In which Josie has a very bad and very strange day. We already know that Mitchell has had a wild night, a difficult morning, killed a friend, done lots of housework, met some pissed-off ghosts, and is now left high & dry to await Herrick's return.

BH characters belong to BBC et al. and Toby Whithouse. Thanks for letting us spend more time with them.

As always, your thoughts, reactions, suggestions, critiques are gladly welcomed.

May 1969

We sit on the lawn with a group of kids attending the festival, and pass the pocket-sized brass water pipe round the circle, laughing at the farty gurgling sound it makes as we suck the smoke through it. Roger has arrived in in all his splendor: fringed jacket, bright silk shirt and jeans that leave nothing to the imagination. He's bestowed this little gift upon the group, producing it from his pocket as if by magic. As a sophisticated adult of the world (he's over 30!), the kids view him with not a little awe.

Roger drinks in the looks of them, absorbing their admiration and taking careful note of their outfits: the girls all barefoot and braless in flowing cotton and silk, conscious of everyone's eyes on them; the boys so much plainer in t-shirts and jeans and unkempt hair, but carelessly beautiful in the way 18-year-old boys are. I know this will affect the costuming, and probably casting, in our next show.

A girl sitting opposite us in the circle passes the pipe along, handling it gingerly with her fingertips as if it may bite her. She takes an elaborate drag from her clove cigarette and blows the smoke in my direction. It smells nice. My lips go slightly numb.

"No thank you, Donald, I find it doesn't agree with me," she says. Roger arches his eyebrow at me in a wordless comment on her uptightness. She's quite pretty, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with translucent freckled porcelain skin, giant kohl-lined brown eyes, and hair that falls down her back in dark waves. He's introduced us as "Donald and Vera" so they don't realize we're the next act to go on.

As we walk away from the little group, I say, "I don't like using false names, Roger. It seems so childish."

"Names have power, darling. Of course I'm not going to tell them my real name. I haven't shown them anything interesting. Why would I want them to talk about me?"

October

The early morning light is too dull and grey to cast shadows. Eeverything seems two-dimensional, as if it has been replaced with a paper cutout of itself. I'm not sure what to do about this strange man in my flat. I still feel the imprint of his fingers gripping my arm, his cold hand on my face. He's killed the girls upstairs and is trying to hide from the police. I should be horrorstricken, but other than an uncontrollable twitch in my eyelid, I am oddly unmoved. I must be too frightened even to panic.

I say I need to go to the toilet. Reluctantly he lets me.

Behind the bathroom door, I breathe deeply and attempt to pull myself together. What's wrong with me? Why haven't I raised a fuss, called for help? I haven't even made any noise. In theory, I am angry, and am quite sure this should not be happening. Why doesn't it feel like anything?

The walls in this flat are so thin that they barely muffle the clunking of his boot heels as he paces back and forth outside the bathroom. I bite my lip, hard, take a deep breath, and try and summon up the obligatory sense of self-preservation.

Are there escape routes? Yes. The front door is still unlocked. What else might help? There is a gaggle of policemen outside, so I should try and get their attention. Wait. Don't be an idiot. If I call to them, he'll hear. Need something else... Aha!

Using a lipstick from the medicine chest, I write the word HELP on the bathroom window. The message may not be terribly legible through the frosted glass, but it's the best I can do.

Emerging from the bathroom, I keep my expression as guileless as I can, but it's not enough. He notices the lipstick scrawl on the window right away, and his face closes like a fist. His dark brows lower menacingly. "Get in there," he snarls, and shoves me into the sitting room. He's surprisingly strong, and I'm still so numb and detached it doesn't occur to me to resist. He drags me across the room like a ragdoll and ties my hands to the bookshelf. At least he's left it so I have circulation.

This is very uncomfortable. Finally, a tiny sprout of rage takes root.

He's spoilt the milk! I've ruined one of my best lipsticks! I'm late for work, for God's sake!

Feeble. I'll have to do better than that.

Bloody hell. Get it through your head, Josie. This is serious. This is really happening. He could rape me. He could light the place on fire. He could kill me.

