Thanks to all who are still reading, and also thanks to all the creators of Being Human, the writers (who just received a well-earned Writers Guild award), actors, directors, producers, & crew. You guys bring the best fun and the best angst. Thanks also to crazyidea-inc, eve-leigh, sunnyfla and homeric for their valuable advice and feedback.

"Mitchell, you promised you'd be careful. This complicates everything!"

"I'm so sorry. It was an accident." Shamefaced, he drops his stained clothes on the floor.

"I know. These things happen sometimes. Albert deserves some of the blame too. He should have paid more attention." I fetch the fine-toothed comb from the bathroom and the mineral spirits from under the kitchen sink. "Sit down and get comfortable. It's going to take forever to get all that paint out of your hair."

It's a big night for James and Albert: their new photos and paintings are in a group exhibit at the art collective, and they are going to present their newest performance piece during the opening. The collective attracts a diverse crowd: grubby hippies, serious artists; crowds of poseurs, addicts, and lunatics; the occasional art buyer seeking unknown talent; and the rest of us somewhere in between. Frankly, the stakes are quite low-the art is an excellent excuse to throw a party.

We're both nervous: Mitchell because of the throngs of unfamiliar people, me because of certain familiar people I'd rather not see. For courage, we share a whole bottle of wine before leaving the flat.

Mitchell has on his expensive blue suit, and I've probably spent more time on his hair than on my own. Honestly, he looked more than fine, rockstar cool, but the extra attention seemed to calm his nerves. I'm in a short black dress, false eyelashes that make my eyes look enormous, and black sequined shoes with heels as high as I can tolerate. Under my rhinestone necklace, at Mitchell's insistence, I have on my tiny silver cross. He says it doesn't bother him anymore.

The space is an old textile mill, an open, high-ceilinged room that was once a factory floor, hundreds of feet on a side, punctuated with massive iron support pillars. A stage is set up at one end of the room, labyrinthine gallery walls have been installed in another corner to show the paintings alongside a more open area for sculpture; and the very crowded bar is against the middle third of one of the long walls. The room is so large that the chatter and music combine into an echoing din that drowns out any conversations going on more than a few feet away.

Mitchell's eyes are hooded and distant as he surveys the cavernous space. "Let's play 'spot the vampire'," he says.

I know an awful lot of vampires, but it never occurred to me that I'd bump into them at parties. But really, why not? This is an ideal hunting ground: a big gathering of intoxicated people milling about in an enclosed, unevenly lit space with lots of dark corners and back exits. As for spotting vampires, well, their camouflage is nearly perfect: they look exactly like us. It must be very strange for Mitchell to be with me and not them.

He nudges me with his elbow. "Found one. No... three." With a meaningful glance, he indicates a small knot of people standing a few feet from the door, watching the attendees as they arrive. There's a man in a suit with a lanky blond teenage girl on his arm, tottering on five-inch heels, a shaggy-haired bloke in a Sgt. Pepperish military-style jacket, and a short balding man in a nondescript blazer and turtleneck pullover.

All four seem dodgy to me: outdated buttons-and-epaulets, creepy older man with a far-too-young girl, and some random ordinary bloke just hanging around for no reason. "Which of them isn't a vampire?"

"The one in the suit. See how he's trying to make conversation? They're barely answering him. Too busy looking for more...erm... prospects. Soon, the girl will ask him somewhere, alone, and he'll go. If the others don't have any luck, then they'll follow."

The short bloke and the one in the military coat saunter over to us. The taller one has bright blue eyes and a toothy, deranged grin. I'm doing my best not to look frightened, but these two carry an air of casual menace, a nearly visible cloud of violence and hunger. As they approach, Mitchell gives a start of recognition.

Epaulet man seems delighted. "Mitchell, is that you?" he asks. "Been looking for you all day! I knew we'd find you in a fish barrel like this. How've you been, mate?" He rather too energetically pounds Mitchell on the back.

"Seth. Great to see you," says Mitchell, with no enthusiasm whatsoever. I've heard of this fellow, Seth: A dimwit; a perpetual henchman whose brains could never support any higher ambition. He was there when Mitchell was, as they call it, recruited. Thinking about that makes my skin crawl.

Seth nods toward his companion, who's pale and flat-faced, with the remainder of his thin, dark, oily hair combed back and plastered against his scalp. "Surely you remember Allen here. Say hello, why don't you?"

"Allen!" Mitchell seems genuinely pleased. "Wow. How long has it been, thirty years? I see you're still short."

