The Monkey

by Tim Radley

Normally it is Lara Croft who finds the ancient artefacts, not vice versa . . . A Tomb Raider story set in Monte Carlo

The Monkey

by Tim Radley

trad50@yahoo.co.uk

Tomb Raider, Lara Croft, her image and likeness are trademark and copyright © of EIDOS Interactive and Core Design. No infringement or challenge to these copyrights is intended.

This story contains strong language and scenes of violence Prologue – Mbeya, Tanzania

Lara wasn't paying proper attention.

                She should have been. After all, she'd heard all the stories and the rumours; people disappearing in the night; shallow graves being discovered containing skinless corpses, and on a couple of occasions, skinless not-quite-corpses. In all honesty, she couldn't say she hadn't been warned.

                Instead of her surroundings she kept seeing images of what had happened that afternoon, replaying over and over.

                She kept trying to work out what she could have done differently; how she could have changed the outcome. A futile and tortuous pursuit.

                The woman had been in her late fifties, although she'd looked much older -- stooped and wizened from years of poverty and backbreaking labour. Her eyes had been red; a sign of sorcery it was claimed; of pacts made with dark forces. In reality it was a sign of forty years spent cooking over dung fires in badly ventilated huts, but in these paranoid times no one wanted to listen to rationalisations.

                The mob had dragged her from her dwelling, kicking and punching her, baying for her blood. Lara had seen them dousing her with petrol. By the time she'd managed to stir herself to action, the woman had been set alight and it was already too late. After a while the crackling of the flames had drowned out the screams.

                Even if she had intervened the likely result would have simply been a double burning rather than a single one. That didn't do much to assuage the feelings of guilt though.

                With her thoughts elsewhere she didn't notice the person creeping up on her until he was right on top of her. As she started to turn, something struck her on the back of her head. Everything went black.

                . . .

                . . .

                "Careful. Four or five times our normal fee for this one. But only if we take it intact."

                Through the ringing pain in her skull, Lara could feel someone's knee pressing hard into the small of her back. There was heat near her face, and as she cautiously opened her eyes she had to squint against the brightness.

                Something sliced through the back of her tank top and she felt strong hands yanking the garment roughly away. It was an effort to hold back the panic and maintain the pretence of unconsciousness – her instincts told her to kick and scream and struggle; to fight with every ounce of strength she had left. She overruled them – sometimes instinct alone didn't cut it.

                The man with his knee in her back started on her shorts, but these proved more problematic than her top. His knife got caught on the belt and she could hear him muttering under his breath as he sawed his way through. The one she'd heard speaking was standing about six feet away, she determined from his uneasy shifting, and there was a third individual present too, standing further back still. A muffled cough heard over the crackling of the fire gave him away.

                On the bright side, she thought blearily, she wasn't going to be raped. The witch doctors who were the most likely purchasers of this sort of merchandise claimed to be able to tell such things, and it greatly reduced the sale value. Weighed against the fact that she was about to be flayed alive, then left to suffocate in a shallow grave, it was rather less of a bright side than it might have been.

                Her belt gave way. She was running out of time.

                Lara's hand snaked up towards the fire . . . where she realised she'd miscalculated. The fuel, of course, was dried dung bricks rather than wood. Still, not much choice now. Gritting her teeth, she thrust her hand into the flames.

                The pain was immense – absolute agony. She managed to keep from screaming, but her entire body clenched tight.

                "Hey!" The man cutting her shorts yelled. "She's awake . . ."

                She twisted violently beneath him, hurling the handful of blazing dung straight into his face.

                 He fell back, howling, more in panic than in actual pain. Lara went with him, grabbing his wrist while he was still too shocked to react, twisting it sideways, then ramming it forwards as hard as she could.

                The knife blade slid, full-length, into his gut.

                As she yanked it out again hot blood splattered over her skin. He gave a soft, surprised sounding grunt, then sat down clumsily on the ground.

                She found herself face to face with a man holding an Kalashnikov AK-47. There was a pause. Then – at exactly the same instant – he lifted the barrel towards her and she dove sideways, desperately attempting to find some nonexistent cover.

                "Don't shoot her, you idiot!"

                At the last moment the gunman yanked the assault rifle to one side. The bullets perforated the hut's wall instead of her flesh.

                In gratitude to her saviour – the same man who had spoken the first time – Lara went at him with the knife.

                He managed to interpose a hand in front of the first blow, so he only lost half his fingers instead of his throat. Second blow he tried to duck, and it opened up a large flap of his scalp down to the bone. Third time finally found what she'd initially been aiming for, arterial blood spraying like a high-pressure fire-hose.

                She found herself face to face with the man with the Kalashnikov again. For whatever reason – perhaps even now he harboured faint hopes of taking his prize intact – he hesitated for a fraction of a second.

                Then there was a knife blade, embedded up to the hilt, in his eye socket. The gun slipped from his grasp and he topped over backwards like a felled tree.

                It was a worse shot than it looked. She'd meant to hit him in the chest.

                A low, agonised moan broke the silence.

                Still icy cold, Lara walked forward towards the fallen AK-47. It was slightly awkward with her burnt hand, but she managed to pick it up, then turn and aim it.

                "P-Please . . ."

                A bright flash, and a loud, cackling hyena cough. Lara lowered the gun to the floor again.

                Only then did she allow herself to resume feeling.

                For a long time she just crouched on the hut's floor, the only sounds her breathing and the crackling from the fire. Finally she stood up again, scavenging some of the three men's less blood stained clothing to cover herself.

                Just as she was about to leave, something lying on the floor caught her eye. She hesitated a moment, then bent down to pick it up. Apparently it had fallen from the pocket of the leader of the three – the one who'd spoken.

                It was a small carving of a monkey, made from grey soapstone.

Monte Carlo, Monaco

"I didn't know you liked tennis Lara."

                She looked round at the gravelly, English accented voice, wiping the back of her wrist across her brow. The speaker was a dapper looking gentleman in his late fifties, dressed in an immaculate white suit with a maroon silk kerchief folded in the top pocket. His tanned, crinkly face was still handsome, possessing a hint of roguish charm and twinkle. A broad-brimmed savannah hat kept the blazing Mediterranean sun off him.

                "I don't. I absolutely detest it."

                The man raised an eyebrow. "Then why . . ?"

                Lara cast a sidelong glance at the other person present, gathering up their bags and racquets. As he came around the net and moved to stand beside her she kissed him quickly. "I'll catch up with you later Thierry. This evening?"

                "Of course Lara. Have fun."

                She watched him walk away, then turned her attention back to the older gentleman, returning his raised eyebrow.

                He cleared his throat. "Ah, I see. Yes. Well."

                Lara laughed. "Have I shocked you Uncle? I hadn't thought that was possible."

                He smiled. "Not shocked, Lara. More surprised. I didn't think . . . well, never mind."

                She shrugged. "I don't know, I just thought, for a couple of weeks or so, it would be nice not to have to be myself."

                There was a flicker of what might have been sadness in his expression, gone so quickly she wasn't quite sure whether it was just her imagination. "You do know about Thierry . . ?" He asked cautiously.

                Lara sighed. "Yes Uncle Rodders. I do know that Thierry is an inveterate womaniser, and probably a complete cad and a bounder to boot. Or do those last two only apply to Englishmen? Hmm, not sure. I'm also quite aware that he makes a living being kept by various wealthy women, in return for tennis and . . . er, other lessons. I'm a big girl now."

                "Well, as long as you have your eyes open."

                "Look, he's good company, doesn't pretend to be anything he's not, and I'm having fun.

                "And fabulous in bed of course?"

                Lara chuckled. "That's better Uncle. Recovered from the surprise I see. I was starting to worry."

                Roderick Croft laughed. "Oh, I'm still quite scandalous, I assure you. At least when I remember to be." He paused, looking Lara up and down. "You're looking well Lara. Very well indeed."

                "Yeah, I'm a new woman since I died." There was a hint of sourness in her voice.

                He winced. "Sore point?"

                "No. Not really. Just . . ." She shook her head and didn't elaborate. "Retirement looks like it's suiting you uncle."

                "Sun, sea, sand and sex. It's a hard life but somebody has to do it." His eyes twinkled.

                "You poor man. Sounds absolutely awful for you."

                By unspoken agreement they started walking off the red clay tennis court.

                "How's your father keeping Lara?" Roderick asked after a while, sounding slightly hesitant. "No, no. Stupid question. You're hardly likely to know any better than I am, are you?"

                Lara hesitated. "Actually we're speaking again, since what happened in Egypt. I wouldn't call it a reconciliation precisely . . . But we keep in touch."

                "Ah, really? Well that is good news."

                "He's well I think, physically at least. You should try talking to him. I think he's at the stage where he's ready to forgive and forget. If you're willing to make the first move."

                It was Roderick's turn to sigh. "I wish I could believe you Lara, I really do. But I can't see it. Unlike you, I'm more than deserving of his contempt. And I haven't benefited from a near death experience to make him re-evaluate his feelings for me."

                Lara shrugged. "Whatever you want. I'm the last person to try and nag you into it."

                "I'll think about it," he grumbled. "Christ, aren't we a cheery pair? So what brings you to Monte Carlo, Lara? Didn't think it was your sort of place."

                "Oh I don't know. Thought I needed a break from it all. And then I remembered I hadn't seen my favourite, most charming – and only – uncle for a few years. It would have been remiss of me not to stop by."

                "Now why do I get the sense of evasion and insincere flattery there?"

                "Well, if you want I can get to the point. But to be honest I'd rather not talk shop just yet. I thought we might spend some time catching up with each other. Maybe grab some lunch?"

                "Excellent. Sounds like a plan."

