of the tabloid and the headline came once more into view: 'Murder at 'Walker's Mansion'..'

Days were wont to unwind slowly in the Computer Access Suite. Particularly when O'Hara wracked his brains and could think of nothing (often).

But things change - at first with a lumpen slowness and now faster and - now his brainchild 'The Master Program' had begun to show signs of activity, productivity.

Perhaps it would work eventually - as no program designed to trap criminals with a few keystrokes had ever worked before. Perhaps one day all criminals would be caught by a few deft and knowing keystrokes upon a distant keyboard. Ideals grow to become reality.

O'Hara knew that he was close to that great day, was confident of the outcome, and waited merely for that great moment - after all, he'd worked towards that moment for most of his active criminological life.

That would be one for the record books!

O'Hara turned the page.

Leafing through the pages of innumerable newspapers was an inevitable product of the search for all available information: the theory at least was that eventually all media sources, using wordsearch, spoken word to data programs and computer accessible filing banks would gain a large body of relevant and valuable peripheral information about a myriad of cases which would inevitably, in a data sense, lead back towards a predictable point. Predictable to the resources of a computer network, that was. All possible sources would eventually be capable of being accessed, due to the refinements that he was slowly developing in the program itself.

Slowly. That was his problem at the moment, time.

He was scanning for more information, hopefully, and thus the latest tabloid headline "Murder at 'Walker's Mansion", had been thrust into his hands and now held his attention.

"This one falls into some sort of pattern !" He said to himself, conversationally.

"I expect you're right"

"What ?"

"Data"

"Oh, nothing" said O'Hara.

This sort of work is inevitably tedious. The last week had flown by, while he had fiddled with the computer and bespoked the program even more perfectly than it had been tailored before. Now there should be no problem to find linked sets of circumstances, establish underlying 'Third and Fourth Level patterns.'

"Amazing how time flies when you're achieving something!", said Nicky hopefully.

Weeks and weeks had passed.

"Click, click, click. Ouch, wrong entry."

His finest achievement came ever more tantalizingly close to him. Perhaps he had it in his hands even now - and did not know it - the whole unit seemed to be buzzing with mysterious energy, like a beehive: a build-up followed by a rather deflated anticlimax followed by another treacherous build-up.

"I want to be able to solve widespread crimes of this sort simply by pressing the 'enter' key of my computer... one day I'll achieve it, I really will !" was how he'd drafted it in his submission for the research grant, which even now was beginning to run right down.

He turned the page of the newspaper and peered over it:

"What?" said a voice.

"Nothing"

He put the tabloid down and turned the inner page over so that the latest lurid message would be easy to find and catalogue. That was for whoever was doing the input in the next few weeks.

On the shelf several piles of uncollated material lay unattended, most of them similarly folded. The latest headline was about a murder in a remote colonial mansion, a weekenders resort. But for a criminologist who did research for a living this was nothing particularly new. that was the problem, how to pick one 'Third Level pattern' from another, one 'Fourth Level MO' (Modus Operandi) from pure accident.

The fading photograph of a headless torso with huge breasts and in full colour, hung upside down from under the untended pile of mouldering newspaper. Some sort of confusion between locker-room trophy-ism and criminological inexactitude.

"God, it's suddenly become cold", O'Hara shivered.

"No, it hasn't.. see what I said yesterday about too little sex and loss of condition".

Nicholas, close to his elbow, moved away, humming something or other. Nicholas was tone deaf, which explained a lot.

The atmosphere in the room was, as usual, pretty warm and the air itself, perhaps because of the subdued, low energy lighting, dense. Time, as usual had become a bit of a blur.

O'Hara stood looking down at the coloured rectangles of a SVGA Monitor: his head down over his work, feeling a delicately cold draft upon his neck, when a subtley full scent assailed his nostrils. The sensation was so strong and so unexpected that it made him stop in mid thought: he cantilevered his eyes around him, almost unwilling, unwittingly searching for something....

The day had dawned, unusually, rather grey, which was no spur to lax energy.

By early afternoon the King was once more at his work, he'd woken from his customary mid-day stupor and regained his temporarily lost motivation.

He sat as usual, at the control panel, watching the re-awaking, post-prandial dials with the usual amount of interest; they were, after all, his family. A judicious, watchful eye is what they ultimately required. Reasonable, yet judicious.

An LCD bobbed up and down, catching his attention for some reason, and he clicked a switch: he moved the fader below that port and all at once an errant sound whined like a banshee and then mutated, as the logic circuit caught it and brought it through the tortuous circumlocution of the handbuilt equipment around the room, finally into digital logic; until it itself unexpectedly became a voice:

"Uh.. this is the Criminology Department"

Now there was a hollowness on the line. The voices yawned as if turning away, the phasing continuing for a moment as if he were about to lose tuning: it must have been a passing powerful radio source or a transponder: he looked suspiciously out of the window into the blinding afternoon haze, as if his weak eyes could see right across the city, into all the places into which he had placed his small packages: his plants he called them. Green and brown and small. Yes, these small, dull, plastic, nuclear packages could easily be mistaken for plants.

The voices steadied then dimmed. He turned a knob and the dial on another LCD changed numbers; then after a moment the voices, if indeed they were the same ones, ducked, dimmed, faltered, and finally continued:

"Oh"

"And I collate data"

"Here?"

"Usually"

"Those papers and things.."

"Right"

A long, expectant, empty moment;

"Do you use other media...?"

"Yes, of course... computers of course... faxes, telex..."

"Morse code?"

"Morse code caught the first international murderer... it was a Doctor someone...

"Really?"

"Really!... Doctor... oh I've forgotten his name" There was a certain frustration on the line

"Crippen". The tinny, empty phrases echoed through the headphones with the coldness of mechanical logic and the warmth of biological energy precisely combined and then filtered by this machine as if to preserve them forever. The line deteriorated for a moment, losing depth and tone, then rallied, warmed somehow.

There was an empty silence, followed by some inexplicable laughter.

"Oh Oh...You're clever too..!" More laughter.

Then more seriously, the female voice momentarily darkened, almost imperceptibly, as it turned away from the microphone: there was a long pause and the conversation started again, pursuing a new vein -

"Magnetic media?"

"What do you mean?"

"Tapes.. video!"

"Well, of course"

"Aah!" a moment of immense satisfaction.

A silence.

"Tapes.. what an interesting idea"

"Could be the way to something interesting... and you've never used taped evidence for your data ?"

"Not yet.. if you showed me the way you use it perhaps I could!"

To the suspicious mind the voice held all kinds of questions.

Now a strong radio source came between the transmitter and receiver, or perhaps the tone of the voices had dropped; anyway, the dials began to jiggle and the volume to fade away almost to nothing:

"... like a ... killing".

Distortion had crept in making the words almost unintelligible, if indeed they were those words.

The logic circuits were struggling with the amount of intermittent corruption on the signal. The man at the control panel moved a few switches, then the signal began to move back again, almost like a melody;

"No, like data, pure data, that's all" the transmission sounded unexpectedly hollow .

"Oh... and occasionally I dance the Lambada!"

A higher, contralto, voice laughed and the listening electronics flattened the sound to within their own logical cycle:

"So do I"

"What else is there to say"

"I'm lost for words"

"Lost?" The voice was suddenly dark and somehow edged with threat, but undetected by the other.

Then, again for unexplained reasons, at last the voices seemed to laugh together disjointedly in unexpected, ghostly, chorus.

Chapter 3.

Linking Factors

O'Hara shook his sleepy head.

New. The newness of the Science Block was what had startled his eyes that morning. It was downright odd that he could have simply forgotten how something so frequently part of his life looked - and then someday walk around a corner and experience it suddenly, as if his eyes had always been closed before. And this newness, like any newness, was somehow sparkling, perhaps because it was the newness of a structure unaffected by normal constraints.

O'Hara, walking to work in the windowless Data Block, stood in front of the sparkling new Science Block for a few seconds and marvelled at the neatness of all its parts. His eyes zinged with the lightness and the brightness of everything.

He cleaned his glasses experimentally.

After all, he had grown used to the normal round of academic architecture and 'crucially depleted' structures. And now - this morning, suddenly as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, he had seen the Science Block in all its new, perfect virility.

How was it that he hadn't seen its glory so clearly, and with such acuity, before ?

Around the University, the more 'fashionable' Faculty members toyed with the idea of the new block, saying 'Italian Arkitect' with an assumed German accent, assuming thus all the false charm of the doggerel of a television commercial, yet not understanding that the word 'Arkitect' in German in this context meant designer - but that anyway is the novelty of anything new, an idea, an advert, a building: you can make minor mistakes but everything will be taken to all of a sudden come right, because nobody really cares to change their mistakes. If the design were originally taken to be 'Right', naturally. O'Hara had noted some sort of academic consensus on this among the Faculty.

Naturally of course it had occurred to O'Hara - who had never walked through the Science Block, but was tempted now that he had met the delectable Julia and suddenly had found himself daydreaming about her (just so that he could run in to her one of those bright days, maybe just make a date) - that the building must in all the idealism of academic theory have an interior that reflected its outer sculptured forms in some echoed and equally elegant ways: these Villas and spaces, those elegant domes and fairways, sweeping clearspaces and atria, these pools and sanctuaries and plenary halls and theatres and elegant tutorial studies, those function rooms and syndicate rooms; such elements of course, naturally, logically in the binding logic of beauty, of the Golden Section, the constructs of centuries of wise men - must be reflected in some brilliantly ingenious way outside as well as they were constructed inside. Like a Human body, really. Or was it the other way round?

The word one could use to describe this was not fashionable any more, O'Hara creaked his brain to remember, but it was still relevant though the buzzwords and the syntax might have changed, it was the word 'Tectonic'. O'Hara decided that he should let himself enter the complete 'experience' of the new Science Block.

However, but, now wherever he walked, sighted, took air and new breath, gained vista, elegantly strolled, ran. jogged, swam, around the building; it just unaccountably always reminded him, for some cruelly unjust reason, of just another Aircraft Hanger. Problems, problems.

Cruel though it was, O'Hara had to say it, not 'read my lips'; rather, look at the facts: this elegant expensive structure looked like the hangar of one of those enormous new aeroplanes that they said everyone was scared to fly in.

Very Tectonic, you might say.

But O'Hara knew himself that he was after all more or less a theoretical peasant in all this. A man with feet of clay, understanding nothing, not even the 'Master Program'. they could see that - such that when he talked about what he had not found with a Professor from the Architecture department, everything would be explained to him painstakingly - word by word, logic by logic.

Well, that was the riddle of the new Science Block.

And this was intended to alleviate all known modern maladies, in terms of movement that was. There was just one problem here - referring to these new but ancient maladies: because, despite all this understanding, catering for ones every ailment, all he knew for sure was that the continuous ticking pain he felt in his back, particularly during those tedious nights in the computer rooms, was not eased at all by all the ergonomic luxuries of the new building.

For one thing, he'd been looking for a wooden chair for ages. Just a simple Captains chair. The chair awarded him in the Computer Access Suite was a grand one, with plastic screw-things, and a handle and a back that looked just like a spine of some sort. It was made of just about anything, save wood.

Yes, he'd seen the Vice-Chancellor throw up his hands in joy when the head of funding showed him the huge, neat, model with the cotton-wool trees, at the official do, yes, everyone was thrilled, and ensured thus of keeping their jobs. Yes, the building was finished, now.

Security was a wonderful thing.

Anyway.. that's what the architect had said: at the opening 'Symposium'- the structure, any structure - was somewhat of a mirror: it must logically be like that inside as well; that itself would be perfectly logical. Only he was too blind to see it.

He took off his glasses again, to clean them for a moment. Come to think of it, hadn't someone said that this block had been built on an old graveyard or something?

Such thoughts are unnecessary.

The word Logic suited this site. A nice place to be a Criminologist. Logically, naturally.

"Nice, Eh ?" Michael had appeared at his side

"We should be able to do some serious Criminology here," O'Hara said, dropping his glasses.

"You betcha, Cowboy", said Michael laughing, "... real serious"

Michael walked away, tucking the new University guide book under his arm, whistling the torn fragments of a tune.

O'Hara walked round the block and entered the Computer Access Suite using his SmartCard and the morning wore on, as usual.

The usual administrative chores had to be completed, the latest reports filed, the last forms filled and the extensive survey of criminal habits and what Michael called 'Repeat Behaviour' annotated, given references and then put back into the computer in order to start the process of sorting data. Quite boring.

All this took time, and the researchers, sitting in their cramped corners, all over the building were overrun with the extent of the work.