Do I even care? I know I ought to care.

All I can muster is a vague sort of curiousity."Why did you do it?" I ask. "You must have had a motive. No-one kills without a motive. You didn't even know those girls did you?"

"I didn't need to know them." He dashes across the flat , full of nervous energy, now checking the window where the police are keeping watch outside, now slamming the door. "They were in a bar, they were up for a party, and now they're dead. Tomorrow I won't even remember what they look like."

He has very casually, almost nonchalantly, admitted to murdering my neighbors. For no reason at all. It's as if he's had an unpleasant but not particularly interesting day's work. Another day, another load of widgets. It's really creepy.

It's also entirely pointless. Why kill them? They may have been annoying, but they were completely harmless. And really, why would you ever want to kill someone at random? It's an awful lot of trouble to go through for no reason. Is he a hitman, or is this some other twisted business?

"I don't believe you," I tell him. "Even if you said you enjoyed it, it would make more sense."

This stops him short. His face crumples up like a little boy's. He knows he got the answer wrong, and now he's desperate to change the subject. A little too brusquely, he grabs a small framed photo from the mantle, a formal portrait of my parents with an eight-year-old me.

"You're an only child," he mutters, almost to himself.

"Does it make a difference to anything?"

"Not really. I was an only child."

"I'm sure your parents are proud of the way you've turned out."

He says his parents have been dead a long time.

I ask if he killed them too. He is dumbfounded. "Why would I want to kill my own parents?"

Why would he want to kill anyone? "How many people have you killed?"

He looks thoughtful. "Hard to say. More than a hundred, less than a thousand."

I think this is some kind of put-on.

A year or two ago

Roger and I have just seen a terribly disturbing performance piece.

A small Japanese woman in a demure black cardigan knelt onstage and allowed members of the audience, one by one, to take turns cutting the clothing off of her with a pair of scissors. Each person would mount the stage, pick up the scissors, cut her clothes, and ceremonially replace the scissors on the floor in front of her.

They started with her skirt, snipping off palm sized pieces and then reverently setting down the scissors. They soon moved on to her blouse, one sleeve slit from wrist to shoulder, then the other. Roger took a turn, cutting off a section of cardigan near her midriff. He returned to his seat flushed and slightly breathless.

A very forward gentleman clipped all the way through her blouse. I expected him to be finished at that point, but he wasn't. Instead, he proceeded to cut each strap of her bra so they hung down her back and front like untied ribbons, then they too were cut off, then the bra itself, first the cups, then the band across her back. After what seemed like an age, he finally put the scissors down. I did not like that fellow, not at all.

When he was gone, she remained on stage, nearly motionless, shyly holding her hands over her breasts. I saw the goosebumps rising on her bare flesh and shivered in sympathy. The room was not warm.

I thought it might be over then, but the performance went on. Other people gouged the blades perilously across her knickers, trimming the cloth away from the skin, exposing more and more of her. She sat impassively as the tatters fell to the floor at her feet.

At the end, completely nude, she rose and walked out without a word.

I shudder. "She looked so helpless up there, it made me squirm."

"It was her idea," Roger points out. "It was supposed to make people uncomfortable, and it worked, didn't it? Who was in control of that performance? Was it the men with the scissors?"

October

This has got to be some sort of stupid game. The man has just claimed he's a worse serial killer than Jack the Ripper. If he were really an experienced criminal, he'd have had a plausible story at the ready instead of a ludicrous non-explanation. I want the real story.

We talk more, this killer and I, as he paces back and forth, repeatedly looking out the window. What could he possibly be thinking? My questions make him visibly uncomfortable, but to my surprise, he admits that it's easier to kill people if he imagines he's someone else.

"So it's an act," I say. His face darkens.

"You said no more questions." If he doesn't like my questions, why does he keep answering them?

He asks me why I'm "being like this," (I am amazed that he's asking me that) and calls me "a funny little thing," which doesn't sound like what a murderer would say at all. I don't know what I expected. Granted, I have very limited experience with murderers.