                They reached a row of parked cars – BMW's, Mercedes, Bentleys and Porches – all brilliantly gleaming in the sunlight.

                Roderick took a set of keys from his jacket pocket and tossed them into the air. "So, little girl, would you like a drive in my bright red Ferrari?"

                "Why not?"

* * *

"You've been in Africa recently I hear?"

                Lara flicked the Ferrari – a 360 Spider – smoothly through a hairpin bend in the cliff top road. She floored the accelerator as they came out of the corner, the engine growling like a big cat. The feel of the wind – whipping steamers of long chestnut coloured hair around her face – was exhilarating, the feedback from the steering wheel and tyres almost allowing her to feel at one with the machine. Better than her Aston Martin she had to concede, turning into another sweeping curve.

                "That's right. Tanzania. A place called Mbeya in the south east, near the Zambian border to be precise." She studied Roderick's reflection sidelong in the rear-view mirror, her eyes hidden behind red-tinted sunglasses. There was no hint of a reaction from him, but then, she hadn't expected one. Had she?

                "Never heard of it I'm afraid."

                Lara laughed. "Didn't really expect you would have."

                "You'll forgive me if I hold some rather outdated prejudices, but it doesn't sound like my idea of a choice vacation spot."

                "To be honest, it's not." She swung the Ferrari out to pass a rusty old Renault, trundling along at about thirty. "In fact I'd probably go so far as to say it is quiet possibly the strangest place I've ever visited. And I've visited some damn strange places."

                "Yes. I've read your books." His murmur was almost lost beneath the wind and engine noise.

                "Wow. I'm honoured."

                "Did you think I would possibly miss out on anything my favourite – and only – niece had written?"

                For some reason Lara felt embarrassed. "So you've probably formed the opinion I'm some kind of crank, like most other people."

                "Me? No. No, I could never think that." Lara saw him shaking his head. "Although that probably says more about me than it does you. You were saying about this Mbeya place?"

                "Yes. Yes I was." A twisty section of road occupied her attention for a few seconds, then she went on. "Foreign. That's what Mbeya is. In every sense of the word. Not just a different country. A different universe too. At least that's what it feels like when you're there. Sounds ridiculous when you put it into words doesn't it?"

                "Maybe not," Roderick said softly.

                Lara shot him a sidelong glance, but he appeared lost in thought.

                "Go on. Go on," he prompted when he realised she'd stopped talking. "Or is this one of those things you were wanting to leave till later?"

                "It does impinge on that territory. But what the hell." She took a deep breath. "In Mbeya it's – difficult to explain more sanely I'm afraid – as if something fundamental has become broken. That, somehow, the past has leaked through and gotten so mixed up with the twenty-first century it's impossible to untangle now."

                "Interesting."

                "Nightmarish is probably closer the mark. Witchcraft is what it's all about, on the surface at least. Five thousand people have been killed as witches in Mbeya and the Sumbangwa district in the past four years. Five thousand; beaten or burned to death by lynch mobs. It's like the great witch-hunts have returned, and no one in the outside world has noticed. There was a Presidential Commission into Devil Worship conducted a few years back, and it concluded that Freemasons, Mormons, Rastafarians, Jehovah's Witnesses, and 'people who played loud music' among others were guilty of practising Satanism. The whole country is going quietly and invisibly mad, and the heart of it is Mbeya."

                "Remind me to steer well clear. Although on the Mormons and Jehovah's witnesses they may have a valid point."

                Lara manoeuvred round a pair of cyclists and took the next corner recklessly fast. "You can taste the paranoia in the air as soon you set foot in the place. It's like a taint. You're watched every single moment, people staring at you from the shadows the whole time, except when you try to meet their eyes. As a stranger – and especially a white stranger – almost no one will even talk to you, for fear of bringing unwanted attention down on themselves." An involuntary shudder passed through her shoulders. "And all that's before you even get onto the muti killings or the trade in human skin."

                "Ah yes. Human skin. A powerful talisman of protection against demons and evil spirits."

                She shot him a sharp look.

                "My knowledge is purely anecdotal, I hasten to add. Even at my worst I was never involved in anything approaching that black."

                "Well that's a relief then."

                "Might I ask why you were in this awful sounding place, Lara?"

                Lara shrugged. She didn't particularly want to get into the details of that right now. "A nineteenth century German missionary by the name of Thomas Knapf," she said eventually. "I traced his last resting place to a spot near Mbeya. Went to Africa to save the souls of heathens and spread the word or our Lord, only to find that one of the ungrateful locals had the cheek to object. With the point a spear."

                "Name doesn't ring any bells."

                "Frankly, I'd be amazed if it did."

                "You'll forgive me for saying so, but he doesn't sound particularly interesting to me."

                "A rather dull little man from what I gather." Another turn had her squinting against the sun, the Mediterranean spreading out in front of them, a broad blue vista. "Didn't leave more than the faintest dimple in history."

                "Still, more than most of us manage. So why were you interested?"

                Lara hesitated. "I was looking for his journal. My research indicated that it might contain a clue to a clue to . . . something I was looking for."

                "Did you find it?" The question sounded casual – a politeness. She got the impression that she'd managed to pique her uncle's interest rather more than he was letting on though.

                Lara shook her head. "I'm fairly certain I found Knapf's last resting place, and even his earthly remains. But there was no trace of his possessions, nor any hint as to what happened to them. It was a long shot I'll admit. Still, there are a number of other avenues of enquiry remaining open to me."

                "Hmm. You don't think his possessions might have been returned to his family?"

                "I spent a rather tedious week in Bavaria before I went out to Tanzania."

                He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. "Don't try and teach your granny to suck eggs, eh?"

                "Perhaps not the most flattering comparison I've ever received." Lara's response was dry.

                Roderick grinned. "Profusest apologies my dear. You, of course, are looking absolutely beautiful, radiant and full of the first flush of youth. Entire legions of poets are no doubt scribing volumes of sonnets in your honour even as we speak."

                "And that, I think, takes the flattery a bit too far."

                "Damn. Never did work out how to get the balance quite right." He lied of course – he had a knack of charming people that sometimes bordered on the uncanny.

                The Ferrari crested a slight rise. Beyond it the road swept down in a long, arcing curve to the gleaming, slightly over-gaudy jewel that was Monte Carlo.

                Roderick broke the silence that has settled between them. "Am I to take it Lara, that I form one of these 'other avenues of enquiry' that you mentioned earlier?"

                "Well actually uncle, no."

                "Ah."

                She smiled. "You sound disappointed."

                "Well, it's a long time since I've been an avenue of enquiry. And even then it was for the Metropolitan Police, which is hardly the same."

                "Sorry uncle."

                "Your phone call did say you thought I could help you though."

                "Yes. Yes it did." Lara mulled it over for a while, then let out a long breath. "Open the glove compartment please."

                She was aware of him looking at her curiously, his expression questioning. "It's easier if you do as I say and see, before I try to explain."

                Roderick frowned. "Well, if you say so . . ." He did as she asked, then sat back hard, staring. A moment later he reached tentatively into the glove compartment. There was a small figurine sitting on the palm of his hand when he withdrew it. It was about four inches tall and carved from what looked like grey soapstone – a wizened, particularly ugly looking monkey.

                "Hmm, I think I've seen something like this before somewhere," he mused. "Damn. The memory's not what it used to be I'm afraid. All those drugs in the seventies and eighties exacting their toll I'm sure. My own fault etcetera . . ." He trailed off abruptly, looking like he'd been hit by a thunderbolt. A violent tremor passed through his arm and the monkey figure dropped onto his lap. "Wait a minute! You never . . . How the hell did it get in there?"

                Lara's answering expression was grim. "Neat trick, isn't it?"

* * *

"It belonged to the leader of a gang of skinners. We had a slight disagreement – pertaining to my skin and me preferring to remain attached to it. I wasn't entirely sure why I took it at the time. Like you, I just thought it looked familiar somehow."

                The soapstone monkey now sat atop the Ferrari's dashboard, Roderick not comfortable with the idea of holding it. It leered malevolently, and somehow it had managed to remain standing upright – seemingly in defiance of the laws of gravity. Lara eased the car to a halt as a traffic light turned to red in front of them.

                "Anyway, I suffered some pretty bad nightmares when I tried to sleep, and waking up to find that thing leering at me gave me quite a jolt. Irrational it may be, but I decided I didn't like it, and I didn't want it. I threw it away into the nearest lot of bushes."

                "Lara . . ?"

                "Two hours later I found it sitting in my backpack."

                Another car came to a halt beside them, engine grumbling, and over that, the bass thud of loudly played music. Lara glanced across at it. Another Ferrari 360, although this one in bright canary yellow. In Monaco they seemed as ubiquitous as Ford Escorts were in Essex.

                The driver's tanned, meaty forearm was dangling out of the window, fingers tapping against the paintwork in time to the thudding bass. The arm's owner was looking straight back at her, grinning. He was in his mid twenties, bleached blonde hair cropped short and spiky, a dark shadow of stubble showing on his jaw. As she watched he tilted his wraparound sunglasses up onto his forehead and winked at her broadly. She looked away again in disgust.

                The traffic light turned to green.

                Without pausing to think about it, Lara stamped on the accelerator, rifling swiftly through the gears. The Ferrari 360 has a 0-60 time of a fraction over four seconds, and she managed to get within a couple of tenths of that, continuing rapidly on towards a hundred. As she wove in between slower moving vehicles a glance in the mirror showed the yellow Ferrari about a car length back, matching her pace, the driver grinning from ear to ear. Beside her, Roderick was holding tightly onto his hat, his jaw tightly clenched, looking a little grey around the edges.

