Death And The Art Of Pyramid Selling

by Rossi

Chapter Six: It All Hits The Fan.

***

Nora checked her watch as the taxi pulled up smartly outside the manor's front gate. 11.26pm. Perfect. Plenty of time to get to where she needed to go. She'd make with the obligatory socialising (networking was crucial in the business of cosmetic sales), find the appropriate seat (close enough that the walk to the stage wasn't uncomfortably long, far enough that everyone would see her doing it), and then, finally, get what was coming to her, what she deserved, what she'd _earned_. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, she'd gotten the paperwork for her final sign-up faxed into Head Office that morning. There had been a phone call from none other than Geraldine herself that lunchtime, letting her know she had finally qualified for diamond, and the presentation would be at the regional meeting that evening. She'd been waiting so long, Geraldine had purred down the phone, sending delighted shivers down her spine, and she'd been so _close_ last meeting, that they were more than happy to rush the paperwork through. She'd fax the necessary documents for signing, of course...

She gave the driver his fare with little grace – he'd attempted to get fresh with her as he picked her up from the station, chatting to her like he actually _knew_ her, the cheek of it... Nora had cut him down to size fairly quickly, and he had taken the hint. The look he gave her as she exited the car was noted, however – impertinence indeed! Turning her back, she headed up the gravelled drive and through the cast-iron gates, welcomingly wide-open to admit the streams of pink business-suit clad women. They all wore the same air of smug success as Nora, greeting each other with false smiles and falser warmth in their voices. Each was a competitor, a rung on the ladder to success, to be trodden upon and crushed underfoot in the scramble to the top. Casting her gaze around, Nora wrinkled her nose in distaste as she saw the scruffy, trench-coated man seemingly attached to Michaela Robbins at the hip. He was nuzzling her neck and she was obviously enjoying it, tilting her head so he had better access.

"Disgraceful," Nora muttered to herself, but not _too_ loud. Everyone knew Michaela was one of Geraldine's chosen, freed from the endless round of sales and networking to do other, secret projects. It was rumoured that she gathered information on their competitors, finding suitable dirt to discredit and ruin them. And more – it was said she vetted distributors, checking on their records to make sure they were 'the right stuff' for Cottage Magic. You didn't upset Michaela; she had real power in the organisation, power to ruin all you'd achieved.

The dark-haired woman smirked at Nora, feeling the waves of disapproval the older woman was radiating. The silly cow didn't know that with every kiss, every inhalation, Constantine was becoming more compliant. The soap Michaela had washed with, the shampoo, the perfume, the lipstick... It was all Cottage Magic's finest, imbued with a strong cocktail of herbs and other less savoury spell components, designed to overcome even the strongest will. And it worked all the more effectively for being administered this way – had they simply tried to inject the London mage with it, he would have been able to resist. By letting him think he was in control of the situation, he had no idea, let alone a defence. Added to that his greatest weakness, that of a bit of crumpet, and the mage had stood no chance. For once her own preference for a bit of rough play had paid off – she'd had no idea who he was that first night, but once she'd gotten word from Geraldine, it had been easy enough to... to... Michaela frowned. Geraldine's instructions had been to step back, let them deal with it. It had been _her_ decision to take Constantine back to her room... hadn't it? She couldn't quite remember...

"You all right, love?" Constantine paused in his exploration of the soft skin of her neck as she swayed slightly, raising a trembling hand to her forehead. Christ, this bird was something else; he couldn't seem to think of anything else but fucking her. Hell, if it wasn't for the fact it was as cold as a lawyer's smile out here, he'd have her clothes off right now. For a moment he wondered at himself, then he shrugged and decided it didn't matter. She was obviously unable to resist his charms, and why the hell not?

"I'm fine," she said briefly. "Let's go. I'm sure Geraldine is waiting for us." Yes, that was right – she fixed her mind on this one thing, sure it was the correct thing to do.

"Geraldine?"

"My boss. She's something of a fan of yours."

"She is, is she?" Constantine grinned, ignoring the voice deep inside his brain that said he _never_ attracted the good sort of attention. "Well, let's make her acquaintance, shall we?"