The faint pockmarks along the edge of his heavy squarish jaw give Allen a weathered, primitive look. He wrinkles his considerable forehead at Mitchell and smiles. "And I see you're still ugly."

"You were always so charming," Mitchell says. "I've missed that." He likes Allen more than he likes Seth.

Seth points at me. The nail on his extended finger is yellow and cracked. "So. This was your downfall, eh?"

Mitchell laughs, but without amusement. "Downfall? You're standing here talking to me, right? Do I look like I've fallen? Never better, in fact."

Seth continues as if I weren't there. He's too stupid to notice that I can hear him. "I'm here to check up on you. See how you're getting on. You-know-who sends his regards. He's allowed as how he'd like to have you back, but between you and me, you can stay here 'til she stakes you. Loyalty has its rewards, you know."

He pauses, unsubtly watching Mitchell's face for any sign of a reaction, but he gets none. "I like rewards," Seth explains.

"Congratulations. I'm so thrilled for you," Mitchell says, sounding bored. He makes a very subtle gesture of dismissal, a slight raise of the chin, a small, casual flick of his hand. "We'll be off now. Hope you enjoy the party."

"Oh we certainly will. See you around." Obediently, he makes his way into the crowd. Allen raises his heavy eyebrows, gives us a casual wave, and pivots on his heel to follow. The other two members of their group are nowhere to be seen.

It's sickening. They are brazenly stalking humans. How could I have missed something this obvious?

"Can't you do anything?" I ask.

"What would you like me to do?"

Nothing comes to mind. They haven't caused any trouble. Confronting them would create a scene.

"I don't know. But we can't just let them go around picking people off, can we?"

Mitchell has his arm around my waist, but at this he turns to look me in the face, brows wrinkled in that way that tells me he's going to say something I don't want to hear. When he puts his hands on my shoulders, his grip is tighter than it needs to be.

"Listen. I don't know how many vampires there are, hundreds of thousands maybe, but all of them, all of them are dangerous. There's only one of me, and only one of you. Do you think they would take kindly to me telling them to stop feeding? That's my choice, but I can't make them do it."

"Wouldn't they do what you told them? They look up to you, don't they? "

"Doesn't matter. I might as well tell them to grow tails, or cure cancer."

Seth, his mates, Mitchell, Grant, Cutler, even reluctant, gentle Robbie: all killers. I knew this. I think of Stephanie and Jenna: ripped to shreds. The unsuspecting fellow in the suit, thinking he's getting lucky tonight: done for. The countless others who never had a chance, nothing but forgotten ghosts submerged in deeper and deeper oceans of blood.

I keep Mitchell out of the way, so I'm safe. I'm to be Cutler's dig at Herrick, retaliation for some wrong committed by one murderer against another, and I reckon Seth won't touch me because he'd rather Mitchell didn't come back to Bristol. Humans are of very little consequence to vampires, nothing but bargaining chips. And snacks.

I am not at the top of the food chain, nor is any other human in this place, or anywhere, really. I knew this in theory, but it's another thing entirely when it's happening in front of me. Whatever Mitchell does, it's barely a drop in the bucket. The rest of them will carry on as they always have. We can't make them stop.

Now I want very badly to go home.

Mitchell closes his eyes and his jaw tightens, a muscle twitching at his temple. He exhales loudly. I have the impression he's been expecting and dreading this conversation for quite some time.

"Tell me, where did you meet your first vampire?"

"That was different."

"No, actually, it wasn't. I was there, remember?" He presses his lips together, biting back harsher words. When he speaks again, his tone is patient but insistent. "I'm not trying to scare you, but knowing what's out there doesn't change anything. Remember when you didn't know there were vampires? It wasn't that long ago."

He pauses, arms crossed, and looks at me pointedly until I give a reluctant nod. "There were vampires," he says.

Yeah. Okay. I get it.

The vampires are a constant threat, like a bomb falling or an earthquake or a random bus that runs you over. They are dangerous and ordinary. They eat kebabs, wear socks, tell jokes, drive cars, take baths, watch television. And they kill people. Some of them are thundering arseholes. Some speak with a stammer. And this one, standing beside me: while he was waiting with that pained expression for me to answer him, I wanted to kiss each of his closed eyelids. Darkness and light spiral into grey. The world drops its mask and bares razor-sharp fangs. It always had them, I just never paid attention.

"I'm being unreasonable, aren't I?"

"Josie, we're here for our friends. We've all worked for this. Can we just be people tonight? Please?"