                Ahead, the famous tunnel loomed and she had to react quickly to avoid a slow moving van. Behind her the yellow Ferrari closed in tight, swarming all over her back. The speedometer touched 120, and still it carried on climbing.

                They hit the tunnel. Striplights flicked past in epilepsy inducing patterns and the entire quality of the acoustics transformed; deeper and more intimate, the stereo note of the two Ferrari's engines a symphonic cacophony.

                Almost a hundred and forty now. And still rising . Her hair whipped around her face in medusa coils, the airflow buffeting her violently. Behind her the yellow Ferrari leapt out of her slipstream, easing inexorably alongside. Its driver was looking across at her again, still grinning.

                What the hell am I doing?

                Abruptly she lifted off the accelerator and rapidly pumped the Ferrari's brakes, bringing their speed almost instantly back down to a more manageable level. The yellow car shot past in a blurred flash, disappearing into the distance.

                "Sorry about that," she told Roderick, who was just in the process of unlocking his jaw and trying to breathe normally again. "Sometimes I let my inner child – or whatever the hell the proper term is – get the better of me."

                He laughed. "No, no. It was certainly most . . . enlightening. Do you know who that was?"

                "Haven't the foggiest."

                He laughed again. "You really don't know? Jansen MacLean."

                "What? You don't mean the Jansen MacLean?"

                "Yep, the Jansen MacLean."

                They emerged from the tunnel, into the brilliantly sunlit marina with its forest of gently bobbing boats. Despite her sunglasses Lara had to blink rapidly against the brightness. "Pardon me for asking, but who the hell is Jansen MacLean?"

                Roderick rolled his eyes. "You're even more out of touch than I am, aren't you?"

                "I try to be," Lara said dryly.

                "He's Briton's latest great Formula 1 hope. Second in the World Championship last year, though he's struggling a bit this season. Rumour is Maclaren are going to sack him and replace him with their test driver if he doesn't cut back on the public excesses and start to focus. Also a complete tabloid tart, and until recently the latest beau of Jordan."

                "Sounds a class bloke."

                "Er, Lara. Hate to mention it, but just missed the turn we wanted."

                "Really?" She peered down the road he indicated. "Well, never mind. I need to stop off at my hotel anyway – shower and a change of clothes 'n all that."

* * *

"You know uncle, I'm sorely tempted to steal it from you." Slightly regretfully she flipped the set of keys back to him.

                "You like it Lara? It's yours if you want it."

                She gaped at him.

                "Honestly. I mean it. It's wasted on me. I bought it because I thought it looked nice, but I drive it like a granny. Too afraid of scratching the paintwork or putting a dent in the bumper. You though . . . you know how to treat it. And you look much better with it than I do. You were made for each other."

                Lara folded her arms across her chest. She'd changed out of her tennis whites at the hotel. "You can't be serious."

                "Really. If you want it, it's yours."

                She felt suddenly quite uncomfortable. "No uncle. I couldn't possibly take your car."

                He studied her, apparently deciding she was serious and wouldn't be swayed. Shrugging he pocketed the keys. "If you change your mind . . ."

                She decided to change the subject. "So which one of these is yours?" The sweep of her arm took in the row gleaming yachts and motor-cruisers in front of them.

                "That one there." He indicated a particularly large and impressive looking vessel berthed a short distance away.

                "The Jolly Roger?"

                "I'm a big Captain Pugwash fan," Roderick returned deadpan.

                "Of course."

                "You should have heard some of the alternatives I came up with. Are you going to leave that there?" He gestured toward the monkey figure still sitting on the Ferrari's dashboard.

                Lara grimaced at it, then looked away, leaving it where it was. "I'm sure the bastard will find its own way in."

                They walked up the Jolly Roger's gangplank. "It's very impressive," Lara observed.

                "You're wondering how I can afford it, aren't you?"

                Lara shrugged noncommittally.

                "Don't worry. I'm not offended. I'd wonder too. I channelled donations from my, ah . . . camp followers through a Swiss bank account in the early eighties, and I've still got quite a sizeable sum stashed away. If I were a more moral man I'd probably feel obliged to donate the lot to charity and spend my remaining years engaged in self-flagellation at some monastery or other. To be honest though, I'm too attached to my little comforts and indulgences to do anything that stupid. Why pretend otherwise?"

                "I'm not judging you uncle."

                "I know. I know." His expression was rueful.

                There were a couple of men sunbathing on the foredeck. At their arrival, the closest of them – tall, leanly muscular, tanned and improbably handsome – stood up languidly, exchanging a fairly perfunctory embrace with Roderick, air kissing both his cheeks. "I hope you don't mind me bringing my friend over, Roddy?"

                "No, no of course not." Roderick waved it off.

                He looked across at Lara. "Would you and your . . . companion like us to give you some privacy?" She couldn't immediately place his accent, but it wasn't French.

                "If it's not too much trouble Tushar."

                "Of course not Roddy." He smiled, though his eyes showed different.

                "Let me introduce you to my niece, Lara Croft. Lara, this is my friend Tushar. He's a model and a writer."

                Always a noteworthy combination, Lara thought but didn't say.

                His grip as they shook hands was exaggeratedly firm, to the point of being painful. Overfull, girlish lips compressed in a condescending little smile, and his dark eyes seemed to take in – and judge – every little detail, coming away unimpressed. She decided almost immediately that she didn't much like him.

                "Charmed, I'm sure," he purred.

                As she and Roderick descended below deck, she saw Tushar's companion – an equally tanned and overly handsome blonde – stand up, the two of them gathering their stuff together.

                "You'll have to forgive Tushar," Roderick was saying. "He has a tendency to play up to the stereotype. Conscious self-parody, I've come to think."

                "Your lover then?" The question was out before Lara realised it probably wasn't the most tactful.

                "For the past three years."

                "And his friend?"

                Roderick shrugged. "Don't know him. Ours is a fairly open relationship. For one thing Tushar's quite into the power side of things, and I'm afraid my decrepit old body will no longer stand up to that kind of treatment." He laughed wryly, shaking his head. "Sorry, too much information there I think."

                "Well I did ask."

                "Drink?" He enquired as she folded herself onto a padded leather recliner. "To be honest I'm dying for a brandy."

                "Yes. I've noticed my driving has that effect on people. I'll join you."

                He passed the first glass he poured across to her. "I didn't think you usually drank?"

                "I'll make an exception."

                As Roderick sat down opposite her with his own drink, Lara saw him go suddenly stiff, staring at something past her shoulder. She closed her eyes, pressing the heel of one hand to the bridge of her nose. "It's there isn't it? The monkey."

                He nodded, gulping at the brandy; making himself cough. "On the shelf, above your shoulder."

                "I told you how I tried to get rid of it, didn't I? Well I didn't try just the once. Bloody thing seems to have attached itself to me, and it won't let go. Distance doesn't seem to make a blind bit of difference. At least it managed to find its way into my hand luggage on a 747 flying at 30,000 feet. I tried smashing it too. Somehow missed it with an entire clip full of bullets from point blank range. The pneumatic drill wasn't a notable success either. Even went back to Egypt."

                Roderick looked at her sharply, apparently sensing something in the tone of her voice.

                "First time since . . . Since the incident." She closed her eyes, remembering the fear that had consumed her as the plane came into to land. It had taken every ounce of willpower she possessed to force herself from her seat and down the steps onto the tarmac. Every slight unexpected noise, or flicker of movement in the corner of her vision, had set heart palpitating, igniting panicked flight reflexes. Until that experience she hadn't truly comprehended what a phobia was – how strangling and all pervasive it could be. But, in the end, none of Set's demons had come for her, and nothing untoward had happened, and eventually she'd been able to see her surroundings for what they truly were. Something, finally, had been laid to rest.

                "You don't know Jean-Yves do you? No reason you should. An archaeologist. Lives in Alexandria. Old friend of mine. I thought he might be able to throw some light on the monkey – what it was; how to get rid of it and so on. In the end he couldn't offer any concrete help though. The last proper attempt I made to get rid of the thing was throwing it in Alexandria's harbour, over the ruins of Cleopatra's palace."

                "And so you came to see me. This is what you came to see me about, isn't it Lara? I'm sorry, but . . ."

                Lara cut him off. "Uncle, while I was in Alexandria I remembered why it looked familiar the first time I saw it."

                Roderick's jaw shut with a click. "I'm not going to like this, am I?" he said finally.

                "I think I was about eight, which would make it 1976 or so. For some reason – I don't know why – my nanny came to see you, and because she couldn't find anyone to fob me off on, she took me with her. I remember being left on my own in a dusty old room while she spoke to you, and there was this big glass-fronted cabinet, full of fascinating things. Fascinating to an eight-year-old me anyway. One of those things was a little carving of a monkey, almost exactly like the one behind me now. Except it was green. Perhaps made of jade. I recall being frustrated, because the cabinet was locked and I couldn't take it out and hold it."

                Roderick had gone white. His hand suddenly started to shake so badly that he had to put the brandy glass down to avoid spilling its contents. After a few seconds he took a deep breath and composed himself. Lara could see it was just a surface veneer though – beneath he was still very much all shook up.

                "Your nanny came to see me because she had a drug habit," he said. "I don't fully remember the reasons, but she knew I had contacts in that area, and she was half-crawling up the wall. I do remember I gave her something out of my own personal supply to get rid of her and shut her up."

                "I accidentally let slip about the visit to my father," Lara said slowly. "I remember a lot of shouting. The nanny was sacked and I never saw her again."

                He nodded. "I think my fallout with Henshingly became irrevocable from that moment. All the later, more public stuff was just hot air. Don't really blame him. Putting his only child at risk."

                They were straying of the subject. "You remember about the monkey though?"