***

Kingston's feet hit the damp ground with a thump, and he collapsed into the impact, preferring to get wet and muddy  than to break an ankle. Thank God the ground was reasonably boggy here, little more than reclaimed marsh – he'd never have been able to make the jump from the top of a twelve-foot wall in the city with all its concrete. All the attention seemed to be at the front of the manor, the security relaxed in order to let in the army of Avon ladies, Or perhaps he was expected. Kingston shrugged; it wasn't important. Trap or not – and trap seemed pretty bloody likely – his grand-daughter was in there and he wasn't leaving without her. Still, he wished he'd been able to raise Constantine – he and the DI hadn't been answering any calls, and there hadn't been the time to go there in person and drag him out by the short and curlies.

No, he thought as he picked himself up, ignoring the dampness seeping into his trousers, he was on his own with this one, at least until the DI and Constantine surfaced for the rendezvous. If they remembered in between fucks, that was. Slowly, with the caution of more than twenty years on the beat, Kingston crept towards the rear of the building, avoiding the patches of warm yellow light spilling onto the grounds from the large windows. He was alone in a dangerous situation, he had no back-up, and he'd never felt so alive in all his life.

***

"Where's Nanna and Grandad? And Alice? I want to go home," Carrie whined, as she had been asking every five minutes for the past hour. Mrs O'Donohue sighed with the patience only five children could give her.

"Nanna's sick, lovie; she's in the hospital. And your Grandad's  out looking for Alice. He said I was to look after you until he got back."

"But _where_ is she?" Tears trembled in Carrie's eyes, echoing the trembling of her bottom lip. "Where's Alice?"

'Good question,' Mrs O'Donohue thought to herself. Her eldest son had returned with Carrie so suddenly, babbling about Mrs Kingston being poorly and the ambulance had been called, and Mr Kingston taken over strangely, saying someone had Alice and he was going to go fetch her back... She didn't say any of this to the small girl looking at her with such big worried eyes. Instead she enveloped Carrie in a hug, saying: "Don't worry, lovie, I'm sure your Grandad will bring her home soon..."

***

Kingston's feet hit the damp ground with a thump, and he collapsed into the impact, preferring to get wet and muddy than to break an ankle. Thank God the ground was reasonably boggy here, little more than reclaimed marsh. He'd never have been able to make the jump from the top of a twelve-foot wall in the city with all its concrete. All the attention seemed to be at the front of the manor, the security relaxed in order to let in the army of Avon ladies, Or perhaps he was expected. Kingston shrugged; it wasn't important. Trap or not (and trap seemed pretty bloody likely) his grand-daughter was in there and he wasn't leaving without her. Still, he wished he'd been able to raise Constantine - he and the DI hadn't been answering any calls, and there hadn't been the time to go there in person and drag him out by the short and curlies.

No, he thought as he picked himself up, ignoring the dampness seeping into his trousers, he was on his own with this one, at least until the DI and Constantine surfaced for the rendezvous. If they remembered in between fucks, that was. Slowly, with the caution of more than twenty years on the beat, Kingston crept towards the rear of the building, avoiding the patches of yellow light spilling onto the grounds from the windows. He was alone in a dangerous situation, he had no back-up, and he'd never felt so alive in all his life.

***

"Where's Nanna and Grandad? And Alice? I want to go home," Carrie whined, as she had been asking every five minutes for the past hour. Mrs O'Donohue sighed with the patience only five children could give her.

"Nanna's sick, lovie; she's in the hospital. And your Grandad's  out looking for Alice. He said I was to look after you until he got back."

"But _where_ is she?" Tears trembled in Carrie's eyes, echoing the trembling of her bottom lip. "Where's Alice?"

'Good question,' Mrs O'Donohue thought to herself. Her eldest son had returned with Carrie so suddenly, babbling about Mrs Kingston being poorly and the ambulance had been called, and Mr Kingston taken over strangely, saying someone had Alice and he was going to go fetch her back... She didn't say any of this to the small girl looking at her with such big worried eyes. Instead she enveloped Carrie in a hug, saying: "Don't worry, lovie, I'm sure your Grandad will bring her home soon..."

***

Creeping through the gardens, using the shrubbery as cover, Kingston froze suddenly as two women dressed in the pink business suits of the Cottage Magic distributors came out onto the small patio. He crouched uncomfortably in the rhododendrons and heard the sound of a lighter being flicked several times, then smelt the familiar tang of burning tobacco.

"Did you see Ms High-and-Mighty's bit of totty?" said one, giggling slightly. "Bit of a comedown, wasn't he?"