It's not only our friends' night to see all their work unveiled, it's his night. He's built most of the set for James and Albert's performance. He's an uncredited (okay, invisible) model in several of their frame-in-frame photographs; he's stretched canvases that are now hanging in the exhibit; he's cleaned paintbrushes, developed film, swept floors, and done countless errands. He is proud of what they've accomplished, and excited to see what people think of it.

I resolve not to be frightened off. Another glass of wine, then.

It's very crowded. Music swells and wanes. Aroma of perfume, patchouli and grass. Everyone's skin glows as if lit from inside.

Mitchell stands at the edge of the room as if he's looking over a precipice. Soon Albert joins us, his eyes crinkling in greeting. He's brought us glasses of cheap wine, which we gratefully accept, and introduces us to several of his friends. We forget their names immediately. They are all giddily charming, dropping bits of gossip and laughing, pointing out faces in the crowd. The familiar Japanese performance artist and her rock star boyfriend. A towering, deep-voiced platinum blonde in stiletto heels and a sequined gown. Quiet dark-eyed young men with sketchbooks. Conservative, serious, business-suited men, always two or three at a time, all carrying spiral-bound steno books. Ethereal pale-skinned girls drifting by in their floaty black dresses. Suede and denim. Kohl and glitter and hairspray. Feather boas.

Blast it. Here's Roger and Lydia. Albert greets them effusively, and suddenly there is someone he simply must speak to on the other side of the room. As Albert slips away, I smile insincerely at Roger. "How nice to see you," I lie.

Mitchell looks pointedly at Roger and then at me. I give the slightest nod. Yes, that's him. Instantly, Mitchell changes into someone else. He's somehow taller. The angles of his face sharpen, and his expression turns serious, though there's a trace of detached amusement in his almost-smile. The green in his eyes fades to flinty brown. His chilly, hypnotic gaze reminds me of a panther's, or a cobra's. You can't look away.

"Pleased to meet you," he says, in a voice I've never heard before, all empty charm and shiny reflective surface.

Roger seems uncharacteristically alarmed. "And you are...?" he asks, with a hint of panic.

"Mitchell." He offers his hand. At the same time, I see him look into the distance behind Roger, surveying the room. Our eyes lock for a brief instant, long enough for him to let me know he's still in there, and knows exactly what he's doing. It does little to relieve the shiver running down my spine. There's nothing Roger could do or say that would affect him at all. Roger could be an insect, or a mote of dust. Mitchell can smile, shake his hand, exchange pleasantries, or he can kill him where he stands. It's all the same to him.

Mitchell turns back to Roger and Lydia and gives a glittering, poisonous smile. "And who's this lovely girl?"

Lydia's eyelashes are coated in something sparkly. Her dark curly hair haloes her face and cascades in waves to the middle of her back. She's in a silky pale blue gown that resembles the robe of a saint in a medieval painting. The air around her smells of clove and vodka.

Roger begins to blather nervously. "This is Lydia. Lydia, of course you know Josie? Do you remember the first time we met, when she was going by Vera? That's something we did for fun. Different names feel different, don't you think? To me, 'Vera' seems like an old chanteuse, and 'Josie' sounds like a milkmaid."

I scowl at him. "'Josephine' is an empress."

"Mmmn. Yes. Right, of course."

Lydia tugs on my sleeve. "Josie, you must come and see our latest! You won't even believe it. I'll give you a hint." She leans toward my ear, nearly losing her balance, and stage-whispers, "No costumes!"

It takes her a few moments to sort herself and resume standing a reasonable distance away from me. For the sake of conversation, or whatever this is, I answer, "Is that so? How... fashionable."

"We've had a few old biddies get up and walk out saying it's filth. You'll love it!" She is slurring her words and giggling like a loon. "I need the toilet," she mumbles, and totters off.

I look anxiously from Roger to Mitchell, whose expression is unreadable. Stop it, I think at him. Perhaps he's noticed he's frightening me, or has had enough of frightening Roger, because he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "How about I go and get us another drink? Back before you know it." He heads into the crowd. Message delivered. Roger had better watch himself.

James waves from across the room, catching Mitchell's eye. To my great relief, they head for the bar together.

"Nice chap," says Roger, though there's a shell-shocked look in his eyes. "How'd you meet?"

"Long story."

"I hope he's good to you, and that he makes you happy."

"He is and he does."

