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　light　shimmered　and　wove…She　suddenly　felt　giddy。
　　Fuller　saw　nothing　and　heard　nothing。　His　head　was　bowed　to　his　business；　engrossed。　Mary　stared　at　him　still；　seeing　the　halo　on　him；　feeling　new　sensations　waking　in　her；　coursing　through　her。　The　air　seemed　suddenly　alive：　the　very　molecules　of　oxygen；　hydrogen；　nitrogen　jostled　against　her　in　an　intimate　embrace。　The　nimbus　around　Fuller's　head　was　spreading；　finding　fellow　radiance　in　every　object　in　the　room。　The　unnatural　sense　in　her　fingertips　was　spreading　too。　She　could　see　the　colour　of　her　breath　as　she　exhaled　it：　a　pinky　orange　glamour　in　the　bubbling　air。　She　could　hear；　quite　clearly；　the　voice　of　the　desk　she　sat　at：　the　low　whine　of　its　solid　presence。
　　The　world　was　opening　up：　throwing　her　senses　into　an　ecstasy；　coaxing　them　into　a　wild　confusion　of　functions。　She　was　capable；　suddenly；　of　knowing　the　world　as　a　system；　not　of　politics　or　religions；　but　as　a　system　of　senses；　a　system　that　spread　out　from　the　living　flesh　to　the　inert　wood　of　her　desk；　to　the　stale　gold　of　her　wedding　ring。
　　And　further。　Beyond　wood；　beyond　gold。　The　crack　opened　that　led　to　the　highway。　In　her　head　she　heard　voices　that　came　from　no　living　mouth。
　　She　looked　up；　or　rather　some　force　thrust　her　head　back　violently　and　she　found　herself　staring　up　at　the　ceiling。　It　was　covered　with　worms。　No；　that　was　absurd！　It　seemed　to　be　alive；　though；　maggoty　with　life…pulsing；　dancing。
　　She　could　see　the　boy　through　the　ceiling。　He　was　sitting　on　the　floor；　with　his　jutting　member　in　his　hand。　His　head　was　thrown　back；　like　hers。　He　was　as　lost　in　his　ecstasy　as　she　was。　Her　new　sight　saw　the　throbbing　light　in　and　around　his　body…traced　the　passion　that　was　seated　in　his　gut；　and　his　head　molten　with　pleasure。
　　It　saw　another　sight；　the　lie　in　him；　the　absence　of　power　where　she'd　thought　there　had　been　something　wonderful。　He　had　no　talent　to　mune　with　ghosts；　nor　had　ever　had；　she　saw　this　plainly。　He　was　a　little　liar；　a　boy…liar；　a　sweet；　white　boy…liar　without　the　passion　or　the　wisdom　to　understand　what　he　had　dared　to　do。
　　Now　it　was　done。　The　lies　were　told；　the　tricks　were　played；　and　the　people　on　the　highway；　sick　beyond　death　of　being　misrepresented　and　mocked；　were　buzzing　at　the　crack　in　the　wall；　and　demanding　satisfaction。
　　That　crack　she　had　opened：　she　had　unknowingly　fingered　and　fumbled　at；　unlocking　it　by　slow　degrees。　Her　desire　for　the　boy　had　done　that：　her　endless　thoughts　of　him；　her　frustration；　her　heat　and　her　disgust　at　her　heat　had　pulled　the　crack　wider。　Of　all　the　powers　that　made　the　system　manifest；　love；　and　its　panion；　passion；　and　their　panion；　loss；　were　the　most　potent。　Here　she　was；　an　embodiment　of　all　three。　Loving；　and　wanting；　and　sensing　acutely　the　impossibility　of　the　former　two。　Wrapped　up　in　an　agony　of　feeling　which　she　had　denied　herself；　believing　she　loved　the　boy　simply　as　her　Go…Between。
　　It　wasn't　true！　It　wasn't　true！　She　wanted　him；　wanted　him　now；　deep　inside　her。　Except　that　now　it　was　too　late。
