There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

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Raymond Chandler

Carver,

Can you believe that Nielson actually did off himself ? Pathetic. I will take his wardrobe though. Helped myself to his guns, too. Hope you don’t mind.

Anyway, see you this Saturday. I’ll be the one in the retailored silk :)

I’m sick and tired of never feeling warm.

And that husk feeling. Even when I’m as full as a tick I feel empty, and you know what I mean by that. Don’t pretend you don’t. It’s like you’re a broken vessel that can’t be filled, so that all that’s left of you is an endless, aching hunger that does nothing but grow when you feed it.

I used to think that there might be a way, but there isn’t. The elders, I used to think, the elders have a way. Look at how they glow. But they don’t glow, those powerful, pitiable things. They throb like a wound.

Although we don’t have wounds do we ? No, not us. We have holes which melt back together as easily as plastic, and bodies which are just as worthless. Souls which are worth even less than that.

So that’s it. That’s it for me. I won’t accept this lie any more. The dregs of a life. The scuttling misery of a cockroach existence. And I can’t stop thinking about what I did to my sister.

Carver can have my wardrobe and Freeman can have my guns. The rest you can fight for.

Replacement Invoice

-

PAYMENT OVERDUE

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Please note: Any further delay in payment

could result in a further 10% surcharge.

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Issued by: Total Cleaning Solutions, 24B Elm Street, Liverpool, L8

--------------Tel: 0151 455 8790 Website: TCS.co.uk

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Payable by: Dr Stephen Hillington, 18 Acacia Avenue,

---------------West Kirby CH49 7NG

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Invoice Number: 01/02/A

Invoice Date: 12/8/09

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Item --------------------------------------------------------------Amount

4 x Performance Power Hammer Drill 710W PHD710----------£240

500 x 80/42 Masonry Screws/Wall Anchor Frame Fixings -----£18

12 x 5m2 4.8mm Security Mesh ------------------------------------£370

40M 6x19 Class Preformed Stainless Steel Wire Rope-----------£290

I.W.R.C.-Type 302/304

4 x AK3857: Ratchet Crimping Tool Interchangeable Jaws -----£87

4 x Fire Retardent Pyrovatex Antistatic Coverall WD507-------£164

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10 x 5L Plastic Fuel Can 48358---------------------------------------£30

50L Kerosene------------------------------------------------------------£45

Labour--------------------------------------------------------------£40 000

Total ---------------------------------------------------------------£41 244

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We thank you for prompt payment.

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Sometimes I feel I've got to
Run away I've got to
Get away
From the pain that you drive into the heart of me
The love we share
Seems to go nowhere
And I've lost my light
For I toss and turn I can't sleep at night

-

Soft Cell

A vampire lives in a constant state of desire and disgust. His nature often revolts him, but he doesn't have the will to deny his indulgences. There's the killing, but there's also the pleasure, the sensuality, the lust. The sheer ecstasy of it all.

-

LaCroix

Hunger knows no friend but its feeder

-

Aristophanes

Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.

-

Milton

" . . . The desperation of the increasingly hard pressed defenders took many forms. As well as suicide, desertion and drunkenness, increasingly wild stories also began to circulate. Most were no more than the usual soldiers' tales, but such was the stress of the situation that some of these rumours do seem to have been triggered by genuine instances of mass hallucination.

One of the most famous of these was of a young lady who the troopers initially referred to as the Tsarina, but later as Mother Russia. This change in nomenclature seems to have been at the insistence of the Konsomol, who were more worried by the counter revolutionary sentiment the nickname implied than the fact that the troops were seeing phantasms.

Whatever her name, the lady in question invariably appeared in the midst of the most ferocious night attacks. As well as being immune to bullets, she also seemed immune to the subzero temperatures of the Russian winters, for she always appeared barefoot and wearing only a negligee. There the initial descriptions usually trail off, although they were later embellished with the usual barrack room eroticism.

There were various stories of what she did during these night attacks, although details of these actions were also hazy. Even Red Army soldiers, hardly the most squeamish of individuals, would only talk vaguely of the 'terrible things' that she did to the 'Fritzs'. Given the popularity of Ilyha Erenberg's bloodthirsty broadcasts at the time, and also the treatment of German civilians by the same soldiers later in the war, these descriptions show a surprising lack of imagination.

But even as the remaining resistance fell prey to hunger and stress induced hallucinations, Stalin was preparing his counter strike. Operation Uranus was to be one of the most ambitious and decisive . . . (etc)"

Stalingrad
Anthony Beaver

When life is gone, what's left ?

Hunger, yes, alright, when life's gone hunger's left, but that's got no meaning. It's just an animal impulse. The quest for power, yes, that's left too, but that's no more than a silly game. A way for the empty to distract themselves from the whisper of the void within.