"I always thought Michaela Robbins was too good to be true – now we've got proof," replied the other. "I wouldn't be caught dead with something like that – did you see that trench coat? And that hair... who does he think he is, Sting?"

Kingston shifted slightly so he could see the two smokers better. The DI was known to these people? And she'd brought Constantine in with her? It could be part of some elaborate ruse taught to her in Elite Policing, but he doubted it. No, from where he stood, things smelled. And it wasn't just the cow shit they used as fertiliser in this particular garden bed.

"And she's taken him up to see Geraldine... Wouldn't you love to be a fly on the wall? Geraldine's going to have them both served on a platter."

"Which means Michaela's place is going to be open. Makes you wonder who'll fill the space, doesn't it?" There was the sound of a chime – the ponderous ding-dong of the three quarter hour sounded by a grandfather clock, and the two quickly took one last drag, cheeks sucked into skeletal depth before blowing out clouds of blue smoke and crushing their half-smoked cigarettes under two-inch heels. Then they were gone, shoes clacking on the stone. Kingston remained still for a few more heartbeats, making sure the coast was well and truly clear, before sliding back into the shadows with a rustle of foliage. He rather doubted the two knew the true nature of the operation they were with – all this talk of platters and empty places was merely hyperbole. He shook his head. Women today... they were a cold, hard lot. But they'd given him some hope – Constantine was on the plot, and while he wasn't sure he could rely on the Londoner, it could only mean appropriate amount of chaos in the mix.

***

"You _fool_!" Long nails raked across Michaela's carefully-maintained complexion, digging deep tracks from which blood began to ooze, thick and crimson. "Complete and utter _moron_!! I told you to _wait_! And you bring him here, _now_?! He could bollocks up everything we've worked for! It's too soon!"

Michaela backed away, clutching at her face. "But I thought..." she began, her cringing tone jarring with the personality Constantine had thought he knew.

"You _don't_ think!" Geraldine advanced on her prey again, hand raised. Constantine tried to move, to interfere, but something was wrong, he couldn't concentrate, and his feet seemed mired in the thick pile of the burgundy carpet. He tried to think, but his mind was awash with desire, images of her naked beneath him. Dimly he realised something had a hold of him, but the realisation wasn't enough for him to pull free. Another blow landed, and Michaela wailed. "Understand, you insignificant bag of flesh, you do as you are told!" Geraldine raised her hand for another strike, fingers curled into talons.

"She did. I told her to bring him here."

The voice from the doorway was familiar, recently-heard. Trying to think through the haze of horniness that gripped him, images of dolphins and unicorns came to Constantine's mind.

"You." Geraldine spat the word out like it was a piece of decaying worm found in an otherwise particularly toothsome mouthful. "Why are _you_ here?"

"I've always been here, you just didn't realise it." The dark-haired girl, dressed in floating lavender scarves and jingling jewellery – the name 'Glinda' sprang to Constantine's befuddled mind for some reason – came forward, smiling gently. "You think I'd let you carry on so long without intervention?"

"You bitch." Geraldine seemed unable to attack the girl who floated into the room on a cloud of incense-smell. Jessica – that was her name, the one Kingston had taken him to meet - smiled at her again. The older woman, who wasn't a woman, that much was clear now, flinched. Ignoring Geraldine for the moment, Jessica crossed to where Constantine stood, helplessly and unaccountably immobile.

"You shouldn't have come," he grated, through senses drowning in the sweet intoxication of Michaela's perfume. "Too big for you."

"On the contrary, my dear man, it's you who have stumbled into something bigger than your abilities," Jessica purred, cupping his face in her hand. "Watch, and learn, and then tell me it's too much for me."

***

Kingston didn't realise he'd stepped on the girl's hand until she moaned.

"Jesus!" he swore despite himself, jumping back. She lay amidst the ruins of a privet hedge, its branches crushed and broken by the force of her fall – glancing up, he saw curtains flapping in an open window on an floor some twenty-five feet above. Aware he had little time, he knelt by her broken body and squeezed her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes..." she breathed, the sound barely audible over the chatter of many voices he was catching through the manor's windows.

"Can you move? Are you in pain?" The second question was stupid, he realised – in the dim light he could see the jagged ends of bones poking out through the skin of her left shin, and the dull sheen of fresh blood dribbling from her lips. Internal injuries, his training told him. "What's your name, love?" he asked, a little more gently.