Many of them, of course, were, unknowingly, obliquely working on his latest project: not necessarily directly, but often laterally: the information they entered being sorted - and much of it being automatically placed on file in his data banks, using parameters ordained by his program, the ' Master Program', called 'Watson' by the researchers who came upon it, possibly because it seemed antiquated, and it was said, would never work. Ah, but that would all become clear!

He called it 'Holmes' in riposte.

"Even more boring - but necessary", said an assistant, brightly, clicking away. Cheerfully, lying.

O'Hara had this block in his guts, this recurrent pain somewhere, he knew not exactly where, somewhere in his stomach. He jabbed himself savagely if he felt the pain, and it just disappeared, just like that.

Problem wise, privately, O'Hara had his reservations about the 'Master Program'. If it failed to work he would lose his job, that was all. Simple really. The void had begun to beckon, and O'Hara had begun to panic, privately.

"It must work !", he said to himself, as if to move the programme along: "...It must work - that's logical!"

Screens blinked. Keys clicked. Money dissolved.

"Linking factors..." Nicholas read from the flag which appeared on the screen, as the computer splashed figures and sorted data.

He watched the glittering cursor as it scurried over the pages one after another.

"Bloody irrelevant .."

There was a echo.

"It had better fucking work!" said the voice of the Vice Chancellor in his dreaming spire, thumping the desk and fearing for his funding, and his easy job. "After all how many arses did I have to kiss to get this damn job !"

Back on earth, meantime, O'Hara was thinking to add something to his journal - but as he pulled the book out from its hiding place he heard the dull tock of Nicholas' knuckles against the wood of the study door:

"Can I come in?"

"Sure"

"What's bugging you?"

"Only the factors".

".. after all, how do you link such factors?" said O'Hara simultaneously, on earth, in his study.

"We shall see", said Nicholas, turning over the pages of the manual on his knee and co-ordinating the keyboard on the desktop. He turned over a few sheets, sounding mellow; "We shall see" - and then as an afterthought, "How about sound ?.. How could we link-in sound ?"

"Sound ?"

"Here, in the manual: it says:

'the value of sound as a

recording medium for data should

not be underestimated - the

inception of a sound selection

and word relating program is an

important factor in the future

outlook and development of any

master program of this sort'

O'Hara looked rather blankly at the sheet:

"I wrote that, I don't have that sheet in my manual... and I wrote the friggin' manual !"

"Probably added by some helpful soul". Nicholas handed him over the green sheet.

"Thanks - I'll copy it off and return this one, odd though, I didn't write that, I'm sure.."

Later that day, O'Hara walked across the leafy, airy, square which lay in front of the University blocks.

In contrast with the greens around the new Science Block, the gardens which formed the entablature and thus confronted the facade of the Union building, one of the older buildings on the site, were green and beginning to overgrow the pool - itself an harmonious but acid thick grey green, with the speckled noses of multicoloured black, silver, grey, neon, purple. transparent, greenish, orange, and white fish occasionally breaking the surface with oily plopping sounds causing torpid ripples to spread languorously.

The pace of the traffic along the irregular, potholed stone, gravel and concrete roadway, spread across the three hundred metres of flat ground belting the entrance of the University was sluggish as usual in the new Sun. This strip of decaying hard-core and gravel had originally been intended to be the main University access road, but that grandiose function had somehow been forgotten now.

He saw a yellow frog hop across the lawn and then flip like a diver, back into the dense green safety of the pool.

O'Hara sat on a seat in the Computer Access Suite and rifled the pages of the newspaper which had been left there for his attention.

The red band across the flag at the head of the first page, was smudged with the concussion of smeared press rollers; then underneath it in heavy black blocks: 'Murder Of Moll A Madman's Murder?'

He re-focussed his eyes:

"So what's this?"

"Could be interesting".

Michael was flicking through back issues of Computer Magazines, looking for something.

"A pattern ?"

"No such luck! - Just a maniac"

"Well - that's how it seems"

"Oh?" Michael stopped for a break, and picked up the manual O'Hara was proud of: the manual for 'The Master Program', with the unidentifiably vagrant green sheet added to it, fresh from the copier..

"Yes, and the beginning of a repeating pattern"

"Life is a bloody repeating pattern - well, that's my theory".

"Maybe this is about life"

"Or Death - Death, maybe?"

The air was thick with smoke.

Michael lit another Gauloise with the butt-end of the last one.

"They all repeat in infinity."

"So do butt-ends !"

"Huh ...how's that ?"

"Haven't you noticed the headlines over the past months ?"

"I collate data, that's the idea, to catch them from.. the keyboard. Headlines are the least of my problems -"

"The mouse's eye view, from the keyboard - to coin a phrase"

"Very PC !"

Then suddenly an idea struck him:

"..That's the idea - the keyboard - where've I heard that before ?"

"Where ?.. the idea.. after all that's why we're here, to get the darned program tailored right"

"Oh, ho !" He coughed. O'Hara took a sip of ancient brackish coffee from the unstable plastic cup.

He wanted to explain.

"No, I'm beginning to see that it works, really". Well, he had to convince someone.

"Why... what d'you mean ?"

O'Hara coughed.

"It's just that I've seen the program begin to resolve itself, the programming is beginning to ease itself out... I reckon we're beginning to have enough facts to begin cracking cases like that one there". (What's a little lie between friends!)

O'Hara gestured generously, lying about lying.

"I dunno, I must just be stuck in all this academic stuff", said Michael, "..but we seem to be as far from anything as we ever were !"

"It'll come clear, Michael. Give it a bit of time !"

"I just hope you're right, that's all".

"Anyway...it's got to work, or next year we loose our funding and we're both coffee pullers downtown somewhere."

"Look on the bright side of it - we may be broke but we'll be able to meet for coffee in the afternoons."

"Yes, there's something to be said for a life in the Sun."

O'Hara coughed again and, unbeknown to him -outside the windowless Computer Access Suite, the Sun came out from behind a cloud.

"Radio, Sun, bloody clouds, darn 'em."

The grey face peered through thick horn - rimmed glasses as the dial winked it's way through the internal scale in delicate shades of silver.

The speaker crackled but was silent.

That had been the pattern for the last few moments, and, detecting that, the stooped man at the desk was displeased: then, suddenly the sound of a voice broke through and the last moment of the conversation, or whatever it was, wavered, fixed like a flag in stop-motion, upon the arcs of the wave scanner screen next to his elbow.

The wail resolved itself as a series of blips and dashes, which then alarmingly decreased their volume and became, magically, a set of almost unrelated, disjointed, words.

"Yes, it was like th-"

The female voice broke away and the man with the grey face made a grimace.

Now the sound was back again.

"What?"

"No, it really wasn't like that!"

"That's only what you're saying"

"Umm"

"Well".

The man with the glasses turned a switch and the cassette deck near him began to record the sound.

The silence was like a dense blanket after the loud coruscations of voice. Now he lay the headphones down, and sat back wearily.

"Lambada, you know, the dance !"

"Oh, LAMBADA ! - why didn't you say", Julia laughed and wrinkled-up her eyes behind the green umbra of the sunglasses "Lambada, like Salsa etcetera!"

"It's a word"

"A weird?"

"No. A word"

"Speak up"

"A weird, then".

"Ha ha!"

"Speak up dammit"

"Ha ha ha!"

"Mmm"

"What?"

"Too much Planters Punch, that's what it is."

She was right, O'Hara's eyes had begun to gently slide out of focus.

They were sitting out on the balcony of Julia's apartment.

Among the clouds among the clouds among the blue clouds and the white driblets of evening sky.

He jingled the ice in his glass.

"I'm quite.. sloshed".

She laughed, offering her teeth to the sky. An arc of smile.

"Want another drink?"

He had to give that serious consideration, after all, it took a lot of thought after several Planter's Punch's.

The palm tops shivered a few metres away.

"I'm thinking"

"Uh huh!"

"Coconut milk."

A newspaper lay on the table and the pages flapped over in the eddying wind.

For a moment he saw the headline - "Murder in.."

He had to force his eyes away from the paper for some reason the inertia holding him tight in it's grip.

"Mmm !", he said, meaning "just anything, don't let this stop !".

Julia made her uncertain way to the drinks cabinet and dropped white diamonds of ice on the rug, laughing all the while. One day she would return.

O'Hara found himself laughing for some secret, sweet, paranoid reason, some unutterably marvellous reason.

The layout of the interior of the apartment gave a complete visual contrast to the heat of the high balcony among the clouds.

The living area swept almost gracefully back on the left, to a bedroom which he had not adequately seen, and on the other side to the bathroom, beautifully appointed, and then the combined stainless steel greys and scrubbed and oiled worn wood browns of the complete kitchen, beyond which there were several doors.

What Julia had called: 'The Studio', and 'My place to dream in'. perhaps he would find that out.

But now, was a hot day sliding into night, and beneath the cotton T-Shirt and trousers he was peppered with a spice thin layer of sweat; not at all unpleasant.

He stood at the edge of the living space while she clattered in the kitchen, (or was that the bathroom.)

He felt very pleasantly drunk.

Then she came up to him in the shadow and opened her mouth and leaned against him softly.

"We are children of the shadows."

"What ?"

"I'm being a philosopher tonight !"

There was nothing to say.

He felt intensely lonely and alive and possessive, all at once. That was all.

After a while, as if reading his intention rather than his conscious mind, she moved away a step, then began to unbutton his shirt.

"There's something I want to do, now". She was abstracted, as if caught up in the complexities of buttons and ties and..

"Oh yes ? Well, do it then !"

"I want to suck your cock"

"Her mouth was at the level of his belt, and now on momentary edge, he swung her up, afraid.

"No, not yet !"

"Oh, the Campari makes me say things I never thought I ..." Her mouth was uneven, unstable.

"I want you too". O'Hara was without touch.

She moved against him, teasing at him. His hands, which had developed a life all their own, stopped shaking, perhaps to compensate, as he eased her skirt down.

He slid his fingers under the tight body she wore and felt the silken weft of the stretch material give against his knuckles. He eased his fingers down the cream run of her skin and finally between her legs and pulled the press studs back, brushing the back of his hand against her tight trapped hair - to find it enticingly sharp, cropped and cool, ready for him.

"You're beautiful and fresh !"

"Of course I am. I wanted to be fresh for you."

She gave only a little moan as his mouth grazed for a moment between her thighs.

"Ever so slow"

Whatever they did it was slow, and gentle and enormously passionate.

The blue sea overhead watched as he leaned over her, as they curled on the rug, as they twisted and pulsed beneath the Moon.

Chapter 4.

In the darkness the green dots on his watch face were cold neon close to his nose, when he opened his eyes.

He waited a moment, savouring the deliciousness of existing, only existing.

The air was cool, and in the background, if he listened intently, he could just hear the sound of the sea, subdued.

Near dawn in the sky. Moments of colour ice cold and then promising fiery hot. That moment when the temperature seems to drop before it begins to rise to make the day all new. The Palms making tiny shuffling noises, almost as if they were impatient for dawn.

O'Hara turned over: warm. Who wanted dawn; he could stay here forever.

Julia lay akimbo, her chest gently heaving like a slow peaceful sea, her knees open and frozen in the midst of the movement of another unending wave.

Now he snuggled down in the luxury of the trough of warmth between her legs. Such luxury.

This was a fragrant moment of his, with the scent of her. A moment of impractical penseé, something almost forgotten that he had re-discovered with great pleasure and surprise in these last few weeks within himself.

He had to discuss it with himself, something about her, about his love of her, of woman.

Later, he wrote in his thumbed Journal:

'..there is a something

that they have,

a special secret warmth

that I admire,

or adore, or something

nameless that I

can't express: perhaps

its that I'm

jealous of them,

and that's why I

want to be with them.

But being a man

anyway, I've experienced

several female lives I

guess, in the

close knowledge, in the smell,

the vibration and the warmth

of them.

Fucking them, being loved

and being

held close in that

secret Cheshire-cat

smile of their regard.

But - one thing is that

in that way

I don't have to live

the myopia of being

female, of being any

gender at all, I

can soar, - I have the

hawks-eye view.

Maybe that's a lot

better than being

lost in the time,

the sticky unknowingness,

the helpless fate

of being organic and

timed and limited by my

fallopian tubes.

But survival is their key

and I admire ……………………………..

…………………………

The Listener

'The activity of 'Listening' itself, integral as it often is with the process of criminal detection, and like 'The Master Program' on the University Criminology computer data bank, requires clear-cut technical parameters as a necessary condition of effectiveness..' O'Hara put his pencil down and turned the elements of the puzzle over in his mind.

'If all these details are not

matched it becomes possible to

spend endless time, money and,

resources, achieving - not very

much'...

He dotted the pencil against the paper and the point broke off.

Elsewhere in the city the same subject was being examined in considerable, technically limited, detail.

