e was it ing from？ One of his crazy rap clients； being an asshole？ Or； more likely； former client？ There was one Haitian rapper in particular who had threatened revenge。 This was probably him or his boys； trying to goad him into a premature heart attack with some voodoo nonsense。
〃All right！〃 he called out。 〃That's enough with the bullshit。〃
Silence。
His skin crawled； unnaturally hot and dry。 Suddenly； it didn't feel like nonsense anymore。 It felt real。
It was happening to him。 Itwas happening； like Grove had said。
He raised the shaking glass to his lips； swallowing； tasting nothing。
But it couldn't really be happening； could it？ This was the twenty…first century。 Grove must have been crazy； hemust have。 But； oh dear Jesus； those things the newspapers had hinted at 。 。 。 The cops weren't really saying much about how Grove had died； but the tabloids had been full of gossip about the body； burned from the inside； the marks of Lucifer on the walls。
Was it really possible； after all this time？
He let the half…finished drink fall to the floor and began casting desperately about。 His late mother had given him a crucifix； which he'd kept around more as a memento than anything else。 He'd seen it just last month。 Where？ He rushed back into his bedroom； to the walk…in closet； drew out a drawer with savage tugs； felt in the back。 Cuff links； buttons； tiepins； coins rained to the floor。
No crucifix。 Where was it？
He jerked open another drawer； then another； pawing roughly through watches； jewelry； gold。 A sob escaped him。
The crucifix！He grasped it tightly； sobbing with relief； held it to his breast； crossing himself。
The sensation of being covered with crawling bees began to grow worse。 Now it felt as if the bees were really stinging him； billions of agonizing little pricks。
〃Go away！ Get away！〃 He sobbed。〃Our Father； who art in heaven…〃 God； how did it go？
The crucifix felt hot in his hands。 Now his ears were buzzing。 His throat felt as if it was caked with ash； as if he was choking on the hot air。
I am ing now。
He held out the crucifix in his shaking arms； this way and that； as if warding off something invisible。 〃Get thee behind me； Satan！〃 he shrieked。
The crucifix felt very hot now。 It was burning his fingers。 Everything was hot： his nightclothes； even his eyebrows and the hairs on his arms； felt as if they were crisping。
〃Get away！〃
He dropped the crucifix with a cry。 To his utter terror； smoke began curling from it； burning a mark into the rug。 He gasped for breath； hands scrabbling at his throat； gagging in the sulfurous air。
He had to get out。 He had to find sanctuary。 If he could get to a chapel； a church； anything； maybe he'd be safe 。 。 。
He rushed for the door； but just before he put his hand on the doorknob； there came a knocking。
Cutforth froze； suspended between relief and fear。 Who was it？
Maybe there was a fire？ Yes； of course； that was it： the building was on fire； and an evacuation was under way。 Something must have gone wrong with the sprinkler system。 〃I'm in here！〃 He sobbed； half in pain and half in relief。 〃In here！〃
He grasped the doorknob； felt the searing pain of red…hot metal； jerked his hand away。〃Fuck！〃
He looked at his hand in disbelief。 His palm was burned； smoking； and it cracked as he opened it； blood and clear matter welling from the fissure and running down his wrist。 Left on the doorknob was a large piece of his skin； curling and frying in the heat like pork cracklings。
The knock came again： slow； steady； like the tolling of a bell。
〃Help me！〃 Cutforth cried at the door。 〃There's a fire！Fire！ 〃
He felt a sudden wave of pain along his skin； as if it was being peeled away； and then a grotesque feeling deep in his belly； as if someone had just stirred his guts for him。 He lurched back。He was at the door。 The feeling came again； a strange internal pressure； a terrible writhing of the intestines。 He screamed； gripping his stomach； doubling over。 He managed to stagger back into the bedroom。 As he moved； little darts of pain raced across his skin and his eyes clouded with red mist。 He could feel the terrible pressure mounting within him； and then all went black and the pressure became unbearable； and there was a sound like frying eggs and suddenly the pressure was gone and a hot wetness was running down his face。
He screamed； writhing on the floor； his legs beating a frenzied tattoo on the rug； his hands tearing at his nightclothes； his hair； trying to claw the skin from his own body because it was searingly hot； so unbearably hot 。 。 。