Sidestepping the queue for drinks, James has taken Mitchell by the hand and is making the rounds, stopping at each little knot of people. There is much handshaking and embracing. Mitchell has dropped his larger-than-life act, and is again guarded and shy, gazing at the floor, hands in his pockets.

Roger touches my arm.

"It's good to see you," he says. "Are you alright? You don't seem yourself."

"Whatever do you mean? I'm fine, thanks." He misses me hanging on his every word, getting his ego massaged, the self-involved git. But perhaps I'm being unreasonable. I'm on my third glass of wine, and that's after the bottle I'd split with Mitchell at home.

"What have you been up to?"

"Oh, the usual. You know. "

"No, I really don't. You've become a complete cypher. Over the past few months you've stopped answering the telephone, and on the rare times you do answer, you cut conversation short. It's like you've died and been replaced with a shifty-eyed stranger with nothing to say."

"I hardly think you've any reason to be complaining about my phone manners. I'm just not at your beck and call anymore."

"I never wanted that."

"Oh please. The whole time we were together, it was me along on your ride. You made all the decisions. You were the one who left-you found yourself a newer and shinier toy. Once you were gone, I was nobody again. It took me a very long time to get over it. But now I don't need you, and thank God for that."

Roger covers his eyes, then massages the side of his face as if he's been hit. He bends closer to me so he can lower his voice. "I didn't realize you were still so angry. I was sure you'd understand it was the right thing for you, too."

Dots of light are spinning round the room, reflected from the glitter ball near the stage, making my head swim. My face feels hot. Emboldened by liquor and resentment, I say, "I understood no such thing. You always told me what to be, how to be. And I liked it! I only wanted to please you. You taught me so much, but when you left you took it all with you."

"No. I didn't!" It's as if I've unjustly accused him of murdering kittens. "Don't blame your insecurity on me, Josie. Look, I'm sorry it happened the way it did. You think I left you for her, but it's not true. We both needed a push. You grew away from me too. I just noticed it first. "

"That's revisionist history and you know it. When I had nothing left for you to use, you split."

Roger sounds quite aggrieved now. "Josie, what am I supposed to say? If I say you can take care of yourself, that you're stronger than you think, then I'm patronising you. But if I say that you're right, I kicked you when you were down..."

"I rather think you did."

"Okay, perhaps I could have handled it better. But you are not a helpless damsel and you know it. You've far too much steel. I never kept you from doing anything you wanted to do."

I light a cigarette, take a drag, and stand tipsily with my eyes closed, trying to identify the music echoing through the huge room. The acoustics in here are dreadful, and I can't make out the song over the roar of dozens of conversations at once. Maybe it's the wine and the noise, but the floor seems unsteady. You really shouldn't try and stand with your eyes closed when pissed and in stiletto heels. For balance, I hold on to Roger's elbow, nearly burning a hole in his shirt.

I may be a tiny little bit drunk, but I have to admit he's got a point. I'm better off now. Since we broke up, my life has been nothing short of astonishing. The world is several orders of magnitude more beautiful, more cruel, more ridiculous, than he will ever know. I wish I could tell him.

Still holding onto Roger's arm for stability, I pat him on the hand. "All right. I had a bad time of it after you left. I've been so incredibly angry at you, and it's been hard for me to get past it."

He brushes ash off his sleeve. "I understand. I'm sorry, I really am. It wasn't fair to leave you with a broken foot and no prospects. How is your foot, by the way?"

What nerve. I was finished being angry at him, but once again I'm working up a nice hot steaming fit of righteous pique.

"Damn it, Roger! You couldn't just let it lie, could you? You're NOT my only prospect, you condescending bastard. I'm doing fine. I've got a job, friends, a life. I'm good."

"Good. And...and...and... I didn't mean it like that." He's turned bright pink, and is backpedaling as fast as he can. "I'm happy for you. You deserve nothing but the best. That bloke had better treat you well, or...or..."

"Or what?" I fix him with what I hope is an indignant glare, but I can't hold it for long.

I grind out the end of my cigarette with my shoe. Its sole is so thin I can feel the hot ember right through it. Roger's foot, only a few inches away from the discarded fag, is half again as large as mine. I'd forgotten how huge his feet are. Wait. Where's the other one?

It's hard to suppress a giggle, as I've just realized that Roger is standing like a splay-legged giraffe, his legs at a nearly ninety degree angle. He looks ridiculous, like he's trying to cross a small brook and is stuck with a foot on either side. Passers-by are giving him odd looks, but he couldn't care less-he has a perfectly good reason: he's much taller than I am, and this way he doesn't tower over me while we're talking. It's considerate, silly, and oblivious, all at the same time. His thoughtless, petty little digs are not enough to sustain any serviceable outrage.