In his dusty, quiet, space in the sky the King sat thinking about his own world. He was bent over the desk at this point, his eyes being not too good.

The way he saw it, upside down at first, (then he rotated the page): he was reading from a dog-eared government manual on the same subject - he continued -

"... each parameter set for the

listener ..'should cut down the

element of potential error'..(for

'Error' read 'choice')..'.. by

at least fifty percent: in other

words, each decision as to target

segment should narrow the

potential area of choice to just

one element - such decisions in

total narrowing thus

quickly..'..elegantly, to just

one point. The Target."

There was one thing they hadn't covered - for, having covered the technical; points - there are a further set of parameters to be met: for example, how do you set transmitters? - or to put it another way - how do you listen, snoop,

bug ? - what are the parameters, and do they have any darn meaning?

Of course,( as O'Hara had noted elsewhere in a lateral sort of way) technique is the thing - in this case the technique of knowing the ability of a particular wavelength or technology to penetrate concrete or glass - or any facia of let's say laminated marble or glass-fibre. But from a technical point of view (at this point he smiled to himself) that is merely the tip of the iceberg.

He smiled again, knowing what they didn't know, in the fullness of his experience, for the King had a certain picture in his mind: the picture of a perfect listeners universe, measured and mitigated by a perfect set of parameters, using rugged, elegant equipment and effective software. That always would take time.

This rankled. Added to that, so far he had not had access to effective software: no write-down programs or 'Transcription Capability'- it would have been easy for them to furnish all this.

All these technical points needed clearing, were needed urgently. But he'd get over that, there was a tick in the back of his mind that told him that it was close, the amelioration of that element was close...

These dreams he had were dreams of grandeur, but why ever not, after all he (at this point he thumped his chest, aggressive for some unguided reason) was the boss, the expert the .... for a moment he shifted his seat to tend a suddenly active indicator.

That had created a gap, for now he had time again to think.

There was a future horizon to all this, for one day he, King Radio, would publish the ultimate manual, the Bible of the Listener, the Snooper in sound. It would be the very sum, the perfection, the Crown - of the world of secret sound.

He laughed to himself in the close quietness of the room. Not for him dreams of domesticity, peace, boredom. No. Soon, all around the world, students would brandish the Manual, probably produced like the other milestones by McGraw-Hill or some similar company with a household name: and he would receive millions in royalties..

And then, finally, after all this time, he could rest on his laurels, thousands of students relishing his every word, the heading of each section.

It would be the set text, the established text, the master text, by King Radio.

That way they would know him: that would be the perfect rounding to his life's work - his masterwork.

He would finish it some day, real soon.

Why, if you were present and asked him, he could prove it: he had the information here in the red file, the sheaf of papers already showing bulk and burgeoning shape and content.

It was merely a sketch, but that would do. He flipped the pages almost lovingly, sampling the main headings and skipping over the main chapters.

Finally, in a sort of triumph, he turned the top leaf over and examined the ideas he'd gathered so far: he selected a set of samples -

Technique.

The knowledge of understanding where to plant the microphone or transmitter - in an interior, behind a plant or under a desk or over a doorway; or on the exterior, fastened to the frame of a window that can't be opened. And there are many other alternatives, requiring time and lateral thinking.

Experience linked with lateral intelligence was a critical factor - the King had long held that there was no need for a well versed and wide chain of operatives - from his extensive experience he knew that any well trained technician could easily make good 'Plants'- There was no need any more for people to sit around in baker's vans listening and waiting through cold nights. No, that was all ancient history.

He turned the ragged page.

Equipment

Many examples, annotated in long lists in the back of the file. But for our example, a microphone simply attached to a windowpane in the guise of something completely different - a thermometer or thermostat; and of course, the critical factor for technique, of knowing whom to bug, whether to use voice activated microphones - or to tape entire segments of time.

Or, for that matter, to use microwave or VHF, long wave, SSB.

And of course the simplest most elegant way to bug, in combination with the right equipment; you must always remember that the use of the right equipment is absolutely critical.

He thought for a moment, then pushed the pencil almost wearily along the line.

Now the practice.

Listening to someone who is unwise and has something to hide - in its simplest form - is to access the circuits of a cellular phone of some sort; the transmitter circuit being open, it is one of the simplest functions, technically.

Mind you, there are established technical parameters to any but the most complex scrambled communications.

Simple elegance.

Anyway, the King knew all the details like the back of his heavy, sensitive, worn, hand; all the parameters of communication and listening, side-bands and harmonics and infrared senders. Anything. Blind radar. Anything.

He thought for a moment, scratched his nose.

That was what riled him - when he thought about it - he had spent his best days working for the department, developing all these electronic wonders, only to be set aside: put on the scrap heap at the peak of his achievement.

What had been the point of it all?

Some departmental politician had started the whole mess, that's all it could have been, that was the only way he could read it, logically. Dammit, after all he had been in at the birth of many of these new systems - developed them, brought them to fruition, like his special babies.

That, too, stuck in his craw; the fact that he could be used so glibly and patently, all his patience, expertise and careful life-expensive technical knowledge. Now he was used up, he was used up and now cast aside like a screwed-up pack of Marlboro.

"Pah!"

They had never made such a mistake, made so basic a misjudgement. He scrabbled around on the desk for another cigarette.

But there was something that no-one could part him from, one thing he knew: he'd developed knowledge and know-how - and of course expertise, far beyond the years of anyone younger than he. And he knew more about this business than anyone else he'd ever known.

Hence, The King. , admired and respected among snoopers world-wide. Sought after at exhibitions, regaled with stories of secret derring-do.

He lit the cigarette and puffed it, concentrating on the page before him:

Target (i) Assessment:

To get back to the central theme: of course the aim of all this is it to target a particular person, or is it to listen to a meeting - what is it for?

And how do you target the critical moment or person? - (the apex of this sort of pyramid is often hard to discover and demands an active and decisive mind, the ability to think laterally and quickly). These are everyday problems, faced by any listener, any snooper.

The task itself is quite simple: it is the twin parameters of choice and of equipment which are complex. Having made the decision to listen to a certain person or activity, any half reasonable, half experienced operative could tell you that; once the technical considerations were satisfied, adequate parameters were simply and effectively initiated.

Often too, the activity itself would be initiated simply: as simply as by entering a location, having telephoned a corporate number of some sort, having asked for a particular person or title, the better to ascertain location, room number, floor, block.

Decisive thinking he knew, is critical to the effective snooper together with a certain anonymity - any amount of cluttered thought can destroy a potentially good 'Plant' - and of course you have to get the name straight. Names can be critical, as can be attitude, orientation, and of course, location.

Location.

That was another main element. Location. Part one, page one, in the manual they had never asked him to write.

The 'phone call was the main thing. The right tone must be set. You're aiming for perfection, remember that; technical equipment never forgives a mistake. You must ask the right questions with the right tone, they must never suspect or expect a thing.

Reconnaissance.

To backtrack slightly, commonly, the contact having been established - some time later the operative as he would have ideally termed it, would walk right through the target department to find the location concerned: dealing with civilian operations in this area - lunchtime was the best time, or failing that, around 15 minutes or so before the receptionist of a company or department (if that was the pitch) arrived in the morning.

Another thing; familiarity is a positive element: if they think they know you, then they'll trust you, particularly in a large setup. Thorough reconnaissance could be critical to the success of a plant or operation.

Location.

Ah hah! The nub of the problem.

Locating a transmitter is always relatively straightforward given the factors above: the main problem being orientation: quite simple. One technical detail: window glass is usually a good vibration agent, and one of the most important areas of developing technology and knowledge among the various instruments in any snoopers arsenal. And more particularly, for one thing the equipment in his 'studio' could modulate almost any de-modulated wave - that's if he didn't use the microwave transmitters the size of a thumb that he constructed in his laboratory for the 'pick-up' - and distorted waves of almost any nature could be accessed and de-coded simply by using an elegant computer program that he had copied over at the defence department before his redundancy. Another borrowed and sophisticated weapon.

Hadn't they called him 'King'. He smiled to himself among the grey readouts and indicators, 'King... Radio'... You didn't get that title for nothing. Not in the department. Why, somebody had even gone so far as to chalk that on his workroom door.

And now came the tasty kernel of the question: 'Who and Why'.

Target (ii) Decision:

This had taken a lot of experience, practice and thought.

In his case, in the greenness of his inexperience many years ago, he had thought that he should listen and notate the actions of people within the security services, and he had listened to a few of them: a few detectives in the central detective headquarters in the city, easily within receiver range of his equipment. But actually that was a beginners exercise, boring.

Later technical considerations and following his own dictum of 'Whenever possible well within your technical limitations', meant that he moved the focus of his equipment over to the blocks near him. One of the blocks contained the administrative offices of a recording company, one was a lawyers office, and in the same easily accessed blocks within direct sight range of his outlook, a catalogue of small companies.

He had recorded conversations and situations that no-one would ever have thought possible. He laughed to himself: Now that was material the department would have prized, and it was his, and would remain his until he had made a decision about what he should do with it.

On impulse, and as a product of his earlier training, he had begun to extend a few 'feelers', this way and that.

Pretty soon he would make a decision as to what exactly he should do. After all, there was money in it, and the people he had spoken to knew that: for that reason he never invited then to his eyrie up in the red brick block: no-one must know where the material was, it was potentially far too hot.

That had been an unexpected product of his 'hobby'. He asked himself many times : after all, what would anyone do in the same position as his, reviled by his government, forgotten by his department, put aside to rot.

Something jarred against his shins. It was the cardboard box that contained the material that had never been looked over. In fact he had not had the time - would anybody?

Certainly there had been a department given over merely to listening in the past, and his skill anyway was not one of the listener per se. As a result of which - now he had a vast selection of tapes, cassettes, recordings on digital equipment. Which, Newtons fifth law being supervalent, had created a problem.

The looming problem now was one caused by his success, one of bulk. There was no-way that he could listen to all this sound, interesting and often lurid as it was. Not enough hours left in his life. And the additional problem was that that there was no particular pattern to the material: it needed a central control method - not merely the log book and the numbers system, now well into the hundreds, and becoming confusing - some way of sorting that could be multi-directed and worked over in a variety of ways and patterns so that the meat in the material could be quickly and effectively struck.

Then it had struck him -

Transcription. His only failing, but not as a result of his own miscalculation.

The operator needs to find a way of transcribing the information from the tapes.

There would be a potential use in some form of automated transcription, and he now sought a way of transcribing the material - not only that, but also a way of analysing it and editing-out the garbage. Let the equipment do the work, after all that was what it was for, once you had the right setup.

Information, after all, is power, money.

His dry laugh echoed over the deep chasms between the blocks.

The material: he had listened to a great deal of the material, hearing the conversations of a lawyer talking to his tart, what was her name, Deborah something. And that lawyer had been playing games with the boss of the recording studio across the mall, financial games; and thus the arranger had met another whore, one Mandy someone; these four had then arranged to meet at a hotel which he had sought out, mainly to leak information to him, and now sometimes frequented, The Hotel Portonegro.

And, as they say, he'd learned all about it first on The Network, this time his own network.

That gave him satisfaction, a certain satisfaction. That was for the future; who knew what would come of that, the facts that would turn up, what cases and questions that information would solve. How much would it be worth?

He lapsed back into a reverie for a while, and then awoke.

Sparrows argued around the rusting ironwork surrounding the fire escape outside the windows..

He leaned over and on impulse lit another cigarette, at the same time instinctively watching the controlling dials, each of them with an independent life.

The existence of these dials gave him a certain warmth - and a certain satisfaction too. He scanned them casually, almost randomly as he had always done, occasionally checking for quality of transmission; (voice activated circuits were a God send in all this), his apparent casualness developed only over a long period of time.

His thoughts chipped in.

Of course, he could rewrite any program of this sort as he wanted... no-one knew better how to manipulate such machines of war. But his handling of computer programs was necessarily limited by the price and accessibility of the right computer hardware, software - and up to the minute information. Way beyond his means.

That was another point of frustration; there must be a way of straightening it out.

And then there was the siting of his 'Studio', perfect for this sort of work. These windows could open the way to who knew where.

At the heights those windows were situated, the infrared and ultra violet was almost always undisturbed by traffic fumes or pollutant clouds. So, of course the Sun did its work well, and kept the equipment running all day, and usually some hours into the darkness.

After dark ?

He always chuckled to himself about people. Particularly those clerks and bureaucrats who had laid him off while retaining their own worthless paper-pushing lives. And this was his way of getting even with them; well one way, anyway. Human Behaviour was the title he used for it, Human Behaviour.

Human Behaviour.

After Dark ? There is no darkness in sound.