"Sharon..." she whispered, taking a painful breath. "I'm cold, mister. So cold."

Shock, his mind supplied, and he took off his jacket and spread it over her, aware it would do little in the long run, but it was still _something_. "What happened, love?"

"A monster," she told him matter-of-factly. "A monster ate Carla, and it was coming for me, so I threw myself out of the window so it wouldn't have me." Tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes. "Carla was my best friend, and she didn't want to be here – I made her come. I k-killed her."

"No, you didn't, love. Those... monsters, upstairs, they killed your friend." Kingston laid his gnarled hand on the girl's cold cheek. "I'm going to stop them, if I can."

"They didn't need us any more," Sharon continued, seeming to not hear him. "They had a little girl, and Elaine said they didn't need us after all, so we were all hers, her just desserts..." More blood, thick and dark, drooled from between her lips. "And I didn't want to die that way, so I went for the window, only it doesn't matter anyway."

"What doesn't matter, love?" The skin beneath his fingers was icy cold, her breaths shorter and shorter – she wouldn't last much longer.

"I'm going to Hell." She opened her eyes, then, and looked at him, _truly_ looked at him. There was an expression of terrible desolation in those blue eyes. "I signed the contract and I'm going to Hell. Elaine told me." A small rueful smile crossed her face. "Red ink. I _knew_ something was wrong. I should have listened to Carla."

"Red ink? Contract? What do you mean, Sharon? Are you telling me you sold your soul?" Urgency made Kingston shake her shoulder slightly, but she said no more, eyes staring sightlessly into the darkness. "Sharon?" He realised it was useless, she'd gone. He let her go and closed those staring dead eyes. Gone to Hell, if what she'd said was true. He thought of Chrissie, his son's sweet-faced wife, and the way she'd joked about all the papers Cottage Magic had made her sign. Was she resting in peace? Or was her soul forever in torment, prey to the depravations of Hell's minions? Not his boy's Chrissie, who'd always tried to live well, and provide for her daughters, who had rescued injured animals and helped the elderly. Not Chrissie, crushed to death under the wheels of the 11.12 to York. Not her.

But in his memory he saw the contracts she'd signed, heard her mention Geraldine's weird obsession with red ink, and he knew that it was true.

***

"You'll ruin everything!" Geraldine almost wailed as Jessica smiled at her benignly. "Get away from me!"

"What's the matter, Geraldine, surely you're not scared of me, are you?" Jessica mocked. Constantine, struggling actively now against whatever drug Michaela had given him, saw the door behind her open, and tried to shout a warning as another pink-clad form hurtled towards her unprotected back, shape melting and _changing_ into the stuff of nightmares, talons extending towards her... Jessica realised the danger, too late, it had to be to late, and turned, arms stretched out as if to ward off Elaine's blow...

There was a thunderclap, deafening them all, a starburst of light and a noisome stink, and Jessica was looking down with contempt at the bubbling mess of flesh on the carpet. "Sorry about that," she told Geraldine. "But I do hate it when people sneak up on me."

"Elaine!" Geraldine exclaimed in little more than a horrified whisper. She looked at Jessica, eyes burning red and the doll-like mask slipping, features running together like melting wax. "You! You killed my baby!"

"Oh, enough of the dramatics already." Jessica gestured impatiently, and immediately, Geraldine froze. The younger woman stepped over the spreading stain that had been Elaine, and took Michaela's chin in her hand, raising her from her huddle on the floor. "You did admirably well, my dear, although I can't give you _that_ much credit. A simple post-hypnotic suggestion, aided by the compliance spell in Geraldine's cosmetics. Why else would you have fucked our John so easily that first time?"

"I don't understand... Geraldine..." Michaela whispered.

"Geraldine had nothing to do with it. Not even her little pet project, stopping the investigation into her business matters, had anything to do with why you're here. Although I have to say, it did prove immensely useful. Tell me, have they found your Senior Constable Barton's unfortunate remains yet?" Michaela flinched, and cast a guilty glance at Geraldine, who ignored her. She was standing rooted to the spot, breathing heavily, glaring at Jessica, but unable to charge at her. "Oh yes, I know all about your pathetic attempts at covering your tracks. All those files... you took them for Geraldine, so no-one else would start asking awkward questions, didn't you, and killed the one who had gathered them? But Mr Barton was only doing the legwork. Someone else was asking the questions, and you had to find out who, which brought you oh-so-conveniently here, within my reach." Jessica's smile, outwardly sweet, seemed to twist and change, become nastier. "See? Everything you have done has been to my ends, for my benefit. From the moment Chrissie Kingston signed on the dotted line, you and your mentor here have been doing my bidding."