　　The　traffic　could　be　denied　no　longer：　it　demanded；　yes；　it　demanded　access　to　the　little　trickster。
　　She　was　helpless　to　prevent　it。　All　she　could　do　was　utter　a　tiny　gasp　of　horror　as　she　saw　the　highway　open　out　before　her；　and　understood　that　this　was　no　mon　intersection　they　stood　at。
　　Fuller　heard　the　sound。
　　〃Doctor？〃　He　looked　up　from　his　tinkering　and　his　face…washed　with　a　blue　light　she　could　see　from　the　corner　of　her　eye…bore　an　expression　of　enquiry。
　　〃Did　you　say　something？〃　he　asked。
　　She　thought；　with　a　fillip　of　her　stomach；　of　how　this　was　bound　to　end。
　　The　ether…faces　of　the　dead　were　quite　clear　in　front　of　her。　She　could　see　the　profundity　of　their　suffering　and　she　could　sympathize　with　their　ache　to　be　heard。
　　She　saw　plainly　that　the　highways　that　crossed　at　Tollington　Place　were　not　mon　thoroughfares。　She　was　not　staring　at　the　happy；　idling　traffic　of　the　ordinary　dead。　No；　that　house　opened　onto　a　route　walked　only　by　the　victims　and　the　perpetrators　of　violence。　The　men；　the　women；　the　children　who　had　died　enduring　all　the　pains　nerves　had　wit　to　muster；　with　their　minds　branded　by　the　circumstances　of　their　deaths。　Eloquent　beyond　words；　their　eyes　spoke　their　agonies；　their　ghost　bodies　still　bearing　the　wounds　that　had　killed　them。　She　could　also　see；　mingling　freely　with　the　innocents；　their　slaughterers　and　tormentors。　These　monsters；　frenzied；　mush…minded　blood…letters；　peeked　through　into　the　world：　nonesuch　creatures；　unspoken；　forbidden　miracles　of　our　species；　chattering　and　howling　their　Jabberwocky。
　　Now　the　boy　above　her　sensed　them。　She　saw　him　turn　a　little　in　the　silent　room；　knowing　that　the　voices　he　heard　were　not　fly…voices；　the　plaints　were　not　insect…plaints。　He　was　aware；　suddenly；　that　he　had　lived　in　a　tiny　corner　of　the　world；　and　that　the　rest　of　it；　the　Third；　Fourth　and　Fifth　Worlds；　were　pressing　at　his　lying　back；　hungry　and　irrevocable。　The　sight　of　his　panic　was　also　a　smell　and　a　taste　to　her。　Yes；　she　tasted　him　as　she　had　always　longed　to；　but　it　was　not　a　kiss　that　married　their　senses；　it　was　his　growing　panic。　It　filled　her　up：　her　empathy　was　total。　The　fearful　glance　was　hers　as　much　as　his…their　dry　throats　rasped　the　same　small　word：
　　〃Please…〃　That　the　child　learns。
　　〃Please…；　That　wins　care　and　gifts。
　　〃Please…〃　That　even　the　dead；　surely；　even　the　dead　must　know　and　obey。
　　〃Please…；　Today　there　would　be　no　such　mercy　given；　she　knew　for　certain。
　　These　ghosts　had　despaired　on　the　highway　a　grieving　age；　bearing　the　wounds　they　had　died　with；　and　the　insanities　they　had　slaughtered　with。　They　had　endured　his　levity　and　insolence；　his　idiocies；　the　fabrications　that　had　made　a　game　of　their　ordeals。　They　wanted　to　speak　the　truth。
　　Fuller　was　peering　at　her　more　closely；　his　face　now　swimming　in　a　sea　of　pulsing　orange　light。　She　felt　his　hands　on　her　skin。　They　tasted　of　vinegar。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　he　said；　his　breath　like　iron。
　　She　shook　her　head。
　　No；　she　was　not　all　right；　nothing　was　right。