And it is truly amazing what people get up to in offices after dark. He had hours of noises and fumbling and the rhythmic thrusting of people tussling together in offices on the fourteenth floor, she afraid of the cleaners' walking in, he intent upon his own satisfaction. Hours of this. And that was just the tip of the iceberg; he must sort through the tapes on the desk.

He laughed his crackling, dry, laugh - an unconscious mirror of the microwave clatter and the radio diffusion.

Storage.

Storage. That was his next, much more mundane problem - the problems of success ! The pile of tapes grew day by day: he had a box here by his shins, almost full, and a box in the closet out back. Storage was becoming a continuing problem. The King felt tired, almost boozy. He slumped at the desk.

He flicked a switch and a tape motor whirred: he put the headphones on and adjusted the level, then took them off, his interest deflected by the sounds of the birds: but the words continued in the headphones, dry and disjointed, crackling slightly from airborne dust particles and static:

"...No, but I must discuss this."

"Well ?"

"What I say is that we should at least deal with this!"

"The problem is that technology and recording sound and stuff, is all a foreign language to me."

"Well, that may or may not be true, but you'll remember that yesterday afternoon we walked through the fairground together and didn't discuss a single thing; after all it was the basic idea we shared about what they called the Tyrolean theorem... you know, that set of factors that they programmed into your system."

"OK."

"And I reckon that much of what we say is being noted"

"Oh, Yeah ?"

"And, like you, I want to see an outcome, some way of assessing the situation, some blood for all my labour"

"Right"

"See to it will you, catch whoever it is is the Listener, get rid of them, and make it seamless. The money is already waiting."

"Right".

The King was over by the window, feeding the sparrows some crumbs, and didn't hear a thing.

The buzz in the headphones lasted several more minutes, the voice sensor inoperative for some reason, until the tape clicked itself off over the sprung capstan lever.

After a time he noticed that the tape had stopped, took it off the spool, numbered it, ticked it off in the tattered log book, and placed it in the cardboard box in the corner of the room, together with the others.

Chapter 8.

The Thesis

"It would be such a perfect thing to have one of those apartments around a courtyard- you know the type - one with a pool in the centre, wouldn't it?"

From O'Hara's eyeline the narrow brown rectangle of the window looked out onto the ordered, cool vari-greens of the science block.

"Yes, but we, all of us live in nasty clapboard houses in rundown quarters where swimming pools need armour plating and you find the occasional corpse floating in them!" said Michael, airily"...shall we go ?"

Nicholas laughed, it seemed irrelevant.

The three of them started to walk in the general direction of the Computer Access Suite.

Michael was not speaking for himself though: oh no, he was speaking as was his wont - on behalf of the entire faculty - Michael, for his part, lived in a wonderful house out in the warm country, with landscape rooms and picture window walls - Oh, and a swimming pool. Michael's wife was 'Rich'.

".. Don't break my chain of thought.!..." continued O'Hara, gradually losing control … ".. there'd be people living there who'd have great parties - and you'd get invited to them almost by default, and spend evenings swimming and necking ! ... anyway, you're a pain in the arse, Michael", said O'Hara, "... Always pouring cold water on my dreams !"

"Keeping your feet firmly on the ground", said Michael. "You have good ideas O'Hara, but you insist on taking enormous risks... and one day.. woomph!" He made a gesture with his hands.

He clapped O'Hara on the shoulder and disappeared down an intersecting corridor.

"Could be fatal!"

"Well,", O'Hara turned to Nicholas, "Nick, I still have this dream of a house among palm trees and the sea and... birds and things.. and no automobile fumes.."

"Yes..", said Nicholas sympathetically (at least he was a sympathetic soul); "...perfect.. reading Krafft Von Ebbing among the swaying palms, a Pina Colada and a Parrot easily to hand, J.A.C. Brown and a smidgeon of Laing on the footstool.. a superb, brown, woman called Auntie Marge, but not your auntie, langerously close, in fact next to you on the sunlounger, ready at a moments notice to show you the meaning of existence.. well give you her all, anyway.... love... security, lots of money... nice motor.. Yes ".

Nicholas came from England, more precisely from north London, you could tell if you listened hard from those flattened vowels, even though he thought he had them well diguised - he had a 'thing' about the Adverts he saw at the cinema. He had a sympathy with O'Hara's feeling about the sun, spending as he had, most of his life without it.

Now he too clapped O'Hara on the shoulder and disappeared, this time into the study to his left.

O'Hara continued his now lonely walk through the University. He ruminated on Order and Confusion for the millionth time, and this time settled for Order. As usual, actually.

He had spent much time ruminating the theory of chaos, but had never got much out of it. After all, when does a man know he's rich?

But one thing was for certain: as against order -confusion there was, aplenty in the Master Program - over the edge, whatever that meant, over the edge.

According to O'Hara's understanding, or call it what you will, philosophy, there was an order to everything. Only, the catch was that you had to find it. Not as simple as it may seem, that. He always reckoned that it was clear that Nature has an implicit balance: neutral, uninterested, but ordered in some way. Finding that perfect knife edge of order was the catch.

And the program? Well, that was another puzzle all by itself.

He went out to the canteen to kill time, empty headed, drank several coffees and ate a ham in cardboard sandwich that tasted of nothing in particular. He had to think: away from all that clacking and zizzing and order: he needed natural time, dreamtime. It took time, dreaming, before returning to the Computer Access Suite to work.

Now, O'Hara found himself in the corridor, sitting in the companion chair to a desk that was obviously surplus to someone's requirement. Thinking. Dreamtime at last. Well, at least for a few minutes.

Something was not right, some detail hadn't worked. What was the gap?... Where was it?

At length he rose wearily, and began to re-trace his steps. He took the long route back to the study, through the gardens and down by the pool. He watched the crystalline spray of the fountain creating traceries of bubbles in the cool green water. His back itched, that old muscle cramp from an athletic injury that he had carried for many years now, making itself unforgotten.

He rubbed his back with outstretched fingers, he really should get this seen to, perhaps a massage or some sort of treatment would straighten it out, that was what it needed.

Well, there would be time for that another day. Now there was more work to be done on the data parameters, perhaps a tailoring of data input, perhaps a targeting of relevant factors. O'Hara rubbed his head.

The light in the Computer Access Suite was at its normal subdued level, making reading difficult.

With an effort, he concentrated his eyes on the paper in front of him: '.... the bizarre events at the Mansion Last Thursday ....' already the newsprint was beginning to yellow and become slightly brittle, and he turned the pages with an assumed gentleness, as if they might well break off there and then. Outside the building clouds obscured the Sun for a moment.

"There's something here"

The light over the desk was changing.

"What ?"

"There's something to this !".

He looked up and into the eyes of his friend;

"... But there's nothing today."

"Oh, I don't know, yet another murder with the MO - the pattern we've been tracing"

"What? Something moved in the confines of the study."

"Oh, just the light... what was that?"

"The murder in the papers."

"That's an old one."

"Oh, you mean the one here" he said, motioning at the paper "..yes ' ... the bizarre events at the Mansion"

"Yes, I read that one weeks ago; but what about it anyway... no sign of any motive ...?"

"But it's a copycat"

"Is it?"

"Call-girl and rich client ... that's no special linking factor except that the MO is the same ... another one for the records"

"But I can link them - well.." he withdrew slightly, " I reckon the program will find the link".

He scribbled a note which he would later transfer to the 'Master Program'.

"You're obsessed by the bloody program."

"It's my headache..!"

"You're right".

"And if it works, it'll save an amazing amount of problems"

"Well.. I don't know.."

"I'll make the darn thing work.. I'm certain I'm close".

That went unnoticed. What the hell.

The work for that afternoon was to read printed periodicals: magazines and newspapers, and at four in the afternoon O'Hara was still scanning the programme, picking at the keys.

"Just by chance I saw another report.."

The printer started to run over the continuous paper roll at great speed.

"Well, Nick?"

The printer had stopped. He tore the microperforated paper sheet off and placed it in the pile with the other documents.

O'Hara put the sheet of paper he was holding from the read-out, down. He feigned surprise.

Something had come to mind - perhaps he should mention it:

"I think I know the contact point"

"You do?"

"I don't know how to put this - but you know that woman Julia I've been dating?"

"Very Scientific"

"No, I'm serious"

"That woman"

"Yes"

"Go on, then" Nick hadn't moved from his crouch at the table.

"It's odd, peculiar, but it seems to be true"

"Umm - seems? - that on the printout ... Harris ?"

"No... she's dead, idiot! ... no, I know that it's a coincidence but actually it's that woman you've seen me with in the computer suite..?"

"There's some confusion here"

"Is there?"

"You know, the one I spoke to in the Suite the other day."

"I don't recall her."

"Well how do I put it -"

"Send me a letter !"

The computers next door hummed on.

"Don't be facetious. The thing is, that the amazing coincidence remains that when I was at her place I discovered.." O'Hara was swinging in to gear -

"Yes I've noticed you in a strangely good mood!"

"That is facetious!"

"Go on. .quite by chance?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, quite by chance - that she knows about these people and (and I know this is absurdly coincidental) - but she told me that in the past she had run a few call girls.. you know, acted as a sort of agent, not a madame!"

"Sounds safe"

"Kinda safe"

There was a silence. Then:

"She did what!"

"You heard me"

"Oh yeah seriously..

are you mad?"

"I know it's ridiculous, but it's true.. "

"Go on!"

"..And she knew a couple of these girls.."

"Quite by chance: maybe I'm crazy, too", Nicholas was sardonic.

"Absurd as it may seem, yes, that's the fact!"

"Well? Let me in on this for goodness sake".

"She put it to me that that was one way to turn over a buck - by the way, she hasn't done it for yonks".

"Sure is!". His friends' eyes were somehow brighter "Oh Yeah!"

"I just ran across.. well she told me... I mean we're sleeping together now... and you know women..."

"Obviously not, so far... I mean I thought you needed a woman ....and now you've lassoed a circus ... ...how wrong could I be!"

"It's not like that"

"Oh, why not?"

"Hey, I'm in love... this is love!"

"I know you too well, you'll play with this one and then..."

"No!"

"A dangerous game, my boy!"

There was a long silence, almost an angry one - why - Nick was the wolf around here!

"You're telling me... but let me explain - I've found a link - between this Julia and the hookers..."

"Hookers, eh?"

"Yes, seriously".

"You know, its an odd thing but I seem to remember you telling me that you couldn't seem to find any interest in this sort of thing!"

"Well, times change - that's all"

Nicholas had started turning pages again, not reading them, just scanning the tabloid pages.

"And, anyway - sometimes I like to get involved in the actual collection of the data", said O'Hara.

"Obviously, you have to". A slim metaphor.

"Umm... be more serious a moment...let me summarise a moment; what we're looking for is a factor or group of factors that creates a link between the victim, any potential victims, and the maniac... and with this group it could be that the reason is that the data was incomplete, or to put it simply - we missed them because of faulty data.... data error and data simply not being there. Oh, well, that's it!.... I rest my case."

O'Hara sat back in the chair and played with a ballpoint pen.

For what seemed ages Nicholas continued turning pages. O'Hara had forgotten what he had thought previously when he said:

"I suppose you're totally pissed off... well?" - somewhat hopeful.

"Well, you're probably right.. I could use some of that too .. anyway " said Nicholas, joining into the subject like a clam taking hold,..."..really, O'Hara, you should try living a bit some day before you die ! Looky here, you're heaping accident on accident: we're supposed to be dealing with empirical fact and you're getting involved with an ex-call girl(in quotes) who could even be one of the suspects !"

"I know it looks like that but it's all accidental.. I mean coincidental.. that's all".

Nicholas was unbelieving, you could tell by his eyebrows.

"Coincidence?"

"Yes"

"Hey, this is science - this is the Science Block - remember !"

"Relax will you!"

"I have too much to do, what with setting-up all the new databases , you know.., anyway, there's more"

"Well - let me in on it!"

"I will, if you behave"

This time Nicholas put the paper down and gave him his full attention.

"Well"

"The data.. that's what it all comes back to"

"What we're doing, of course"

"Let me show you what I've found.." O'Hara took a page of the printout and started skimming through it to find the data that he had gleaned from Julia's information.

They hunched over the data printout, the subdued lighting making them almost conspiratorial.

The woman's voice had a crisp edge to it:, sharp, perhaps re-modulated into a side-band or one of its mathematical equivalents somewhere. Now the voice cleared laterally to a heavy thump, then a thrum and then quickly became crystal clear, like the bottom of a treacherous deep sea, seen through the lense of cold, unmoving, water:

"Something to do with computers, that's all."

The mans voice, in contrast, had a slightly nervous edge:

"And I collate data"

"Oh?"

"I think that if I can put all

these data together, then I can

trap a criminal by using a

synthesis of their actions, their

MO - that's Modus Operandi!...

and their habits and the people

or places or elements in the

story that fit together in

whatever way that they do fit !"