He's still trying to smooth things over. "I just meant... You and your new friend should come see us sometime. We'd love to have you. It would be great to catch up."

My anger deflated again, I smile and say, "I'd love that. Ring us sometime, we'll get together. " Perhaps it's the wine.

Lydia totters to Roger's side. "Hallo! Back again. What'd I miss?" she says.

"Nothing much, love," says Roger. "We're just watching the world go by."

She is distracted with something in the corner. I pat her on the shoulder, and a loose thread of her flowy dress catches on my fingernail and snaps. "It was great to see you again. Oh, and here's Mitchell with my drink. Bye for now!"

Mitchell takes up a position near James and Albert's exhibit to help answer questions about the work, and to make sure nothing gets damaged or stolen. People are as curious about him as they are about the art. I've never seen him come closer to blushing as when he's asked if he and I are "an item."

"Are you an artist too?" someone asks Mitchell. "Musician? Writer?"

"No, I just help out."

"Come on, really? I thought we all had an opus hidden away somewhere."

"I don't. I'm happy just to be here. Not interested in making any great statements. I don't have that much to say. I'd rather listen."

"Everyone has some kind of ambition."

"Perhaps. What's yours, then?"

And they tell him. And tell him.

I overhear him talking about one of the paintings. "I love how this curves round like that, and the colors are really intriguing." He points to a corner of a canvas painted with pink and purple squiggles. "This reminds me of guts. But in a good way. No, really. Gutsy."

Nice recovery there. I've only ever seen that expression on his face when he's mastered a chord on the guitar, or come up with a difficult answer in the crossword.

After listening to four or five nearly identical conversations, I begin to tune out. He waves me off apologetically, saying it would be dull for me to stay when there's so much out there to see.

They are all telling him their life stories, one year at a time. Maybe a week at a time. I wander around, look at the art, listen to the music, catch up with old friends.

While Mitchell keeps watch over their paintings and photos, James and Albert are people in front of the stage are no quieter than anyone else in this enormous room. Good thing this piece has no dialogue.

They pass a crystal goblet between them. It's filled with something red. Albert dips his finger in the glass and draws on James' bare chest. "YES" he writes, in three-inch block letters. Then he dips both hands in and paints stripes across his own cheeks, like war paint.

A window in the middle of the stage, in a regular wooden frame with a glass pane, is set at an angle so the audience can look through. James stands behind the glass. With a broad brush, he begins painting the glass red, one thick stroke after another, until he's no longer visible through the window. Albert waits on the other side of the glass. When James is finished painting, Albert taps on the glass.

On the other side, James slowly becomes visible wiping at the paint, working until there's a clear area large enough that we can see his face. Albert presses against the other side of the glass with his hands, then his face, rubbing his cheek against it like an affectionate cat. James smiles and waves impersonally, like an official on a parade float. Albert grows frantic, pounding the window, trying to get James' attention, but James continues to wave obliviously. Is the glass going to break?

After Albert raps on the glass for several minutes, James finally appears to notice him. With a look of exaggerated concern, he watches as Albert blindly hammers at the window, then he shakes his head sadly. The barrage continues as James steps out from behind the glass, stands behind Albert, and taps him on the shoulder. Bewildered, Albert turns around to discover James standing there. They are still for what seems like a long time but is probably thirty seconds. With a clean white cloth, James tenderly wipes the red from Albert's face.

Mitchell is right where I left him an hour ago.

He tilts his head. "You look nice in that dress," he says. First time he's said anything about it.

"Are you having a good time?"

"Yeah. I've met so many people. "

"You must be exhausted. "

"Not at all. It's been really interesting. A woman Albert knows showed me a piece she made, it was like a box of sweets, only each of the sweets was a little sculpture that represented a deadly sin, like lust or gluttony, that sort of thing. They were very disturbing."

"They disturbed you? I find that hard to believe."

"I think it was the packaging that did it. It could've been chocolate."

"Doesn't sound like any chocolate I'd want."

"No, probably not." He smiles, and the somber angles of his face soften into cheerful arcs. "She seemed so normal, too. Aside from the black leather outfit. That was... rather severe, I thought."

"Sounds pretty far out to me. Anything else interesting? I saw you talking to a lot of people."

"A vampire came over, someone I didn't know, and asked me what I was doing here. Must have been one of Cutler's toadies. I told him I was working."