Here I am here I am here。
20
Letitia Dallbridge lay awake； motionless； rigid in her bed。 Atlast； she arose in cool fury； slipped into a satin robe； flicked open her glasses； and put them on。 Then she checked the time： 11：15。 She pressed her lips。 This was intolerable。 Intolerable。
She picked up the building telephone and buzzed the desk； instantly a voice was on the line。
〃May I help you； Mrs。 Dallbridge？〃
〃You certainly may； Jason。 The gentleman in the apartment directly above me； number 17B； has been thumping incessantly on the floor。 Shouting as well。 It's been going on and on； and I don't mind telling you； this is the second time this month I've had to plain。 I am an old woman； and I simplycannot tolerate this kind of noise in the middle of the night。〃
〃Yes； Mrs。 Dallbridge； we'll take care of it immediately。〃
〃I shall speak to the condominium board about this at the next meeting。〃
〃I don't blame you； Mrs。 Dallbridge。〃
〃Thank you； Jason。〃
She laid down the phone and listened。 True； the thumping was fainter now； more irregular。 In fact； it seemed to have stopped； along with the shouting。 But it would pick up again soon…it always did。 That dreadfully coarse music producer was having another party； no doubt。 With drinking； dancing； drugs； all kinds of carrying…on。 And on a weeknight； no less。 She pulled her robe tighter around her narrow frame。 There was no point trying to go back to sleep now…at her age； it would be an exercise in futility。
She crossed the living room into the kitchen； put a kettle of water on to boil。 She removed a silver teapot； put three bags of chamomile inside； and waited for the whistle。 When it came； she removed the kettle from the heat； poured the water into the teapot； and slipped a tea cozy over the pot to keep it hot。 A silver teaspoon and two slices of buttered toast pleted herpetit déjeuner 。 She lifted the tray and returned to the bedroom。 She glanced up darkly at the ceiling。 Then she propped up her satin pillows and poured her tea。
The flowery aroma and the warmth of the liquid soon calmed her。 Life was too short to allow oneself to be disturbed longer than necessary。 It was now quiet as a tomb in the apartment above。 No matter： she would take strong measures to ensure she wasn't awakened like this again。
She heard a faint noise and listened。 A faint pattering。 Raining again； it seemed。 She would have to remember the Burberry when she went out that morning to 。 。 。
The pattering grew louder。 And now there was a smell like frying bacon in the air； faint but distinct。 Like the rain； it grew steadily stronger。 It was not a pleasant smell； either： it was repellent； like burnt meat。 She sniffed； looking around。 Had she left the stove on？ Impossible； she hadn't even…
Plop！A huge greasy drop landed in the middle of her tea； splashing her。 Then another fat drop； and another； splattering tea all over her face； her dressing gown； her beautiful satin puff。
She looked up in horror to see a stain on her bedroom ceiling。 It was spreading fast。 It glistened； oleaginous； in the dim light of her reading lamp。
Letitia Dallbridge snatched the phone out of its cradle； buzzed downstairs again。
〃Yes； Mrs。 Dallbridge？〃
〃Now there's a leak from the apartment above！ It's ing right through the ceiling of my bedroom！〃
〃We're sending someone up immediately。 We'll turn the water off in that apartment now。〃
〃This is an outrage！ My beautiful English puff is ruined！Ruined！ 〃
Now the liquid was pattering down from the ceiling in several places； accumulating in the corners of the crown molding； even streaming down the Venetian chandelier in the middle of the ceiling。 It was raining on her Louis Quinze chairs； the Chippendale highboy。 Against her better judgment； she leaned forward and touched one of the brown splatters on the china cup with her finger。 It was warm and greasy； like tallow or candle wax。 She shrank in horror。
〃It's not water；〃 she cried。 〃It's some kind ofgrease ！〃
〃Grease？〃
〃Yes！ Grease！ From the apartment above！〃
There was some confused talk in the background； then the voice came back on； a little breathless。 〃We're getting some alarms down here。 It seems there may be a fire in the apartment above you； Mrs。 Dallbridge。 Listen carefully。 Don't leave your apartment。 If smoke begins to e under your front door； place a damp towel against it。 Wait for instructions…〃
The voice was cut off by the unbearably shrill sound of the fire alarm in the hall； followed by the even louder blare of the siren within her apartment。 She dropped the phone；