                He gulped, then tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling for several seconds before meeting her gaze again. "I remember."

                "And?" she prompted, as he remained silent.

                "My one was a fake." He was inspecting the backs of his hands with apparent interest. "Or if not a fake, one that had lost its power, or that had never been imbued in the first place. Back then I would have given anything to possess a real one. In a very real sense, I would have sold my soul."

                "So. It's not necessarily something bad then?"

                He laughed harshly, and it was difficult to tell if his expression was a grimace or a smile. "You've got to remember, back in those days I thought that trying to perform magic rituals through the medium of LSD and group sex was a good idea. I once tried to hold communion with the devil, because – heh – Satan's a pretty trippy guy, you know? I've grown up a bit since then."

                Lara felt something sink inside her. "So what is it?"

                "Have you ever read Robert Louis Stephenson's The Bottle Imp?"

                "Preferred Treasure Island as a girl. Stay with me until I die, then carry my soul off to the red end of hell. Am I remembering correctly here?"

                "That's the one. I don't really know what it is exactly. Familiar? Fetish? Psychopomp?" He made a waving gesture. "Bottle Imp is the analogy that stuck with me. I'll quote Streatham here, and while he might have been a bullshit artist of the highest order, on this I think he may have been onto something."

                Streatham, Lara knew vaguely, had once been Roderick's business partner and – if rumours were to be believed – an occultist in the Crowley mould. Last she'd heard he'd been making a living in Brazil, having fled Britain just ahead of Her Majesty's pleasure.

                "His belief was that no person is born with a soul. Instead, a soul must be earned, growing through life experiences until the moment that a person dies. Then, if their soul is mature enough, it is able to emerge – like a butterfly from a chrysalis – into a new level of existence. Conversely, if it has not matured sufficiently then it is unable to break free, and will whither and die with the body. Good or bad, according to Streatham, don't come into it. Instead it is simply a question of a person being . . . interesting. Needless to say, the vast majority of people don't ever develop souls capable of surviving death, or indeed any soul at all."

                "Hmm, not sure I like that idea. Doesn't seem altogether fair."

                He shrugged. "Life isn't fair."

                "Uncle, another time I'd love to discuss theology with you, but . . ." She cast a glance towards the monkey. "I'm not sure how this relates to my problem."

                "Sorry. Sorry. I'm straying again, aren't I? Everyone's already told you I'm a complete loon. At least they should have done, I hope." His gaze kept flicking to a spot over her shoulder. He seemed very nervous indeed. "That . . . That thing, if the books are to be believed – and you never can tell for sure – feeds on the human soul. It offers gifts – can reshape probabilities to give you almost anything, within certain bounds – but for each gift you accept it devours another part of you, until eventually there is nothing left but a shell. Then it will abandon you and move on to the next likely host."

                Lara digested this. A soul-eating monkey. Bloody typical. "But unless I accept its gifts it can't harm me? Is that what you're saying?"

                He hesitated. "That's what I remember. But it was more than twenty years ago, and in any case you can't trust what's written. You learn that quickly."

                She sat back, folding her arms. "Well, if that is the case I'm okay. I haven't accepted any 'gift' from it, and I'm sure as hell not going to in future. In fact the damn thing hasn't offered me anything. It's just taken to following me around."

                Roderick rubbed his eyes. "It's not that simple."

                "It never is." She could feel the skin of her arms start to prickle.

                "You see Lara, you must have accepted at least one gift for it to be able to latch onto you. If you hadn't, it wouldn't be able to follow you."

                "Uncle, I assure you I have accepted nothing from the damned monkey. I think I would have noticed."

                "Its offer might have been subtle. Something you accepted without even realising it" He shook his head. "Sorry Lara. I'm groping in the dark here. Trying to sound like an authority when in reality I know almost nothing."

                "But you're sure I've accepted something?"

                "Unless what I know is totally wrong."

                Lara drank the rest of her brandy slowly, trying to think back over everything that had happened since she had first picked up the carving. She shook her head in frustration. "Sorry. I can't think of anything."

                "What about Thierry?"

                "No." Her reaction was immediate. She took a deep breath to calm herself. "Uncle, I still like to think I'm capable of picking up a womanising French Lothario without having to resort to supernatural means."

                He smiled ruefully. "Yes. Sorry. I didn't mean . . ." Suddenly he stopped dead, eyes narrowing as he stared at her.

                "Uncle?" She felt an icy little shiver passing up her spine. "What is it?"

                "Lara, when I first saw you earlier on I commented on how well you looked. I meant it. I didn't realise how much I meant it. In fact I'd swear that you look much younger and fresher than you did last time I saw you, more than four years ago."

                After a moment's pause Lara burst out laughing, primarily in relief.

                "Lara?"

                "Sorry Uncle. My appearance is the result of something completely different. It's a long story, and not something I particularly want to go into right now. Needless to say, I didn't make any bargain with that thing for eternal youth, or anything like that." She drained the last of the brandy and found herself looking at her fingers, distorted through the glass. Healthy, pink fingers. "Oh fuck."

                "What is it?"

                She held up her hand for him to see. "During my struggle with the skinners I burnt my hand, quite badly I think. This hand, no more than a week ago. Would that be enough?"

                Eventually he nodded.

                "Shit." She paused. "But I didn't ask it to heal me. Didn't make a bargain, or a wish, or anything like that."

                "Maybe just wanting the pain to stop was enough."

                She looked round again, into the monkey's ugly, leering, malevolent little face.

                "There is one brightside, small though it is."

                "Oh?"

                "It hasn't manifested yet."

                "Manifested?" Lara tore her gaze away and looked back towards Roderick.

                "If it had taken enough energy from you it would have been able to manifest. I think. The fact that it hasn't suggests you haven't accepted any more gifts, apart from that first one."

                "So. My real question uncle. How the hell do I get rid of the damned thing?"

                He sighed. "Lara, my knowledge comes from my misguided attempts to acquire one. Getting rid of it again is something that never entered my head. Perhaps . . . well perhaps simply not accepting any further gifts will result in the link decaying of its own accord."

                "Perhaps?"

                He shrugged.

                "How long before that happens?"

                Another shrug. "A week? A month? A year? Maybe never."

                "Maybe never?"  Lara sounded exasperated. "Marvellous."

                "I do know one sure fire way of getting rid of it. You aren't going to like it though."

                "Oh?"

                "You can persuade someone else – someone with enough soul to interest the monkey – to take it off you and be devoured in your stead."

                She stared at him. "You can't be serious."

                He didn't meet her gaze. "I can try to dig out some of the old books I still have. Maybe there'll be something useful in them. I can't promise anything though. I thought I was well out of this game years ago."

                She nodded. "Sorry uncle. Selfish of me to get you involved."

                "No, no. Don't be silly, girl. I'm sure we can get this sorted out, no trouble. I told you about the party tonight didn't I? You're invited of course. Try and relax, enjoy yourself. Thierry's welcome too. We'll take a fresh look at it in the morning and get things sorted out."

                "Just try not to accidentally want something in the mean time, eh?"

* * *

Lara was drunk.

                She leant against the railing and stared morosely at the bright spot on the horizon where the sun had set several minutes earlier. Music thudded all around her, reflecting and amplifying off the millpond-smooth water, and mingling with the fuzziness inside her head to make coherent thought an uphill struggle. A half-empty champagne flute dangled from her fingertips, in danger of dropping overboard. She couldn't quite remember how much of it – Mouton Rothschild – she'd drank. Must have been costing Roderick an absolute fortune, and it might as well have been cheap fizz for all she tasted it.

                Thierry hadn't been able to make it. He'd come down with some kind of food poisoning, and she'd left him groaning in the bathroom of her hotel room.

                He could get better, a voice in her head had casually suggested, making her freeze.

                Fuck off, she'd told it.

                Or worse . . .

                She still couldn't decide whether it had merely been overactive imagination or something else. The monkey had been stubbornly silent on the issue, and throwing it out of the hotel window had provided no more than temporary satisfaction.

                On her own she'd quickly lost the will to mingle, listen to all the burbling inanities, or pretend she was enjoying herself. Instead she'd retreated to a vacant spot on the Jolly Roger's port side, looking out to sea, and stuck up an aura of bugger off, I don't want to talk to you. There she'd got to drinking, primarily because it seemed to help the time pass more quickly.

                "You drive very well."

                Lara was leaning out over the railing, rocking gently back and forth. When she twisted her head to one side to see who was talking to her everything was upside down. She found the effect rather pleasing.

                "For a woman you mean?" It was the bloke from the yellow Ferrari. She couldn't quite remember what Roderick had said his name was. Just that he was somehow famous. He was wearing a tux, the black tie hanging loose around his neck and the shirt unbuttoned halfway down. She could see a swathe of muscular chest covered in black hair, decidedly at odds with his blondness.

                "No. For anyone." He smiled.

                "Oh yes, you're the Formula one guy." She finally remembered what Roderick had told her, only belated realising that she'd spoken aloud.

                His smile broadened at being recognised. "Jansen MacLean," he introduced himself.

                "Lara."

                They shook hands, Jansen taking the opportunity to look down the front of her dress.

                "You don't look like you're enjoying the old queen's party much."

                Lara just shrugged.

                "Can't say I blame you. Never felt comfortable hanging around with his sort, but its for charity, so what can you do?"

                "His sort?" Lara raised an eyebrow.

                "Oh, you know. He's hardly secretive about it." He leant closer, conspiratorial. "Shirtlifters. Uphill Gardeners."

                "Ah." And of course they all want to drug you senseless and shag your arse off given half the chance, she refrained from adding. Primarily because she got the distinct impression he'd think she was being serious.

