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blood.
    He groaned with the weight of his guilt, throwing himself back on to the ground. He felt the cool earth on his burning face. Around him nature thrived, trees full of birdsong and leaves quivering with green life. But he was filthy with death. The flies crawled over his body, drank deep from his festering wounds, then fell off bloated with poison. He was Beelzebub, lord of the flies, the Devil come from the stars to punish mankind with everlasting death.
    He thought of the little girl. What had she seen to cauterise her infant mind until the day she died? He’d not yet seen his face, only its horror reflected in the soul of innocence, in blue eyes fragile as flowers. They’d told him he was beyond all help, even if he should wish it. He was the Devil let loose to terrorise the living. Who could bear to look at him?
    There was only one way. He was not the Devil but Judas. He did not exult in the betrayal of humanity but could only suffer in the knowledge of his guilt. Now, while the alien cells were still, before they shrieked again for food, he must kill himself.
    He stumbled to his feet, smothered now in dead leaves. Cradling his purpose, his one remaining grain of human independence, he set off back towards the river. In the cool clean waters he would drown the burning hatred and purge his guilt. In the river lay his salvation.
    Laughter snared him. Carefree laughter like a silver bell rang out through the trees. It sang of beauty, youth, and happiness, and the alien cells heard it. They stiffened and trembled under the rotting skin in hungry anticipation. His precious grain was spilt.
    He crouched like an animal close to the earth and watched. Bubbles of mucus burst from the corners of his mouth as the pained breathing quickened. He was almost invisible in his suit of leaves.
    A young woman swept through the trees and came into his field of view. She was beautiful and enjoying every minute of it. Not in a vain coquettish sort of way, but in innocent exuberance. She found a small glade where the sunlight danced, and swirled round. Her skirt swelled into a reel of gay colours and her long dark hair spilled outwards, trapping strands of golden sunlight. Then she sat down on a mossy log and began running her fingers through the soft grass. Her green eyes sparkled with happiness.
    A man’s voice, betraying impatience, called out from within the wood.
    “Sandra. Where are you?”
    Again the peel of silver laughter as she threw back her head and called.
    “Over here.”
    The man emerged, looking hot and bad-tempered. He had a camera slung round his neck. He was dressed in denim, his shirt very wide open at the neck where he sported a number of silver chains. Another assortment was round both wrists. He wore tinted glasses and a drooping brown moustache, slightly darker than his hair which had a pale highlight at one side. He looked to be in his late thirties, but may have been younger; the trendy, somewhat degenerate cliché of his appearance was misleading. He had a peevish voice.
    “Now come on, doll, stop goofing around and let’s take these pictures.”
    The girl became self-conscious in his presence and her manner became affected. She arched her back and let the sunlight fall full on her face.
    “Isn’t it heavenly,” she cried, screwing up her eyes. “If you half-close your eyes it just melts into a green, green world.”
    The man scowled impatiently.
    “OK, honey,” he drawled. “Quit the kid’s stuff. I want some sophisticated snaps.”
    She opened her eyes and looked at him with a worried frown. She was no more than seventeen. Eighteen at the most.
    “Don’t you think I’m sophisticated, Charles?” she asked.
    Charles’s manner changed. “Of course I do, honey. Real sophisticated,” he flattered. “That’s why we’re here to take pictures.”
    The girl looked a lot happier.
    “All right,” she smiled. “Let’s start. How about one with me sitting here?”
    The man’s face clouded for a