A growing dread gripped Constantine like an old friend. The knowledge that he was in deep shit wasn't a new one, and he could sense the power Jessica was radiating even through the herbal haze. The green ooze that had been Elaine was proof enough of that. He remembered the visit to her small cottage, and her explanation of how Cottage Magic controlled their people through the cosmetics, and cursed himself for seven types of idiot. From the first time he'd kissed those inviting lips, he'd been slipping under their influence. Still, now he knew what it was, he could try to fight the effects.

"Chrissie Kingston?" Geraldine spoke, haltingly. "Who is she?"

"Who _was_ she, is probably the more appropriate question," Jessica replied. "Shame, Geraldine, not remembering one of your loyal servants. Dead now, of course. She outgrew her usefulness alive, didn't she? So you 'suggested' to her that throwing herself under a train was a good idea. That's how it works, doesn't it? You need them to commit suicide before your little contract activates? And when she did what you asked, you gave me my opportunity. I activated my little sleeper agent here."

Michaela frowned, a spark of the woman who had risen to Detective Inspector in record time returning. "Kingston? Of course, Phil's daughter-in-law. But why was he important? Unless..." She glanced over at Constantine. "Of course. He knew John, and you needed John to help you."

"_Help_ me?" Jessica threw back her head and laughed, never loosening her grip on Michaela's chin. "Why ever would I need his help?" She cupped her other hand around the curve of the policewoman's face, stroking the smooth skin of her cheekbone. "No, my dear little piece of bait, I don't need his help."

Abruptly her caress ceased, her nails digging in, and then impossibly she _pulled_, ripping away the skin. For a moment Michaela simply gaped at her, exposed muscle from cheekbone to chin twitching. Then blood poured from the wound, drenching the too-tight business suit and splattering on the floor. Instinctively she clapped her hands to her face, but the sensation of naked muscle under her fingers, raw and bloody like so much steak was too much for her. She screamed, a long, keening wail that drilled into Constantine's eardrums and beyond, into the centre of his brain. Jessica frowned and reached out again, ripping out the other woman's throat with fingers tipped in rainbow-sparkle nail polish. Michaela collapsed into a small heap, blood pooling on the thick carpet, and Jessica gave her a long look before dropping the flap of skin she still held onto the body. Then, nonchalantly she turned away, wiping the blood from her hands with one of the gauzy scarves from around her waist.

"What I _need_," she continued, as if nothing had happened: "Is the man himself."

John turned his gaze away from Michaela's body, glad for the immobility the Cottage Magic concoction was giving him. Otherwise he might have thrown up all over the opulent carpet at the sight of that ruined face, a face he had run his lips along not more than a couple of hours ago. "What d'you need me for, if you're not after this lot?" he grated.

"I need you to make my fortune," she purred, stroking his face in a motion that echoed the touch she'd used on Michaela. Blood smeared across his cheek and he managed to jerk his head away. She turned back to Geraldine. "Shouldn't we be going to the Great Hall? It's almost midnight."

"You want me to conduct the ceremony still? After all this?" Geraldine's expression was almost respectful, awed.

"I need your little ceremony to open the portal – I'm a tad... occupied retaining my hold on Mr Constantine here. He's already starting to resist, aren't you, John?" She turned back to Constantine with another of those smiles, and he could see the unholy glee that danced in her eyes. Glee and triumph. "Yes, it will mean your little operation finishes somewhat ahead of schedule, but you'll still get your reward from it. Two birds with one stone, don't you see?"

"It'll mean sacrificing your protegee..." Geraldine said it cautiously. "I had Elaine dispose of the other candidates."

For a moment the other woman hesitated, as if mentally calculating the positives and negatives, then she shrugged, coming to an answer she could live with. "Of course. She is... expendable, like the rest of them." Jessica took the bloodied scarf and tied it around Constantine's neck, taking the other end in her hand like a lead. "Her blood will open the door, and then I'll take you to some... people who will be _very_ pleased to see you."