                "You know what I heard?" His voice dropped another note, becoming even more conspiratorial. From the smell of his breath he was every bit as drunk as she was.

                "Not if you don't tell me, I don't."

                "That he's . . . well, a kiddy biffer." He folded his arms and stood back, apparently waiting for the horrified reaction.

                Lara stifled a groan. "I believe you'll find that was his former business partner." Streatham, who'd managed to get a pair of fifteen-year-old twins pregnant – attempting to pave the way for the anti-christ or something.

                "Well yes. I know he was the one who got caught," he said patronisingly. "But where there's one, eh? Stands to reason."

                "Oh." Her head was spinning too much to particularly relish the idea of an argument. "Well obviously." The sarcasm went straight over his head.

                "So how do you know dear old Roderick Croft then?" he went on, seeming quite disappointed over the fact that he hadn't managed to induced gasps of outrage from her.

                "He's my uncle."

                Not even a hint of an apology, however insincere – which she sort of half-admired. And if he recognised the name Lara Croft it obviously didn't interest him enough to give any sign. He gestured to her glass. "Can I get you a refill?"

                Before she could answer a female voice shrilled, "Cooeee, Jansen. So this is where you've got to."

                He made a face, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "Lara, perhaps we can get together later on?" Then the sloshed looking blonde woman had grabbed hold of his arm and was dragging him away.

                Not bloody likely mate. She turned her attention back to the business of staring down the horizon.

* * *

It was a couple of hours after midnight when Lara finally made her way below deck to the cabin Roderick had leant her. The party had faded into a half-life that would probably last until morning, the music turned down to a distant background thrum.

                She crossed to the porthole, which stood open. Curiosity stirred briefly as to why that should be, but was quickly smothered. There she stood, eyes closed, letting a cooling breeze play across her face.

                Lara became aware of regular stentorian groaning noises over the top of a more rapid, high-pitched and vaguely asthmatic squeaking. She assumed it was simply a couple having sex in the next cabin, although it made her think more of someone practising farmyard animal noises. That thought left her struggling to stifle drunken giggles. After a while she reached over her shoulder and started to unzip the back of her dress.

                There was a small, stealthy sound behind her.

                Instantly she span to face it, reaching up to hold her dress in place as she felt it start to slip. She stifled a groan as she saw who it was. Should have bloody known . . . "What the hell are you doing here?"

                Jansen smiled. His eyes looked over-bright; jittery. "We got cut off rather abruptly earlier on, Lara. And you did seem so eager when I suggested we get together later. I didn't want to leave you disappointed." He took a couple of steps closer to her.

                Eager? "I think maybe you need to work on your interpretation of people's body language." She retreated a step so the wall was against her back, then edged sideways to try and keep him at arm's length.

                "What's wrong Lara? You seem nervous. I'm sorry, I should have knocked. I didn't mean to scare you."

                His bleached hair was sticking up in spikes and his shirt hung open all the way. His jacket had been discarded somewhere. The scent of smoke – tobacco and otherwise – mixed with a heavy musk of sex and sweat, clinging to him like a cloud. As she saw what he held in one hand she froze.

                The monkey.

                "I'd put that down if I were you."

                "This?" He held it up. "Strange looking thing isn't it? Ugly, but at the same time interesting somehow. Valuable is it?"

                Lara felt suddenly deeply uneasy. If this is your idea of another gift, you can fuck off; she directed the thought towards the carving. "Valuable? Even if I gave it away you'd be paying too high a price for it."

                "Got to be worth something, surely? It looks antique."

                "Take it if you want. Believe me, I'd be only too glad to be shot of the thing." The words slipped out before she could bite them back. "But seriously, I'd put it down if I were you" Lara hesitated, then improvised. "The stuff it's made from can make you ill if you handle it too much. Like lead or mercury."

                He laughed. "But you're not me, are you? I'm one of a kind. I like taking risks."

                What you are is an immature child, she thought, but didn't say. "Look, I'm sorry if I've somehow given you the wrong idea or something, but I'm tired and I've drunk too much, and all I want to do right now is sleep. So if you'd be so good as to go away . . ?"

                He took another couple of steps towards her and she continued to back off, so that they appeared to be engaged in a slow-motion chase sequence.

                "You're wrong Lara. I can feel the connection. I can feel what you need. The last thing you want is for me to leave." He tried to reach out and touch her, and Lara backed off further, ending up sprawled across the bed. Jansen loomed over her.

                She stared up at him. Her head was swimming and it was difficult to stay focused. "Look, I've tried to be polite about it but . . . Oh just get lost, would you?"

                "I know you don't mean that."

                Lara gritted her teeth. Through the wall she could hear the groans and squeaks intensifying as they reached a mechanical sounding climax. "Jansen. Try to pay attention here. You're stoned out of your head on god knows what. You're making an idiot of yourself, and I have no intention whatsoever of having sex with you. I don't find teenage boys even slightly attractive, and from what I've seen that's exactly what you are. Got all that? Good. And to be absolutely, totally honest, the thought of taking Jordan's leftovers into my bed makes me feel nauseous." She considered a moment. "Or maybe that's just the drink."

                His face darkened. For a moment he raised his hand, as if he was going to strike her. His mouth worked a couple of times without producing anything coherent. Then he lowered his arm back to his side again. "Fine. That's how you want it? Just fine. I'm the one trying to do you a favour here, and that's what I get for it. Thrown back in my face, and insulted too." He was waving his finger about in a manner that made him look so much like an angry schoolteacher that Lara had to stifle the urge to laugh out loud. "Well screw you. I can get a hundred like you just walking along the waterfront, and I don't need you."

                He hesitated, apparently waiting for the abrupt change of heart and display of contrition that his ego led him to expect was his due.

                "We agree then. Please shut the door when you storm out in a hissy fit." Lara sighed wearily, rolling over onto her side, her hair flopping over her face.

                "Fuck you! You can rot for all I care!" The door made the entire cabin shake as he slammed it behind him, so hard it bounced off the latch and all the way back open again. Her body informed her in no uncertain terms that it wouldn't be getting up to close it.

                He still had the monkey; she realised blearily after some time had passed. Not to worry though. Bastard thing was guaranteed to be back soon enough . . . She drifted off into an uneasy sleep before she could complete that thought.

* * *

When she awoke, Lara was reminded forcibly of why she'd generally avoided excess alcohol over the past few years. Her head felt like somebody had been using it as a tribal drum and her stomach roiled uneasily, suggesting it might choose to erupt at some undetermined point in the future – a newly active volcano.

                She tried for a while just to lie there and rediscover sleep, or unconsciousness at any rate. The sunlight blazing in through the porthole proved to be a pitiless scourge though. Even when she screwed her eyes shut against it, it still managed to find its way in to torment her.

                Eventually she gave up with a bad tempered groan, rolling over and getting inelegantly to her feet. She rubbed absently at one arm – a patch of skin about the size of her palm seemed to have lost all feeling – then her gaze settled on the bedside table.

                Momentarily she was taken aback. She'd got so used to seeing the monkey, positioned close to her head when she woke, that its absence now was startling. Quickly, Lara looked around to check that it hadn't – just for once – chosen a different spot to locate itself, but after a couple of minutes she was forced to the conclusion there was genuinely no sign of it.

                Memories of Jansen MacLean, storming from the room, still holding the damned thing resurfaced tentatively from the quagmire . . .

                The burgeoning sense of relief died instantly, stabbed through the heart. She let out another groan, her hand coming up to rub at her eyes. "Oh shit."

* * *

"Uncle, the monkey's gone."

                Roderick looked up, pausing in the process of gathering up empty bottles and glasses. It was gone noon and the majority of the partygoers had long since departed – although Lara did notice one man, lying slumped on the sofa, snoring with the force and rhythm of a miniature steam engine. In the corner a huge widescreen television was switched on, the sound turned low, showing a French news channel.

                "Hmm? Isn't that good news?"

                Lara stepped forward, rubbing unconsciously at the side of her face. "No. No uncle, I don't think it is."

                "So what happened to it?"

                "I don't suppose Jansen's still around is he?"

                "Jansen?" He raised an eyebrow.

                "Uncle, don't you dare even think that. Credit me with a modicum of taste, please."

                His smile died as he realised what she was getting at. "You don't mean to say that he took . . ."

                Lara nodded heavily. "He came into my cabin last night, assuming I wanted to have sex with him. I told him, more or less, to fuck off, and he took the monkey with him."

                Roderick stroked his chin contemplatively. "So he just took the thing? And it let him?"

                Lara felt colour rising to her cheeks. "I suggested he was welcome to the damn thing if he wanted it. I wasn't thinking straight."

                "So. Now you've sobered up again, you feel it's your moral responsibility to get it back."

                She detected something in his tone of voice. "You're not seriously suggesting I just let him have it? After what you told me yesterday"

                He shrugged heavily, looking away from her. "Probably not, no. But have you considered that it might not want to be taken back. That it might have chosen to be taken."

                "Chosen to be taken?"

                "From the sound if it, it was finding you a difficult sell. Perhaps it was simply staying with you until it could find a less strong-willed host to take it." He shook his head. "In any case, it would certainly help explain this." He gestured towards the television set.

                The picture showed a stretch of winding mountain road, being filmed from a helicopter. There was a pair of livid tyre tracks leading up to a gap that had been blasted through a dry stone wall. Gleaming pieces of wreckage could be glimpsed amid the tightly packed trunks of pine trees. "What?"

                Roderick turned the sound up.

                The reporter was saying something about how it was miraculous that somebody called Jean-Luc Chretien had even survived such a crash. Then the scene cut to an exterior view a gleamingly modern looking hospital building and they were being told how Chretien was being operated on even as they spoke, having both of his legs amputated. A hospital spokesperson had said it was far too early to comment on his condition . . .