"Does the theory work"

"It will, I know it - why, I'm

pretty close to it now; right on

the edge of it right now: we've

been working on it for ages: all

I need are a few additional

factors now, to fall into place

through all this research we're

doing, and , Hey ! Presto! it'll

all suddenly gel !... Easy as

that!"

"Oh... great !"

"And when I'm not

computering.. occasionally I dance

the Lambada"

The woman's voice, a contralto, perhaps through the distortions of air, with a slightly chesty accent, seemed to laugh:

"So do I"

"Well, then !"

"What else is there to say"

"I'm lost for words"

Now they both laughed.

The air moved in accord with the time. And a moment later the line cleared for a moment, hastening aside the radio chatter that the man at the control panel had spent his day monitoring and clearing. The sideways shift had found a digital hook, so now it was strangely, digitally clear, the sound coming out of a frame of surprising softness and dead stillness:

"I like it but it seems illogical"

"Mmm"

"I shall show you that you can have all of me"

The imprint of the sound on the tape bit into the material, causing tiny ripples to ride over a minutely serrated surface.

Then without warning the lense cleared - the threat of deep, fast running, icy cold water subsiding as the tape wobbled slightly on the worn spindle and just as suddenly stopped. Time had worn it in its passing.

And something else had occurred through the passing of time: for, during these few weeks a few kilometres distant, O'Hara had begun to learn about the dimensions of his life - something that he had never understood before. Awareness grows very slowly. Such experience had passed him by so far in his life.

O'Hara, in his own words '..found this difficult to handle' For one thing he felt privileged that Julia should begin to develop such a closeness to him - unused as he was over the past few years to any real companionship. Of course this had all come as a considerable surprise - as an emotional refugee, unused as he was to any but the most unavoidable intimacies and unused to any form of real trust - enwalled as he was in the separateness of his lonely identity.

This was the product of conditioning - a thing of habit, formed over a considerable period of time. And the thing was that he could not answer that unspoken question: another absurd but magnetically perfect juxtaposition - simply - he didn't know how, or why - the two of them could feel so complete together, the novice and the master ? - though of course through this process they inevitably would become the total instrument of their joint sexuality.

In moments of introspection, O'Hara knew that it was simply another step in his incomplete education, which he knew now could never be really complete - something which made them, together, that much more complete.

It was true, they had begun to become united, close. How could he describe it better ?.

It was, logically, another dimension of living, something which an academics' training is barely suited to. Not purely theoretical - but cold logical reality, the relationship between poles, the polarity between unlikes.

Thus O'Hara had progressed, broken a barrier in his own mind, never to remember, never to return.

"Let me tell you what the theory is", said O'Hara, "I'll make it simple".

Another day, another dollar.

"Right". The Post-Graduate student looked a lot brighter than he really was.

"It's quite basic really... but it needs data, data tailored and cut and put together in ways that are accessible both to input-errs and to the software - tailored so that access is simple" He was being tutorial.

"Yeah, Tight". O'Hara had begun to wonder if indeed this student knew more words than these. Numerate people are after all, practically illiterate. And vice-versa. You had to be philosophical about it; the right-hand side and the left-hand lobe of the brain. The right hand side governing intuition and ....

` "...And sufficient data, with sufficient references to make a network of information that at any point of 'touch' relates back to a set of facts which ultimately direct you to one person or a single set of related crimes."

"Uh huh". That was better. The Graduate Student's eyes had changed - or perhaps, more soberly, it was the effect of the coloured rectangles changing on the screens.

"As simple as that, any set of facts starts a network, cuts down the choices by a factor of perhaps one - then another set of interstices cuts it down another fifty percent and so on until there is no choice left: Caramba! You have a prime suspect."

"End product"

"End product - you can catch any Doctor Crippen from a keyboard on the other side of the world. Amazing theory N'c'est Pas?"

"Umm.. who's Doctor Crippen ?"

"Criminal - potential criminal"

"Oh, I see".

"Anyway the screen clears and.."

The keys clicked.

"Yes, now, I can see it".

"It's been my dream for years... and now I'm closer to it than I ever was before.. almost there.. I wonder what factors I've left out of the database... I just wonder... ?"

Chapter 10.

Foreign Places

Blinding light. O'Hara awoke with a start.

He opened one experimental eye.

At first he could only dimly see, but now it swam clear.

Bright dawn was in the air, and a few yards away Julia stood on the balcony watching the sun begin to rise. She turned slightly and he could see fresh sky between her legs where her soft muff parted them below her pelvis.

Now she turned towards him, lying on the couch wreathed in sleep. For the briefest moment he saw that for some reason her face was streaked with tears, but gave no indication despite his immediate reflex, feeling that somehow this was a solitary, special moment.

After a minute, she saw that he was awake:

"I need to see something new, O'Hara!". She might have been speaking to herself, it was an almost furtive voice, small -

"With me"

"Of course, O'Hara"

"Foreign Places?"

"Mmm..!" Enjoyment of the thought.

"kind of..."

"No, really..."

"Ha!"

"Well.. maybe I could.."

"Good !" There was a certain unintended relief in his voice, mirroring his insecurity.

"Where, were you thinking?"

She was still standing by the window, now the Sun displacing the sky between her legs.

"Oh, somewhere where.."

"How about somewhere where I can stretch out and forget computers?"

"No, where we can stretch out and forget... everything - what a luxury... a thousand years sleep!"

"MMmm... everything?"

On an impulse she kissed his lips and he tasted the wax of old lipstick on her mouth.

"Not you or me.. just everything. It must be possible - there must be time to forget everything and just be... together."

"There's time for us.. together.. lot's of time.. it's not that pressing, is it?".

O'Hara was still wakening, as if from a timeless sleep; it could have been the sound of the soughing of the waves or else the rhythmic pulse of the undertow, which that last night had been strong, which had made it so deep, but he knew not. Cared not.

"No, you see you can't understand what I do.. it, it's time ... I have so little time here."

"What - where?" O'Hara was confused.

"Here"

"And so? Where do you want to go, then?"

"Oh... maybe where the fates send me"

"You're daft!"

"It could just be the benefit of a classical education ..n'cest'pas?"

"Like John Donne?"

"Him, and Marvell, and Tobias Smollett and.."

"I didn't think they taught anyone real literature anymore!"

".. and Confucius and .. Krafft Von Ebbing"

"Krafft Von Ebbing?"

"Curiosity, that's all. Curiosity."

"You know Madam, you talk in riddles... I think you're the female version of the Dice Man".

"It's 'Lady', not 'Madam'.

"About getaways!" Julia's eyes were still very bright.

"Getaways?"

"Let's try somewhere in the city here, for beginners.." , she suddenly caught the idea of it - "..Hey! That's a great Idea!.. I know a great place - we can go there at the weekend, you know, for a break!"

Her eyes were all full of excitement.

"Go on!"

"Sure". He acquiesced. It would probably be considerably easier than a longer trip; besides The Department wouldn't let him go for two weeks or more: not now when things were getting so damn critical.

After all, he had to be cautious: if he didn't watch out here would be no job to return to, no cosy Computer Access Suite. No study. No function, no identity. All that work for nothing - with the ruthless urgency of the present, the past would truly become ancient history.

He took a deep breath; sweet oxygen, tinted with salt and ozone. Slightly bitter.

Then he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Still full of sand?", she said.

"Mmm! Still full of sand".

"Sleep sand makes you blind to awakening."

"What? - that's much too profound !" Said O'Hara, still not understanding. Never understanding.

Julia had moved away, and was jiggling about; some sort of merriment. The radio was playing the third Brandenburg Concerto, stridently, brightly, like a new day. Perhaps it was.

Now, for some reason she had picked up some make-up and started playing with the lipstick; almost a reflex of some sort.

"Stop painting your mouth a minute!"

"It's a habit"

"Look at me" Said O'Hara.

"It's only for you"

"Thank You - but stop"

"Right, then!" Julia put the tube down with force. "Right!"

He looked hard at her, fully awake now, uneasy.

The music swelled to a crescendo: out of phase.

"Yes, you do look good"

"It's like an experiment, one of those experiments with mirrors and watching". She was edgy for some reason. Edgy.

"What?"

"You know... move the man in with all his stuff?... all that equipment, behind the mirror"

"You really do speak in riddles"

"Yes"

"That brings in uneasy memories of hookers in action"

"Well, of course it does. It could do"

"It does." O'Hara was awake but not enjoying it: he wished to sleep.... let his mind wonder. She said, suddenly;

"Shall I turn you on with words... talk dirty.. want me to ?"

"Do it!" His mood had altered. It was the stress behind her words, adventure.

"Well?... how shall I start.".

"Well, it's what you do, but another way of looking through the mirror, isn't it?" O'Hara was being insensitive.

"Hey, hey, hey ... I told you the truth, about my experiences with psychology - didn't I - have you forgotten?" Julia's face tensed.

"I'm sorry, yes of course.... an experiment in the psychology laboratory. Personal interaction. And experimenting with the idea of watching....."

"Well?"

"About the experiment"

"Yes?"

"I want to..."

"You want to ask!"

"I want to -"

"You can ask"

"I want.."

"I want you... to sit on my face"

"Yes, I do too"

"Well, then, ask"

"No". She moved closer, and he reached out to run his fingertips across her sex and between her legs. She stood there slightly awry, her legs loosely open for him. He could smell her now, randy.

"Now talk dirty"

The music fell, a cadence perhaps.

"Like when... " From where he lay he could see that she was sweating, excitement or arousal or simply perspiration pearling slightly on her labia. The background heat was rising as the Sun established itself.

"You're wet"

"Wet, wet, wet - for you".

"But you have to talk dirty first"

"Like...?"

"Like when your girls were working..?"

"Oh, the mirrors"

"Umm"

"Of course they use them, two way mirrors: they can make films and sell them - nice little sideline." She wrinkled her nose. Then she straddled the couch so that she was directly over him, looking down at him, her sex inches from his mouth.

Maddeningly, his mind noted the careful use of the impersonal pronoun.

"Oh"

"Sometimes there's a risk.." She was lowering herself towards him, slowly. Inches away.

"Uh, huh"

"Sometimes they make video's"

"Oh, yeah". Very close.

"They?"

"Yes, they!"

"You're hard"

"Not hard enough, yet, use your hands and your mouth"

Not yet"

"Ohh! - Now I see you". He reached up with his mouth to touch her vulva.

"Videos - well, you've heard of that"

"Ouch" reacting with deep knowledge of the pleasure about to be had.

"Maybe."

"Mmm. Yes." Her mouth working.

"Oh hum, videos.. film stars.."

"Come on ... a friend of mine at the University here told me that she had made love to a man she hardly knew ... and the next thing was that lots of other men were watching her get fucked on their TV. Screens."

"Yes, I've heard that"

"For all I know you're one of the ghouls"

"No I'm certainly not". But there certainly was the uneasy tick of mistruth around his throat. It had been a couple of years ago... had she..

"So how did you know?"

"I heard, that was all"

"What colour was her pubic hair?"

"Don't ask me"

"Go - on, tell me"

"Dark".

"So you did see it?"

"Perhaps..."

"Ohh"

"liar"

"No"

"Most of them are, in this place".

"Word games won't get you anywhere!"

"You think so... you think I enjoyed it?"

"You sonofabitch".

"Sorry".

"Go on..." She shifted her weight, slipped away and returned a minute later with two glasses of juice. She propped herself on the edge of the table.

Proffering a glass, she said suddenly:

"... men are visual animals - I've seen it, been the focus of it - it's given me pleasure"

"Sometimes"

"Aimez vous Bach?"

"I don't speak French... anyway the tense is wrong !"

"I've watched you watching me: like a rabbit in the headlights of a car." Julia had shifted her seat to the sofa, and like a voyeur, he found himself impelled to watch her move.

"It's in my nature to look before I taste."

"So, for you the thrill is at least fifty- percent visual?"

"Well, it has a high visual loading, put it that way, allied to the sensation."

"Ah, hah!" She sipped her juice.

"Ah hah ?"

"Ah hah!, I relish that men can have such sensations merely by looking; in many ways that makes me really envious. For me the sensation is all; I hardly ever get enough of it, and the part I don't get I have to fantasize."

"So, then you do display yourself".

"Well, of course."

"So you do know how it is?"

"Well... I've been ...watched"

There was the careful ring of truth about it.

"And do you use that knowledge?"

"Not you, just now", she carefully shifted position so as not to mark the leather.. " No..I mean.. years ago. And when it's for you, it's only for you. Really - for you I feel wet when we meet".

How many times had she said that to other men? O'Hara felt jolted by a sudden buzz of Testosterone, irritation, possession.