***

Kingston crept down the darkened hall, still breathing slightly heavily from his struggle to squeeze through a rather snug-fitting bathroom window. Before his retirement it would have been an easy matter, but the time spent sitting on his arse eating Marjorie's home baking had meant there was considerably more of him than there had used to be. He pushed the thought away. His mind was trying to settle on irrelevancies, and ignore the true cost of the Cottage Magic franchise. They had thought it was a money-making exercise, but Constantine had disagreed, saying there was something more to it. And so there was – he remembered a wild story Constantine had told him once over a pint or six about yuppie demons trading in soul futures. Different method, same end. And the beauty of it was the demon didn't even have to do any work, simply recruit a few people who would recruit a few more people, who would recruit even more people. More souls. Playing on people's greed, or their need, their dreams of a better, easier life. Kingston felt the rage building again. Taking advantage of people like that – it wasn't right.

Ahead he could hear the buzz of many voices, an excited babble of perhaps a hundred women all talking at once. He edged closer, taking care to stay in the shadows, until he could see a large open doorway, blazing with light and noise. He settled in behind a potted plant and peered between the large leathery leaves at the pink-clad backs of the women in the last row of seats before the doorway. At the other end of the room, just visible through the various well-groomed heads, a small podium had been set up in front of a curtained stage. For the moment it was empty, but even as Kingston watched, there was a movement behind the curtain and a woman stepped out. In her fifties, blonde hair so styled it didn't move, make-up a flawless mask, Kingston recognised her from the Cottage Magic brochures Chrissie had first brought home. Geraldine Markham, in all her glory.

"My dear ladies, welcome, welcome. I'm so glad you could all come this far. My apologies for the inconvenient trips you've all endured, but you know what I say, there is no benefit without a little exertion, am I right?" Her voice was smooth yet motherly, setting her audience at ease with a slight air of naivety, yet Kingston could see she was flustered, even from a distance. Something had happened, and he was willing to bet his pension that it had something to do with Constantine. There was no sign of him or the DI, but no doubt they wouldn't be far away.

"There are some changes to the program tonight. As you will no doubt know from the circular sent out to all of you last week, we were to have our most recent Distributors of the Month here tonight to receive their certificates. Unfortunately, I've had word that Sharon and Carla have been unavoidably detained. I know you will be as disappointed as I am, and will join me in wishing them all the best in their future enterprises." There was a brief smattering of applause, not particularly enthusiastic. Geraldine went on: "Instead, it will be my great pleasure to announce a new Diamond seller." There was a slight titter, a rustle of curious whispers, and Nora visibly expanded with pride. "Someone _extremely_ deserving of it. But I'm not going to say who it is, just yet." She allowed herself a small smile. "But first of all, I think it would be wonderfully calming and empowering if we had our chant first. Something to raise the energy levels. Shall we?"

>From his hiding place, Kingston snorted softly. Empowerment chants? >From what he'd seen of the Cottage Magic saleswomen, none of them seemed the sort to go for that kind of New Age bunk. But sure enough, they followed Geraldine's lead, folding their hands in their laps and (apparently, since all he could see were their backs) closing their eyes. The chant itself was barely more than a whisper at first, a string of nonsense syllables. But as it grew in volume, the air crackled slightly, stirring the hairs on the back of Kingston's neck.

'Magic,' he thought. 'Some kind of weird mumbo-jumbo... Where's fucking Constantine when I need him?'

Up on the stage, Geraldine Markham continued her litany, the makeup so heavy on her closed eyelids that Kingston wondered how she would be able to lift them again. Somehow she did, and her eyes, when open, held a bloody red gleam that belied her true nature. Her gaze swept the assembled crowd – and Kingston withdrew back further behind the potted plant, sure those burning eyes would mark him out. Apparently satisfied, she withdrew behind the curtain.

'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,' Kingston found himself thinking, ludicrously. Panic playing with his head again, fear forcing his thoughts into safe, simple patterns. Still, if Geraldine could safely abandon her flock to their bleating, it might be his chance. Slowly he moved out of the potted plant's protective shadow, and crept quietly up the aisle between the rows of seated women, still chanting softly. Another movie scene came into his head, an old Hitchcock movie. 'The Birds', and the ending scene where the main characters crept through a silent flock of birds, trying not to create a disturbance that would kill them all. Not so many feathers, this time, but he had no doubt these birds would have no reluctance in making him pay for his intrusion. And if they didn't, Geraldine surely would.

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