I certainly didn't expect a murderer to be so thin-skinned. Trying to be gentle, I say, "I'm not scared of you. Maybe that's why I'm being like this. At least not as scared as I probably should be."

His voice edges upward. "Yeah, you should be terrified."

Where, exactly, does one learn the protocol for being taken hostage? He's the professional here, and clearly, I'm doing this all wrong. I'm not supposed to ask questions. I'm not supposed to tell him my name. Am I supposed to be hysterical? Thrash about? Honestly, I can't work up the enthusiasm. This is very tiring.

"I should be married to David Bowie." Oops, I might have rolled my eyes at him, just a little.

Suddenly he's looming over me, scowling.

"You should be begging for fucking mercy," he says tightly. If this is an act, it's very convincing. There's real menace in his words, unstable tension like a bubble about to burst.

"Is that what they did?" As soon as I say it, I realize it's a mistake, but I really wanted to know. If they begged, I don't think it worked.

He flies off the handle, which gives me a small measure of satisfaction, and tells me, in no uncertain terms, to shut up.

I should, but I can't.

"I still don't understand why you do it."

"It's complicated."

For the record, I think "Why did you do it?" is an extremely simple question. He just really, intensely, completely doesn't want to answer.

His cheeks flush. Vibrating with frustration, he seems about to explode, his hide shredding into a million pieces and littering the flat with the scraps. Perhaps I should be more careful about making him angry.

"I had to kill them, okay? I didn't have a choice!"

Okay. We might be getting somewhere. It makes a sort of sense. If it had been his idea, he'd have been all excited to talk about it, wouldn't he? I wonder who he's working for. The Krays and Richardsons are all in jail, I think.

"That's the first thing you've said that I actually believe. You have to kill them, but you don't really want to."

It's too close to home for him. He's had enough. If I won't shut up on my own, he's going to shut me up. Grimacing, he wraps one of my silk scarves around my mouth and head, gagging me. Alright, I get the message. Then he stalks into the kitchen, probably so I can't keep asking him questions with eye-blinks or something.

I wiggle my hands experimentally. These knots seem quite loose.

As I sprint down the stairs, there's a policeman on his way up. Help at last! He follows me into the flat.

I point at my captor, who is panicking wildly. His eyes are rolled back in his head like a scared puppy's, the whites showing in a wide ring all the way round. "What took you so long?" he says.

The other fellow isn't really a policeman.

I cry out involuntarily and try and get past him to make a break for it. With brutal efficiency, the man-who-is-not-a-policeman seizes me by the hair and flings me onto the floor. I land in a bruised heap against the wall. A sick feeling creeps over me as I understand, for the first time, that I might not get out of here alive.

I don't see how someone so ordinary could be so frightening. On the street, you'd never look at him twice. If you were asked to give a description of him, you'd scarcely remember anything. His bland, middle-aged face would simply blur and dissolve into the faces of all the other accountants and insurance salesmen and shopkeepers you've ever seen.

However, if there were prizes for sinister smirking, this chap would win them all. "Still using a granny knot, Mitchell? How many times have I told you, use a reef!" His unblinking blue eyes bore into mine, and with a manic smile, he nods toward my captor and sneers, "What's he like?"

The performance over, not-cop's face slams itself shut. The wide false grin contracts to an icy, nearly vacant stare of predatory indifference. It's the expression of some prehistoric creature, something cold-blooded and reptilian.

I'd thought I was going to be rescued, but instead here are two thugs: my young kidnapper and now his extremely nasty boss. Mitchell (aha, his name!) glances for a split second at me sprawled on the floor, and then his gaze returns to not-cop. Mitchell's eyes are wide with an emotion I can't name, somewhere between resentment and dread. He shrinks slightly away from his companion. All his twitchy nervous energy evaporates, replaced with the tense stillness of a caged wild animal. He's absolutely motionless and looks as if he expects a beating.

"I had to kill them, okay? I didn't have a choice."

Okay. I see. I finally see. Of course he couldn't tell me. And I don't think we're adversaries at all.

"Take her out, Mitchell," the man says.