"Did you enjoy it"

"Being watched?"

"The process."

"I loved it - I even learned to come on film - it took time, I had to lean back and just think about that cock pushing my legs apart and reaming in to me. But I got it. How bizarre !"

"Listen, I don't give a damn." There was the frisson of excitement there, inarticulate, latent, indecent. O'Hara himself had once seen a blue movie where the woman was obviously enjoying it.

"Does it excite you to know about me, see me like this"

"I just..."

"Does it.. really?"

"I just.."

"What?"

The hormones leapt in his head, giving him a profound dull thump:

"I just wonder how many cocks have been up you"

"God, you're so basic"

"How many men have shaved you like I did, explored your cunt, been up your arse?"

"You're being fucking nasty anyway.."

It really didn't matter, logically.

"Does it matter?" She shook as if in shock, and her face paled all of a sudden. "Does it really matter?"

"Listen, I'm jealous, goddam jealous... and besides..."

"You want to get me straight with the Faculty."

"No, no." He'd not even begun to think about that. "That isn't a factor; screw the Faculty."

There was a moment of thought: she leant forward, her brow troubled:

"I'll tell you, really I will ... I'll let you in on this ..really..", there was a subtle change in her demeanour: ".. but not just yet... I'm not ready to, yet."

"I know, I know"

Quietness between them, the discovery of agreement, a treaty. A regard.

O'Hara watched her, something twingeing painfully in the back of his mind.

At that moment he felt immediately, painfully impaled by love or lust - or some half- forgotten feeling that threatened to invade him and then destroy him. His guts ached, dully. His eyes were suddenly full of tears.

They respected a truce. He felt revolted, grey. For five minutes neither spoke. Then:

"God! I'm sorry!"

"No. Its nothing.... are you ?"

"Yes I am, truly."

"Are you - truly?"

She made to get up, perhaps to dress.

"No really, don't move.. I like you naked.. its.. tender.. besides I..". He stopped. He wanted her smell, her hair, her skin, next to him, to touch it. How could he say that.

A moment of unspoken tenderness.

He shut his eyes.

Now, after a minute of darkness she spoke, her voice deeper, heavier, with a grain to it; in a changed mode :

"Look, this is something you must remember - one day it'll make sense - it'll all fall into place - but anyway, first - I want you to know where something is: this envelope... I'll put it here... in the case of any problems, any problems at all, open this envelope first - do you understand that?"

"Well, yes .. But"

"Just remember that - and don't ask me why."

"Well.. I guess so." Grudgingly. After all, what did this all mean; Julia was again talking in her riddles but held him tight in the fantasy of the moment.

"It's just that I... things aren't permanent, that's all, that's all". Serious.

"What.. permanent.. Things aren't... what?""

Silence, the background of rising low traffic sound and the continuous slur of the sea in the soft register. The remark was lost.

Then her voice changed back when he asked:.

"Permanent? You mean..."

"Nothing important."

"It sounded important."

"Well, anything can happen. And I need you..!"

"You said you needed me.."

"Yes, I need you in a way you can't imagine..!"

"What a an odd thing to say."

Without replying, she rose to her feet, came to him, and silently, held the heat of her belly against his face.

"I can't explain now - don't ask me"

A moment to think against the background of waking shoreline and the sounds of the palm trees outside the apartment.

O'Hara wished that he could spend all time there, despite himself.

He could smell her special scent. Pungent, addictive.

"Look, I can book some tickets in the morning"

"It is the morning"

"God, I feel sick"

"No you don't"

"What was all that?"

"I'll tell you... later"

"Another riddle?"

"Later, you know what I mean".

"Back to the beginning for a moment -"

"Eh?"

"Where shall we go, then?"

"Oh... yes.." the subject suddenly appealed once more "...let's do it by easy stages - first let's try the Portonegro - that's the one I was talking about - just for the week end."

In contrast with her words, her face seemed clouded, troubled for a moment.

"The P- I've heard of that somewhere before.. now, where..?" O'Hara.

She walked to the desk and leant against it a moment, returning to the centre of the room stationing herself at the end of the seat, a question in her eyes, still troubled.

"O'Hara ?" He still sat, still rubbed his eyes as if bewitched.

Now she came close to where he was, her breasts round, pendulous. She rubbed her belly, all at once playful;

"Do you want some... more ?"

She skipped around the room, whirling, cupping her breasts with her hands to control the weight; he admired the way her back narrowed only to widen for her hips, the swell of her rear.

Bright yellow, cool, soft Sunlight was beginning to invade the room; outside, a few metres from the balcony, the palm tops rustled, and a flock of yellow and grey Finches gambolled in the coming warm updraughts of air.

"Sweet - you're wiping me out... not that I don't enjoy the sensation. Tell me..what is on the menu... ?"

"This is my plan -"

The mood lightened.

"Cancel it, I need immediate satiety. Have you got a better plan..?"

"..Sure - I have a better plan ...I'm gonna fuck you till you're unconscious... and then throw you off a cliff." Now she was laughing.

"That would settle none of your problems!"

"It would give you a short holiday".

"Too short... and a headache!"

Unexpectedly she looked at him gravely again:

"Oh, how little you know about what you say"

"You're speaking, as usual in riddles Madam".

"Say something direct then, O'Hara." Julia's face toyed with him for a moment "... oh and don't dally!"

"Sit on me, let me play with your lips"

"One last time"

Chapter 13

The Hotel Portonegro

The Hotel Portonegro sits on the corner of a secluded but very smart part of town, in a turning that is effectively a cul-de-sac. You'd recognize it the moment you saw it.

Such a quiet street is almost not notable: many people might pass it by and go about their business: never knowing that such a place exists. The Hotel Portonegro, in common with 'Taylor's Folly', 'Brownstones Lodge', 'The Colonial Club', 'Green's Paradise', and several other weekend hidey-holes, never advertises, yet always does well - that is in fact it's market caché.

In the cul-de-sac, by night, the street lights cast regular, bright, areas of light which reflect through the rich green transparency of leaves and thrum upward with a particular signature of visual music into the warm navy blue night air.

By contrast in full daylight, the cicadas battle among the foliage which surround the Hotel, and can be deafening when it's very warm.

But it was the wrong time of the year for that, and there was no sign that O'Hara could detect of cicadas, or anything like them.

Later, when standing by the French Doors of the balcony in the room that became in turn his favourite hideway, high away above the roofs, O'Hara would imagine the palm trees and could just about hear the soughing of the sea on the beach.

But now. from his viewpoint, the heavy Spanish eaves, curved to sculpted earthenware finials turned in such a way as to impart to them an almost Chinese quality, looked out over most of the other roofs in that area near the beach, and beckoned the watcher on to strange sights, scents and places, way beyond the seas.

But to return to the moment.

The street itself that night, and indeed most nights was very quiet, the only traffic being the occasional taxicab drawing to a halt opposite the twin brass entrance plates.

O'Hara and Julia entered the small lobby (which for the moment was deserted), and then found the bar itself, linked by a narrow passage to a backlit restaurant, small and fairly cramped, but very comfortable - much of the wall space at the back being used in the form of window-seats which looked out into the fine Spanish courtyard, stocked with Palms, Azaleas, Fuschia and the elegant, sexual, decadence of Orchids. This too was lighted by night, with pools of light around the edges of the courtyard.

In warmer weather the area would be justified with the use of a few tables and chairs, but for now, there was nothing there. The space was empty, elegant. It looked better that way.

Business at the Hotel Portonegro was, as Julia had forecast, never very busy, but constant.

"Great place for a get away".

"Or a quick jump with a john!"

"Shhh!"

They ordered a couple of drinks and settled themselves at the bar. At night, the artful arrangement of palms gave the whole area a particular, spotlit ambience.

"Can you spot anyone you know?"

"No, there's nobody here".

Julia sat in a shadow.

"I'm scared of lights!"

When occasionally wind moved the foliage, the light would combine with the overhung fingers of the palms to create an area of striation, an effect which itself became a different shape, a different sort of camouflage, a kind of rhythm.

"Are you? - Are you really scared of lights?"

And indeed there wasn't anybody there.

"Only at night, like Cinderella!"

After five minutes or so, the barmaid served the drinks.

"Hullo, I'm Anais, are you staying long?" she said brightly, locking O'Hara with a knowing glance. She pushed the bowl of munchies over. In the low, skintight viyella aerobics top, her body looked lithe, perfect.

"Hullo", he said, "Anais, what an unusual name!", and laughed.

"I've seen you somewhere before," said the barmaid to his companion; now O'Hara was aware that he had suddenly become part of the background.

"No, I'm afraid I don't remember you at all. Not at all," Julia replied, her brow darkening slightly.

"Why, are you working here?" said Anais; ("Why, are you working here?")

"Working here?"

"Yes, working here", said Anais.

"We're visiting," said O'Hara. To free the logjam.

"Oh, yes," said Anais, "Oh, Yes!" Her voice was suddenly hard.... perhaps she was thinking deeply for a moment.

They continued to talk for a while. Small-talk, nothing he would remember five minutes after it was said.

The evening drew on.

"I think we should take a room upstairs.. because I have a feeling..", O'Hara said at length, his throat tickling. He sipped his drink.

"They have wonderful rooms", said Julia

They took room 346, on the top floor which had a deep bath set into the floor and wide, angled, swooping ceilings that gave the impression of dark landscapes, but were painted with clouds in a pure blue sky. The design was completed with clever lighting combined with antique furniture and deeply comfortable furnishings. O'Hara wondered how she'd known that it was there, and then cancelled the thought.

Such isolation, such peace (so close to the turbulent city), gave perfect relaxation.

They bathed, languorously, and then made love like careful acolytes. It was a complete experience, to enjoy one another. O'Hara knew with an unexpectedly heavy heart that once again he was in love, this was no imaginary thing.

He turned to her on the bed.

She lay there on her side, twiddling one slim skein of hair between two fine fingers, eyes closed, smiling, O'Hara thought, deliciously nude.

He said:

"I... I feel very close to you".

"And I am very near to you".

She had not opened her eyes, and reached down with one hand to scratch an imaginary spot on her belly.

"No -", he wanted to explain something to himself, even more than to her; "... it's that I love you ... I do .. I love you."

She gave him a wide smile, eyes tight shut.

"Thankyou... I'm learning to love you too"

She turned onto her back for a moment.

"You look like the Maja Desnuda.

She opened her eyes:

I'm no oil painting!"

She turned over onto her stomach.

"Maybe this will last forever"

"I know it will".

She fell into slumber.

From her sleep she said:

"I know it will".

He awoke much later, as the sky changed hue. The warmth challenged them not to dress, and they lay together.

He ran one finger down her side, delicately.

It was a time of rest.

Some time later still, the internal 'phone rang.

"Yes?" O'Hara was drinking coffee.

"This is reception," said a female voice he seemed to recall, "Do you need anything, Mr O'Hara... it is Mr O'Hara, isn't it? "

O'Hara was still not fully awake.

He put the cup down.

Julia stiffened almost imperceptibly at his side.

"Shhh!"

"Oh, what the hell !"

"What do you have?" He wanted to find out anything he could, after all he might have to chance fate - or this investigation would never end.

"It will", said Julia, softly at his side "It will".

"The usual services Sir," said the voice.

"The usual services?"

"... Pillows of all sorts, food, drinks, blankets, newspapers, a table, an armchair, masseuse in the house, post, parcels, packages of all sorts, telex, fax, ... travel ... import, export .... anything you want."

"Thanks.. eh, what do I dial for that ?"

"Just call reception - dial Zero .. Mr O'Hara."

"Fine"

The connection clicked off.

Julia stirred uneasily.

"How did she know I was called O'Hara"

"From the register, silly"

"Oh".

"Wal-Mart here is like Wal-Mart anywhere!"

"Sure!"

"Money and food are very close, related, without being in the same family."

"Theorising again". A moment, then;

"I work for money!"

"You have to include food.."

"Okay, and food, then!"

"And your arse.!"

"Okay, and my behind...."

"And sandwiches.."

"Okay, and sandwiches..."

"Would you wear those silk knickers?"

"Why?"

"Because otherwise I'll not buy them -"

"Well..."

"Because I want to take them off you!"

"Oh, well, then I would"

"Well, you would.."

"Don't be a pain in the neck!"

"What do you mean?"

"I'll just get them, anyway -"

"Because you're implying I'm not for sale"

"What?"

"Well, I'm a whore-runner, I'm also for sale like any fucking consultant - or 'expert'."

"At a premium."

"That's what you think!"

"I guess you're right."

"You've my point."

"Anyway.... then you should be wearing the required gear for the job - working clothes"

"Just to refresh your memory - I only ever undertook the jobs that I got a kick out of ...or"

"Or?"

