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Rashad first just below the left kneecap and the man

crumpled with a yell; then he took Afif in the crotch and strode between

the pair of them with one hand poised to catch Gorse by the elbow. With

his other hand he hauled open the taxi's door, and seconds later they were

safely inside. Reflex made the driver start up the instant the door shut.

"Hey, I say!" she shouted over her shoulder. "I don't like what you

just done! You get right out of this cab again, now! Or else I'll call

a copper, understand?"

But before she could brake to a halt, Godwin said, "They were going to

sell her as a white slave!"

Prompt on cue, the girl crumpled against his shoulder and began to utter

huge gut-wrenching sobs.

Before the driver could say anything else Godwin gave her his address

and leaned back, stroking Gorse's soft dark hair with its incongruous

silver streak as though he were comforting a little child.

So far the whole episode had gone so smoothly he was already on the

verge of being bored.

When they were nearly at their destination Gorse sat up without warning

and said slowly and clearly, "Please stop. I think I'm going to be sick."

Godwin tapped on the glass partition behind the driver, who understood

instantly and pulled in at the curb. Deftly he opened the door and thrust

her head out just far enough, keeping his other arm around her to steady

her. She uttered a gush of liquid that made the air stink of gin.

Wiping her chin with a handkerchief, he sat her back and closed the door

again, and they completed their journey without further incident.

In his home street all but two of the lamps were out. She shivered

noticeably as he helped her to the ground, having already passed the cab

fare plus a generous tip to the driver. Slowly, through her alcoholic

fog, she registered the high-piled rubbish in the gutters, the derelict

cars, the dark faces of the houses where many windows had been broken

and mended, after a fashion, with cardboard or sheets of plastic.

"What have you brought me here for?" she demanded between a cry and a sob.

"It's where I live," he answered, taking her arm and guiding her roughly

up the steps of his home. She tried to rebel, tried to hang back -- but

a fresh bout of nausea overcame her, and this time instead of spurting

out, her vomit dribbled, staining the front of her clothes.

Godwin waited with forced patience until the spasm passed, then urged

her indoors. "You're not going anywhere in that state," he muttered. But

she scarcely paid attention. She was gesturing at herself, shuddering.

"I didn't mean to make such a mess of myself!" she wailed. "I'm so sorry,

I'm so ashamed, I'm such a fool!"

"Right."

He got her up the stairs and into his room, turning it on as he opened

the door. She was too befuddled with drink to notice its details,

though he himself was rather pleased with them: his usual waterbed, some

wall-sized enlargements of erotic pen-and-wash drawings by the French

artist Bertrand, several more wardrobes than usual, and a cabinet of

perfectly clear glass around the shower, bidet, and toilet bowl. Also

the towels were black, a highly suitable color.

Quiet music began, intermingled with the wash of waves on a beach, and

the air was warm and fresh and the lamps, when they came on, shed the

color of moonlight in irregular patches.

Not bad.

But he had other preoccupations. He said, "Get out of those filthy clothes."

She had begun to cry again as they came upstairs. The brusqueness of his

command snapped her back to awareness. She stared at him with a hurt,

little-girl look.

"I said get out of them! They reek of vomit!"

"But -- but I only bought them day before yesterday! This is my best gear!

I can't just . . ."

The words tailed away as she gazed down at herself and realized just

how much of a mess she had created. Before she could recover, he reached

out with careful precision and tore the garments away from her: rr-rip,

rr-rr-rip. He balled