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second, but he soon covered it up.
    “OK now,” he said unenthusiastically and began pretending to take some shots. The girl thought they were for real.
    “How about something a bit different now?” he announced, coming closer to her. Behind the tinted glasses the eyes were sharp and restless. “Can you draw your skirt up a little bit?” he wheedled.
    The girl looked shocked. “What’s wrong with my skirt?” she demanded.
    “There’s nothing wrong with your skirt, honey,” soothed the photographer. “It’s just that I’d like to see a bit more of those pretty legs of yours.”
    The girl was not impressed by his flattery.
    “You said that about my face. I thought it was for one of those nice calendars, where you just show their faces.”
    Charles’s smile was growing very thin. “It is for a calendar, sweetheart. But we take all of you and decide how much to leave on. If your legs are just as pretty as your face, we like to leave both on. OK?”
    “OK,” agreed Sandra reluctantly and hitched up her skirt to just below the knee.
    “Can we see your knees?” drawled Charles impatiently. “This is not New England last century.”
    She hesitated, unhappy with the situation.
    “Look here, doll,” he said. “I’m a busy man. There are plenty of other girls who’d jump at the chance of appearing in our magazine.”
    “Magazine?” started the girl. “I thought you said it was a calendar.”
    Charles shrugged, rattling his assortment of silverware. “Magazines, calendars. What’s the difference?”
    “You mean it’s for one of those magazines?” cried the girl, genuinely shocked.
    “What do you goddam think it’s for?” shouted Charles, dropping all pretence. “A bloody chocolate box?”
    He approached her menacingly.
    “And while you’re at it,” he snarled. “You can unfasten that blouse. We wanna see something of you. And I don’t mean just that goddam innocent face.”
    He tore at the buttons on her blouse and she let out a terrified scream, struggling wildly as he attempted to molest her.
    Drawn by the sound and smell of fear, the thing rose from the bushes. Hunger and resentment burned in the swollen red eyes. He stood, a battlefield of warring impulses. The bloodlust beat against him like an angry tide, pushing him mercilessly to murder, to appease the drumming of the craving cells. But even as he rose in his wrath, a tiny piece of jetsam braved the tide, salvaged from the wreckage of his old self. Pity for the beautiful girl checked the rage and turned the indiscriminate anger on the man, symbol of his own corrupt self, a despoiler of innocence, beauty and life.
    Yet he hesitated for the girl’s sake. Recalling the blue eyes of the small child as they froze in terror, he faltered, loath to expose his vileness again. Beauty and innocence spoke to his soul, and a small part that was still uninfected replied and checked the alien rage.
    And it was enough to save her. Out of the wood came sounds of whistles being blown and men shouting. The search party had heard her screams and was rapidly converging on the spot.
    The man turned guiltily as the first white-coated technician arrived. The girl clutched her torn blouse anxiously to her and looked appealingly at her rescuer. The technician’s disappointment changed to irritation when he read the situation. Other staff from the research centre were also arriving.
    “You shouldn’t be here,” shouted the technician. “It’s private property.”
    The photographer had regained his composure and began arguing. Unseen by any of them, the thing crept away into the wood.
    Once out of earshot he began to run, swiftly but unsteadily so that he lunged against overhanging branches and they plucked at his skin, leaving thin nets of glistening slime like spiders’ webs hanging from the leaves. A black cloud of flies pursued him, buzzing greedily around his head. As he ran his breathing grew more pained. Between the gasps came tight sobs of despair.