"Or that did something positive for me"

"Oh?"

"Yes, it's true, not always"

"You made mistakes"

"Did I make mistakes!"

"Uh"

"Does it surprise you that all that could do something positive for me?"

"Well... no."

"You mean yes!"

"Well.."

"There's something here you just don't understand...."

"What's that, then?"

"It's another dimension: there is a dimension where anonymous sex can do things for your mind: don't ask me about why - there isn't a reason as such why some things happen - I guess you could say it's a dive, a desire to have total experience, to see how far that sensation, that part of your life, that brutal emotion can go before you crack.."

"So then it can fulfil you?"

"Of course a whore can get a buzz out of sex with a stranger in the same way that you got a buzz out of sex with me when we first met.

Think about it, you're a new cunt, you're full of a new cock - before you do it you never know what it'll be like - that's the whole thrill of it; the fact you live from moment to moment, on a knife-edge !"

"Umm."

"It's strange to even explain an experience like that; but you know something, I've always liked it.. I'm like anyone, any time - but with that boost of sugar that can make the first moment of penetration very special: it often gives me a kick.

"Very often sex itself can be fresh, almost painful."

"And then, I'm just as much a voyeur as anyone: I've watched my clients, the girls, as they perform, and I've often seen their heads go back and their mouths open as they are pushed into, their eyes go blank as they switch into auto-drive. "

"It's because that experience of penetration is at a woman's very centre, it's an experience that compels us to be who we are, makes us want more: I guess it's mindless, mechanical, but who cares, we all need to act mindlessly, controlled by our natures, from time to time just to be ourselves -, and it's after all so important a mix of pain and pleasure that we just have to have it - in order to really grow, we need it."

"What am I saying?"

"That's the root of all our experiences - everything we do in life ultimately revolves around what we find in sex, in all it's branches, and the music that it makes with us..."

"Oh?" O'Hara was undecided. But this would be good reference material, anyway.

Julia continued.

"Well, of course, those first few moments as his cock cleaves your lips and pushes into you are almost always moments of exploration; private, solitary moments however public: they give your life meaning, even if you don't like it: and I think that if a woman doesn't live at moments like that she'll never be able to feel that amazing reaming of the mind that real sex can give you: it's like being spring cleaned in your soul, fresh, every time or day ... or anything."

"Umm, what can I say!"

"Sex means new life every day"

"That sounds like the blurb on the cover of this book!" He brandished it.

"I can't help talking in homilies, especially if they're true".

Suddenly they felt compelled to laugh.

"You're so stern, so serious!"

"I don't mean to be, Darling."

"You can be so tender."

Quietness. Then;

"This reminds me of a mad saga: I'll call it the 'Forsyte Saga of the boudoir'".

But Julia was serious about something.

"I have to be serious for a minute; I promise it's only for a minute"

"Go on, then ."

"There's more to my body than some soap opera."

"But, can't you see - with a whore it's being used in the same way hundreds of times, just like a tape with Neighbours on it ?"

O'Hara wanted to know.

"I guess it is, sometimes, no, often: but it can be that the feeling is also sometimes, the difference: the feeling is mine, and each experience is different in a myriad of wonderful ways: that's how my body is so special- which is what makes Neighbours so mediocre: anyway, what's this thing about my body and my sex ... I had nothing except that feeling, that hot endless creative well that I spend so much time sitting on and wasting my life.

There's an agenda that says that life that will run away from you if you don't catch it by the ear. And experience., whatever it is, can fulfil you if you use it right, and can't be let... if you leave it it's all gone, and that's too late"

"Is that what it said to you?"

She didn't answer, following some fine argument in her own thoughts:

"Anyway, that experience is now past me, and I'm no longer the whore of your dream !"

"Stay that way for me, secretly - I hope you will, because of what is between us.."

She looked away, rose, and began to dress:

"You really meant what you said... you weren't just.. lying ?"

"Why should I lie .... there was no reason .... no I meant it"

"Oh, I'm happy .. very happy"

"You make me happy"

"And I want you to be inside me, only you, forever".

"Don't be so doomy!"

"No - I'm being happy"

Later, much later, late into that night. He awoke, and said:

"I should prowl around, I guess"

"What?"

"I'm going to prowl around - get a bit of local colour..."

"Get a bit of local colour?"

"Well, I want to understand the way these places work - the phenomenon, after all I am trying to get a handle on what happened. You understand, don't you?"

"Shall we have a drink on it?"

"After you get up, if you want to - there's no hurry"………………………………..

"That's what lateral thinkin' can do for you", said the King, as he scanned the transcripts, boxes of them. "Jesus !"

Now O'Hara sat in his office leafing through the rolls of microperforated paper.

He had found transcripts from many conversations which were of passing interest and needed more study, but also some material which concerned the women who had been murdered - and their johns.

One transcript opened with Julia's voice a little distorted by bad storage but apparently clear, discoursing with a john: it had been recorded from a cellular 'phone transmission and suffered from background crackling.

It went something like this;

"Susanne Miers? not very

bright, but good

looking... and she'll do

anything.. for a price

... and I know how people like

you sometimes

like someone they can boss

around. She's very

... eh, imaginative. I'm sure

you'll enjoy

the encounter; give her a go,

just think of

me as tailoring your

requirements, that's all "

"I.... like variations, you know,

from the

rear, a bit of bondage..."

" Susanne likes most things.. so

she'll do you nicely."

Now O'Hara recalled clearly what Julia had said to him:

'...In the end we. they, were after money, you must remember that'

"What about Deborah Harris..?". O'Hara still wanted to know about the disappearing hooker;.."...there must be a reason for it !"

And the voices were indecisive: they said;

"I don't know anything about her.. never met her"

"What about her john?"

"I'd never had contact with him.."

There was a gap there, somewhere.

"Mandy Hamilton?"

"She's was a professional, know what I mean!"

Then:

"I'd like to see that girl again"

"Jan Comer?"...she's busy.. every week end... but I can get her for you if you want… she always wants a lot of money"

"Yeah".....

And then a female voice he had heard recently, but could never quite put his finger on;

"Really - how ? I'm working later, I have a full schedule so tell me now...".

And another cutting across her: a man's voice which O'Hara later identified as the voice of the murdered detective, Ron Rakh:

"..in sound...listen to this, the

"The sound?" The King saw the transcript, and all at once was worried. A shudder involuntarily ran down his spine, just why, he knew not.

"... the sound ? How the fuck he'd know that.. who'd the fuck told him that..!"

The voice continued, clicking something, perhaps clicking his fingers, the only trace now of a thought process from a living creature now extinct:

"...Yeah, just sound ... you

And then the woman's voice, the vowels rounded with a certain twang, in turn prickling O'Hara's memory: who the hell was she?

"..listen.. that's interesting..

……………………………………

.

Meantime, O'Hara found that unexpectedly his friendship with King Radio had progressed: he was beginning to appreciate the quirky appeal that the man had.

As a corollary to the sorting through of the information that the tapes had delivered, he had, by chance spent many hours in the King's apartment: listening to his rye comments upon things, noting his painstaking, masterly attention to detail.

This attention to the technical niceties of his business had, indeed, made him the King of the airwaves, his mastery of technical problems extraordinary and complete.

Apart from that, the King took him on a tour of many of the weekenders that were frequented by the hookers and their johns: Turners Folly, The Brownstones, and The Colonial Hotel were designed at the outset to be pleasant venues to do whatever came naturally.

The upshot of these 'investigations', were several hangovers, but no real information.

The information from the tapes was fairly thin: most of it being dry - unrelated to the business in hand - that was after all inevitable with so much alfresco material.

But the little that had been gleaned had turned out to be important: for O'Hara had learned about the deceased detective, Ron Rakh, about his relationships with several women - though identities were hard to come by through such spoken material - few pieces of concrete information being passed across: it was as if Rakh knew that sometimes he was being listened-to. Perhaps he expected it. And Rakh liked hideways, used all their services, knew all their staff. Some of the conversations with him were about services - that was odd, thought O'Hara.. 'Services?' What was that for? ... something ticked in O'Hara's mind.

More likely, however, it occurred to O'Hara - was that not only did these women not want Rakh to identify them, but also that Rakh didn't know their true identities anyway - in fact had no interest in knowing them that well socially - why should he, after all - he was using them as one uses an air ticket or a bottle of beer.

Apart from that, the few scraps of other information which came to light were consigned to the data base. To fill the inevitable Data gaps, the bane of O'Hara's life.

One Wednesday he entered the Computer Access Suite Data Office to scan the usual pile of papers: then he saw something that he had half expected for a long time: at first just a hint, and then a dawning realisation.

The headline was cut-off by another paper lying crookedly across it: it ran: 'Listener..'

He picked the tabloid up. The headline read:

'Ace Listener found Dead!'

He took a deep breath and turned to the inside page indicated: to his dismay, with a mounting sense of shock, he read:

'King of the Airwaves Dies Mysteriously'

The report rambled somewhat, but he knew what he would read some time before he read it; somehow he'd expected it:

The report continued and his heart sank:

'Jeff Hopkins, a retired veteran,

"The King is dead", O'Hara could hardly resist the doggerel of the phrase, muttering under his breath. He realised that he was all at once in deep shock.

"What was that?", said Nicholas.

"The guy I bespoked that word analysis program for - he just died! It's weird... one minute you're beginning to get to know someone, you're actually getting to quite like them... and the next one they're dead! Gone!

"And taken all their secrets with them!... I know the angst."

"No, it feels rather as if this was deliberate.. and yet the medical reports state that he died of a heart attack. Well, he was a drinker and smoker, but he didn't look particularly unfit to me - needed a bit of sun was all... met him at the bar of the Portonegro, there in the city near the shore.... I really felt that I was beginning to penetrate another world.. I'd begun to.. get through the sort of, mirror. Dammit all."

"Was he murdered ?"

"No evidence"

"But heart attack can be also read as asphyxiation"

"True.. but un-checkable.""

"You'll have to put it down to bad luck"

"That I will.... but that's goodbye to another potentially rich source - he must have been getting close, that must be it".

"Or just coincidence"

"I don't believe in coincidence"

"Well, shame. Did you know him well?"

"A bit"

"But you'd written that programme for him"

"Yeah. A Trade off actually, though I got all those tapes as part of the deal , in fact I've still got them here, most of them.. he took a few back.. and I wanted to try a few tests on some of them to test parameters and syntax"

"Oh, ho! You'd better run them through before you get a heart attack over that hot broad of yours!".

The sky was blue. Was the sky ever anything but blue ? Blue like computer listing paper filled with impossibly linked questionable facts and paranoid gobbledegook, blue like a blank screen slowly filling with creamy white text, all of it to be sorted, filtered, laboured over. A nightmare of unconsidered parameters for the unwary.

He had his feet up. They sat on the balcony in the cool air. Julia sat in front of him and buffed his toenails with a file. Ever so carefully and well.

"Nice work"

"I'm waiting for later when I work my way up"

"I'm crazy about you." He flicked the page of the mail order catalogue and looked for the women's underwear section.

"I know, and it gives me a warm feeling where I sit."

"Mmm."

"I like your toes".

"Mmm".

"What are you looking for?"

"Women's underwear - for you of course."

"They say that the easiest thing to sell is something that would include shopping, fucking and money, don't they O'Hara!"

"They're scoring here"

"No women"

"I got one beautiful one"

"All for yourself?"

"You keep saying that!"

Julia started laughing.

"You shop to fuck but first you pay for the goods"

"A perfect triangle, whichever way you look at it".

He flicked through a few pages and put the catalogue aside. A thought crossed his mind:

"You said that the papers were here?"

"They're over there ".

She gestured.

The papers lay in a shoebox, ranked upon the dark red-brown of the desk. He sauntered over to the cupboard, found and put on a T-Shirt, and went to the desk. He flicked through the pile of filing cards:

"Those are the references"

"Here?"

"I can see your cock".

"I can see everything you own, so what!"

The papers spilled onto the veneered surface.

"Right there?"

"Messy".

"Lot's of shopping and fucking..."

"And murder"

"And murder?"

"Look through the papers... just look!

"But why..?"

"That's the interesting part".

"Ouch". O'Hara wrinkled his nose in pain and leaned forward.

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing important, a crick in my back.. like cramp or something, I get it from time to time; I shouldn't spend too much time without wearing something warm on my back, like a T-shirt."

"Oh, you must look after yourself more."

"I'll look after you, you look after me."

A silence. Far away a car hooted, if you closed your eyes it was like one of those old movies, hooters in the fog, Bogart on the deck of a slimy coaster.. danger ahead. He opened his eyes, blue sky, bright day.

.