　　The　crack　was　gaping　wider　every　second：　through　it　she　could　see　another　sky；　the　slate　heavens　that　loured　over　the　highway。　It　overwhelmed　the　mere　reality　of　the　house。
　　〃Please；〃　she　said；　her　eyes　rolling　up　to　the　fading　substance　of　the　ceiling。
　　Wider。　Wider…The　brittle　world　she　inhabited　was　stretched　to　breaking　point。
　　Suddenly；　it　broke；　like　a　dam；　and　the　black　waters　poured　through；　inundating　the　room。
　　Fuller　knew　something　was　amiss　（it　was　in　the　colour　of　his　aura；　the　sudden　fear）；　but　he　didn't　understand　what　was　happening。　She　felt　his　spine　ripple：　she　could　see　his　brain　whirl。
　　〃What's　going　on？〃　he　said。　The　pathos　of　the　enquiry　made　her　want　to　laugh。
　　Upstairs；　the　water…jug　in　the　writing　room　shattered。
　　Fuller　let　her　go　and　ran　towards　the　door。　It　began　to　rattle　and　shake　even　as　he　approached　it；　as　though　all　the　inhabitants　of　hell　were　beating　on　the　other　side。　The　handle　turned　and　turned　and　turned。　The　paint　blistered。　The　key　glowed　red…hot。
　　Fuller　looked　back　at　the　Doctor；　who　was　still　fixed　in　that　grotesque　position；　head　back；　eyes　wide。
　　He　reached　for　the　handle；　but　the　door　opened　before　he　could　touch　it。　The　hallway　beyond　had　disappeared　altogether。　Where　the　familiar　interior　had　stood　the　vista　of　the　highway　stretched　to　the　horizon。　The　sight　killed　Fuller　in　a　moment。　His　mind　had　no　strength　to　take　the　panorama　in…it　could　not　control　the　overload　that　ran　through　his　every　nerve。　His　heart　stopped；　a　revolution　overturned　the　order　of　his　system；　his　bladder　failed；　his　bowels　failed；　his　limbs　shook　and　collapsed。　As　he　sank　to　the　floor　his　face　began　to　blister　like　the　door；　and　his　corpse　rattle　like　the　handle。　He　was　inert　stuff　already：　as　fit　for　this　indignity　as　wood　or　steel。
　　Somewhere　to　the　East　his　soul　joined　the　wounded　highway；　on　its　route　to　the　intersection　where　a　moment　previously　he　had　died。
　　Mary　Florescu　knew　she　was　alone。　Above　her　the　marvellous　boy；　her　beautiful；　cheating　child；　was　writhing　and　screeching　as　the　dead　set　their　vengeful　hands　on　his　fresh　skin。　She　knew　their　intention：　she　could　see　it　in　their　eyes…there　was　nothing　new　about　it。　Every　history　had　this　particular　torment　in　its　tradition。　He　was　to　be　used　to　record　their　testaments。　He　was　to　be　their　page；　their　book；　the　vessel　for　their　autobiographies。　A　book　of　blood。　A　book　made　of　blood。　A　book　written　in　blood。　She　thought　of　the　grimoires　that　had　been　made　of　dead　human　skin：　she'd　seen　them；　touched　them。　She　thought　of　the　tattooes　she'd　seen：　freak　show　exhibits　some　of　them；　others　just　shirtless　labourers　in　the　Street　with　a　message　to　their　mothers　pricked　across　their　backs。　It　was　not　unknown；　to　write　a　book　of　blood。
　　But　on　such　skin；　on　such　gleaming　skin…oh　God；　that　was　the　crime。　He　screamed　as　the　torturing　needles　of　broken　jug…glass　skipped　against　his　flesh；　ploughing　it　up。　She　felt　his　agonies　as　if　they　had　been　hers；　and　they　were　not　so　terrible。
　　Yet　he　screamed。　And　fought；　and　poured　obscenities　out　at