                Roderick lowered the volume again and looked around at Lara. "I was thinking about what a weird coincidence it was, with us just talking about him yesterday."

                "Who's Jean-Luc Chretien anyway?" Lara was nonplussed, struggling to see how this fitted in with what they'd been talking about at all.

                "You remember me saying how Jansen MacLean was in danger of losing his seat on the team to the Maclaren test driver? Well, Jean-Luc Chretien is the . . ."

                "Maclaren test driver," Lara finished for him, fully able to see how the dots joined up. "Uncle, do you know where I might find Jansen? The two of us need to have a long chat. Urgently I think"

                Roderick didn't look at all happy about it, but at length he nodded and sighed, giving her the information she wanted. She started past him, but he stopped her. "Lara, is there something wrong with your face?"

                Glancing at her reflection in a mirror she saw what he meant – what looked like a purple bruise, forming beside her eye and running for about three inches down her cheek. It hadn't been there when she'd checked a few minutes earlier, she was sure. "I'll take a look at later, as soon as this crap has been taken care of," she assured him. "Uncle, can I borrow your car?"

                He nodded wearily, handing over the keys.

* * *

Jansen MacLean was not at his apartment, nor was he at any of the hangouts where Roderick had suggested she might be able to find him.

                The hangover was getting worse as the day wore on instead of better, and Lara was feeling decidedly ill by the time she concluded that driving around Monte Carlo at random was not working too well as a strategy. Instead she decided to head back to her hotel, regroup, plan, and take something that would hopefully make her head stop spinning quite so abominably.

                She tried calling Thierry on her mobile to see how he was, but he wasn't picking up. Probably for the best really, what with the current situation. And she had to end things sooner or later.

                As she parked the Ferrari, she scratched absently at the side of her face. The bruise there had gotten slightly larger over the past couple of hours, turning most of that half of her face numb. Apart from a deep-seated, nagging itch she couldn't feel anything, the skin almost plasticky to the touch. The inside of her left arm had started to itch too, and she was getting an unpleasant jittery-tingling sensation from deep within the muscle-tissue of her right thigh. Minor irritations at the moment though; she pushed them to the back of her mind.

                When Lara reached her room she knew something was wrong immediately, before she even opened the door. It was a taste on the air – a lingering bitterness. She barged inside, pistol in hand; ready to meet any threat that might leap out at her.

                It was quickly apparent that bullets weren't going to be much help.

                The smell caught the back of her throat, and she found herself doubled up and gagging – fighting the urge to throw up. It took several seconds before she managed to get a grip on herself and take in her surroundings.

                The bed covers had been pulled onto the floor and they were crusted with bloody vomit that looked almost black. More vomit streaked the carpet.

                "T-Thierry?" She knew already that there wasn't going to be any answer.

                The bathroom door stood open. Most of the overpowering stench was emanating from there. Lara found him lying on the floor. He'd managed to pull the shower curtain down on top of himself and was tangled up in it.

                There was blood everywhere – smeared across the floor; splattered up the walls and even the window; running in streaks down the outside of the toilet bowl. It looked like he had started haemorrhaging violently from every orifice at once.

                Another step forward and her foot slid out from under her, dropping her to knees in the still sticky gore. Again the urge to throw up became almost overpowering. She fought her way back to her feet and fled out onto the landing, sucking in great gulps of air.

                Taking her mobile from her jacket pocket with a badly trembling hand, she dialled for an ambulance that had become irrelevant many hours ago.

                He could get better . . . or worse.

* * *

It would have proved more difficult to track Jansen MacLean down if his chosen means of getting around town was slightly more discreet than a canary yellow Ferrari. As it was, seeing it conspicuously parked outside the Monte Carlo Casino was something of a giveaway.

                It was late evening, the sun low down in a deep azure sky. A breeze stirred strands of hair across Lara's face as she walked up to the impressive old building's front entrance, but it did little to cool skin that was feverishly hot. Over the course of the afternoon she'd gone well beyond the point where she could dismiss what she was feeling as leftovers from the night before.

                You can rot for all I care.

                Lara almost laughed, feeling light-headed – borderline delirious. Only the part of her that still realised a women laughing out loud at absolutely nothing might attract the wrong sort of attention kept her in check.

                Turning into quite the prophet there Jansen.

                The two discretely attired doormen looked at her curiously as she passed them, but they made no move to stop her. Lara let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

                She was wearing large, black, insect-eye sunglasses and had done the best she could with make-up. Even so, it still looked very much like someone had clouted her one. She was very careful to keep her expression blank too – any attempt to smile only affected half her face, as if she was a stroke victim, or had undergone too much plastic surgery and botox.

                The rest of her attire was carefully chosen too; long sleeved-black top to cover up the mess that her left arm had become; matching black trousers to conceal similar damage to her right leg. The tingling in her thigh had now become a solid dead lump – like cramp that refused to go away – and it was a constant struggle to keep herself from limping visibly.

                So, feeling lucky tonight then Jansen? I'll just bet you are.

                After buying a thousand euros worth of gambling chips she headed on through to the main casino floor. The noise was a weirdly pulsating blur, voices and music intermingling into a single indistinguishable mass. There was something wrong with her hearing, she knew – she was slowly losing her ability to pick individual sounds out from the background.

                Never mind girl. Matches the rest of you. This time she was far from sure that she kept the laughter in check.

                Jansen wasn't difficult to locate.

                He was standing at one of the roulette tables, an extremely attractive blonde woman on his arm – different from the one on the Jolly Roger last night – and he had an audience, which he was playing to shamelessly. Lara could feel the buzz from halfway across the floor – a crowd of curious onlookers, hanging half back from the table in an effort not to appear overly interested, and failing abysmally.

                She manoeuvred herself into a free slot at a blackjack table where she could study him without being obvious about it. As yet he seemed oblivious to her arrival.

                He looked unhealthy, she decided after a moment. The lighting turned his hair a shade of pale green, and his cheeks looked hollower than she remembered, his skin having acquired an unnatural glossy sheen. And there was something perched on his shoulder.

                Her breath caught. Fuck, that's one hell of an ugly parrot, Long John Silver.

                She realised that she could see straight through it, as if it was made of smoke or shadow. Filthy looking black claws dug into the material of his jacket as it repeatedly fidgeted and shifted, a prehensile black tail coiling, garrotte-like, around his throat. Eyes glittered puss-yellow when the light struck them, and periodically it would bare a nasty looking set of canines in a snarl. It whispered constantly into Jansen's ear.

                So that was what her uncle had meant by manifesting.

                No one else could see it, Lara assumed. At least, everyone was being remarkably calm about it if they could. In her distraction she accepted another card on nineteen and went bust. A portion of her 1000-euros was swept away.

                "All of it. On red twenty-seven." Jansen's voice reached her clearly, instilled with cocky self-confidence. A low gasp travelled around the crowd of onlookers, and Lara saw him push forward an immense pile of high-denomination chips.

                "Monsieur, you are sure . . ?" This from the croupier, who gulped heavily, looking decidedly pale.

                "I'm always sure." Jansen shared a grin with the blonde on his arm.

                "I'll have to ask management . . ."

                "You do that." Jansen waved him off dismissively. He winked towards a striking looking black woman, wearing what looked more like flamingo pink frosting than a dress. In the background Lara saw a man speaking into his lapel, and as she looked round she quickly picked out a couple more who had the look of casino security.

                The monkey appeared agitated by something. Suddenly it scampered round the back of Jansen's neck, exchanging shoulders. There it jabbered rapidly into his other ear. Jansen's eyes took on what she could only assume was intended to be a sly look.

                The croupier was in whispered conversation with a rotund, prissily officious looking gentleman who'd come over to the table. Lara's attention remained fixed upon the monkey though. As she watched it sprang, leaping from Jansen's shoulder onto the black woman. She watched in appalled fascination as it coiled round her neck – a hideous, animated version of a fox fur stole – its claws pricking at her skin. All the time the woman appeared entirely oblivious.

                "Very well sir, we will accept your bet."

                "Of course you will."

                Lara lost another hand, but scarcely noticed. The monkey was whispering into the woman's ear now, yellow eyes glowing. Abruptly it lifted its tail, and a glob of thick, oily black ectoplasmic shit dropped onto her. It slid down her back, leaving a broad, messy trail behind. That business taken care of, the monkey returned to Jansen.

                "Karin, what are you doing?" The black woman had shrugged free of her perplexed date, walking boldly across to Jansen, where she proceeded to wrap her arms round him, kissing him firmly on the lips.

                "Karin!" The man's protests fell on deaf ears.

                Lara wondered what she was supposed to now that she'd found them. Wring the blasted monkey's neck? Her planning hadn't extended quite that far.

                The man grabbed Karin's shoulder – right where the trail of monkey shit was – and tried to pull her away from Jansen. She rounded on him, eyes reflecting yellow. Her slap caught him flush across the cheek, loud as a pistol crack. He stared at her, pale and slack-jawed with shock. "Karin?" Then his gaze took in Jansen, who was grinning broadly, a hand resting casually on the woman's backside.

                "Get your fucking hands off my Fiancée!" He launched himself, but two of the security men Lara had noticed earlier were well abreast of the situation, grabbing him by the arms before he got halfway and hauling him back.

                "Karin? Why are you behaving like this? Tell them . . ."

                "I think he's stalking me." Karin cut him off. "I've got no idea who he is, but he's creeping me out." She leant across and kissed Jansen on the cheek. The monkey snickered as the man was dragged away.

                Lara looked away, drew an eight and went bust again. She shook her head to bow out of the next hand and stood up. Behind her she heard the indrawn breath of expectation as the roulette wheel began to spin.