O'Hara flicked through the papers, Julia painted her nipples red with lipstick.

"Like it ?"

"Love it"

The wind moved the long glass of the door slightly. O'Hara was reading.

"I'm beginning to think we should take another break..". Julia leaned against the door and he enjoyed her nakedness.

"You're beautiful." He was going to say 'perfect' but for some reason stopped himself. Instead he said:

"I'd like to paint you like that"

"You can if you want to", she smiled, showing her teeth - "but you can't photograph me"

"Oh, why not?"

"Can't you think, why?"

He left it at that and then she changed the subject back -

"Another break"

"I could park you in a room and lick cream off your naked body"

"Where?"

"Everywhere"

"No, where?"

"Oh, anywhere"

"Somewhere like the Hotel Portonegro?"

"That's a promise you'll never keep"

"Try me"

"Well -"

"At the Portonegro"

"Why not - another weekend somewhere..where we can take all our clothes off and just do it all weekend"

"You said Lick, remember?"

"As long as my strength holds out!"

"I'm sure you would, Dearest!"

Another silence.

"Mmm!"

"What?"

"Greens Paradise"

"Why ever not - we've not tried it yet"

"And they have excellent sex there".

"So you keep telling me".

"That's just what I was about to say!".

Greens Paradise

Saturday.

After a few minutes of exploration in this new haven, O'Hara returned to where she sat in the comfort of a secluded study, off the main reception, a quiet corner, with a beautiful escritoire stocked with writing materials..

"I've booked a room."

"For ever"

"Rhymes with together"

"No, not forever"

"Well - picture this: Three half brothers who I'd never met - we all went out to this catfish restaurant called the Hush Puppy in this strange town called Camden"

"So? Where does that bring us to"

"To You And Me In Bed At Greens Paradise, Or The Colonial Hotel... Or The Hotel Portonegro, all in caps". She laughed. "'A soap opera in two hundred episodes', we'll need the name of every hideway down the entire coast: that's something to think about and savour; but let's have a sandwich in the bar first".

They sat alone,the bar being almost empty.

"Everyone else at this Hotel's busy ... !"

O'Hara had had a few 'looseners' to use King Radio's now redundant expression. It made him jolly, that was all. It made it real easy to laugh.

Where they sat the bar at 'Green's Paradise' described a zig shape, so that though close to it they were secluded from it by several clumps of palms. And then a zag shape that completed the zig-zag, back towards the service area.

"Shall I tell you what point I've reached in the computer process?"

"Oh, yes, I've been waiting for you to tell me something, anything, anything", she laughed.

"I'm a bit squiffy"

"Could say that"

"Must be mood or something"

The drinks arrived with a clunk on the table, followed a minute later by the sandwiches. Crab sandwiches. The palms at her elbow stirred as if the breeze were impatient for him to tell his story.

"I'm a bit squiffy"

"You said that already"

"Yes, I know"

"Well, at least you haven't lost your memory, yet"

"Alcohol poisoning"

"Easily poisoned", said Julia.

"Shall I continue, or will you give a talk about crabs and toxicity?", said O'Hara.

"No, no, I want to hear about this amazing program.. what's it called.. Sherlock?"

"Holmes, actually."

"Sorry.

"And you have to ask politely - or I won't tell you - that was a bad start."

"Would you like another drink?": the barmaid swooped from behind the palm over Julia's left shoulder, with perfect bad timing, like a Falcon. O'Hara hardly saw her, facing as he was, away; but knew that form (wrapped as it was in Lycra) from somewhere. Mind you, he wasn't looking.

"Another beer, please".

"Where was I...be serious a minute:..well".. a beat then: "...we have the words of the lawyer, the business exec., the music arranger and a couple of the girls concerned, Susanne Miers, we think, and Mandy Hamilton, when they came across things, discussed things.. you know.. from Monsieur Radio - I've got them all on the data bank, nicely collected in the new program format:"

"He wouldn't like that... King Radio, please!"

"Yes, but the poor bugger's dead now, anyway! OK?".

O'Hara was warming to his task.

"It's exciting, being the one person who's bespoked the first and the only criminal detection program of this type, and now is beginning to see all the facts emerge.. and focus, as it were, to indicate just one person"

The barmaid pushed one arm through the palms and planted a Coor's on the table.

"!"

"So you think you'll get him?"

"I'm certain", O'Hara was being indulgent. "Yes, I'm sure that we'll get this straightened out in a very short time!" He took a long drink from his glass.

"That's amazing!"

"It's all down to data".

"Really terrific!"

"And a personal dream come true for me: the department will get it's funding and.."

Under the hot focus of the spotlights over the bar the palm shifted a little.

"And you'll live happily ever after"

"We'll live happily ever after"

The booze was going to his head, on an empty stomach, and all.

Julia's face was strangely shifting, suddenly fielding an edge of sadness, though he hardly noticed it..

"Yes, of course, we".

"God, I'm horny" said O'Hara. "And I want you"

"I want you inside me", said Julia, whispering into his ear, and touching his hand, as if imparting a secret "Forever"

"Forever is almost taken care of, Darling" said O'Hara.

"Yes, I know it is, sweet"

Again, Julia was strangely subdued.

But O'Hara was in an expansive mood,being boisterous:

"Let's go to bed!"

"Now, now, now"

Love is a wonderful thing.

They awoke much later. O'Hara's head throbbing dully.

"Ouch!"

"You need some fizzy salts."

"Umm!"

"I'll get some for you Darling..", said Julia, "..back in half an hour or so."

O'Hara never thought he could be; but he was - jealous. Plain jealous. Of Julia, increasingly, of her every move. All of them, everything that touched her body .... everything ...

"It must be love, that's all!"

Relax!

Meditate, perhaps?

He lay on his back for some time, trying to be calm: tired, too.

The cramp affecting his back as it had yesterday, just nagging, nothing serious.

"Ouch!"

He opened the slender French windows and stepped out onto the balcony. This room was also on the top floor of the building on one secluded corner.

Through a gap in the buildings he could see the tops of palms and the start of the sea set against the darkling blue of the soughing waves. Four thousand miles to go. Green curling breakers.

After a few minutes of this pleasantness, O'Hara watching the stars beginning to wink at him, the internal 'phone tinkled, out of context somewhat.

"Yes", he answered without thinking, picking up the instrument on the wall close bye the windows.

A voice he knew from somewhere, or perhaps it was 'Deja Vu':

"Room Service here, Sir, Massage, Sir?"

What an amazing sense of timing, how apposite!

"Actually - I could use one... can you treat my back"

"Of course Sir". The voice sounded almost hurt by the possibility of such a question, "of course".

"Well yes"

"In five minutes then", said the voice, and rang off.

He was in the bathroom when he heard the knock on the door.

"Masseuse"

` "OK."

He opened the door. The masseuse stood in shadow, in-between the corridor and the short passage into the room.

"Massage"

"Come in", he threw himself on the bed - "It's.. the pain's here"

The Masseuse clicked the door bolt.

"We want privacy, don't we".

She threw off her uniform coat and was wearing a tight cutaway under it. It was obvious in this climate - she must get hot, massaging all day.

Lying on his stomach he gestured at his back:

"There..that's where it mostly hurts.. old damage.."

"Got it". Luxuriantly he lay on his stomach while the masseuse pulled his bathrobe off and covered him with a large bath towel. "That's better " said the voice he knew suddenly, "... now relax."

She began to work on his back, and then asked.

"Don't you recognize me"

"Yes, you're Anais aren't you! Now I recall you - from the time I stayed at the Portonegro - I think it was... I thought you worked behind the bar there."

"No that's me only part time.. sort of filling-in, you know ?.. No I actually do this"

"Work in many Hotels?"

"All over the place - here, for example."

"Oh, really?" The conversation was becoming somewhat circular.

"Yes"

"Everywhere?"

"Depends"

"Oh Yeah?"

"On the work"

"Oh Yeah?"

"And friends of mine tell me when people want massages"

"Oh Yeah"- are your clients mainly women?"

"No, mostly men, actually!"

"Oh."

"But women like to use it.."

"Oh really... to relax?"

"After a bit of hard work!"

She laughed. Always a double meaning.

"A bit of hard work?"

"Oh Yeah!"

"Is that nice?", she kneaded his shoulder.

"That's lovely", he said with feeling, meaning it. He felt as if he were about to sink into the bed. It was all very pleasant.

"Anyway, what brings you here"

` "Oh, I'm a criminologist"

"A criminologist?"

"Yes"

"We generally get just anyone but criminologists at these hideaways", she said brightly:

"By the way, could I do anything more for you after your massage, you know?"

"Thank you, no". O'Hara all at once knew what she had meant.

"Fine, fine!" There was not the hint of anything in her voice. He suddenly could smell her scent as her hips were level with her nose. Not at all unpleasant.

"Mr. O'Hara" she said, now using long strokes along his back; very pleasant, and surprisingly warming too.

"You remembered my name?"

"Well, of course I would.. besides.. it's in the guests' book in the lobby - got to check the guests, you know."

"Yeah."

"They could just be maniacs - know what I mean!"

"Sure do".

"This is fire!", she said by way of explanation. "Fire cleanses.. and invigorates, of course !... Wow, I'm hot!"

Her hands were strong, large, and yet enormously soothing.

"Ah, hah", she pushed harder on the muscle. "Wow! This is a tough one!"

"Tough one, eh!"

"Do you get tough jobs?"

"Got one on at the moment".

"Oh, really!", she stopped for a minute to listen, maybe to get her breath back -, "really?" he could hear her panting slightly.

"Yes, but it's almost finished"

"Really?". She started again, adding a pinch of oil. A pleasant scent on his skin ....

The room was cool. Wind soughed from the sea, and scented the air with salt. Pleasant.

O'Hara was almost asleep, lethargy beginning to grip him.

"So you're almost finished", said Anais' voice.

"Umm"

"Almost done"

"Umm"

"And what'll happen ?.... I mean now you and the King have been working together?"

"I think", he said with effort, "That we'll... eh .. catch him now...Umm". He brightened to his subject, though still ever so sleepy.... (How did she know about 'King Radio'; maybe from the tabloids?..) "..The programs and everything are all perfectly in place now, it just needs me to run them.. the syntax isn't quite ready yet, you see". He stifled a yawn. "'Scuse me".

"Oh, I see, it needs you to do it - is it always like that?"

"No, not always - but in this case I'm the only person who really knows the whole program.. you see, once the syntax is all down, then it's a breeze.. but until then.. well, only Yours Truly knows the trick - that's the nature of the biz !"

"Is that the program I've read about.. the program.."

"Right!" O'Hara was surprised that so much had leaked into the papers, but maybe faame(and security) got to you in unexpected ways. "Oh, nice!" he said, meaning several things.

"That's terrific", she said, kneading the muscle...."Is that right?"

"That's just perfect"

About the 'Biz', I mean"

"Yes, well we're almost there, the police and my program, you know" He advertised his untried wares shamelessly. "Success real soon!"

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes, sure it is, absolutely sure as that". He tried and failed to stifle a yawn.

"Feeling sleepy?... you look a little bushed - well - don't worry about me.. just drift off then !"

"I reckon so", said O'Hara, and smiled to himself on this lintel of sleep. "Gosh, this is nice".

"Gosh", said Anais, muscular and available, "Gosh"

But now a very unpleasant thing had happened in his reverie. He imagined that he had begun to have a distinct problem breathing. He breathed out, but could not breath in, any longer. The colour of the room had darkened and the colours were dotted in grey, then black.

"You shouldn't have said that"

He was going to ask what, but couldn't breath in in order to speak.

The voice sounded more and more distant, echoing as if it were being put through a sound machine in a recording studio.

It could even be King Radio's studio. But n ! Wait a minute!

"You shouldn't have said that!"

"What?" Again he tried to speak, but life seemed to be dragging itself away with leaden feet.

"What?" the sound was now so distant that he could not hear it any more. He had almost given in, even with that strangely distant, colossal, pain in his chest.

"You and King Radio.. you bastards nearly screwed me..!" That voice came with considerable malevolent force. "I had to kill him: now I'm having to kill you, too!"

Suddenly a wild sound filled his ebbing ears. Unknowingly, instinctively, he began to thresh about on the bed. In some jagged sort of way he vaguely remembered that Anais was riding his back now. It had all begun to fall into place. Too damn late.

At one moment he thought to shout, but logically, no-one would hear him down the narrow empty sound-proofed corridors in this distant wing of 'Greens Paradise'.

Anais had him by the neck, choking the life out of him. Choking the life out of him. He began to grow really weak, his hearing failed.

Then there was an explosion of sound. Impossible, he was deaf, it was impossible, he was going to die now, almost used to the idea.

He lay stunned for some moments, first deafened and anyway ………………………….