Abruptly, Mitchell shakes himself out of his frozen vigilance, pulls me to my feet and somehow, despite my legs' sudden bonelessness, propels me to the bedroom.

Perhaps a little too forcefully, Mitchell commences lashing me to the bed. He still won't look at me, but something between us has shifted. We both know it.

"Who's your friend?" I ask.

"Herrick. he's like me, only ... more so."

Like him. A killer. I've never needed to think about it before, but it seems obvious now. One murderer might be more ... murderous than another.

I've nothing to lose. One look into Herrick's eyes was enough to make perfectly clear that they mean to kill me. Clammy waves of nausea wash over me as I ask Mitchell to be the one to carry out the deed. His glance flicks away, his mouth tightens, and his shoulders tense.

He doesn't want me to use his name and he doesn't want to hear mine. That's ominous. Roger always said that if someone knows your name then he can tell stories about you. If he doesn't, he's just telling stories; they could be about anyone.

Mitchell is much calmer now, his hands almost gentle. He gets up to leave.

This is my last chance. They're going to kill me. They're going to kill me. They're going to kill me. Oh mercy.

With Herrick, there's no hope, but Mitchell and I have a history, don't we? And possibly something in common.

"Mitchell, wait," I say. His shoulders sag. He doesn't turn to look at me, but he doesn't leave either. What can I say to him that will make a difference? He's so strange and evasive. Now he mainly seems resigned. No choice.

We're prisoners in adjoining cells. This is not where either of us wants to be. My life depends on it. You and me, Mitchell. Not you and him.

"I know you're not like him," I say. "You want this to end."

In reply, Mitchell tells me a creepy story about having to feed a hungry monster. Does he mean himself? It needs to kill or else he can't forget... what? Wait, why did he say "the taste on their lips?" What's he doing to them? I don't understand.

Jesus. My guts go all icy and hollow. If I'm following what he's saying, it's not only that his boss requires him do this ghastly job - something else, something in him, compels him to do dreadful things. Still, he denies it's an addiction, and calls it "cowardice." What an odd, odd choice of words.

I ask him if he's ever tried to quit before, and he stares back at me, blank and defeated. Would he like to try again?

He looks at the floor for what seems like an eon. God knows what awful thoughts are going through his mind. A muscle in his jaw twitches and relaxes. Then Mitchell does a surprising thing: he sits down on the bed beside me. He rests his face in his hands and appears to be speaking to the rug.

"I told you it was complicated." His voice echoes against the walls, carrying an edge of frustration that dissolves into a hopeless quaver. He rakes his unruly hair out of his eyes and wraps his hands over his head, as if he's trying to protect himself from an explosion.

"Why?" I wail. "Why is it complicated? Do you have any idea how little sense you are making? Please, please, please make some sense, won't you? At least give me that. You're going to kill me anyway."

He rocks back and forth slightly but doesn't reply. We sit in tense silence for a long time.

He's much bigger than I am. I'm acutely aware of his weight pressing the mattress down and tipping me toward him, of the curtain of dark hair falling over his hands and between his fingers. There are dark crescents under his nails. His white shirt cuffs are flecked with tiny brown dots. His boots are badly scuffed and need polishing. He smells of old cigarette smoke, faint flowery perfume, and something vaguely metallic.

What now? Bound hand and foot to the bedrail, I can't move very much, but I shift as far away from him as I can. What does he want? Is this it? Is it time for him to kill me?

Chilly sweat trickles down the sides of my neck and into the collar of my dress. I thought I might feel warmer with him so near, but I don't. I wish he would hurry up and get on with it. That would be preferable to sitting here any longer, preferable to not knowing. I don't understand anything anymore.

When he finally decides to speak, he doesn't look up.

"The monster - it's not a metaphor. It's real. Herrick and I, we're... we're vampires."

I wasn't expecting that.

I thought this couldn't get any more bonkers, but I was mistaken. He's no run-of-the-mill killer. He's completely deranged. I liked it better when he was just a burglar. Or just a murderer. It seems my standards have dropped.