So what's left ? I'll tell you what's left. Art. Only art. In death as in life, art retains its power both to transcend and to offer transcendance. It creates meaning where there is none, and consumes us even as we consume it. It makes us whole. Makes us real.

That's why it's a sin to lose an artist, a truly great artist, to oblivion. That's why its our duty to offer them the embrace.

I truly believe that it is our ability to offer this gift that led to our creation. A human life is pitiably short, and most human lives are so pitiable that this itself is no bad thing. But to lose a Beethoven, a Shakespeare, a Dali to such a fate is unconscionable.

Of course, not all survive their deaths intact. Some awake to find that in their requiem they have lost their muse along with their heartbeat. It's tragic, but there it is. It happens. All we can do in these cases is to destroy the poor creatures and continue the search for candidates more worthy.

It can be a hard path, but it is one I walk willingly. And so my childer are scattered throughout the world, glittering like diamonds on black velvet long after their mortal spans have elapsed. They don't all thank me, but that's alright. I don't do it for thanks.

I do it for art.

Mr and Mrs Nolan have lived at 83 Accacia Avenue for the best part of fifty years, and during that time it is fair to say that they have become true pillars of the community.

Mrs Nolan is an active member of both the Women's Institute and the local Conservative Association. A keen Daily Mail reader, she maintains a keen interest in current affairs, and is a plain spoken critic of politial correctness. She also runs one of the best soup kitchens in the city. In between coming and going, the transients who frequent it often say so.

Mr Nolan, now retired, is as popular a character as his wife. When not chatting over the fence of his allotment or tinkering in his shed, he is often to be found holding court in the Golf club bar. He is famous for his repertoire of funny stories. Although the stories themselves haven't changed much over the years, the heros have. They used to be Blacks. Then they were Pakistanis. At the moment, they're Muslims.

He is a wag.

But although Mr and Mrs Nolan may seem the perfect couple, they have their cross to bear. Not that they see their son Michael that way. It is just that he is special. It's true that he doesn't have the sort of cleverness which has brought so much misery to the world, but he does have a good heart and a genuine affection for those around him. That has always been enough for Mr and Mrs Nolan, and if it isn't good enough for the world then the world can (pardon their french) go to hell.

It's just a shame that Michael fell in with such a bad crowd. It was all the fault of that greasy haired social worker. Mrs Nolan should have known better than to trust Michael with her. She had known straight away that the little slut was no better than she should be. But how could she have known that she would go so far as to expose Michael to such undesirables ? Immigrants, probably, who had never done an honest day's work in their lives.

Poor Michael couldn't be blamed for picking up their strange ways.

Not that it matters. The Nolans still love their son, and after some initial unpleasantness they have found a way of handling the situation. The soup kitchen really was the perfect solution, and what with one thing and another Michael seems to have settled into his new routine. It isn't easy, but it is neccessary.

After all, no mother can be expected to see her son going hungry.

Klimt spends his days hidden in the warehouse he shares with a pack of stray dogs.

The animals are well muscled, thick furred and sharp toothed. They are also as devoted to Klimt as he is to them, and with good reason. Most of them are better fed than their former owners, and many have neat scars from perfectly stitched wounds beneath their pelts.

During his waking hours Klimt runs the Night Clinic. This is a clean and well-lit basement from where he dispenses free medical treatment to the poor and the destitute. He is a competent medic and able pharmacist, and although his facilities are basic he has used them to save many a life and limb.

His clients pay what they can. Sometimes they pay in kind, although they never remember exactly what this entails. At other times they pay with nothing but their gratitude and respect. To Klimt, who has spent most of his long life being reviled, this currency is perhaps the most valuable of all.

When not in the clinic Klimt spends his nights in his workshop, his peculiarities comfortably hidden behind thick goggles and a shapeless leather apron. He is at his happiest here, especially when lost in the complexities of an old engine or the molecular structure of a new compound. Compared to the riddles of his existence, such things have a soothing simplicity.

At other times he goes drinking, slipping through the darkness of sewers and alleyways as he finds ways of slaking his thirst.

During these jaunts Klimt occasionally stumbles upon particularly disturbing scenes. Lovers walking arm in arm, blind to everything but each other. Families clustered around tables, sharing the rewards of their labour even as they share the hardships of their lives. Friends laughing in bars.

He usually shrugs off the feelings these encounters provoke, but sometimes the shrugging isn’t so easy. On such nights he takes his saxophone to one of the jazz clubs where he knows he will be, if not welcomed, then at least tolerated. There he lends his talent to bands sorely in need of it, and lets the dead voice of his instrument sob and howl and wail and if it’s lonely at least it's not alone.