"Wonderful. We haven't seen enough of them tonight, have we?"

"They do seem to come out of the woodwork around here. Oh, and I talked to a girl with big teeth and a guitar, who said she was a musician but only because she couldn't make enough money selling her paintings. I asked if she made enough money playing music and she said she didn't know yet. She plunked herself down on the floor and played a song. I never heard a voice like that, not a folksinger, not a rock singer, not an opera singer. Warbly and high and pointy, but somehow the right thing.

"And there was someone who said he was an artist, but he didn't paint or draw or write or sing, or anything. His work, all of it, is nothing but instructions for making art, like this." He fishes a small card from his pocket. It reads, "Give something away".

"He called them scores, like they're pieces of music. It's weird, but it sort of makes sense. I mean, why not?"

As I'm wondering just what we could give away, James appears and says, "Mitchell! Thanks for minding the shop for so long. You've done such a great job. Now circulate. Look around. Enjoy yourselves." He practically marches us back to the party, and waves us off, smiling like an indulgent uncle who's brought his charges to the park and now wants us to go play.

"Let's have another drink," I say to Mitchell. "What would you like?"

"Oh, anything is fine, really. I could have water from the tap." His cheeks are flushed, and reflected dots of light travel across his face, now casting shadows across his eyes, now making them shine brighter.

"Are you enjoying the party?"

"Immensely. I can't even tell you how happy this makes me. Everyone has so much to say. So many stories. One after another after another ...until now I've never been able to stay and listen." He bites his lip and looks away, but only for a second.

We're both transfixed by the human scenery. Spangles and swirling scarves and feathers and ruffles. Spectacles and sideburns. Faded blue jeans. Animated conversation, joking, flirting. Tangled hair and bare feet. Tall, tall shoes. Gorgeous knees and bare shoulders and perfume and spilled liquor. Mitchell watches raptly, as if the party guests are acrobats breathing fire or natives of a previously unknown continent. If I let him, I suspect he'd happily sit there forever, or at least until all the lights came up.

"I'd like to see some of the exhibits," I say. "Show me the chocolate sins."

"I think it's this way." We weave our way through the milling partygoers, arriving in a walled-off area with several display cases arranged in a row and an assortment of photos on the walls. The photos are of flowers and slices of steak and liver and tripe and twisted wire and assorted drapings of fabric. They are quite beautiful if you don't think very much about the materials.

The box of "sweets" is in its own case, each set tidily in brown fluted paper like a chocolate would be. They are grotesque indeed, the one labeled "Greed" an open slavering mouth with cracked, peeling lips and lolling purplish tongue, "Sloth" a loose spiral of fuzz matted with something grey and slimy, "Envy" a greenish-yellow globule like like a suppurating boil, surrounded by a pinkish crust, "Lust" a pinkish object that looks on one side like a shiny red strawberry, and on the other side like something veiny and fleshy, slightly wrinkled, the dots of the strawberry seeds transmuting to stubbly tufts of hair. And so on. They make me shudder.

"I see why you found them disturbing. Which is your favorite?" I ask.

"Hmm. I quite like lust, but that version isn't so appealing. Also sloth. Sloth is underrated, in my book."

"Good choice. Who doesn't like a bit of sloth?"

"My sloth is much nicer than that," Mitchell says. "Hey, come see this. It's a photo of the actual artist." He stands in front of a large framed photo of a woman with a 1920s bobbed hairdo, half-nude, perched languorously on the edge of a bed, one arm outstretched, extending to the edge of the photo as if to beckon the viewer in. She's gazing into a mirror that's reflecting back another mirror, a familiar pattern of infinite regress. Her figure repeats, one behind the other, smaller and smaller, until out of the frame. She seems to be challenging the viewer to find the connection between this charming, if off-kilter, image and the rest of the (rather more visceral) work.

"She's inviting us into the picture isn't she?" Mitchell says

"Get you. So arty. Anyway, we're already in."

"Are we? I like it here."

Art and entrails together. Something for everyone.

He kisses me full on the mouth in this room full of people. We're in the corner, leaning against the rough exposed brickwork of the factory wall, and nobody even notices. The sound of the crowd and the throb of music blend into a gentle roar.

Back home, we collapse into bed. His hands are warm. One rests at the small of my back, giving off a faint vibration like a plucked string. With the other he traces over my hand, rests his fingers lightly in the crook of my elbow. I turn on my side and he wraps around me and we sleep, dreamlessly, deeply.