                She walked directly towards Jansen. The roulette wheel was slowing down, the ball clattering from slot to slot. So, draw my pistol and shoot him in front of fifty witnesses? Or try and talk him round? Neither option appealed.

                And then the monkey had spotted her, staring straight at her and hissing through its teeth. Am I really the only one who can see it?

                The roulette wheel stopped, the ball continuing to bounce but losing momentum all the time. Yellow puss-blister eyes blazed, virulent and mocking. "Jansen . . ." Lara started to shout.

                Someone grabbed her around the biceps and her call was cut off. She lost eye contact with the monkey and found herself face to face with the same man she'd seen speaking into his lapel earlier, his expression implacable. "If you'd like to come with me madam?"

                Bounce, bounce went the ball. Slower. Slower.

                "Get your hands off me." Lara tried to barge on past.

                His grip tightened and he held her easily back. "I said, if you'd like to come with me, please. Monsieur Dupree would like a word with you."

                Stop.

                "Monsieur Dupree can go f—" A roar went up, deafeningly loud.

                Surprise, surprise. Red twenty-seven.

                Just for a moment Lara considered taking the man holding her down – punch him in the throat, yank him over her hip; make a break for it. Then she saw two more large and very business-like looking individuals in the corner of her vision, keeping a close eye on her, and the idea fled. Somehow she just knew she wouldn't get five yards, because tonight the probabilities worked against her. She allowed herself to be led away.

                "What the hell is all this about?"

                Jansen was raking in his winnings, the two women on his arms laughing out loud in glee. On his shoulder the monkey capered wildly.

                "That is for Monsieur Dupree to say . . ."

                Lara dug her heals in. "That is for you to say if you want me to take another step. What do you want, and who the hell is Monsieur Dupree?"

                His expression remained bland. The other two stepped in closer. "There is evidence to suggest you have been cheating. Monsieur Dupree, the casino owner, would like an explanation. I would think it in your best interests, as well as ours, to avoid an unpleasant scene."

                Fucking Monkey. Lara wondered what the hell it had done. She feigned outrage. "Oh I'll talk to Monsieur Dupree alright. I'll give him a right piece of my mind. The very suggestion that I might cheat." She strode forward, taking her captor unawares and making him scurry to keep up.

                "Ladies, gentleman. It's been great, but I really must leave now," Jansen was saying, holding his hands up as if acknowledging applause. "Quit while you're ahead and all that . . ."

                Then Lara was past and out of earshot, being guided through a service door. Her heart was thudding, her head spinning. Got to do something. Gonna lose him . . .

                She tried what she'd thought of earlier. Blow to the throat; twist him over her hip, knee in the breadbasket for good measure. Her leg went out from under her as she tried to regain her feet, and she stumbled sideways, against the wall.

                In the end, that turned out to be advantageous. The second man lunged at her and missed, wrong footed. She slammed his head against the wall, hard enough to leave a substantial dent in the plaster, and he crumpled soundlessly on top of his partner.

                Two down in the space of a few heartbeats – she was beginning to think she could do this. The third, though, was a different matter.

                They circled. Lara could feel her heart racing and her body trembling. She had to fight the urge to try something precipitous, which would only end up getting the crap being beaten out of her. The monkey and its pet were getting further away with every passing second.

                He came at her, trying to overwhelm her with his superior bulk and strength.

                She backed of rapidly as they traded blows, suddenly unable to draw breath quickly enough. A blow caught her in the stomach, the pain immense – far out of proportion to the impact. As she doubled up, gasping, trying to back-pedal, he moved in quickly to finish things.

                Too quickly.

                Through the throbbing agony Lara saw an opening and seized it desperately, stamping down on the outside of his knee and dodging around him as he went over. Still clutching at her stomach, she made a run for it.

* * *

Lara staggered against the side of her uncle's car, doubled over, and threw up noisily.

                Across the parking lot Jansen, Karin and the Monkey were just getting into his yellow Ferrari, apparently not in any great hurry. The blonde he'd been with earlier wasn't anywhere to be seen – an old toy discarded in favour a shinier new model.

                Finally Lara manage to straighten, closing her eyes and trying to catch her breath. The pain from her stomach was still ferocious, and it wasn't fading as time passed. She didn't look closely at her vomit, but she knew that there was blood in it. Something inside her had broken.

                The yellow Ferrari drove past slowly, music playing. With a groan she forced herself to move, collapsing into the front seat and fumbling to get the keys into the ignition. Concentrate you silly bitch. You can die on your own time.

                Finally the engine purred into life.

                Die? She wondered.

                There were a couple of cars in between her and Jansen by the time she got onto open road, but that suited her fine. At the moment he seemed oblivious to the fact he was being followed, driving well within himself.

                What didn't suit her fine was the fact that her vision was becoming increasingly blurred. Blinking didn't do much to clear things. She tried ripping the sunglasses off but that didn't help either. In fact it seemed to be getting worse, lights smearing into steaks and fixed objects dancing weirdly. The pain from her stomach was another constant distraction.

                First one, then the other of the two cars turned off, and then there were just the two Ferraris, separated by about fifty yards of road.

                As they drove down, past the Hotel Mirabeau, Lara's vision went badly out of joint, everything distorting and rippling, as if viewed from deep water. This time blinking rapidly did improve matters – at least to being merely blurred again – but the distraction forced her into braking hard as she came into a 180º degree corner too fast.

                Inadvertently she closed to within a few feet of Jansen's Ferrari, and he left her in absolutely no doubt that he'd spotted her.

                He accelerated hard, instantly opening out a substantial head start.

                Lara floored the accelerator in turn, but her reactions were slower than normal and she was barely able to hold onto his coattails. A ninety degree right had her careening across both lanes and up onto the pavement, tyres shrieking, narrowly avoiding a parked car.

                She managed to claw back a bit of lost ground as they raced downhill with the night lit Mediterranean straight in front of them. Then there was a hard left, onto Avenue Pase Grace, and she felt the back end of the Ferrari sliding out. It took longer than normal to control the skid, instinct fighting against intellect for several long fractions of a second before finally she managed to steer into the slide and correct it.

                A van barrelled past, mere inches away, buffeting the Ferrari wildly. Pain spiked in her stomach and her vision momentarily faded to red.

                It wasn't working, Lara knew. She just about kept in touch with Jansen through several more twists and turns as they headed out of Monte Carlo, but she could feel her hands shaking violently and the pain inside was growing worse by the moment. Even at her best she wouldn't have been able to keep up with him indefinitely. Now it was just a matter of time.

                That time arrived even sooner than she expected when the world exploded.

                At least, that's what it seemed like to her addled senses. Belatedly she realised it was just the left rear tyre blowing out, applying the brakes to avoid going straight into a crash barrier.

                To her surprise Jansen didn't streak away and vanish into the distance, instead slowing down so she could still just about keep up with him. He appeared to have realised what had happened to her straight away, and was intent on mocking her.

                Then the other rear tyre blew out.

                The monkey's doing, she knew.  Bastard bloody thing. She let loose a stream of vitriolic cursing as Jansen, lifting a hand to wave at her, smoothly eased away.

                A glance in the mirror showed her that yes indeed it could get worse. A police car was closing in rapidly behind her, siren blaring.

* * *

Lara stopped. There hadn't been much alternative.

                She sat back in the seat and groaned, watching the policeman get out of his Peugeot and walk unhurriedly towards her. The brief glimpse she'd caught of her reflection hadn't been particularly heartening – somehow she strongly doubted whether the scaly look would be catching on anytime soon. Closing her eyes, she struggled against the strong urge to throw up again.

                "Driver's license please." The policeman leant casually against the sill of the open window. "Do you have any idea how . . ." He choked off abruptly as he caught his first good look of her.

                "Is there a problem officer?" Even Lara's voice seemed broken; slurred and rasping.

                For a moment the policeman was lost for words. The he got a grip on himself. "Driver's license," he reiterated.

                She proffered it to him. As he leant forward to take it, she grabbed the back of his head with both hands, pulling him down hard, face-first against the edge of the door. She did it again, then a third time. When she finally released him he collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

                Getting out of the Ferrari, she paused briefly to relieve him of his car keys and – after a moment's thought – his hat, then limped as fast as she could manage towards his car.

* * *

Just as Lara was starting to wonder whether she wouldn't be better off heading to Jansen's apartment and trying to intercept him there, she was on the receiving end of a very large stroke of luck. Even the monkey couldn't turn the entire world against her.

                After driving for about five miles she spotted his car, parked in a cliff-top lay-by, overlooking the sea.

                She slowed down, struggling to banish the haze that had settled in and gather her thoughts for what she had to do. Carefully she drew the police car to a halt, positioning it so as to block the lay-by's exit. Inside the Ferrari it appeared that the car's occupants had just noticed her arrival, and there was now a certain amount of frantic activity going on.

                Lara paused to gather herself, attempting to stop the shaking and persuade her various extremities to make one last effort to pull together. A fit of coughing wracked her briefly, and when she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand it came away bloody. "Don't think about girl. Just fucking do it." She realised she was muttering aloud, though the voice was not recognisable as her own.

                She took a stainless steel Browning HP35 pistol from her handbag and slid it into her belt. Then she picked up the policeman's heavy-duty maglite torch, put on his hat (too big for her) and got out of the car.

                For a moment she didn't think her legs were going to support her, catching herself against the Peugeot's bonnet. Her heart was tripping over at a rate that made her feel like she'd recently run a marathon.

                Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to straighten. So far so good . . .

                Slowly and steadily she started walking, measuring each step carefully, trying to disguise the severity of her limp. Once she was within about five yards of Jansen's car she flicked the torch on, directing the beam into the Ferrari's wing mirror in an effort to keep him from recognising her.

