They found the jewelry in a lacquered box with a Chinese landscape painted on it. The box was locked but it broke open easily and they pocketed its contents. They poked around the room a bit longer, looking for cash, but found none. That made Trevor angry, because with cash he didn't have to rely on Lenny's spurious deals.

They set off back downstairs, and just as they were about to turn the final bend into the front hallway, the door opened and closed, the hall light came on and a woman began to take off her sleek fur coat.

Cautiously, Mick led the way down. The last stair creaked and the woman turned, but Mick got his hand over her mouth before she could scream. They dragged her into the living room and switched on the standard-lamp. The curtains were already closed. Mick took the woman's head-scarf and fastened it tight, like a bit between her teeth; then he took the belt from her raincoat and tied her hands crudely behind her back.

"We need time to get away," he said to Trevor. "We've got to make sure she keeps quiet for long enough. Bring me that candlestick over there."

Trevor looked and saw an old brass candlestick with a heavy base. The woman whimpered behind her gag and struggled to free herself.

"No," he said.

"Come on," Mick urged him. "We've got to. We can't risk getting caught now."

Slowly, Trevor walked over to the mantelpiece, picked up the candlestick, felt its weight, then dropped it on the floor. "No," he said again. "You'd probably kill her. You don't know how little strength it takes."

"So what," Mick argued, stretching out his hand scornfully. "Give it here."

"I've got a better idea," Trevor said.

"What?"

Trevor looked at the woman sprawled awkwardly on the sofa. She was about thirty-eight, forty maybe, but very well preserved. Her hair was blond, but the dark roots showed, and perhaps she was wearing just a little too much mascara. But apart from that, she looked very tasty indeed to Trevor. Her breasts jutted behind the polo-necked sweater and her skirt had already slipped up high enough to show a spread of thigh. He got an eerie feeling that his moment had come at last.

"You must be mad," Mick gasped, realizing what Trevor meant. "We can't hang around here."

"Why not? We know she lives alone. She's here. So who else is going to come?"

Mick thought for a moment, licking his lips. "All right, then," he agreed, and began to move forward.

Trevor stood in front of him and nudged him gently out of the way. "Me first."

There was something determined in his tone, so Mick just shrugged and moved back. Trevor maneuverd the woman awkwardly onto the floor. She didn't struggle, but she seemed to have gone limp and heavy. He pulled the sweater up around her breasts but couldn't get it off while here hands were tied. There were some scissors by the stack of magazines on the coffee table, so he picked them up and carefully cut the material. Underneath, her bra was pink, and the hard nipples poked at its cups. Trevor grabbed the elastic in the middle and tried to tear it off, but it proved stronger than it looked. Again, he used the scissors. The whole thing was beginning to seem a lot harder than he'd imagined.

"For fuck's sake, hurry up," Mick urged him. "Get on with it!"

Trevor squeezed the woman's breasts. They were soft and slack and he didn't like the feel of them. Slowly, he cut off the rest of her clothes. Again, she didn't struggle; she just lay there like a sack of potatoes.

Finally, he pushed her legs apart, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. It was his first time, but it felt right; he knew what to do.

He tried to avoid looking her in the face. Because of the scarf between her teeth she seemed to be grinning maliciously, and when he caught her eyes he thought he saw mockery in them, not just fear. He'd soon teach her. When he started, he thought he heard her grunt with pain behind her gag as she whipped her head from side to side, and he could see her eyes were blurred with tears now.

The pressure was strong in Trevor and he could manage no more than three or four rough thrusts before it was all over. Exhausted even by such a meager effort, he got to his knees and pulled up his pants. The woman just lay there. She wasn't crying now; her eyes were far away and the taut scarf still made her appear to grin.

"Your turn," he said, turning to Mick.

"Not on your bleeding Nelly! If you think I'm taking your sloppy seconds, you've got another bloody think coming, mate. Let's piss off out of here."

Before they left, Mick gave the woman a hard kick to the side of her head and told her there'd be more of that if she didn't keep her mouth shut. Trevor noticed a thin trickle of blood shining in her hair before he turned and followed Mick out through the kitchen.

Chapter TWELVE

I

After a dull, elementary talk by Fred Barton on the properties of the medium telephoto lens, the Tuesday evening Camera Club was devoted to mutual criticism of work produced at the session two weeks earlier when a nude model had been the subject. As expected, some ribald remarks came from less mature male amateurs, but on the whole the brief, informal session was productive.

Sandra looked over Norman 's work and had to admit, if only to herself, that she liked it. It was far more experimental than anyone else's, she imagined, and she felt some sympathy because she, too, liked to take risks, though she rarely went as far as Norman. He had used a fast film and blown up the prints to give them a very coarse grain; consequently, the photographs did not look like shots of a naked woman; they looked more like moonscapes.

The usual crowd gathered at The Mile Post later. The pub was busier than usual; rock 'n' roll on the jukebox and bleeping video games made conversation difficult. There was also a group of local fanners celebrating something with a great deal of laughter and the occasional song, and some of the lads from the racing stables in Middleham were out enjoying a night on the town.

"Have you seen that new Minolta?" Norman asked, getting comfortable in his chair and arranging pipe and matches neatly in front of him on the varnished table.

"That's not a camera," Robin said. "It's a computer. All you have to do is program it and it does everything for you, including focus."

"What do you think you're doing when you set your shutter speed and your aperture?" Norman asked. "You're programming your camera then, aren't you?"

"That's different."

"As far as I'm concerned," Sandra chipped in, "anything that makes the technical side easier and allows me to concentrate more on the photograph is fine by me."

Norman smiled indulgently. "Well put, Sandra. Although I would add that the 'technical side,' as you term it, is an integral part of the photograph."

"I know the selections are important," Sandra agreed, "and I'd always want a manual override-but the easier the better as far as I'm concerned."

"I've never found it particularly difficult to set the camera," Robin said. "Or to focus. I don't really see what all the fuss is about."

"Typical reactionary attitude," Norman sneered. "You can't ignore the new technology, lad. You might as well make good use of it."

"I've really nothing against it," Robin argued quietly. "I just don't think I need one, that's all. No more than I need an electric toothbrush."

"Oh, you'd be happy with a bloody pinhole camera, you would," Norman sighed.

"My excuse is that I can't afford one," Sandra said.

"I don't think any of us can," Harriet echoed. "It's a very expensive hobby, photography."

"True enough," Norman agreed. "I'd have to sell all the camera equipment I've already got. It might be worth it, though. I'll look into it a bit more closely. Another round?"