                "Officer, is something wrong?" Jansen smiled broadly, squinting against the brightness and spreading his hands. His clothes were in a state of some disarray and Lara noted that his fly was undone. Not too difficult really to work out what had been going on when she'd so rudely interrupted. The woman, Karin, was sitting as far back into her seat as she could manage, her head turned away with her hair fallen down to cover her face.

                Lara avoided looking directly at the monkey, perched on the dashboard like a particularly ugly gargoyle.

                "Officer . . ?"

                Leaning forward, she punched Jansen as hard as she could in the face. His nose crumpled beneath her fist and blood started to flow. He flopped back into his seat. Throwing open the door, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him out of the car.

                A starburst of pain shot up through Lara's left arm, her muscles stretching and snapping like mouldy chewing gum. She lost her grip on him, almost blacking out as he fell back, dazed onto the gravel.

                Only when he'd recovered enough from her assault to try and scramble away did she manage to stir herself for further action, driving the butt of the maglite into the side of his head and dropping him cold. Pulling herself on top of him, she hit him in the face again, and again, blood flying. She didn't stop until she was absolutely certain he was unconscious, collapsing forward onto her hands and knees and sobbing for breath.

                After an indeterminate period Lara was dimly aware of the Ferrari's passenger door opening, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating rapidly into the distance. Yeah, you run girl. Get as far the hell away from here as you can. She bared her teeth, her shoulders shaking. She thought she might have been laughing.

                A sharp hissing noise, much closer to home brought her back to somewhere approaching reality.

                The monkey had dropped down from the open car door and was crouching in the gravel a short distant away, eyes gleaming in the torch beam, teeth bared.

                "Hello, monkey-boy. Nice of you join us." Carefully, so as not to drop it, Lara drew the pistol from her belt. "Oh, I'm not going to shoot you dear. No, no. Doubt that would work at all."

                The monkey hissed at her again, arching its back, its claws scrabbling at the gravel.

                "You're cut off from your food source, aren't you? Don't like it much I'll bet. Well tough shit, I'm not particularly enjoying rotting either!"

                Lara lifted the gun barrel carefully. It only shook slightly. She levelled it at Jansen's face. "What happens if I shoot him, do you think? Cut you off permanently. Do you think you might turn back into that ugly little carving?"

                She heard the police car's engine start. Must have left the keys in the ignition. Very careless . . . It drove away at speed, tyres squealing. "And oh dear, there goes your only other potential food source. Not turning out to be your night is it? Or was Uncle Rodders right about souls? Wasn't she interesting enough to have one?" She realised she was talking too much. Babbling. She made herself shut up.

                It was taking more and more effort just to perform the simplest tasks. Nevertheless, it was still easy enough to pull the trigger.

                There was a dry click.

                "Hmm, there's a turn up. A dud. Who'd have thought?" Lara pulled back the slide to eject the cartridge.

                "Second time do you think?" Chambering another 9mm round, Lara pulled the trigger again. This time, though, she kept an eye on the monkey.

                Another dry click. The monkey's eyes glowed briefly brighter. A flicker passed through its body, leaving it a little more transparent and a little less substantial.

                "Two duds in a row. Well, what are the chances of that happening?" She repeated the business of pulling the slide back, ejecting the round, and rechambering. This time the skin of her hand split and tore as she did so, splattering blood and pus. She scarcely noticed through the other pains. "Third time the charm?"

                Click.

                "Hmm, seems not."

                The monkey circled her, teeth bared, hissing and spitting constantly. Lara laughed – a harsh barking noise that degenerated rapidly into coughing, bloody saliva spraying from her mouth onto the gravel. "You're just as powerless as I am, aren't you? I can't touch you, and you can't touch me, so we're just going to sit here and fade away together.

                "Except I always knew I was going to die one day. And I'm quite happy with the knowledge it's a score draw."

                Lara could feel rage and hate pouring off the thing like heat from a furnace. She smiled at it, her teeth dark and bloody. Ignoring the pain and the weakness and the damnable effort of it, she forced herself to level the gun at Jansen again.

                Before she could pull the trigger again a rapid change came over the monkey. It snarled at her viciously, and suddenly she could no longer see through it. It was there in the flesh; coiled muscle, fangs and claws.

                It launched itself at her.

                Her reactions weren't quick enough to avoid it, the impact powerful enough to knock her onto her back, the pistol going flying. Claws sliced through skin that had become as brittle as paper and blood flew.

                Lara grabbed at it round the neck and tried to the throttle it. It bit and tore at her hands, hellishly strong for its size. Back legs raked against her chest, tearing gaping furrows.

                There was very little pain – worryingly little pain in fact. A distant rushing sound filled her ears, getting louder and louder, and the world seemed to dwindle with each passing moment. She concentrated on squeezing, rolling over and trying to pin the thing with her body weight as it twisted and thrashed. Cling on. Squeeze. Don't let go.

                Suddenly it was gone and Lara was left clutching at thin air. She collapsed full length on the ground, gasping for breath she couldn't quite catch.

                At first she had no idea what had happened, but after a time – seconds; minutes; hours? – her vision cleared fractionally and she saw it. It was about five feet away from her, lying on its side, once more just a carving. It looked strange and diminished, smaller than it had been before. There was a crack running down its side.

                For a short period Lara felt a distant sense of contentment – it was over, and she could rest.

                A nagging thought intruded though. Her job wasn't quite done. Someone might come along and find it . . . One more effort; reach it, throw it over the cliff and into the sea. After that she could rest. She tried to convince herself it was worth it.

                It soon become apparent that standing was an impossibility. Even rising onto her hands and knees was an impossibility. Instead she had to content herself with digging her feet into the gravel and pushing; stretching her arms out in front of her and clawing.

                The effort it required was horrendous. Every centimetre felt like a light year, and she was unable to catch her breath. Gravel clogged her wounds and tore at her flesh, and she left a slug trail of blood and skin in her wake. The pain grew until it became an unfathomable monster; the only thing in existence. Still she forced herself forward – just a little further. There was an awful smell coming from somewhere close; vile, sickly gangrenous ordure, filling her nostrils. A little further. A little further . . .

                She didn't hear the car pull up. Nor did she hear the footsteps approaching her. She only realised that someone else was there when she made one last straining effort to reach the monkey, only to find it was no longer there. At that moment she had a brief sense that someone was standing over her, looking down . . .

                Everything went dark.

* * *

When Lara woke again it was dawn.

                For a time she just lay where she was, aware of her body, fully intact and functioning, and wondering why she wasn't dead. Surely she had died?

                At length she forced herself to sit up. Just lying there didn't seem to be achieving a whole lot.

                "Lara. You're awake." A pause. "Sorry, stating the obvious. I was starting to get worried."

                "Uncle?" She rubbed her eyes, grimacing. Her neck felt painfully stiff. "Uncle, what happened?"

                He hesitated. "Oh, this and that. I dare say it's been quite eventful."

                She forced herself to look round at the source of his voice. He was seated on a wooden bench where tourists could eat picnics. He looked remarkably fit and refreshed, wearing the same white suit that he'd had on when he'd met her at the tennis club.

                Her glance had shown her that there was no yellow Ferrari parked at the lay-by any more, nor indeed any sign of Jansen.

                Roderick apparently read the meaning of her frown. "Oh, don't worry about him. He'll be fine. Granted, his nose will probably need surgery to straighten it out, and his memory may be a little hazy too. All in all though, he's better off than he has any right to be."

                "Uncle, I can remember what happened last night."

                He nodded. "Yes, you would. I thought that you deserved that much at least. Although it might have been easier if it was otherwise."

                "Uncle?" She frowned again. Suddenly she experienced an awful sinking feeling. "Uncle what happened to the monkey? You did get rid of it didn't you – throw it into the sea?"

                He grimaced. "Now that, Lara, is where it starts to get a bit tricky."

                It felt like someone had just punched her hard in the stomach. It was difficult, suddenly, to draw breath.

                "I couldn't leave you like that, Lara. I couldn't just stand there and watch you die. My favourite niece. My only niece."

                "Oh god, no." She closed her eyes. "Please, tell me you didn't"

                "I don't want you to think I did it just for you though Lara. I don't want you bear that responsibility." He stood up, staring out at the horizon, and the spot where the sun rose, half over sea and half over land. "Because to be honest I didn't do it just for you. In fact didn't really do it for you at all."

                "Uncle. . ."

                "I was thinking of stealing it from you right from the start, you know? To spend so long searching for something, only for it to land like this in your lap so many years later . . ." He smiled, a fraction wistfully it seemed. "Your father's right about me Lara. He's always been able to see right through me. The only one who could."

                "Uncle, I'm sure we can find a way to . . ."

                "Lara, you're not listening properly. I want this. I've always wanted this. Right from the moment Streatham told me about it. I had to know if I had a soul. I had to know if I was sufficient of a person. Today it seems that I am." He paused. "Somehow I always figured that I'd feel happier than I actually do."

                For a long time they simply looked at one another, not saying anything.

                "I hope I haven't disappointed you too badly Lara, but I was never worthy of your expectations in the first place. I also hope you'll be sensible about things and let them be. I've studied this for a long time, and unlike Jansen I won't let my desire's run rampant. If you threw it into the sea it would only wash up on shore somewhere and find its way into someone else's possession. So really, this way is best. No one innocent comes to harm. And who knows, maybe the two of us might be able to do some good."

                After looking into her eyes briefly sighed heavily. "Or perhaps not."

                Still kneeling on the ground, Lara watched her uncle as he turned and walked slowly towards his parked car, the shadow of a monkey on his back.

THE END